"They're Gonna Put Me In The Movies...Part Deux"

I believe I mentioned in one or two of my past posts that I never learn. Sure enough, when I saw a desperate plea for extras for a local movie by none other than Butch "Anyone can make a movie with actual money!" Maier, I felt that I owed him a favor after my last appearance in his film "The Head Of The Company" and volunteered. Now, if you didn't know it, my performance in "Head" had been the subject of some critical acclaim, "Two thumbs up for the follically challenged Bob L" Siskel and Ebert, even though Mr. Siskel is technically deceased it was the thought that counts. "Bob's performance makes you almost wish you were bald yourself" wrote Rex Reed for Variety. Mr Reed may also be technically dead, but I'm not sure, then there was this: "Bob's performance does for bald men what George W. Bush did for political integrity", Joe Fabeets for the Tipp City Picayune.

So I was feeling pretty good about myself when I finally found my way to the United Church of Christ in Bath, Ohio, thanks to (I swear this is true) the help of a guy, roughly 45 years old, in a Boy Scout uniform who was standing on a rural road in the middle of Noplace, Ohio directing traffic around some sort of bicycle race. I thought it was a dream, but he actually did give me pretty good directions.

Now the person in charge of getting extras, the mysterious "Krista S" whose organizing philosophy can be best summed up as "These people are so desperate for their 15 minutes of fame, or who have no actual lives, I can tell them anything and they will do it," had emailed us all several times with instructions that sounded very authoritative. "YOU MUST ARRIVE NO LATER THAN 9:00 A.M. OR YOU'RE OUT OF THE MOVIE, DON'T WEAR ANY REDS, WHITES OR BLACKS OR YOU'LL BE OUT OF THE MOVIE AND ALL EXTRAS MUST NOT GO TO THE BATHROOM FOR A MINIMUM OF 3 DAYS OR..." made us feel very secure this film was going to run like a taut ship indeed. What it actually turned out to be, and probably why we only knew her as "Krista S" (if that is her real initial), was that she was actually Butch's "Chief Assistant in Charge of Crapola." That was because none of the rules were followed with the exception of the one about the bathroom.

I arrived at 8:45 a.m. per Commandant Krista's instructions, and proceeded to become involved in the three things extras must do best. That is, wait! And wait some more and finally, er, um, wait. While the other extras and I waited in the church conference room, the good folks of the church held their worship services. And sure enough, Butch and the rest of the crew and cast arrived at the crack of 10:30. I think that Butch had become desperate for extras because he had coerced the pastor into soliciting the some of the braver of the church congregation to stay and be in the movie, upon pain of purgatory (either that or he won them in a card game). He said he could do it too, because he knew God personally.

After the services, the extras were finally told to go the sanctuary and fill up the pews. That was so Butch could film some shots of a wedding scene, which was probably appropriate as the tentative name of the movie is "The Bride and Grooms." It was at this point I learned another bit of cinematic trickery, which was cramming 100 people into two rows of pews designed to hold 10 people so that we appeared to be a well dressed mob of 500 attending a beautiful wedding.

However, I must admit that Butch has come up in the world and I became impressed that his film budget must have increased to maybe $20.00 because he had three (count 'em) actual camera's, a real boom microphone, a makeup lady and a few dozen gophers. It was just before the first "take" that the actors came in to line up at the altar that I was wondering whether they were actually going to act, or whether they were preparing to be linemen for the Cleveland Clowns, er, Browns. When the were coming in they were bobbing, weaving and jumping up and down like prizefighters coming into the ring, and at one point the hero, at least I think he was the hero, head butted another actor delaying filming for first aid.

At last we began shooting, which gave Butch the opportunity to practice his "one more time" slogan. It also gave the extras the chance to ruin their various leg muscles and joints by standing up and sitting down roughly 3,000 times (or one more time x 3,000) for the critical "The Bride Breaks Down and Sprints Back Up the Aisle" scene. During one of the three million breaks I had the opportunity to meet Butch's mother who (not surpising given Butch's huge budget) also volunteering as an extra. She is a kind lady (she must be as she complimented my first post on Butch's first movie see http://aging-disgracefully.blogspot.com/2007_02_01_archive.html ) and not at all the type that would rear a son who would make a knowing career choice in felonious aggravated movie making. In fact, her daughter, evidently the "bright one" has actually done something productive with her life and is actually helping people better their lives.

After the church scenes we meandered over to the fellowship hall for lunch and break, during which I did several crossword puzzles, chatted with some of the other extras and watched Pastor Bob clean out several extras in a seven card stud game. A couple of the extras I spoke with, Claudia and Cindy, were from Lakewood, or Rocky River, or some darn place. Anyway they would fit in well with the Bobcat crowd as from what I gather they are funny, sarcastic and a propensity to enjoy a beverage or two. In fact, the most productive part of the day for me was when Claudia, obviously the ringleader and most streetwise of the two, gave me several restaurant suggestions for the west side.

Just before doing the reception scene we were all told to change clothes and take a break before dinner. We had two hours to kill. So I tried to relax and take a nap in my car, however, God had essentially used the parking lot as a steel furnace that afternoon, so after about ten minutes of sitting in the shade and still sweating like a congressman in front of an ethics committee, I decided to forget and go inside and change. It was at this time I heard, over my right shoulder coming from a residence which had been shielded from my view by large hedges, the sound of at least two dogs barking and sprinting to find the source of the "car door slamming which means there may be some moron threatening our territory sound" and I turned just in time to see Fluffy and Snowball scramble around the corner of the hedges, tripping over each other and yapping like the pesty little anthills of fur they were and froze about 10 yards away. However, I could still hear barking. Real barking. And about 3 hours later, having been slowed considerably by his massive bulk, around the hedge came the third dog, Luca. Luca was some sort of cross between a rotweiller, saber toothed tiger and Dick Cheney, so you can imagine my sheer, stark terror. Luca stopped in front of his minute brethren and intermittently barked, growled and slobbered at me as I stood frozen like a statue. After what seemed a lifetime I finally heard a lady calling the names of the dogs and telling them, in vain of course, to COME HOME THIS INSTANT! And since these particular canines were operating 1 molecule of actual brain matter and a zillion gallons of adrenaline, I was not surprised that they just ignored her. After another lifetime the woman came around the hedge and started to drag the still clamoring mongrels back toward their home. I could hear her voice a thousand miles away, telling me the dogs wouldn't harm a fly. Also, I heard her say something about not knowing there was anybody there in the church parking lot. I could understand that since it was Sunday, and why in the world would ANYBODY BE IN A CHURCH PARKING LOT ON SUNDAY! At this point, I most definitely needed a change of clothes, change of scene or not.

While at the fellowship hall we were to portray attendees at the wedding reception and look stunned. This was the easy part, as I was stunned when I came out of the womb. Also at one point the extras were supposed to "dance" for reality purposes, I guess, but having the rhythm God gave gravel I politely demurred. No amount of encouraging waving from the mob of extras, Butch or unlimited Wild Turkey could persuade me to "act" like I was dancing. At least not in front of cameras where there would be a permanent record. Anyway the dancing scene was only done 200 "one more times."

Finally the shooting for the day was complete and Butch mercifully told us that we could now leave as the armed guards would let us leave. After scouring the parking lot for the terrible canine trio, I slinked (or should that be slunk) to my car, quietly opened the door and quietly started same, figuring Luca's teeth could easily shred mere steel, and eased onto the highway for the hour long drive home.
All in all it was a good experience, the congregation of the church were kind and generous in their volunteering, and Pastor Bob even allowed some of the card game participants leave with their pants. Me, I'm not sure how I'll explain to Sandy why I came home wearing a barrel.
Moral: Never play cards with someone who has God slipping him aces.

Love
Dad

The Maiden Voyage, Smooth Sailing Optional

My humble apologies to the boating bureaucracy of Ohio. In my last post I rashly libeled the public servants, not realizing they, in their infinite wisdom, were actually only looking out for my mental and physical well being. What they were in fact, telling me was that if I was going to buy an 8 1/2 foot "inflatable" boat for use on public lakes, I might just as well just give the state some money too. Either that or just burn it. I'm not sure if they meant for me to just burn my money or the boat. Probably they meant both. If I had just burned the boat I would have saved a lot of time, heartache and money.

I blame myself however, because I should know by now that my attempting anything remotely requiring mechanical or technical skills is masochistic at best. To make such attempts without adequate instructions is equivalent to suicide by covering myself in molasses and staking myself to an anthill. But such is my fixation with my latest addiction. Now a certifiable fishing junkie thanks to Lake Templane and Larry Livingston, I have become a fishing snob (only bass will satisfy my angling desires, ok, maybe walleye as well, and the perch, my God, the perch!), I need a smallish boat for the inland lakes and resevoirs where the bass are generally found. Along comes Sevylor with their inexpensive (cheap) inflatable boats and the means of achieving my rush suddenly became doable. Not only do I have a delivery system (hypodermic) for my "drug" but I can even speed the rush with an "optional" 12 volt, electric motor. There is also the optional foot pump (for inflation), optional battery and optional oars (in case the motor accidently fails). That seems a lot of "options" for a quiet neighborhood! Too bad they don't carry optional common sense! Strike One!

As I mentioned previously, I purchased this craft "gently" used. When I was told by the seller that it was being sold because the little old lady (that only drove it to church on Sundays) had trouble getting in and out of the craft, I assumed that was because of her advanced years. Wrong octagenarian breath. I found this out on the maiden voyage at a place called the "East Branch Reservoir" located in Middlefield, Ohio. East Branch supplies the water for all of Akron so logically no gas motors are allowed. Only electric motors, oars and idiotic sailors are permitted.

Once I got my used boat home I decided, in a rare fit of planning, to try out the foot pump that, according to the good folks at Sevylor, would have the craft fully inflated within nanoseconds. Ha ha, those guys at Sevylor sure are funny. After approximately 3 days of painful toil with pump the raft was actually about 1/10 inflated. I perceptively grasped that I was going to need an "optional" electric pump to get the boat fully inflated within my actual lifetime. And of course, since few of the facilities have actual electricity within miles of the actual lakes and ponds, I was going to need an "optional" converter so I could power the electric pump within several miles of the actual lake. I did not however realize the need for a converter until after I tried it out at East Branch, where they had a picnic pavilion in the same area code as the lake. Sooooooooo, after getting the boat inflated, which, only took a couple of minutes I had to carry the thing the 1,200 miles to shore of the reservoir. Strike Two!

Now, comes the funny part. I don't believe you've actually lived until you've seen some 56 year old moron trekking through the woods, toward the lake with a fully inflated boat on top of his bald head, which is the only conceivable way it could be carried as it had all the portability of Yankee Stadium. Also, since the outer shell of the boat completely covered my head, I had fantastic view of my feet, and that was all I could see. So here I am staggering and weaving down a dirt drive, a fully inflated raft perched atop me so that I looked like someone at a football game who wears one of those oversized foamy cowboy hats that look so stupid. Multiply that by 10,000. On the bright side, I was able to determine that I have what appears to be a bunion cropping up on my right big toe. You wouldn't think I could have topped that sight, eh. You would be an idiot.

After finally getting to the lake, it only took a couple of hours to get the rest of my crap to the "launch" area, and get it loaded onto the boat. And, being such a large vessel, there was enough room for all my gear, plus a place for me to actually sit, roughly the size of a major postage stamp. But I squeezed in with the oars, and motor and tackle box and fishing pole and I set off from the shore. And I set off from the shore. And I set off from the shore. I spent several hours trying to push myself off the sandy bottom of the near shore with my hands, feet, oars and several tree branches. So before I had gotten 10 feet from shore, I had lost about 20 pounds of water weight.

Now without getting into theories of the physics of buoyancy and water displacement, the best way of visualizing the scene (now with me on top of the boat) is an illustration. Picture a paper plate wafting on the calm aqua water. Now drop a bowling ball on top. You get the idea.

Still, it gets better. While I struggle with figuring out how to use the oars, it's the damndest thing, when you pull the left oar the boat goes right and vice versa. By the way, I'm using the oars because I am trying to conserve some power in the motor's battery, which lasts, as I now know about 12 seconds. I finally get some semblance of control over the boat's manual propulsion system when I start to notice a suspiciously cold, wet feeling creeping up my legs until my khaki shorts, with my wallet, car keys with "optional" electric door opener and my cell phone feel like I am in New Orleans after Katrina. Only wetter. Low and behold, and surprise surprise, I have sprung a leak somewhere on my "gently" used craft. Imagine that! So, I spend the next hour rowing back to shore to try and find the problem, or to end it all by self immolation. Once ashore, I quickly located the problem, someone had neglected to close the cover seal of one of the valves on the boat's underside. Those damn SOBs at the yacht club, that's the last time I trust them with my "pleasure" craft.

I get the valve sealed and am now getting the hang of rowing (in a fairly straight line), I get out about 50 yards from shore and am able to concentrate some on why I came here. To get a vicious sunburn. No seriously I got my rod out of the "optional" rod holder and proceeded to try casting for the big ones. I had maybe 3 casts under my belt, when I realized that the shoreline was getting smaller, and smaller and the next thing I know, I am in the middle of the reservoir. Evidently smaller craft drift quickly in these parts. Not to worry, I have my handy dandy, trusty 12 volt "optional" battery and instead of killing myself with paddling, I will just cruise on into the shore for some more angling. It is now that I discover that the motor on the back of the boat functions essentially the same as oars do in terms of navigational direction. You steer in the opposite direction of where you want to go. Now that may sound simple enough, but between climbing over all the junk, squatting down in the rear (I think it's called the stern) and trying to watch where I'm driving, I am swerving across the water like Ted Kennedy at Chappaquiddick. Only drunker. At one point I was oversteering so badly I was literally just going in tiny circles. With all this extra territory I was covering I found my battery starting to flag about 60 miles from shore.

However, I finally did limp into the area with a small cove for getting boats, (REAL BOATS), onto and out of the water. I rowed the last several yards and finally reached solid ground. I spent the next several weeks uninflating the boat and getting it and my gear all loaded into the car and went home to nurse my wounds and put some industrial strenth Absorbine on my entire body. Boating is apparently damn hard work! Sssssssstttttttrrrrrriiiiiiiikkkkke three, yer out!

But, I do not learn from my mistakes (I could say something really funny about marriage here, but Sandy has a vicious left hook) and am already looking forward to my next seafaring adventure. "Over the seas, let's go men, we're shovin' right off again!"

Before I go however, I am going to have several "optional" martinis.

Love
Dad

Ohioans: Are We Having Fun Yet?

OK, Buckeyes, we've done it again. The great state of Ohio, philosophy: "If it exists, we can license it and thus, charge ridiculous fees for it!" has sunk to new levels of governmental overreaching and profiteering.

Recently, and following my angling success in Michigan over the July 4th weekend (see last post), I decided that I would get myself a little boat or raft to get on the water to fish at some of the smaller lakes and resevoirs around northeast Ohio. I saw exactly what I needed in an ad on Craigslist. It was an 81/2 foot inflatable boat. It seemed perfect, it had only been used once (by a little old lady who only drove it to church) and the price was right, i.e., cheap. So I called the owner and after much haggling I bought the boat for exactly what she asked (haggling is not my strong suit). Now, I should know by now, that this might not be a good idea, given my past success with things aquatic (see my post about getting my diving certification). After I got the boat home I started checking online for lakes that would allow such a craft on their waters, when I noticed a link which said "Boat Registration" and knowing I would live to regret it, I hit the link and low and behold my massive nautical vessel did indeed require a registration, which would cost a mere $30 for three years. So I set out to navigate, no pun intended, the beauracratic swamp I knew awaited me.

But first a trip in the "Way Back Machine." I'm thinking it is around November, because that is my birth month, the setting is Painesville, Ohio, circa 1967. I know this because I have one foot on getting my temporary driver's license and the other on a banana peel, and thanks to the sharp eyed and gleeful clerk at the BMV I discover there is a slight error on my birth certificate. This will necessitate another trip from Willoughby, where my family lived at the time, back to Painesville, the county seat, this time with a parent to have the birth certificate corrected with an affidavit (whatever the hell that was) attached to the faulty document making the correction "official." The error that brought the wheels of beauracy to a grinding halt? The certificate said I was born on November 21, 1951, whereas the doctor supposedly signed the record on November 20, which the industrious clerk noted was impossible, and therefore fatally flawed. So I guess officially at least in Ohio, I don't really exist. No such luck.

The job of securing the required correction fell to my father because he worked third shift and my mother worked during the day. Last time I checked government offices generally do not operate overnight. That time is reserved for scandal and graft.

Now, my father was an Appalachian transplant which meant that he would rather have had a tooth yanked out with rusty pliers and no novacaine, than have to make an appearance in any government office. So, as you might imagine, my dad was not exactly the picture of magnanimity that morning. Since this trip into the jaws of governmental red tape was of course, my fault (I wasn't sure why he felt it was my fault, until I became a father), his demeanor toward me that day was not exactly one of gratitude and pride at my very existence and I know I heard him muttering several times how underrated birth control was.

After several hours of being shuffled from one cold official to the next, somehow we finally secured the necessary notarized affidavit, now officially attached to my officially notarized birth certificate, via an official and costly staple, and I could proceed to the BMV to get my temps.
I was so traumatized by this event, that I found myself possessed in later years, to become a lawyer so I could deal with this morass of rules, regulations and crapola on a daily basis.

So it was with some trepidation that I embarked upon the mission to make my raft "street" legal. Sure enough the system did not disappoint. Instead of being able to resolve the issues and get my necessary official "paperwork" in a few measly hours, as happened in 1967, the tedious process now takes several days. And if anything, the clerks have become even less pleasant and helpful. I'm not sure why that is since THEY ARE ALL BEING PAID WITH MY TAX DOLLARS, SUCKING ON THE PUBLIC TEAT, DRIVING AROUND IN BIG CARS AND GETTING GREAT PENSION BENEFITS TO JACK SCHMUCKS LIKE ME AROUND ON A DAILY BASIS. THEY SHOULD BE CHEERFUL AND GRATEFUL, DAMMIT! Not that I'm bitter or anything. All this for a lousy rubber raft. This is part of the very beauracratic plot that spawned the great CPAP fiasco I spoke about a few blogs ago. You know, the one with the picture of that handsome guy at the end.

I happen to know for a fact, the Ohio legislature has been kicking around, aside from the electorate, ideas to license cats, bicycles, tricycles and rubber duckies. Just kidding! About the tricycles anyway. I mean come on people, we're in a recession! How is the legislature going to find money to support their annual raises? Not that it was ever a problem for them before.
So, thanks again Ohio, for making this state even more difficult to live in than just the high unemployment, massive poverty and high crime makes it. Bend over fellow Buckeyes.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a ducky to hide.

Love
Dad

A Fish Called Crappie and the Great Purloined Purple, Possibly Pink, Paddleboat Caper

Well, its official, there really are fish out there. I know for a fact because I spent this 4th of July actually catching some. Normally I would be reluctant to post the name of the lake where these miracles of angling occured, but then again, that would be assuming someone actually reads any of this tripe. But, for the one or two of you that actually do, it is called Lake Templane and is in Southern Michigan.

First of all there is something in the drinking water in this place, because everybody there was extremely nice. This would be an understatement. These folks are certifiably nice. I think they must have some sort of niceness competition. For example, our hosts, Judy and Larry, actually coerced God into giving us 3 straight days of glorious weather, and on a weekend, no less. Now that's what I call nice. And that was just the beginning. They opened their beautiful, lakefront home to Sandy and I, and to my daughter Mel and her husband Dave (ok, so Mel and Dave are technically family) and treated us like royalty the entire time. As a matter of fact, I'm convinced that had they known I occaisionally (which nowadays once every 2 minutes) have to get out of bed to go to the bathroom, they would have volunteered to go for me!
And their neighbors were incredibly friendly. On one side is Jerry and the on the other is Steve. Then for good measure, they have an auxilliary neighbor Pete who, in his off time, relaxes by hauling roughly 8 tons of sand on his back to the lake front to help create a beach and then spends hours spreading it with Larry, Jerry and Steve. Jerry, who kindly keeps the airline industry afloat by commuting to Houston every week for work, offered to let me use his area of lakefront to fish from, while Steve essentially threw open his doors to become the weekend branch of Michigan State. Steve even allowed our dog, Ginger to wander over to his house and up onto his deck during the evening meal and mooch handouts from the student body. Ginger can spot a soft touch at about three miles.

Speaking of dogs, not only did we bring ours, but Mel and Dave brought their two, Elsie and Beelzebub (who you met in a previous post) to stay. So with Larry and Judy's dog Molly, they essentially had a kennel operation going as well. For those of you who have not had the experience of 4 dogs in one house, I can tell you it is like having 4 toddlers in one house, all on industrial strength Red Bull. Unless, of course, it is July 4 weekend and some of the dogs (who shall remain nameless so the other dogs can't get together and talk about them, ok Molly and Elsie) are deathly afraid of fireworks, in which case they required a few tablets of modern veteranary medicine to calm them whenever a firework went off, which of course this weekend was about every 2 nanoseconds. As I understand it, in an unmedicated condition Elsie responds to the explosions by doing what I would do, if I were a dog, and that is slink, with tail twixt hind legs to the nearest bed and curl up in the fetal position underneath, suck her thumb, er, paw, and wimper piteously. Molly on the other hand, essentially turns into a one dog house demolishing crew, and Larry and Judy's window screen budget for replacements every 4th of July equalled the GNP of Bolivia. However, thanks to the miracle of modern chemistry Molly and Elsie zoned out everything and lazed around listening to Pink Floyd records all night. Emma, because she is deaf, and Ginger, because she is older than dirt, essentially did the same.

This is not the end of the dog story however. As there were four of them, and since just about everyone on the lake owned a dog, and therefor would take them for walks, sometimes right on the street in front of the house. When this happened one alert dog, usually Elsie, would alert the other three with usual barking a dog does when ever its territory is threatened, and you immediately had four mutts, a mass of delirious dogs barking crazily, scampering and slipping and sliding on the hardwood floors from window to window, like some deranged canine amoeba so as not to lose sight of the dog on the street.

The other thing the dog's did, perhaps in a fit of pique over being left alone in the house while we were out fishing, shopping, eating or whatever, spent their time devising an insidious game that is bad for young people like Mel and Dave, but particularly ruthless for middle aged folks like the rest of us. While away, these four "adorable" pups decided it would be great fun to hide things from the humans. As a consequence we spent most of our time that weekend saying things like, "Where the heck is my ___________ fill in the blank,

a: cell phone charger
b: glasses
c: wasabi mix
d: brain
e: all of the above and more."

The correct response is of course, "e". But the coup de grace, and we are still trying to figure out how they did it without outside assistance, was when one or more of them (my money is on Emma or Satan as I like to call her, as ringleader at least) decided to take Larry's paddleboat for a midnight joyride. Yes, while homo sapiens slept, this gang of four legged theives absconded with that little boat and then rolled on the floor while Larry and I spent a good part of the next day driving Larry's pontoon boat around the lake looking for Larry's purple (I think it is pink) paddleboat. Larry tried to steer the boat to avoid hazards and so he relied on my keen eyesight to try and locate the wayward craft. This was a mistake, as I have the ocular ability God gave Mr. Magoo. At long last we spotted the vessel being pulled by another pontoon boat headed in the direction of Larry's dock. It had been found on the other side of the island by, who else, Steve and Pete and friends, and were towing it back for Larry. Embarrassed much?

Amid all this excitement we found time to have some fun fishing, swimming in the inground pool and I even tried out the jet ski. For all my good buddies out there you missed a quite a spectacle unless of course you have already seen the Sea World performance of an intoxicated Shamu. We also ate absolutely fabulous meals and snacks prepared by Judy (favorite phrase: "Have a little more, that's only your 32nd helping.") and her offspring Dave who makes a wicked seared tuna steak. Sandy brought along her delicious cabbage rolls and peirogis. Mel, concocted a particulary tasty and insidious drink involving rum soaked watermelon balls. Larry and I did what all men do, which is eat, drink and belch. No, actually Larry among other things, built bonfires a couple of nights that I'm told were photographed by NASA satellites. Larry also took me out on his pontoon boat a few times for the absolute best fishing I have ever had. I caught blue gill, perch, several nice sized bass. But the highlight for me was reeling in something called a "Crappie" (no cheap shots Bennetts) which I had never caught before, and which was a pretty good size, so I'm told, of 12 inches long (ok, 11.9 inches you nitpickers). I caught so many fish I didn't even have to include the few I hooked and lost pulling them into the boat.

So Judy and Larry and the other folks around Lake Templane that made this such a glorious holiday weekend Sandy and I salute and thank you once again. You may live to regret it however, as we have been known to turn up repeatedly like a bad penny. I have no idea what that means. Cheers.

By the way, when Larry and I got back with the paddle boat, we took all the dog's out and shot them. Just kidding, but we damn sure cut back on their bacon allotments.

Now where the hell are my glasses? GINGERRRRR!

Love
Dad