Running Commentary #14
October 31, 2010 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a loosing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob of deer down a full block before they broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing and pretending for another mile I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
This story begins with the Sunday family moving from the house in the hollow to Bartlesville. The two home structures were separated by about 100 miles of pavement and gravel and 100 degrees of cultural difference. The new, eight hundred foot, low mortgage G.I. Bill, Bartlesville house became the place I would live, from age 10 until age 16. This new house even included an inside bathroom--in my eyes--quite a palace.
To mother, 133 was Tara and, like Tara, would grow in size through the years. Over a fifty year period, 133, according to mother, just about doubled in square footage. One Thirty-Three, initiated the start of what I call mother's Gone with The Wind era. Her three daughters were safely out of the woods and she was hell bent on molding a trio of 'Charlotte O'Hara's.' High on the list of our 'genteelization' was music. My domain was the French horn and piano lessons. Baby sister got the clarinet and flute. Memory includes the sounds of a few piano scales from my older sister. Maybe, her latent talent was un-coaxable, as her piano sounds quickly fade from memory.
Baby sister was a different case. The sounds she brought forth from the clarinet and flute were so loud and discordant, mother moved her out of the house to a front yard chair for daily practice. I guess there were complaints from the neighbors because these sounds soon faded, too.
Mother then discovered I could carry a tune and decided I needed voice lessons. She found a teacher and took me in for an eye-to-eye meeting. Instructions were given to come back, with sheet music, for a second lesson. I did, and walked in with mother's selection--From the Halls of Montezuma--I think mother must have been trying to merge World War II and the Civil War. Or, maybe she got them mixed up. I was embarrassed; mother was proud; the voice teacher didn't quite know what to do. Imagine--Les Paul and Mary Ford; Rosemary Clooney; Georgia Gibbs; and Patti Page, were left on the shelves. Rock and Roll was just around the corner. But, I continued to sing and play the piano and French horn. Music became an important part of my life.
That is, until June 19, 1984, the day my eldest son, Eric, died. The day the music stopped. I took every radio out of the house; every stereo; the piano; sold all records, music books and sheet music from the 1950s. Music became painful; I wanted it gone from my life. And, it was. I made it so.
Yesterday, I went to a concert--on purpose--to listen to live music. A barrier of unimaginable psychic pain was breached. What causes deeply buried memories to make their way to the surface: What causes aged old unspeakable suffering to begin to heal? Driving down an empty street on a beautiful Sunday morning? Herding deer? Perhaps no explanation is needed. Yesterday, I went to a concert--on purpose--to listen to live music.
The Sunday run was beautiful.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Running Commentary #14
Running Commentary #14
October 31, 2012 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a losing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob down a full block before the deer broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing andn pretending for another mile that I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
October 31, 2012 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a losing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob down a full block before the deer broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing andn pretending for another mile that I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Running Commentary
Running Commentary: #13
Sunday, October, 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Besides, I had to decide what 'visual' would run along side me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the startling line,: she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"The blog needs a bit of drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always begins with, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present. At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd every been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than e. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
One time, I went into the girls bathroom and another girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks, but also make wonders. My sisters looked Indian. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. Besides, my mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Sunday, October, 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Besides, I had to decide what 'visual' would run along side me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the startling line,: she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"The blog needs a bit of drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always begins with, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present. At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd every been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than e. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
One time, I went into the girls bathroom and another girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks, but also make wonders. My sisters looked Indian. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. Besides, my mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Running Commentary: #13
Running Commentary: #13
Sunday, October 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Beside, I had to decide what 'visual' would run alongside me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the starting line," she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"All the blog needs is a little drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always features, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present.
At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least, they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd ever been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than me. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
On time, when I went into the girl's bathroom, a girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks but also make wonders. My older sister looked Indian as did my baby sister. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. My mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and the direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Beside, I had to decide what 'visual' would run alongside me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the starting line," she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"All the blog needs is a little drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always features, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present.
At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least, they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd ever been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than me. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
On time, when I went into the girl's bathroom, a girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks but also make wonders. My older sister looked Indian as did my baby sister. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. My mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and the direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Monday, October 01, 2012
Running Commentary #12: October 3, 2012
Sometimes the writing muse just goes into hiding; no courtesy whatsoever; no peeking around a corner, giving up a teasing smile, before scurrying off, again, into the darkness.What a dirty game she can play. My searching around for decent running commentary topics has found only emptiness; a topical landscape thoroughly scrubbed.
I wish I could find it--the small picture. Me sitting on the wooden school steps, with the group of Ute Indian kids. All with black, straight hair, and me, right in the middle--the 'toe head.' The picture was taken in Blanding, Utah. Mother didn't know it at the time, but Daddy would soon be on his way to Germany. The reason--WWII.
That paragraph you just read--it doesn't mean anything more than a pencil searching for creative juice. Why have I thought about this creativity stopper--making someone color within the lines--for so long? One thing I do know. If you put your finger on the Indian characteristic of, "I've gotta think about it for a while," and push that button, give yourself the million dollar prize.
I've pondered the problem long enough. The fizzle left my creative dizzle for a few weeks. Circular thinking has won the battle. Linear thinking lost. The Indians circled and beat the White guys this time. Any topic now goes, except, of course, money, politics, and religion. I grew up in a time where those three topics were completely off limits in polite society. No wonder I got caught in the tech bust, don't have the patience for long-winded, worthless meetings, don't want to learn the art of double-speak, and am curious why most folks look puzzled when you say, Siddhartha--as in Siddhartha the Buddha.
A famous Buddhist saying goes:
"Do not speak--unless it improves on the silence."
The silence is over. Time to ratchet up the blog again.
You might think Laura and I are just out there blind-assed running. Nothing could be further from the truth. We've got a plan and it's being put to the test this coming Sunday morning. It's IBM 10K time. I'll keep you posted.
I wish I could find it--the small picture. Me sitting on the wooden school steps, with the group of Ute Indian kids. All with black, straight hair, and me, right in the middle--the 'toe head.' The picture was taken in Blanding, Utah. Mother didn't know it at the time, but Daddy would soon be on his way to Germany. The reason--WWII.
That paragraph you just read--it doesn't mean anything more than a pencil searching for creative juice. Why have I thought about this creativity stopper--making someone color within the lines--for so long? One thing I do know. If you put your finger on the Indian characteristic of, "I've gotta think about it for a while," and push that button, give yourself the million dollar prize.
I've pondered the problem long enough. The fizzle left my creative dizzle for a few weeks. Circular thinking has won the battle. Linear thinking lost. The Indians circled and beat the White guys this time. Any topic now goes, except, of course, money, politics, and religion. I grew up in a time where those three topics were completely off limits in polite society. No wonder I got caught in the tech bust, don't have the patience for long-winded, worthless meetings, don't want to learn the art of double-speak, and am curious why most folks look puzzled when you say, Siddhartha--as in Siddhartha the Buddha.
A famous Buddhist saying goes:
"Do not speak--unless it improves on the silence."
The silence is over. Time to ratchet up the blog again.
You might think Laura and I are just out there blind-assed running. Nothing could be further from the truth. We've got a plan and it's being put to the test this coming Sunday morning. It's IBM 10K time. I'll keep you posted.
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