Thursday, April 30, 2015

Asparagus as Dangerous Menace

The emergency ward hasn't changed very much since our last visit. Always nice to see emergency ward professionals enjoying a cigarette and a chat and a moment or two with the mobile phone at the big entry ramp. I find it comforting myself, and everyone's very friendly despite the constant washing of hands and blue rubber gloves. And too very important to be able to remember birthdates when visiting emergency wards or pharmacies, otherwise a person can look a little suspicious and eyebrows are raised. And pretending to be too overwrought to remember anything, just doesn't work!

No more than an hour and half following her return from her travels The Artist had some sort of disagreement with the Asparagus, a hosepipe and a pocket knife. The details are a all a little sketchy, there was some sort of skin flap, we both remained calm, I think I did a pretty good job of driving, at least I used the indicators. The Artist behaved very well. There was some discussion about how best to cook Asparagus, Shepherd's Pie, George Foreman Grills and somebody's uncle who'd escaped from Korea in 1958 or 1964. I was quite brave but have to admit I didn't actually look at the needles there's something about them that really gives me the creeps and the solution for The Artist was ten stitches.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Absent Friends

I miss the Mockingbird. He could be irritating, he wasn't very nice to others, he'd chase them for no real reason, make a big show around other boy Mockingbirds, he probably had some real unpleasant political views, probably a card carrying member of the NRA, might even have been a Republican with nothing bad to say about the corporate donor class. In fact he could have been a really nasty piece of work. But I miss him.

 In the meanwhile, I begin to suspect, others don't feel quite the same way about the Mockingbird. Chipping Sparrows, who a person doesn't really expect to see chasing off a Nuthatch or making a bee line for a Starling or buzzing a sun hat are almost completely out of control. And there's a pair of Gnatcatchers, who are little and tiny, had the nerve to give the gardener with a bad back and a bit of a limp a what for when he was watering the seedlings. And there's that fate worse than death a bedroom window Tanager! Yes I do, I miss the Mockingbird.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Tanager and Chat

The Summer Tanager has joined us. He's found his voice and like all summer visitors, he's got no idea how frustrating winter was for some of us more elderly residents. Never certain why the Summer Tanager has to be quite so vocal, and always hopeful that one year he might chose not to spend his summer this side of Central Time. It's perfectly nice the other side of the river, with good woodland and plenty of places to perch and rant on for as many hours as he wishes to. Why us? I've often asked him, but he's always far too impressed with himself to take any notice. A typical tourist!

 And too, the wholly eccentric Yellow Chat is bobbing around from bush to bush. I do hope he settles on a territory within a couple of hundred feet of the porch. There is nothing worse than trying to watch a Yellow Chat dance while surrounded by briar, tics, and the legless creatures that so enjoy slithering around in full sun and cause the more sensitive to become a little jumpy. It's the hotter afternoon that inspires the Yellow Chat to express meaning through movement and song, quite why I've got no clue, but it's very typical of the Yellow Chat attitude toward fans.

Monday, April 27, 2015

The Plotting of Monks and Lear

One of the main problems with being a poor speller, is when you know what the word is supposed to be, it looks as though it's spelled correctly. Then there are other words which never look as though they are spelled correctly, even if they are spelled correctly. This means hours can be spent, hopelessly hunting down how to spell something like exaserpate. I do realize this spelling of exaserpate is incorrect. But how to find out, when by exaserpate I do not mean exasperate I mean exaserpate. And the sad fact is exaserpate has a b in it, and some of us might not be blessed with the recall of a savant.

It must have something to do with monks. They sat in cold rooms worrying about whether their inks would freeze, called by their God to spend lifetimes transcribing the sacred texts and obviously they were going to get disgruntled. And probably at their lunchtime, plots were hatched. Never been a fan of the lunch break, always has always will cause trouble, but you have to support the lunch break because it's a well known fact not all lunch break plots are as insidious as the evil scheming against poor spellers by feather pen wielding religious fanatics. And I'm pretty damn certain Edward Lear should never have been allowed to have a lunch break. Limericks have done nothing to further the cause of poor spellers. Hull does not rhyme with Bull unless you're from Hull, boyo!  

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Chapter Seventeen as Number Eleven

His experiences of the hotel and catering industry have clearly deeply scarred our hero beyond any kind of true repair or reasonableness. It just won't go away. Chapter Seventeen, which underwent potlatch, not the wishy-washy charitable gifting potlatch that so infuriated the Christian missionaries who deemed it uncivilized, rather the genuine total complete and utter destruction kind of potlatch, has again reared its ugly head. And it's not just a polite little head rearing, like maybe a small worm avoiding the trowel, it's an all out gaping jaw, hungry Crocodile prowling the night looking for warthog kind of head rearing.

Quite what to do about Chapter Seventeen is probably beyond your writer of pulp's capacity to control, because there it is, all back together again. There are some who might consider this a savant type feat of memory, but let me assure them, that here where we all live and try to have our being, we were all rather hoping Chapter Seventeen would retreat lonely into the shades. Currently I'm hoping for some kind of compromise. There were Ten commandments, but it's beginning to look as though the Rabbit of Usk might have to consider the number Eleven. Frankly I feel like spitting on the hotel and catering industry, and on a weather forecasting professional whose name I dare not mention, because under no circumstances can your writer of pulp or The Rabbit of Usk live with number twelve. 

Saturday, April 25, 2015

Ready for Hail

Somehow this week with all the excitement I missed a day. Today is in fact Saturday, and I have confirmed this with the Atomic Clock. But more important perhaps is a forecast that includes "Very Large Hail." Which is the sort of thing a person doesn't like to hear on any day of the week.

The trouble with "Very Large Hail" beyond the damage it causes is that it melts, and a witness' description of how large the hail, can sometimes be dismissed out of hand by the listener, and photographs can be tampered with. So should "Very Large Hail" occur there's a plan afoot to harvest some of it. And should power fail, there's a generator ready to maintain freezing freezer temperatures.

Friday, April 24, 2015

Late Frost

A freeze warning toward the end of April can cause a sensitive, well rounded and sometimes upright person to ponder the great questions and come away wholly depressed as he surrenders to the almighty oneness so as to better concentrate upon his lower body exercises with the question, "What actual purpose does a Strawberry serve?"

However there was mental patient scurrying around last night, it reaches a sort of fever pitch, there's cursing and some ill-tempered gesturing toward the north and nothing resembling a sheet or a tarpaulin or a roll of paper towels is safe. So things were well covered for this morning's 36 degrees of Fahrenheit.

Thursday, April 23, 2015

The Odd Nugget

As a victim of taking himself too seriously and as one who will remain for ever in recovery from that particular ordeal your writer of pulp does rather enjoy feasting on the utterances of those who might still be stricken by the disease. He's a big fan of the Pompous Ass Genre, and was forced to resign his seat at the table due to his appalling spelling.

No better place to find the odd nugget than in the wide array of Google Plus Writing Communities. You have to dig through, push aside the flappers and the OMG's and the LOLs, try and avoid the top ten list writers, commenting I've discovered only encourages, and concentrate more on the off hand remarks of those who want to get rich and famous by telling others how to get rich and famous. Of whom there is no shortage, thank goodness.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015


I noticed the word "patchy" and kind of closed my eyes. And the thing about the word "patchy" in the April of a northern hemisphere is the word or words that follow it.

And I'll tell you this much it's not "patchy outbreaks of happiness" or "patchy internet access." It's something more like "patchy locust swarms" the forecasters are calling for.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

The Other Self and I

Your correspondent is exercising. Not the sensible exercising with things like wheel barrows and Compost Piles, shovels and buckets of the less wanted plants. There's no tree climbing or riding bicycles or just walking around aimlessly so as to look useful. And he knows full well that this might come as a bit of a shock, he himself was certainly very surprised. And indeed after years and years of sneering at exercising for exercising sake, a person might think some kind of circle had been turned and possible we're all looking at an imminent Blessed Release, followed by a Zoroastrian moment out in the field, which would cheer the Vultures, give the Crows something else to think about, there'd be Christian Missionaries dispatched and probably there'd be some sort fine for The Artist which I'm sure she'd cheerfully pay.

And too, because we non-exercising exercisers have some very powerful political convictions, it was necessary for your correspondent to indulge in some truly gymnastic thinking prior to even investigating the possibilities of exercising for exercising sake. Several sleepless nights later he produced the phrase, "communing with the other self" as the more palatable definition. Where I live of course the "other self" is a source of constant irritation, he keeps losing things, he dribbles down his front when he eats and there's whole panoply of appalling-ness from him. And indeed the question of  "how to communicate with the other self?" has depended a great deal on defining the word "Communicate." Currently your correspondent is experimenting with a definition of communicate that includes the idea contained within "conjoin" and "confluence." If nothing else, his lower extremities are at the moment very confused, which is kind of rewarding.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Blue Monday

Thrashers have bonded, which is nice because it means that anyone who might sound like a Mockingbird, probably will be a Mockingbird. Your correspondent has leg ague, a pox of the foot, sooty knee, pollen is at snurk factor ten and he's got some kind of verticillum wilt, but praise be to the Great Oneness there's no red blotchy itchiness, which most will agree is the worst!

 And too, with The Artist on furlough there is the vast and overwhelming responsibility of seedling care. Not easy for a gardener who sometimes suspects he was abducted by highly paid mad scientists from Monsanto and turned into some kind of walking-talking herbicide. They're a very secretive bunch at Monsanto, so a person can never be certain about these things.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Devil's Advocate

There's an argument that suggests that Charles Darwin who spent much of his 73 years upon earth at death's door, was a terrible hypochondriac. He died of a heart attack. The same accusation has been leveled at Florence Nightingale who lived 90 years upon earth. She died peacefully in her sleep, despite having spent much or her life close to death's door. Both Florence and Charles where very hard working, and neither of them liked visitors and weren't that fond of leaving home. And as everyone knows being a little bit sick and possibly contagious, bad tempered and angry looking does discourage visitors. Worth mentioning that Charles Darwin and Florence Nightingale are venerated as Saints in my part of the world.

One question is the extent to which Saint Charles and Saint Flo were aware of their predilection to suddenly start feeling ill when the nineteenth century equivalent of the telephone rang. Did they actually feel ill or did they just say "I don't feel very well." This is a question that's haunted the minds of thinking people for over a hundred years, and your correspondent who has been conducting his own experiments in this area can tell you, "Yes the feeling of being ill is very real." More interesting though is whether or not Saint Charles or Saint Flo ever flung themselves down staircases to avoid leaving home or ever having to answer the telephone again. And here where I live the Devil's Advocate is currently prowling around, asking questions.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Potlatch Regret

I miss the Ridgeway. Our hero was on track, he was plodding on, he had his book to read, he was doing his best. He had his heroic problems certainly, yet he did the right thing, he ran away from angry Danish women and it was all going swimmingly. And if a writer of pulp is capable of achieving a conclusion, then your writer of pulp has come to the conclusion that he's lost control of our hero. Which is a sad thing, and I understand sometimes how the Creator must feel. It's disappointing as much as anything, and I'm not yet convinced it has anything to do with anti-inflammatory medication.

All the same, it's at this juncture end parts can sometimes devolve into the Rapture Scenario. All very well cleaving to the propaganda ministries by saying there is such a thing as original thought, but feel free to trust your writer of pulp when he assures you that thought hasn't actually produced anything original since the tree dwelling days of our species. All of us are still very much on track for some kind of horrible end except perhaps The Rabbit of Usk. Not certain what this has to do with the Potlatch of Chapter Seventeen, except to say that our hero has to somehow come to terms with that Ogre or Warlock which is the Hotel and Catering Industry.

Friday, April 17, 2015

What's Happening to the Moon?

There's the beginning, the middle bit and the end part. In the great stories the beginning is fairly straight forward. My own preference is the Frog Eating the Moon scenario, and as a result of so awesome a thing life on earth turned to watch and in the process of watching became conscious through the question "What's happening to the Moon?" And it was primarily a consequence of trepidation that the moon began to return. Not a big fan of the Adam's Rib and Eden scenario, it's been done, endlessly, there's a whole sort of thing with Crusaders and The Word, and who's allowed to interpret The Word, but I guess if you like Warlocks and Orks, cuddly aliens and Hobbits and sitting around the fire talking about breakfast then that it's right up your street.

 The middle bit, invariably is pretty dull unless there's an idea of what might be happening to the moon. The Adam's Rib and Eden scenario kind of knows what's happened to the moon. So it's all about, climbing the slippery rope to the top of the pile of rotting bodies, and the hot chic swooning moments pretty much determines the end part which is all about the breeding stock because the winner gets to interpret The Word while visiting Cancun. Not at all pretty, I know, but there's a kind of movement towards it that's comfy. But then a mind turns to thinking and The Moon's up there being eaten by the Frog and frankly whether you're a Warlock, an Ork, a cuddly Alien or a secret agent employed by the Starzi and party time super detective, climbing to the top of a pile of rotting bodies just ain't sufficiently heroic for a Sabean.

Thursday, April 16, 2015


The Radical Forecaster's Annual General Conference is an exciting must do for any weather forecaster who wishes to get ahead in the cut throat business of weather forecasting. Otherwise you're just a boring old weather forecaster with nothing much beyond a great many confusing things to say and even more confusing maps to look at.

 Consider the difference between something like, "It could rain tomorrow, but who really knows, stay tuned!" And "Bring in the toddlers, mega rain storm of historic proportions anticipated tomorrow and there could be earthquakes followed by the rapture, stay tuned." Naturally a person brings in the toddlers. And its these sorts of things that an ambitious young weather forecaster learns at the RFAGC.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015


A certain shakiness in your writer of pulp. Chapter Seventeen has been subjected to Potlatch. It wasn't a traditional Potlatch, there was no oohing and ahhing from a rapt audience, no paper hats, no recourse to Psalm 23, no pat on the back for the purity of the sacrifice, no wondering moment as oneness was achieved between earth and heaven. Just a sort sterile click followed by a plink during the rather beautiful springtime call of a White Throated Sparrow

 However in a somewhat roundabout way your writer of pulp did learn that the technical device he'd always referred to as an IPod is actually called an IPad. Which means it is possible the Great One might have mysteriously smiled down. So let's just all hope Cancun is Cancun and not somewhere like Tulsa or Chipping Sodbury, because that truly would be a fist sighting of sheep. Either way next Potlatch your writer of pulp will be calling upon professional wailers to give the moment a little dignity.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Naming of Parts

Something very depressing about the 14th of any month. Kind of like Wednesday I guess. And indeed the seven day week leaves a great deal to be desired. But we all just carry on regardless, plodding away. I'm for giving every week of the year a name. Today would be something like Flotilda Three, Five Billion Seven Hundred and Twenty Five Thousand and Possibly Fifteen. The extremists of course would want to give every day of the year its own name.

I guess too it would be one of those things that would take generations to introduce. From my own personal experience I know the emotional problems associated with trying to change. I was and still am one of those who will talk about two shillings and sixpence, curse Napoleon and declare that the world started to end with Centigrade and the millimeter. All very well being told that giving weeks of the year names "makes no sense" but last time I looked nothing we people do makes sense. So a Very Happy Flotilda Three!

Monday, April 13, 2015

Running Dog

Body issues have combined and they appear united in declaring The Running Dog an apostate, but unlike the author of Earthly Voyage the central committee for knees backs and the right metatarsals has decided against crucifixion. My emissaries were met by footpads somewhere around the tummy button so relations with the revolutionaries are at the moment somewhat strained.

 Of the options available to whatever it is that remains between my ears the only one acceptable to the revolutionaries is a regimen that requires me to to do nothing much more than sitting quietly in a sensible chair and stare at the wall. The sometimes very attractive alternative of lower body amputation has been dismissed as extremist.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Potlatch Chapter Seventeen

It was while watching the Brown Thrasher that your writer of pulp came to the conclusion that Chapter Seventeen just has to endure a potlatch. Not pretty, it can get ugly, there is ennui, trepidation, resentment, pacing about, throwing things out the window, and the list is rather long. Nor does your writer of pulp share the Author of Red October's view that he's in the entertainment business. It's not his job to take people out of their lives and put them somewhere else. A coded message that might indeed have been uttered by the Brown Thrasher himself.

Either way, being a pompous ass is not just the preserve of those in the entertainment business. Who gives a damn about Sean Connery as a Russian submarine Captain, the man's Scottish for god-sake. And indeed it might be the height of arrogance to go round taking people out of their lives and putting them somewhere else. There used to be a word for that sort drug pushing activity. Yes indeed potlatch ceremonies are humbling, the great questions are posed and as a rule the answers are most unsatisfactory. In the old days of course potlatch was all about setting fire to bits of paper, now days it's a button pushing exercise followed by weeks of searching the incomprehensible auto-recovery files.

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Potato Creeds

Always a worry waiting for Potato to show. They've been in for nearly sixteen days, which is more than two weeks. They were in fine fettle when they went in, all excited and reaching for the sunlight. The weather's been good enough since then, plenty of rain and the soil warming. Sometimes too under these difficult circumstances it's necessary for the Gardener to engage in a routine of pillow talk with his Potato Patch.

It's a well established gardening practice that predates the Nicene Creed. The Gardener addresses the Potato, begs forgiveness for possibly having planted the Potato too deep, he blames himself, he then reminds the Potato that the heat and the dry are coming, and possible a Gardener might not feel like watering a lazy Potato patch. Then following the amen, there's usually an exchange of threats and grumpiness as both parties go their separate ways.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Mockingbirds and Thrashers

Not very certain where last week went. Nor does your correspondent have any powerful memories available to remind him what it was he might have done last week, which is a sure sign that Yellow Chats will be arriving soon.

Blockbuster news from this part of the world is the return of a boy Mockingbird. He's definitely creeped out by the Brown Thrasher's habit of singing from the internal branches of trees, rather than doing the right thing by singing up there where everyone can see him. Brown Thrashers are sneaky and underhanded birds.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Buffalo Rising

The Buffalo has risen, which is exciting. The Artist spotted him, pushing his way toward freedom. He's been moved from his winter hibernation zone out into dappled sunlight and there's always a possibility he might bloom again this year. A rather odd reddish maroon color and texture that leans a mind toward the internal blood filled organs of mammals.

 Last year I was able to smell him, not unpleasant, meaty sort of smell, but not the sort of meat you'd want to eat raw, rather it was that kind of smell from meat that should be soaked in vinegar, rinsed and then very well boiled before consumption. The forties in our future, but The Buffalo is chill tolerant and he has that cheerfulness of the mushroom.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Hero Gone Rogue

There'll have to be a second and serious look at Chapter Seventeen. At this juncture our hero should no longer be on the Island of Kerkyra, he and his carryall should be long gone.

And I'll tell you this much, it's very traumatic for a writer of pulp when he loses control of his hero. Very important for mental health not to let the hero just march around in a thoroughly structure-less manner.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

I do, I do

In many respects our hero should be grateful to Colonel Wake for insinuating that Raspberries didn't grow in Letland. This meant that when Temp Help Studanté Fred suggested that Letland was another word for Latvia, and when the Dandelion discovered that Raspberries did grow in Latvia, our hero was able to persist with the idea that Letland was a tropical green and pleasant land, it's national dish could remain mushroom omelet mashed potato and green beans and Letland had nothing whatsoever to do with the Baltic nation of Latvia.

 Possible too your writer of pulp might have to distance himself a little from chapter seventeen, he too appears to have taken on our hero's Lettish persona. It's a wonderful and heroic language, there are about fifteen or sixteen different tones to the words "Very Good." Each tone meaning filled within the context of the service industry and without all the rigmarole of vocabulary. The phrase "Off, Off" works miracles. And "I do, I do" is the Lettish way of saying "you're incompetence defeats the purpose of your presence in the room."

Monday, April 6, 2015

A Model Employee Goes Bad

Despite his many good qualities our hero falls a little short in the loosely defined virtue of tolerance. Certainly it's a big subject, wide ranging and what some might consider tolerance others might call 'blindness to the foibles of others.' And when engaged in the Service Industry 'total blindness to the foibles of others' should be the single virtue of the employee. It really is a question of 'his not to reason why' or 'page 123 line five' as the Rabbit prefers to think of it.

 Sadly for our hero, his grandfather, the author of page 123 line five, is far too often preoccupied with Tennyson's plagiarizing and the damage done to the Saxon sense of humor by Edward Lear to be like a guiding hand for our hero. And too there can be no sense of belonging without a commitment of the more primitive emotions. So probably when Jeffry Cunningham was lying on top of his counterpane with muddy shoes on his feet things started to go awry of our hero as a model employee in the hotel and catering industry.

Sunday, April 5, 2015


The Lord has risen and let's all just hope he didn't happen to witness the incident in the grocery store car parking area. It wasn't the sort of thing to put bounce in a saviour's footstep.

 It's a funny thing about fish stickers on cars it seems to bring out the worst in the vehicles driver. My own request to the great one would be to have another look at the whole idea of forgiveness.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Mockingbirds and Thrashers

The foxy brown Thrasher is apparently secretive and hard to spot. Not so where I live, because the foxy brown Thrasher thinks he's a boy Mockingbird and he is so good at singing like a boy Mockingbird he has unnerved the local boy Mockingbirds and sent them packing. Girl Mockingbirds are fascinated by him.

 Unlike a boy Mockingbird a Brown Thrasher is sneaky. He doesn't sing in the top of a tree, but prefers to  lurk where he can't be seen. Girl Mockingbirds hear his voice, they potter around deliberately ignoring him in the traditional girl Mockingbird fashion. The Brown Thrasher is not in the least interested, and for some reason this makes girl Mockingbirds more interested. A time comes however when being deliberately ignored by girl Mockingbirds so unnerves the Brown Thrasher he shuts up and flies off.

Friday, April 3, 2015

Sphinx Sabeans

The Windral or Book Five is winding to a conclusion. Not exactly an algebraic conclusion, there's no pure mathematics in the Rabbit of Usk, more like a series of understated and invisible semi-colons. Your writer of pulp's personal preference would be to do away with punctuation all together, just have one incredibly long word. But he does realize that one incredibly long word would be entering the stranger realms of German and perhaps Mohican. Neither language he is familiar with beyond a sort of "whatshappeningdude."

There is however a point about the world of people as an increasingly mathematical arena. Very few will try to claim as past generations have attempted to do that our species is rational. But thanks to the devotional of  mathematics and the exciting field of information technology we can each be given a value, and whether we are rational or not, the value is dependant upon a sort of tautology that predetermines what we are good for here on earth. It's a system that produces IPods, Cancun and lipstick for goodness sake. And indeed within the framework configured around the word "productive" the Sphinx Sabean is the one under whom Pharaoh is not buried.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Hotel and Catering

The sequence of events that led our hero to eschew the English Language for an entire winter remains a little mysterious. Better perhaps to think of it as an avoidance technique on his part. Yet when our hero was engaged in what your writer of pulp will call the service industry, language skills were very low on the list of qualifications. A person didn't have to speak English to change the sheets on beds English people slept in. Nor does your writer of pulp get out very much so who knows what the Have a Nice Day rules are today!

And there was a second great advantage which our hero began to realize had something to do with the nature of a charade. He could loudly say off, off I clean! to the guests in cottage five and because our hero was foreign there wasn't very much the guests could do about it without producing a blank, uncomprehending stare. Whereas, had our hero said something like It's after lunch, why are you still in your pajamas! there'd be a whole lot of feeble explanations for why the guests were still in their pajamas followed by complaints to management about rudeness from the chamber maid. So it was a win/win for Timotei Candlemass. 

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Sabeans, schisms and April 1st

The Big Joke Day, it's origins medieval or Ancient Egyptian or perhaps something to do with late October 1929. But amongst Sphinx Sabeans the celebration occurs on the fourth day of the fifth month, every fourth Lunar Year. Classically enough Pyramid Sabeans don't have a Big Joke Day, they're far too dull and boring, and sometimes your correspondent gives serious consideration to crossing the divide that separates Sphinx and Pyramid Sabeans.

All the same a cultural flummox is such that your correspondent has absolutely no doubt that committees in non-smoking filled rooms have spent hours pondering their media outlets, looking at their audience assumptions and have come away with some truly well balanced brilliant ideas. Certainly eliminates any responsibility you or I might have to our various heritages. Thank god my own Big Joke Day doesn't occur for another three years. This year Sphinx Sabeans will be throwing water each other on the third day of the tenth lunar month of our year, which fortunately occurs sometime in August.