Closing a chapter: NoBloPoMo

So here we are at the end of November. I didn't think that I could do it when it was first suggested that I should participate in NoBloPoMo in the late days of October. I guess that I can smash this achievement in the face of my past self. Take that, Past Self! How dare you doubt me?! And you know what else? It wasn't that hard. Sure, I spent the last week blogging from a Las Vegas Whole Foods (they're stingy with the wifi on the strip), but I didn't struggle for lack of content. Sure, some posts were stronger than others (Buffy post vs, that post that I copied directly from Jezebel- not to say that I didn't give credit where credit was do), but, in the end, we've laughed together, cried together, and have grown together. This blog was once a seed. Now it's a seed that maybe has something growing out of it. Or maybe it's just a dud seed. Anyways, I'll sort of miss blogging everyday (not enough to keep it up) and look forward to next November.

It's probably for the best that I don't have to blog everyday over the next month for school is about to suffocate me in a sea of Paradise Lost papers, short story revisions, monologues, and comic lit. analysis.

See you on the other side.

Inappropriate Transitional Topics

Remember what I said about taking kitsch back to my place for sexual intercourse? Strike that. I guess a three day kitsch binge will do that to a girl. It's like drinking too many Mike's hard lemonades in high school- you puke it up and then never want to touch it again... or at least not until the next party in Jenna Drucker's basement. The thing with Vegas is that you never have a single moment of repose. When your on the sidewalk there are actual speakers that blare advertisements at you and billboards that flash bright lights into the drivers' eyes. The strip is a trap. They want you to get lost and never leave. EVER. I'm actually blogging from a roulette table at the Circus Circus casino right now. That's not true (thank god), I'm one of the lucky few to make it out.

In other news of gross consumerism, a lot of you have probably heard about the Walmart employee who was trampled to death by Black Friday shoppers. All I have to say is that I hope all those people get charged with manslaughter. I hope that they'll be real proud as they contemplate that blue ray copy of Catch and Release that they got for 40% off while they sit in prison. Happy holidays, scumbags (not directed at you, reader... unless you were at a New York City Walmart at 5 a.m. yesterday).

Grrr.

Home Sweet Home

It's a beautiful and significant thing to experience the world. One should always take the opportunity to experience new sights and meet new people and eat strange dishes. But perhaps most significant of all is the feeling that you get upon arriving home. In just three short days, I missed the old sights, the familiar faces, and my favorite comfort food.

It's good to be back.

Thanksgiving... part deux

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! Thanks so much for reading my blog. You make me feel a little less worthless (contrary to what my family may tell me).

It's raining here in Vegas for only the second time this year and no one knows how to function. Let's just say that we feel very smug as Wisconsinites.

Las Vegas #1

LAS VEGAAAAAS! We've made it safe and sound after a smooth flight on Midwest Airlines (they give you warm chocolate chip cookies, but are severely lacking in in-flight pornos). Driving into the Strip in our rental car, I almost had a seizure. Because of the lights, sure, but also because I was so excited to see a hotel shaped like a castle and a mall shaped like the Roman Forum. Can I stress how much I love kitsch? Oh, I do. If I could, I would marry kitsch in an all-night chapel and take it back to a motel for sexual intercourse. The best thing about Las Vegas is that, no matter how much money they sink into it, it still feels like a John Waters movie.

A more detailed description will come upon my return.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

I'm flying off to Las Vegas today. Look forward to seeing me on an episode of HBO's Cathouse. Will I be the client or the hooker? You'll have to tune in to find out!

He's a ranger, suh.

Last night, I went with a friend to see the Hometown Sweethearts (an awesome cover band) at a local club. This friend is pretty new to my life (I only met her this year) and I’m already sure that she’s one of the coolest people that I know. As we walked there in the cold, she told me about this party that she has every November called Friendsgiving and guess what? I’m invited to it! So, as she’s tells me about the food that she’s gonna make (tons and tons of pork, thank god), a thought stuck me:

At this point in my life, I have more friends than I’ve ever had before.

This is extra amazing when I think back to when I graduated high school and how lonely I felt with all of my acquaintances shipping off to out-of-state schools. Spring break was always exciting because it meant that I’d be going out at night rather than just watching T.V. Even though I looked forward to hanging out with these high school kids, I never really felt connected to them. All they ever did was a) smoke pot, b) watch T.V., c) drink bad beer out of cans, or, as was usually the case, d) all of the above. These are things that I never liked to do in high school, let alone as a young adult who considered herself wise beyond her years.

We can even go back before that. In my early high school days, I remember going to sleepovers and feeling so isolated that I would leave early. When friends were having parties, I would usually stay home and watch What Not to Wear with my mom. I always got along better with my parents’ friends than I did my own. Freshman year, I wrote a friend a note that said, “Are we best friends? We hang out a lot, so I think that we are.” I did call this girl my best friend for years, but, in the end, it boiled down to convenience on both our parts. When my cousin was killed in a car accident the summer following my junior year, she didn’t find out about it until I had flown back from the funeral in Portland. I didn’t tell her and she didn’t wonder where I went for a week.

After high school, I picked up a few friends at work or at the ol’ tech school. I was surprised to find that these people didn’t simply put up with what a weirdo I am, but actually seemed to enjoy it. I changed jobs from retail to restaurant and picked up even more friends. The restaurant industry is good for that. People are generally booze fueled (and not on that canned crap) and thus more likely to laugh at my incredibly vulgar and childish jokes.

This year, I’ve been particularly driven to make friends, which is great because, for the first time that I can remember, there are a lot of people that I really want to be friends with. The thing is that I get terrified when approaching friendly acquaintances about maybe taking things to the next level (I mean a deeper friendship, not handjobs or anything). This is the girl who has no problem standing in front of a crowd of people and humiliating herself for the sake of entertainment. That’s totally fine, but calling someone to see if they want to meet up for a platonic drink? Nuh-uh, son. But this year, I’ve been trying harder and it’s paid off. I get along super well with my roommates and I’ve become better friends with coworkers, better friends with people who I’ve been extremely intimidated by in the past, and better friends with people that I’ve known for years. I’d even describe some of these friendships as… dare I say it? Kismet.


On a complete non sequitur, I’m going to Las Vegas on Tuesday! While you know that I’m a gamblin’ woman (this is a complete lie as I actually grip my money with an iron fist), this is not a gamblin’ vacation. My step dad’s parents actually live out there (surprisingly, they’ve made their residence at the tip of the Eiffel Tower at the Paris hotel) and we’re going to spend Thanksgiving with them. This is the first vacation that we’ve taken as a whole family in a long time, so it should be a blast! It feels like I have a million things to do before then. Here’s a brief list:

-Buy 3 oz. bottles for shampoo, lotion, etc.
-Get hair cut.
-Get hair dyed.
-Learn to walk in new high heels
-Choose adorable outfits for brief time that I’ll be there.
-Go to bank.
-Withdraw all money for cards and hookers.

Okay, bed now.


P.S., I definitely have some childhood friends who will always be near and dear to me. If your reading this, I hope you know that I still have nothing but love for you.

You're Welcome.

NARAL and Cornrows

First things first, there's a virus sweeping campus. It's called the Norwalk virus and symptoms include projectile vomiting (I know. Awesome). For some reason, I can't get over calling it the NARAL virus. I told my mom this today and she responded, "you know that NARAL is an actual organization, right?" Yes, mom. That's why it's funny.
Anyway, as a hypochondriac, I feel like I'm getting NARAL virus every time my body tweaks a little bit. Yesterday, I had a stomachache and I was certain that I had caught it, completely disregarding the glazed kosher donut that I ate that afternoon as a possible culprit. So there's some news, right? I might be dying from imaginary symptoms of a virus that I probably don't have. Or I might have indigestion.

Second, here's a bit of a conversation that I overheard on campus today:

Girl: (whispering) Sometimes I'm jealous of black girls. I mean, it would be so nice to put your hair in braids and, like, never have to deal with it.

I wanted to ask this girl if she has ever been friends with a black woman. I have (and I don't mean that in an "I'm not racist- I have three black friends" kind of way) and, let me tell you, those ladies work hard on their hair. Also? Getting your hair braided hurts and not just while your getting it done. That shit hurts for a week. I've had my hair braided before, too (add that to my dossier of middle school fashion disasters), so I can tell you first hand (and not in that whole "I understand the black experience" kind of way).

I should go before I accidentally projectile vomit and abortion all over the keyboard. Mmmmm.

Probably on the rag

Lately, it seems like a handful of my favorite bloggers have pulled on their feminist pants for a post or two. For example, Blythe over at Five by Five wrote a great post about a double standard for women in the comedy industry and she was totally singing my song. I won't rehash what she wrote because I don't think that I could put it any better than she did.

Next, the ladies over at Jezebel knocked out a pretty awesome article called "You Can't Figure Out 'Women,' You Can Just Try To Figure Out One At a Time" about recent trends toward sexism in dating. I'll even do a little copy and paste for you:

In this month's City Journal Kay Hymowitz writes about the backlash she received from an earlier column about how "too many single young males (SYMs) were lingering in a hormonal limbo between adolescence and adulthood, shunning marriage and children." Predictably, those dudes didn't want to hear about it. Did you know its all the fault of us women today, having "options" and changing our minds? Of course it is. It always is.

Hymowitz actually quotes me from once upon a time, when I said:

"I've gone through phases in my life where I bounce between serial monogramy, Very Serious Relationships and extremely casual sex. I've slept next to guys on the first date, had sex on the first date, allowed no more than a cheek kiss, dispensed with the date-concept all together after kissing the guy on the way to his car, fucked a couple of close friends and, more rarely, slept with a guy I didn't care if I ever saw again."

She responds, rhetorically:

"Okay, wonders the ordinary guy with only middling psychic powers [who walked into a bar and met me], which is it tonight?
In fact, young men face a bewildering multiplicity of female expectations and desire. Some women are comfortable asking, “What’s your name again?” when they look across the pillow in the morning."

Well, my response is: does it matter tonight? Should a guy treat me differently based on the multiplicity of expectations I might or might not have... or is he treating me based on the expectations that he has about me and about (maybe) what he wants? Maybe — and I know this might be terribly shocking to men — if you respectfully walk up to me and try talking to me without staring at my tits and trying to get me into bed, you'll find out without having to try that hard what kind of woman I am, and what I am looking for. And maybe what I'm looking for in a guy is based on the guy. Whoa, weird concept, I know, but maybe wanting to get into a relationship, or not, or to have sex with, or not, has to do with the person and not the penis — and maybe I'm looking for someone, regardless, that wants to be with me and not just another vagina-owner.

This thing is, all these guys that Hymowitz quotes are really, really angry (and shallow) at some girl or group of girls who hurt them.

Here’s Jeff from Middleburg, Florida: “I am not going to hitch my wagon to a woman . . . who is more into her abs, thighs, triceps, and plastic surgery. A woman who seems to have forgotten that she did graduate high school and that it’s time to act accordingly.” Jeff, meet another of my respondents, Alex: “Maybe we turn to video games not because we are trying to run away from the responsibilities of a ‘grown-up life’ but because they are a better companion than some disease-ridden bar tramp who is only after money and a free ride.” Care for one more? This is from Dean in California: “Men are finally waking up to the ever-present fact that traditional marriage, or a committed relationship, with its accompanying socially imposed requirements of being wallets with legs for women, is an empty and meaningless drudgery.”
So, you went out with a shallow girl who only wanted a husband to pay her bills? Great. I went out with, this year alone: a guy who tried dating me to get me to vote for Obama; one who asked me out so that we could "get to know one another better" and took me to a loud dance club; a guy that called me up on the day of our second date to tell me that he knew I was going to fall for him and thus he didn't want to go after all; a guy who asked me to pay for everything when he asked me out; a guy who got annoyed at me for picking up the check when I asked him out; and on and on and on. You know what I have learned from that? That men are all different. Sort of like — gasp! — women.

Oh, and let's not get started on the whole bullshit "nice guys don't get the girl" that all these guys re-hash. Well, yeah, sure, if The Girl is the head cheerleader (and she always is) — but were they ever asking out the girl who was President of Students Against Drunk Driving and the German club (i.e., dorky, awkward me)? Some of them were, sure, but I'll be damned if most of them aren't happily married to truly pleasant women who they adore. My photo albums from high school to this day are a virtual pantheon of sweet, dorky guys who asked me out or who I asked out, most of whom were actually as nice as they look and none of whom were bad boys.

I dated two legitimately bad dudes in my life — the first one, in high school, I dumped rather ungraciously on our second date for grabbing my ass, and the second one more recently who I dumped, equally ungraciously, after about a month of jealous fits. One of the supposedly nice ones tells Hymowitz:

According to a “Recovering Nice Guy” writing on Craigslist, the female preference for jerks and “assholes,” as they’re also widely known, lies behind women’s age-old lament, “What happened to all the nice guys?” His answer: “You did. You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy.”
Oh, so, the only reason you were ever nice to a girl, the only reason you ever got close to a girl, was to fuck her? Don't worry, dude, you were never a nice guy. You probably didn't get fucked more because when you were holding a girl crying she caught you feeling up her boob. By comparison, at least a bad boy doesn't lie about his intentions or caring about your feelings.

So, look, the problem is that there are no rules, and there is no one end game any more. Great. I'm glad there's not. I don't mind paying for dinner, or going to see a hockey movie on Valentine's Day, or calling first or opening my own fucking doors — and I don't mind being paid for, or getting roses or being called or having a door opened for me — and I am damn glad that I don't have to hang up my dating spurs at 31 and call myself a spinster and start knitting booties for my younger sister's eventual children. And, yes, it's more difficult because in the absence of rules and regulations, in the dearth of universal social expectations and proscribed life paths, no one knows what anyone else is really looking for in a two minute interaction. But this is solved by actually not expecting things from people you don't know, and by treating women as individuals worth more than the sexual pleasure they might or might not eventually afford you. And it doesn't help to bitch about how all women are shallow, money-hungry harpies who you're just going to game the way they've gamed you. Maybe you've been gamed because as a shallow, money- and pussy-obsessed prick who isn't interested in getting to know a person, you missed out on more than just being played.

Courtesy of Jezebel


Speaking of feminism (?), I can't stop watching this video:



I'm really not a big Beyonce fan. Really, But I just gotta say that the girl has an ass that won't quit.

So when do we destroy the world already?

Today, like every Monday, I had a discussion for my British Lit. class. In this particular discussion, we were talking about one of Satan's soliloquies in Paradise Lost and whether or not he is being honest with himself as he debates between good and evil. I brought up that this is a convention of villains that we still see today in fiction and was asked to give an example. The first examples that I thought of were from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. Deciding that those examples were too nerdy, even for nerdy English majors, I went with Dexter.

"Right," the T.A. said. "Or, to sound even dorkier, you might think about Angel from Buffy."

He then went on to explain why he thought that and actually brought up show specifics like the gem of Amara. Everybody in the class was laughing at him, but my jaw was on the floor in awe. Quietly, another student in the class brought up that Satan is really more like Spike from BTVS. This led to a fifteen minute explanation of where the three of us were coming from, in which we discussed the most awesome plot points and the meanings behind them. It was probably the best discussion that I've had in college yet.

Now, this T.A. and I got off to a rocky start and I've always gotten the strangest vibe off of him. I think that I may be willing to put all that aside and ask him to marry me. Even if we never have anything else in common, at least we'll always have seasons of Buffy to discuss and pass the time.

Wow. I've completely out-nerded myself.



P.S. I loaned the complete BTVS series to a friend LAST DECEMBER and still haven't gotten it back. What's the deal?
P.P.S. I can no longer drink coffee. I had a small cup around noon and could barely write this post because my hands have been shaking so bad. This is a bummer because I really like coffee.

Love Unites

Shepard Fairey (ignoring obvious joke, which is very big of me), designer of the iconic Obama "Hope" poster, has designed a new poster in support of love and equality for everyone. It's available for free download here.

The facts were these

I was just reading on Gawker that ABC may have secretly canceled the PQK favorite Pushing Daisies. Worse still, they’re doing this without letting the show wrap itself up! This means we’ll never know if Ned and Chuck will finally get to kiss, not just by proxy, and we won’t be able to see anymore of Chuck’s adorable outfits! Woe is me! Another T.V. favorite is getting the axe (just as I was finally getting over Arrested Development, too).

The folks over at Gawker are obviously big fans of the show (as most people with good taste are) and proposed a list of shows that should be canceled in lieu of PD:

Entourage
HBO could cross out the lines on the budget for fancy guest stars and location shootings that dimly buoy this sad, tired old alpha dog of a series. The current season, about resident movie star Vincent Chase being not quite on top but not quite on bottom, has been boring and slow, with only hints of humor (Werner Herzog joke!) peppered in between lame Johnny-is-dumb, Turtle-likes-poontang jokes. Pushing Daisies has the arty design and defiant oddness to flourish on the premium cable net. Over there, 6.6 million viewers (which the show is averaging this season) is a lot!

Private Practice
Well, this is probably on its way out too. But for the time being, it remains. It's a really irksome, forcibly "sexy" show about rakish beachside California doctors and the various genitals they fall onto or have fall onto them. Ick. We understand giving creator Shonda Rhimes, who spun this show off of her ludicrously popular Grey's Anatomy, a pat on the back and a sweet new series deal, but this... this is just a punny lady joke nightmare. ABC should stop forking over what I imagine are pretty hefty salaries for Kate Ward Walsh, Tim Daly, and Taye Diggs and spend it on advertising Daisies a bit more. Send supporting star Audra McDonald back to Broadway where she belongs. Yes, Kristin Chenoweth belongs on Broadway too, but whatever.

The Office
Yeah, we said it. This once-great series is languishing under the "stretch it out!" studio mandates that the creator of its British inspiration, Ricky Gervais, so deftly avoided by insisting on only making two short, neat little seasons that were wrapped up with a heart-swelling Christmas special. We used to really like this show, but now it's weighed down too heavily by big Plot Points—Dwight and Angela, Jim and Pam, Michael and Sadness. One of the greatest ensembles on television is no longer allowed to play like they used to. NBC could use a little creative jolt, so why don't they lovingly put this show to bed and bring Daisies into their fold. Ever-tarnishing wunderkind that he is, top Peacock exec Ben Silverman has typically been really good about supporting critically-beloved but low-rated shows. Daisies could be one of those low-rated shows!"

(for complete article, click here)

Okay, Entourage. I couldn't agree more. That show is BOOOORIIIING. The first couple of seasons were alright in that male-"Sex in the City" sort of way (all glitz and no substance), but now it's just repetitive. The way most series stay interesting is through this little thing called character development. Vinny and company have acted the exact same way since the show's conception. There comes a point when watching thirty-year-old men act like they're in their early-twenties just becomes exhausting.

I've never watched Private Practice. I've only seen previews of it while watching PUSHING DAISIES.

The Off—wha? Alright, I can't believe that I'm saying this here, but... I sort of get where they're going. The show has definitely lost it's kick and... oh, god... I sort of blame Jim and Pam. Jim pining? Hilarious. Jim content? Where have the pranks gone?! Believe me, if they can recapture what they had at the beginning, I will take everything that I just said back. I wouldn't go as far as to say that the show merits cancellation, but how about a little scare to get their blood moving?

Maybe it's best for the axe to fall quickly on Pushing Daisies. I get the feeling that this is a show that will always be hovering on the edge and I don't know if I could take the stress. Still, I just don't get how someone couldn't fall in love with the Burton-esque sets, snappy writing, vintage cocktail dresses, and, of course, the handsome 6'3" pie maker who wakes the dead with the touch of his finger. Am I the only one who loves whimsy?

Champion of the Sun

DeNiro on: Frozen Treats

This is a conversation overheard by me on the bus between two men and a woman. They're all middle aged prototypical Wisconsinites (the Wisconsin accent is important to remember here).

And scene.

Man 1: I love frozen yogurt.

Woman: What about gelato?

Man 2: Ooh! I love gelato.

Woman: There are so many flavors!

Man 1: So many!

Woman: Or as Robert DeNiro would say, "There's so many flavahs!"

And scene.

Did I miss the scene in Taxi Driver where Bobby D soliloquizes about the vast varieties of Italy's ice cream? Or maybe that scene was in Raging Bull. Either way, the woman's New York accent was Oscar worthy.



+



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P.S. I think that this could be the beginning of a new column called "DeNiro on..." It could just be him musing on the simple things like "DeNiro on: Sandwiches" or "DeNiro on: The Best Julia Roberts Movies."

Hammond, IN. That's what she said.

Stay classy at Hammond, IN's Dynasty Banquets at the Ramada Inn

I’m back from the Rust Belt a little older and wiser.

Truth be told, regions like that sort of freak me out. I mean I’ve been to big cities, I live in a small city, and have visited a handful of small towns and farms (all have been relatively quaint), but I have very few experiences with formerly industrialized towns like the ones that fill northwestern Indiana. It is crazy how depressed-looking they are. Maybe it was just the cold and gray weather, but it seemed like the town was made up of White Castles, potholes, and beauty supply stores with weird names like “Milky Beauty.” Madison’s economy isn’t really based on industry, so it was surprising to see the effects of deindustrialization close up. Let me tell you, it was effed.

Let’s move on. The wedding was a good ol’ fashioned blasty blast, made even better by a 1 a.m. trip to one of the aforementioned White Castles. The ceremony itself was catholic which generally equates to B-O-R-I-N-G (sorry, Catholics. Keep on keepin’ on). Luckily the bride and groom at this wedding are totally awesome and added some of their own pizzazz to keep it interesting. Mainly, any time the priest would mention something being hard, the groom would tug his earlobe, signifying “that’s what she said.” By the time the priest was talking about being filled by God and allowing Jesus to be the third party in the relationship, we were practically dying from laughter in the pews. Yep, we are definitely all going to hell.

The reception was a good time as well, despite the cream of chicken soup (I’m pretty sure that paste was a key ingredient) and wine that tasted like a cherry jolly rancher (they closed the open bar just for dinner—who does that to someone?). Post-dinner, the dance floor was booming. A hint to any boy who wants my attention (there’s gotta be at least one out there)—I will automatically like you twice as much if you bring your shit to the dance floor. The boys at this wedding? They were working it.

The night ended with a party in a room at a Super 8 motel. Cops and security were called multiple times. I was gone by the time they showed up, which is great because I’m sure that I would have had a stress-induced heart attack from all of that noise and activity.

Overall, it was great to be around so many of my favorite people and I think that the whole thing was amplified by the foreign setting. The drive home was spent in equally good company (this time I hitched a ride with my favorite couple Tom and Emily) and probably provided the best “that’s what she said” moment of all:

PQK: I hate the way nuts make my breath smell.

whole car (in unison): That’s what she said.


I think that I’ll end there.

Rock the region

Today, I'm heading down to a friend's wedding in Indiana. My usual wedding date has better things to do than make me feel wanted, so I will be going stag, which means a) I'm hitching a ride with a friend of a friend's parents, b) I will likely be placed at the table with all of the inbred and unseemly relatives that they are too embarrassed to put front and center, and c) I will drink too much champagne and start crying about how beautiful the flower arrangements are, how beautiful the bride is, and how pure their love is. And then I will yak on the dance floor. And then break out my moves.

God, I love weddings. No, really. I do.

Too tired to think of snappy title

I gotta say that the past two days have been exhausting. I'm not used to feeling all of this hope, optimism, and good will toward mankind.

When can I go back to hating everybody? Oh well, I'm sure that it will happen soon enough.

Where do we go from here?

Obama Win Causes Obsessive Supporters To Realize How Empty Their Lives Are

YES WE CAN!

I am so happy to be alive and so proud to be an American right now (and this is the first time that I've ever said the latter without irony).

This little boy grew up to be president:



Pinch me. I'm pretty sure that I'm dreaming.

P.S. Please check out Casey's blog for her report on how the election was received in Paris. It's positively beautiful.

Free from the Bradley effect

I just voted in my first presidential election for the first non-white democratic candidate in the first school that I ever attended. If that's not enough to make a girl misty-eyed, I don't know what is.


A little obvious, I know.


On a less world-changing note, I've decided to do NaBloPoMo! Check here or at Lake City Lake for daily blogs from me in the month of November.

Final Countdown

Just a reminder from your local Pop Quiz Kid to please please PLEASE get out and vote tomorrow. This is the first presidential race that I'm allowed to vote in and, let me say, it's an absolute honor.

Fashion show! Fashion show! Fashion show at launch!

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I'm very proud to introduce a new venture. Rachel and I have teamed up to start a fashion blog. I give you...

...Lake City Lake!



Please stop by and check it out! In a nutshell, the blog will include "what I wore" posts, inspiration posts, "what I wish I wore" posts, and basically anything else pertaining to style. What makes this fashion blog different from all of the rest? Us. Booyah.