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“But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?”
- Hamlet by William Shakespeare, Act III, scene I
The quote is from Hamlet's famous “To be or not to be” speech. I'll be auditioning for that play in a month, so it's been on my mind. My sister told me that every male actor views himself as Hamlet. I know I sure do. One reason for his universal appeal must be that he voices the fears we all have, such as the unknown.
I think by the age of 24, every young man has contemplated suicide at one point, and picked some reason not to do it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have reached the age of 24. But don't worry, I'm not going to talk about death in this entry. In fact, reread the quote but replace the word “death” with “a haircut.”
My hair looks pretty awful long. It's just flat and boring. It's always flat and boring, but it seems to obey pomade when it's shorter. And yet, I am extremely afraid of haircuts. I know my hair needs to be cut, but I imagine that the shorter haircut will be even worse. “Thus conscience does make cowards of us all," as Hamlet said.
I'm used to my long hair, even if I know I've looked better in the past. If my hair is too short, I'll have to get used to that! And I never do, because by the time I could get used to it, it has already grown.
I wonder how I look to the barber when I'm sitting in his chair. I turn my brain off, because every thought racing through my head is “Get up and leave, Paul! Run, and let the wind fly through your beautiful brown locks!” I know I don't smile through the process, and I must be pretty glassy eyed. It's like cutting the hair off of a corpse. I think this is why a good barber also knows how to talk to their customers.
Watching your haircut is a terrible experience. Luckily, I took my glasses off so they wouldn't get in the way of the barber's scissors last Friday when I got my haircut at Matt's Barber Shop in Amherst. I didn't have to see a thing. Also, the barber asked me questions along the way to make sure my haircut was just as I wanted it to be. That's also a bit nerve racking... what do I know about haircuts? But I think I made the right decisions because the haircut came out well.
Or at least, as well as short hair can come out as. I look kind of like a stranger now. But at least I'll be used to it in a month or so when it's long again.
I'm starting to think there's a secret Alpha Male in one of my circles of friends, and it's not me. It couldn't be me; my ideas never catch on. My friends would never follow me into a dance club, for instance. But I'll totally follow them into the Harp for a quiet sit with a beer.
The one thing I find odd is that all three of them love German food. I think it's alright. Sausage. Potato. Sauerkraut. Beer. The four basic food groups in Germany. So, when all four of us are together, we go to the Munich Haus in Chicopee.
Now I'm about to describe an incident that sent chills down my spine, and it took place in the Munich Haus, so please don't ask me to try to describe the dishes. I'm no schnitzel connoisseur. But we were celebrating one of the guy's birthdays.
When the waitress came to our table, the birthday boy ordered Beer α and Dish α. I went next and ordered a beer called Paul-something-or-another, for obvious reasons, and to eat, I ordered Dish β. Then Guy #2 ordered Beer α and Dish α. I called him a copycat. Guy #3 also ordered Beer α and Dish α. I was spooked.
The waitress came by with our beers and set them down. My friends looked at me, one of them shaking his head.
“What?” I said. “This is totally a me-beer!”
“Why? 'Cause it's tall and awkwardly shaped?” the birthday boy said, referring to the glass it came in.
“You could say that,” I said.
When the waitress brought the food over, my friend who had shaken his head at me said, “You just had to be different, didn't you?”
I protested. I don't base my choices on what is or isn't popular! I just picked what looked good. Or as good as German food can get. I then accused them of agreeing to order the same dish without me before going to the Munich Haus.
On the way back from the Munich Haus, Guy #3 pointed out the full moon over a rolling field consumed by a sea of fog. It was beautiful, and I just had to stare at it through the passenger window while we made our way to the Harp. After a beer there, we stepped out and all four of us looked at the moon. The birthday boy let out a howl, and we joined in. Four wolves howling at the moon. I'm one of the pack, even if I'm the Beta Male.
But on my birthday, we're totally getting mojitos at Mama Iguana's in Northampton!
Link: http://www.hampshireshakespeare.org/
My Valentine's Day couldn't have been any better. I rekindled an old flame with theater. As my regulars will know, I was the Master of Ceremonies for HSC's show “Sleeping with Shakespeare.” This show consisted of some of Shakespeare's best love scenes, some funny, some sad, and some extraordinarily sexy, interspersed with sonnets and introductions from me.
My friend, Jack Zaryckyj, called me on the Monday before the show to ask if I would like to be MC. It was short notice, but a welcome surprise. I immediately freed up my schedule for that date and waited for further instructions. Jack sent me a list of scenes with a “skeleton” of introductions he wanted me to work on.
But first I had to watch the show on Saturday and get a sense of what each scene was about. I came up with some introductions on the spot and it seemed to flow well. While I kept most of my material close to Shakespeare, I couldn't resist making fun of Sarah Palin and her writing on her hand. It also helped me get around having to memorize a whole lot of logistical information before curtain.
My friend Meagan Magrath, who did a very moving performance along with her stage lover Jack, approached me after the rehearsal and said, “Did you just write all that?” I shrugged and said, “No, I didn't really write it. I just kind of thought of it.” And she said, “I like the way your mind works.” I blushed. My mind is not complimented very often.
I came up with more material at the actual performance. There's something genuinely exciting about improvisation. After the show, people from the audience and the cast approached me and told me I should consider doing stand up, and you know, that doesn't sound like such a bad idea. I'm also wondering whether I should pursue improv.
Whatever I do, I hope it's on the stage. I'll still be writing, of course, but that's not enough for me. I need something else going on.
My first endeavor is to try and get into one of HSC's two shows this summer. They're doing The Tempest and Hamlet, which are pretty much two of the most awesome Shakespeare plays ever. I think I would do really well in a comedy. People already seem to think I'm a goof. But that's why it would be so fun to play a part like Hamlet that's super tragic! He's also a bit of a goof though. Well, I'm not going to cast myself. That's the director's job. Still, Hamlet... what a role!
Of course, as my sister told me, every male actor views himself as Hamlet. So, I have a month to calm myself before auditions and graciously accept any part they give me. Even if it's Laertes. What a bum role!
Either way, I caught the theater bug, so expect to read about adventures backstage if you're following this blog.
Sorry. I told myself my next entry wouldn't be about love or any other silly emotion related to the attraction of one person to another. I slipped.
I was doing so well, too. I had finally shaken off a crush I had on someone. My focus had shifted to more important things such as my ongoing projects. I learned to pay attention to other women, who were, at the very least, better flirts. I was no longer obsessively checking her Facebook profile while saying, “You don't like her, Paul. Not like that.”
Well, I saw her recently, and, being the comfortably detached person I am, I smiled and thought to myself, “I'm not paying any attention to you.” I would have succeeded, too, if she weren't talking to another guy. Why the Hell should that thwart my plans? Let him have her if he was indeed having her. There seemed to be interest there, but what do I know and what should I care?
I became very angry with my emotions. I thought we had an agreement. I thought they were making progress. I thought we were going to march forward and not dwell on stupid things that did not concern us. I have a mind for logic, but it seems that my heart doesn't understand basic addition.
I thought I could reconcile having emotions with being a logically-minded person. Sometimes we must use both emotion and logic to come to the best decision, such as which pursuits will make us happiest. Without a sense of happy, logic is useless.
But they have their creative differences; my emotional self is a diva and loves to go solo.
At that point I'll grab my logical self and say, “Stop your friend over there!”
My logical self will shake his head. “You think that whacko will listen to me? You're on your own, buddy.”
Usually I can catch up with my emotional self and say, “Hey, buddy, look at this shiny thing! Do you want to play with it and stop making a scene?” But when he's having a tantrum inside my head, forget it. There aren't enough rolls of tin foil in the world to stop this guy.
Emotions naturally lead us to doing the stupidest things, like saying, “Hey, Paul, let's jump ship and find a completely different circle of friends.” While I am certainly good at swimming to other friend-ships, sometimes I need to give myself time to dry. Changing my world to avoid one person is dumb. Plus, it gives her power, doesn't it? I just realized that that last question was Pride speaking. Which now leads me to believe that my emotional self is not one voice, but several conflicting voices in one head.
No wonder they're able to overthrow my logical self. The poor guy is always trying to control an angry mob! Anyway, I've fallen back into the trap of checking her Facebook profile, which does not make sense at all.
The only way I find I can control my emotions is to keep myself busy. Something happened between the encounter and this entry: I acted as Master of Ceremonies for a Shakespeare review, and that gave me an incredible high. Theater is the best medicine for me. While I'm still experiencing symptoms of jealousy, an overwhelming joy is washing them out. I can't expect my emotions to always cooperate with me, but I don't have to let them stop me.
By the way, I don't blame the woman behind this bout of jealousy, but my emotional self does.
Link: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1995226/
“Maybe you think I'm talking about physical love. Well, I'm not. Not just physical love. There are other types of love, like love of justice, love of legal procedure, love of lending a hand to someone who really needs you! That's the kind of love I'm talking about... and the physical love ain't bad, either!” - Billy Flynn from Chicago, the musical
Today's Valentine was going to be “All of You,” but that seemed way too cliché and frankly, kind of a cop out. I knew you would all want me to finish with a real Valentine:
A Little about Michelle: Michelle Romano got her start playing Princess Jasmine at Disney World. I met her in the play On the Razzle. She was hot. I had a crush. Now she stars in horror movies!
Commence Wooing
I think the Beatles said it best when they sang “Michelle, ma belle, these are words that go together well, my Michelle.” Of course, you're a princepesa italiana, so make that Michelle, mia bella donna! I should be singing you beautiful arias, but that's kind of hard over the internets!
Our Dream Date:
I've been good about not cheating on my dates and flying any of my girls or Cole to another country, so I think I'm going to simulate the gondola experience by taking her on a row boat and singing her sweet arias. Or I could also sing “A Whole New World” from the movie, Aladdin.
I was a little sad this morning, thinking that this would be my last date with all of you. I can't begin to tell you how happy it made me that some of you told me you were reading and enjoying my entries. It's been a blissful two weeks.
I used to hate Valentine's Day. Either I didn't have a special girlie to kiss, or I was obligated to woo one. Compulsory romance just doesn't do it for me. Perhaps it's ironic that I fell in love with this holiday all over again as a single person, but it makes complete sense to me.
While I am more skeptical these days that I will ever find the great love that lasts a lifetime, I am still a hopeless romantic. I'm in love with the world. Please don't think less of me, but all this talk about love on my blog has made me want to weep for joy at times. I am so happy to have all the people I love in my life. But it doesn't have to stop at Valentine's Day.
I've often heard people trash this day, saying that people should just be sweet to their significant others all year long. But I think all holidays represent values we should be celebrating year-long. We give thanks on Thanksgiving, which is something we should be doing throughout the year. We should maintain the generosity many of us find around Christmas or Hanukah, maybe not in gifts or money if we cannot afford it, but in deeds. Halloween for me is a day of artistic creation, but I should strive to create every day. So why not have a holiday celebrating love? We remind ourselves on this day what it is to love and be loved, and try to carry that with us afterward.
So yeah, this is not the last day I make sweet verbal love to you. I don't have the time to blog every single day of the year, but I definitely have the stamina to blog at least once a week. These past two weeks have renewed my love for writing, and I can't wait to carry that with me for the rest of the year.
In my very first entry, I proposed a tradition where single people grab themselves a Valentine out of their circle of friends, and wine and dine them or whatever.
Well, I had planned to have a platonic Valentine today, but that kind of fell through. But that's actually a blessing in disguise. A week ago from tomorrow, my friend Jack asked me if I could act as Master of Ceremonies for Sleeping with Shakespeare, a staging of some of the Bard's most awesome love scenes with sonnet readings in between. I, of course, jumped at the idea, having not performed since the summer of 2008.
Yesterday was just rehearsal, but it felt really good to perform in front of an audience, no matter how small. So I won't be wining or dining any cute girl tonight (unless the performance goes really well), but it'll still be a romantic night. I've become too estranged with my first love, which is the stage, so really, I couldn't imagine a more perfect Valentine's Day!
Before we start, let me inform you all that I will be performing Master of Ceremonies for Hampshire Shakespeare's Valentine's Day fundraiser, "Sleeping with Shakespeare."
It's the perfect follow up to any romantic dinner you have planned and includes dessert. It starts at 8:30pm at the World War II Club in Northampton, MA. Tickets are $17 at the door, $15 in advance, and $30 for couples. Click here for more details.
Hope to see you there!
Important Edit
Last night I was asked by my loyal readers (my personal heroes), "Paul, where was the girl, today?"
Well, there was one, but she asked to be taken down. Evidently, not everyone likes to be on the receiving of my guerrilla-style romancing, and my Valentine of the day asked to be taken down.
Leave it to the thirteenth day of love to be an unlucky one for this blog. Unfortunately, I was unable to replace her until this morning because I had a very busy day yesterday, especially with the rehearsal of Hampshire Shakespeare's production of "Sleeping with Shakespeare," which I hope you will be able to see.
Which of my lovers is man enough to replace yesterday's Valentine? Read on!
A little about this virile hunk of love: Cole Pouliot is a well-known benevolent giant and self-identified "Frozen Frog," so don't yell at me for using that offensive racial slur! He works as the Operations Supervisor of UMass transit and he studied Political Science as a student.
Commence Wooing
Listen, sugar, I was going to save your adorable face for last, but I got an important job for you today. You gotta help me and my readers find a way back into love after yesterday's rejection. The readers need a hero, Cole. A strong man like you, who can protect us if need be, but who can also soften us with that winning smile. By the way, you have beautiful eyes!
Our Dream Date
Our dream date would be at a brewery, where we would eat nachos and sample several of the house brews. Afterwards, we would go to the nearest karaoke joint and sing "Sexy Back" by Justin Timberlake and Timbaland. We would finish by watching The Departed, which he told me he'd watch with me, but we never got around to it.
If I were a French Poodle on the prowl, I would not go out of my way to make it with some fine French Poodle bitch. Sure, we'd make beautiful French Poodle pups, but that really wouldn't factor into which dog I'd want as my mate. For instance, maybe I'd want to screw some sexy German Shepherd, some redheaded Irish Setter, or some gorgeous English Sheepdog.
As a Dutchman, I am not seeking to marry and then eventually breed with a Dutchwoman. I'm almost a Dutch purebred, but I have an eighth of Indonesian in me and I love it! I think I would like to adopt, but if I do breed, it'll be with the most lovable woman I can find, not the Dutchest.
While buying jeans, though, the thought crossed my mind to breed specifically to pass on a certain trait of mine: my height. I'm 6'3”. My torso is not so long, but my limbs are. In a perfect world, I could find jeans that were 32-36. But I am well above the average height in America, so I must settle for 32-34s. If I bred with a tall woman and produced tall children, I would do my part to drive up the demand for 32-34s.
Not knowing that I was Dutch, a woman told me I should go to the Netherlands, which has the greatest national height average. I nodded and let them know I was already Dutch and it was perhaps time for me to branch out. Scandinavian people were also mentioned. They're tall, too. A man involved in the conversation told me about a magical island inhabited by beautiful tall blonde women known as Iceland. I said that in ten years, when I'm ready for marriage, I should go over there and find myself a wife. He then went on. Apparently since Iceland has been isolated for centuries, their gene pool has remained relatively untouched by people with dark hair.
“Oh.” My heart sank a bit. “I don't want to corrupt their ecosystem.”
I hear blondes are a dying breed, and so are redheads. This is because of all the breeding they do with people who have darker hair. I have a friend who has strawberry-blonde hair, but she identifies herself as a “Ginger.” She told me recently that she thinks she might want to adopt children instead of giving birth to them. “Unless,” she said, “I get with a beautiful Ginger and we make beautiful Ginger children.” But I know she won't ultimately choose her mate by hair color.
If her husband has Ginger genes and so does she, then why not? She would be doing it out of love for red hair, not disdain for all other types of hair. She's not a Ginger supremacist. And I would like to breed with a tall woman, not because I hate short people, but because I love a well-fitting pair of jeans. Unfortunately, there are those who breed for hate.
Some white supremacists believe that they have a duty to produce more pure-white babies in the world because they fear that minorities are reproducing at a faster rate. They want to white wash this country. Can't they see they're actually hurting their race by passing on their stupid genes? Sure, there might be more white people, but if they succeed, white people will be the dumbest race on the planet Earth. If they really want to do something to promote “white power,” they could always get their tubes tied.
Yes, I would like to make that a general rule: “If you believe in 'white power,' please see the nearest doctor and get your tubes tied.”
At some points we're all mutts. I don't tell most people this, because it's kind of a mouthful, but if you dig deep enough you'll find that I have Portuguese, German, Greek, and French blood in me, too. All less than an eighth, but it's there. It's not natural to deny love because it doesn't fit in with your master breeding plan.
To me, what's more important than settling down with a tall wife is making enough money to afford custom-tailored jeans.
For those of you who didn't want to click the link:
This morning I came to the school where I work with a substitute tag already hanging over my neck. The coordinator saw that and told me I'm not supposed to bring those things home. We all make that mistake now and then, but she joked that I probably did it on purpose.
"Please," I said. "If I had done it on purpose, it would be covered with sequins and sparkles by now."
That gave me an idea. I didn't have a class during the first period, so I ran to the art room and asked the teacher if he had any sparkles or sequins I could glue on the tag. He told me I couldn't.
I was thinking of running over to the middle school art room, but I decided to ask other staff where they thought I might find sequins. They directed me to the room where they teach people how to make clothing.
The teacher there was nice and provided me with sequins that I glued around the border.
I wore it all day like that, and when I came to return it, nobody in the office was surprised. They had gotten a call from the art teacher that a "suspicious tall guy was asking for sequins."
They liked what I did with the tag and told me I should keep it for next time.
Next step: Googly Eyes!!! (which are even cooler than sequins) When I'm satisfied with the end result, I will post a pic of my tag on this blog.
A little about Libby:
I met Libby in high school. Actually, she was my first ever non-girlfriend Valentine. She studied Acting in BU and I can only assume she'll be really famous. She's a really good actress and one Hell of a dancer, too.
Commence Wooing
Inside that tiny ballerina's frame of yours is a furious freak beast ready to break loose. We could turn my bedroom into a dance studio and you can show me all those freaky positions you ballerinas are known for.
Our Dream Date:
Okay, I haven't done this yet with any of my girls, but I wanna: Paintball fight! Think about it: Libby's just the girl for it! She's got a lot of energy. She would kick my ass!
Then we would clean up and go to a bouncing night club with all that leftover energy.
“Can I have a refill on this iced tea?” she asked, handing me the empty cup in her delicate fingers.
“Sure thing,” I said, knowing full well I was supposed to charge her.
“Thanks,” she said. “You know, you're kind of cute.”
“I look even better out of my uniform!” I yelled at her as she left the Donut Shop.
But why did she tell me I looked cute? She already gotten her free iced tea. What a cruel last thing to say to me as she walked out the door.
Most other attractive women don't seem to realize or abuse the power they have over me, which is a good thing. However, I hope they won't come to me for honest critique, because I won't be able to give it to them. I let attractive women get away with all sorts of stuff.
For instance, one of them will say “You know what's ironic?” And then she'll go on to tell me some story about a coincidence, which many people seem to think is the meaning of the word irony.
I'll cringe, but then say, “How about that,” and leave it at that. I want to be nice to these attractive women, but instead I let the emperor march on stark naked. Imagine how better this woman's life would be if she understood what irony was! Then she could say, “Ah, the delicious irony!” Irony cannot be delicious if it's just a synonym of “coincidence.” “Ah, the delicious coincidence!” doesn't sound right at all.
The power of a woman's beauty can floor me, allowing her to plunder me for favors or free ice tea refills. But while floored, I can be of no use to them. The beautiful thing about two people conversing, is that each person knows something the other doesn't know. They can help each other by sharing their knowledge. So what good am I to a beautiful woman? It's selfish, really: I take from her a fortune of corrections and advice and give her nothing.
Actually, sometimes she'll correct me, but I'll know that I'm right. Still, I can't help but say, “You're probably right.”
I must not be very attractive. Nobody lets me get away with anything!
Those of you who read yesterday's post will recall that I define my manhood by what I make on my skillet. Well, tonight at my work, I was in charge of preparing crêpes at people's tables. The REALLY exciting part was where I set the mixed berries on fire! That was on purpose, so don't worry.
How much more badass can you get with a skillet? Maybe if you stopped an intruder in his tracks by bashing his skull in with a skillet full of flaming berries!
Hi, my name's Paul and I like skillets & fire.
Grab a cup of hot cocoa and read on!
A little about Allison: Allison is an equestrian, a bus driver, a college student, and a lover.
Commence Wooing
In the words of Mick Jagger, “I'll never be your beast of burden,” which is alright because I assume you already got one. I'll just be your go-to-beast of passion, and you can ride me bareback any day.
Our Dream Date:
She would be walking barefoot in the sand on a beach, her hair and long skirt flowing in the wind. I would approach her wearing an open white shirt, riding my gallant steed. I would lift her up behind me and we would ride off into the sunset. Then she would ask if she could take the reigns, being a much better rider than I.
We would trade places, and my arms would be clasped around her waist, my cheek resting on her back, as I would smell both the fragrances of the ocean and her skin. It would start to rain and she would bring the horse into its stables and we would spend the night there while the storm passes.
One of the greatest blows to my self esteem was when a past girlfriend bought frozen crêpes. Really, what does that say about me as a man? She knew I could work a skillet; I had made her crêpes the night before! I felt replaced.
Working the skillet gives me a chance to flaunt my masculinity in the kitchen. That's right. I'm a man. We all pick stupid things to base our manhood on (besides our penis, which may not be so stupid). Some think it's the size of their paycheck, others think it's the horsepower of their truck, but I think it's the consistency of my crêpes.
Making crêpes is how I make sweet love to my woman- well, one of the ways. The other ways include flapjacks and pannenkoeken. Pannenkoeken are perhaps the most masculine of pancakes. They're thicker and rougher than crêpes, and much more satisfying than flapjacks. But perhaps I think they're masculine because I grew up watching both my father and my uncle make them.
Pannenkoeken is Dutch for “pancakes.” They're kind of like crêpes with bits of food embedded in the batter, like bacon or cheese. When I first started making them, I used a recipe, and even worse... a spatula. My first batch came out really well, and they were even complimented by another Dutchman. Then I admitted using a spatula, and he told me they weren't real pannenkoeken.
My dad taught me the art of just pouring ingredients into a bowl until the consistency looked good. He showed me how to successfully flip a pannenkoek, too, without the use of a spatula. He was surprised at how much of a natural I was at it.
I'm a real man. I don't need a recipe or a spatula, and I'll still make you the best pannenkoeken you've ever tasted.
I define my masculinity by a skillet, and it's important for any woman who's with me to recognize that and humor me. After all, there are worse ways of proving one's masculinity.
I'm holding your hand over the internet!
A little about Audrey: She was my TA for Intensive French 126. I think the picture explains the rest.
Commence Wooing
Whisper sweet francophonic nothings into my ear, ma belle femme. I always loved the purr of those perfectly executed guttural r's that escaped your lips. I no longer have an excuse to show up to your office hours for help on my pronunciation, do I? I guess we're going to have to meet over dinner instead.
Our Dream Date: I would bake her all sorts of crêpes, some sweet, others savory, all inspired by her sensual personality. Then we would open a bottle of champagne and listen to Edith Piaf records. Finally, she will teach me what distinguishes a “French kiss” from the ones I get from American girls.
Apparently my taste in women has surprised people at times. Not by how hot they are, but because they don't seem to fit a certain type. That's because I don't have a “type.” In fact, after dating one kind of girl, I want to move on to someone who is completely different from her in almost every way.
But I guess it wouldn't hurt to create a list of qualifying criteria, so here we go:
Must not be a pessimist - I will be optimistic enough to give your pessimism a try... then we'll have two crabby people.
Must have a hobby - Because I have better things to do than entertain you.* Friends are also good to have.
Must not be self-conscious - You know, to be seen with me.
Must not hate men - Because saying “but you're different” is not actually a compliment.
Must like non sequiturs - Bubblegum.
Must be willing to “Go Dutch” - My people are a progressive people who believe that women have every right to pay for their half of the meal as a man.
Must not be jealous - Seriously, I know my cousin is attractive, but you have nothing to worry about!
Must be a slight narcissist - That will make my half an hour in front of the mirror look reasonable.
Must Love Dogs - There's a lot of truth to that Romantic Comedy I didn't actually see: If you can't love a big dumb happy beast, what does that say about your ability to love me?
Must not freak out too much about hygiene - Two way street: I really dig the messy bed head look on both you and me!
So yeah, I don't have a specific type. Just guidelines that most any woman can follow!
*Thank you, A.C., for coming up with hobby line
When I was in high school I heard some friends say, “Why's she dating him? She's so normal.” They must have thought I'd be with someone more exceptional, right?
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