0-800-SABOTAGE

“You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development.”
― Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises (Harvey Stone to Robert Cohn)

12h 05m 32s divides the sun from the moon in Venezuela and that is also the same amount of time I had imagined had passed when the National Guardsmen were analyzing our documents and telling Morris the violations he “committed”.

 

A rather uneventful week and led us to an uneventful Friday.  School had wrapped up for the week, practices concluded, and weights moved.  The plan now was to head to Dave and Christi’s for some food and (Texas) Hold’em. 

Everyone had already made their way across town in the humid Valencia night and Morris and I were tailing with instructions to pick up some ice.  We hopped in his van and made our way out our parking garage with the electric gate closing behind us, securing the building from the unforeseen evil in the night.

Local music danced across the dash as we talked about the workout and the possibility of heading to the beach on Saturday. The conversation swayed to some issues we had both experienced that week.  Our frustration littered the van like a stiff dew.  He could understand where I was coming from, six or so weeks in and still adjusting to the innumerable cultural differences that lie between the US and our current residence.  I could understand where he was coming from, the universe giving you a full plate of things that just don’t work out right.  We drove on.

We slithered our way up, down, and around the dark, speed bump laden Venezuelan roads like a game of “Rattler Race” (come on you remember).  Finally, the fuzzy neon glow of the DVD shops and roadside eateries opened up the night.  We passed through the intersection, proceeded down Calle del Hambre and noticed six National Guardsman conducting a checkpoint.  As accustomed, we rolled our windows down and the guardsman controlling the flow of traffic peered in. 

I knew what head guard was thinking.

Gringo. Grateful dead shirt. Half-gringo driving a minivan.  Nike shirt. Both speaking English.

“Jackpot.”

He spoke with a guile demeanor and waved us over to the right.

I looked at Morris and told him with a calm frankness, that did not reflect my current increase in heart rate, how I felt about this current situation.

“We’re f$*!-ed.”

Morris pulled the car in at about a thirty-degree angle.  The guardsman quickly approached the driver side and told Morris to pull up directly behind the parked car in front of us.

Let the games being. 

Let the games...pay up sucka!

Johnny Guardsman looked at me and spoke at roughly 13.7 words per second (in Spanish).  Morris spoke to him with a guarded tone and told him that I speak no Spanish. 

“Passport.”  I recognized that word, and promptly removed my photocopied passport paper.  The smoothness of my fake leather wallet made it extremely hard for me to remove the paper for some reason.  When I finally managed to remove the Excalibur of identification, the yellow hue of the street lights illuminated the paper. 

My copy was worn, and frayed.  The once clean edges were curled and the folds had settled into distinct lines crisscrossing the face of my February self.  The man in the picture looked much different to me now.  The long, sandy locks had turned into a darker crop of messy hair.  My eyes much more naïve and my cheeks carrying some of the fifteen or more pounds I’ve lost since the photo had been taken when the unforgiving frost had staked claim to the Iowa fields.

 

“Passport,” the voice was edging closer to firm at this point. 

It’s odd where your mind will take you when situations of stress or trouble arise.  My passport photo had taken me far away.  His voice crashed me back to earth.

“What else is he saying?” I asked Morris with a slightly concerned emphasis on the word “is”. 

“Hey man, get out of the car.  They want to talk to us out of the car.”

The guardsmen split us up.  I talked to a slender, wavy haired guardsman who was leaning up against a post propping up a ceiling.  He spoke to me matter-of-factly and I explained to him in Midwestern Spanglish that I don’t speak much Spanish. He laughed and took my paper.

Meanwhile, Johnny Guardsman opened each door of the van and promptly searched the car for who knows what. 

Wavy Gravy guardsman cast a few glances up and down before settling in on the picture.  His spitfire Spanish was targeted at me and he gestured to my hair.  I forged a smile worthy of being a walk-through extra on the worst public TV series. 

“Si, I cut it.” I followed up the line with a pair of index and middle finger scissors just above my year (this has become a common occurrence when I show my passport).

What I really wanted to do was drop the index finger and turn the middle one up.  But they had the guns and the numbers, so my Jim Morrison stance would have to wait until later.

Meanwhile, the burlier Johnny Guardsman was giving Morris the business.  He tried to explain to Morris he was speeding.  False.  You can’t speed in Venezuela, traffic moves too slowly or it has to stop to let the “budge-my-way-in-front-of-you-because-I’m-important-and-I’m-the-only-person-on-Earth” drivers cross. 

This guy was giving Morris the run around.  After he left the speeding allegation, he quickly went to the real reason he pulled us over.  He accused Morris of not having a seat belt on.  Morris asked me if he had his belt on.  I said I for sure had mine on and I’m sure he did.  Morris explained he removed his belt to get his papers.  Johnny Guardsman argued.

The discussion continued.  I figured that if this guy was going to accuse Morris of 189 violations than I'd snap his picture.  

Johnny Guardsman. He wears his sunglasses at night.

Accusation three was that I didn’t have my passport.  Morris told him repeatedly, “Yes, he does.  He’s holding it.” 

Johnny didn’t buy it and reiterated the charge.

“No he has it.  It’s in his hand, he just showed your friend.”

 

Again, Johnny disputed the claim.

“Look,” Morris explained.  “It’s. In. His. Hand.” 

“Oh,” Johnny relented with a smile and using condescending Spanish.  “Well you don’t have your papers.  That’s going to cost you.”

“I do have my papers, let me show you.”  Morris walked around the car and presented Johnny with the proper documents.  “See, I have them all.  I showed you them earlier.”

At this point things started to more quickly approach where it this whole thing was headed a half hour ago. 

Morris opened his wallet to show the guardsman his ID again and the guard caught a sight of Morris’ cash.

Without even waiting for the prompt, Morris explained why he had that much money (3000Bs, aka $68 by black market conversion).

“I’m going to the beach tomorrow with friends so I need the extra money. I don’t usually carry this much. 

Johnny’s eyes widened and he explained, “It’s going to cost you 3000Bs to pay for your infractions.”

Morris’ reply didn’t wait for Johnny’s final syllable to venture into his ear.

“I’m not going to give you 3000Bs.  I’ll give you 1200, but I need the rest for the beach.” 

Bingo. Please turn off you electronic devices and stow your tray table.  We are coming in for landing.

Johnny morphed into a nice guy.  Practicing his Spanish with Morris. 

“Blanco, negro, professor.  White, black, teacher.” Johnny looked to Morris for approval.

 

Morris had given up.  We knew we lost and now this clown was going to rub it in our face.  The banter continued and we both smiled and laughed.  His boys got a great kick out of this, while they joked and motioned back and forth.  Each comment, gesture, and passing car was a twisting of the knife in our back.  The glances from passers-by was salt in the wound.  This continued for several minutes, until Johnny walked Morris back around to the driver side and into the rode. 

Johnny extended his hand, Morris with his.  A 1200Bs (roughly $30 on the black market) handshake, the kind you think only happens in college football.  Johnny slapped Morris on the back and kept talking to us as we got back into the van.  Johnny continued talking as we donned our questioned seat belts and Morris started the car.  We wore the fake smiles for at least a block and then the profanities rained from the heavens like rains on Noah. 

Burgers fix everything.  No it's not served on a coffee filter.

We decided to stop a few blocks up and get a burger and fries to help numb the sting of the entire operation.  We laid out the facts.  The guy was a moron, he knew exactly what he was doing when he pulled us over.  We were profiled, he sifted a list of things he could “get” us for, and ended up smothering us until Morris had to pay. 

This guy was a National Guardsman.  He had Kevlar and a gun.  He wore credentials. And he took Morris’ money. 

Did he know any better? Was his moral development halted at some point? Is he a result of his environment or a stimulating factor of it?  Is he an outlier of the system? Without using a religious or political lens to analyze this through (I remain, as previously stated, neutral in my blogging of this experience), he seems to have been able to make a bad decision and take advantage of a presented situation.

 

A friend at the poker table implied, “Maybe he needed to feed his family or had a dire issue arise?” Maybe.  And maybe he was just looking for a quick buck.  I haven’t been here long enough to make a claim.  But I’m old enough to know when I’ve been had.

I heard a story that you haven’t truly a foreign hire teacher or experienced Venezuela until you’ve paid a bribe.  Well I didn’t directly pay, but I feel more “cultured” now.  Several friends told me that last year they got stopped three times and had to pay to get off.  They also said I should carry about 1000Bs to pay a bribe.   

Iowa this is not.

The Guy/Girl Who Sends You Websites or Forwards Links of the Week:

Here are a few headlines we've seen so far this week down here in the VE.  

1)  Want to leave Venezuela?  Good luck.  Boat or bike, I'll make it back.

2) These are I.O.U's they are just as good as money: 

Toilet paper, sugar, beef and the Bolivar

3) "Officer it's not my bag."  The Carmelo Anthony excuse won't get these guys off the hook. The Venezuelan National Guard and Smuggling $200 million of Cocaine to France.

Well that's enough for now.  This story would take away from another if I added something else.  I hope this gives you a little more insight to the experience.

Happy Hump Day tomorrow!  

Until next time,

KRS

2572.370 Mile South American Blues or: How I Learned to Accept Chaos of VE and Feel a Little Like Home

No its not a giant guinea pig (capybara)

Welcome back.

I hope the Ides of September have found you in a desirable climate, with desirable people, and in a position of comfort.

At this point in the broadcast I would like to give a nod to my dear friend Joshua Bruce “Pud” Radke and his wife Stephanie (Girton) Radke on their one week anniversary this past Saturday.  Congrats you two!  Here is to the next 2600 weeks!  You guys are doctors so I set the bar high!

Happy Birthday! (Red-Handed Tamarin)

Second, I would like to extend the first Happy Birthday to my dear brother Marcus Nolan.  He’s turning the big 29, but already living the American dream.  I was hoping to send you a Red-handed Tamarin (the monkey with the golden touch) and a capybara for your science classes, but for some reason they would not let me put them in a box and bribe them past customs.  Anyway, here’s a firm handshake and a big hug from across the internets.

“For me there is something primitively soothing about this music, and it went straight to my nervous system, making me feel ten feet tall.”
― Eric Clapton

The blues. Born out of the back-breaking, blistering business of plantations of the Deep South, finding adolescence in the Mississippi Delta before finally leaving home to travel up river to the electricity (figuratively and literally) of Chicago in the early 1930’s.  

From W.C Handy to Robert Johnson to Muddy Waters to Chuck Berry, the blues are the ventricles of the musical body.  Country, metal, hip-hop and pop all contain capillaries of the blues.  More importantly the blues feel like home.

Many of you may (and equally as many, may not) that I played in what started out as a “backdoor blues/jug band” that turned into a fake band, which later became quasi-real, much to the humor of those of us in it. The Dukes of Mississippi, as we named ourselves, played many blues and R&B numbers before we matured into a rock band.  Prior to our most recent (most consistent and most skilled- thanks Josh) line up, we jammed with lots of different players of all skill levels, and each session yielded some fantastic moments where emotion and the vibration of sound meld.

That’s the beauty of the blues.  You feel it.  It doesn’t matter what your musical background (or lack of), when you are lucky enough to catch a group or musician with the skill and passion of the blues, it is virtually impossible to tap your foot or nod your head.

It also felt like home when I really needed it.

Didn't shower and no one noticed. Thank you Mt. St. Trasher.

We negotiated the east bound traffic, side stepped a small castle of garbage, and walked up the ramp to the blues bar, Oh Qué Bueno (translation: Oh, So Good!).


El Rey (translation: Frank) had reserved a few tables which we discovered while being tempted with some savory sights and smells of the local cuisine.  After settling in, we suppressed our palates with some buckets of iced-down Polar.

The muggy late afternoon had finally subsided to a mild and admirable evening.  The building was open to the street side, with the stage being covered with a canopy that met the bar perpendicularly.  The PA shuffled between Chuck Berry, Blues Traveler, and the Stones as the bands tuned their instruments and mingled with some members of their entourage.  Finally, about fifteen minutes late (typical musicians) they started with a standard 12-Bar blues track.

Suns out guns out. Also, the guy on the right didn't even notice his bass was upside.  Damn, I should have told him.

Right before the hit the synchronized Kiss guitar sway.  Don't look at the ketchup and mustard. HA got ya!

From the onset of the show, I had a smile on my face.  The band, Zamuros y el Hombre Mal-Boro (translation: Vultures and the Marlboro Man), led by its sunglasses-at-night lead singer (complete with harmonica holder necklace), bounced through a slew of blues numbers with ample opportunities for improvisation.  The guitar solos snaked around the bar with a temptation sense.  The band was compact and solid, while the leader drizzled harmonica solos on any unsuspecting dry spot of a song.  They played mostly original numbers, predominately in Spanish, and the crowd (even us gringos) loved.   As the ended their set, they were joined by several special guests including one silver shaded harmonic guru with a tool belt of “Mississippi Saxophones”.  They had a few dual solos that sounded like nothing I’ve ever heard.  The two players weaved in and out of each other’s riffs until combining on a rather stunning outro.  Good stuff.

Mr. Miyagi and the Marlboro Man. 

The headlining band, Soto Blues Band was quick to set up and was led by the silver-haired harmonica player.  They played a few standard blues progression to their original lyrics and solos.  The guitarist, Led Zeppelin shirt clearly visible behind his Stevie Ray Vaughn edition Stratocaster, was nestled in on stage to our left.  They played with great energy.  The drummer, holding out until the back side of every 1/8 had passed before jabbing his snare with his traditional jazz grip.  The bass player nimbly mingled within the confines of the guitar progression and the drums, being the mortar that held the four piece together.  The harmonica player sang out the trials that lined his hair with the grey huge that in no way impeded his sound.

These drums will cure thee of thy afflictions!

But then something magical happened.

The old bluesman nodded at the guitar player who spiritually raised his tightly cropped, dirty-blond hair while simultaneously lifting the heel of his worn black Chuck Taylors from the ground.  His amplifier cried out in relief as he treated the crowd to a wave of blues guitar.  He was all over the fret board, freely dancing over the scales, eking out each possible note before bringing it back in.  The crowd erupted.

Oh no, did I lock my car? 

Yes? Ok good.

Finally after three songs of solid blues, the band let their wild horse run free, and boy did he storm.  They pounded out song after song.  Originals, Muddy Waters tunes, and even “Sweet Home Chicago” was served as an encore.  They were as tight, fun, and talented as any bar band I have seen.  At one point while Jon and I were rocking out, Jon looked at me and said this guy (guitar player) doesn’t give a f---.  He didn’t he just wailed his soul bearing solos for all to hear.  The place was worked into a frenzy.  I would like to imagine this was scene from deep Mississippi juke joint in the first half of the 20th century, the band playing like it needs to earn a meal and bar just rockin’ and a rolling.  This was also the first time at a blues show I’d seen someone throw up devil horns at the band and the band throw it back.  Not only did the simple hand gesture show that both the sender and receiver had returned from their music journey to the port of the blues, but that the symbol on the sail was the acknowledgement of the connection the blues provides.

“The blues tells a story. Every line of the blues has a meaning.”
John Lee Hooker 

And that night the meaning was security. It was a warm, familiar sound of home at time when the challenging and frustrating notes of living in someone else’s land had started to drown out my song.  Good friends and good music were a remedy that I needed badly.

Hey guys great pic...PHOTOBOMB.

 Anyone that has lived abroad would be able to share stories and thoughts on the matter, but sometimes the whole atmosphere of doing what I’m doing is tough.  I chose to do this, and I knew what I was getting into, but sometimes seeing the pictures of football games, the first glimpses of fall, and listening to my beloved River Kings on the radio makes you miss home.  It reminds you of how things in the states are, and unfortunately how much more challenging things can be here.

Only you can prevent forest fires.

Lucky for me, Frank put together an evening that I needed to recharge.

The Anthony Bourdain Travel Thoughts of the Week

1) I’ve never been around or participated in a “Black Friday” sacking of a store.  However, last night I saw what the result can be when a store, Farmatodo, receives a shipment of toilet paper and milk.  It was crazy.  Boxes shredded open, people filling their hands with rolls of toilet, boxes of milk, and the much loved, Pan arepa mix.  *Yes, milk comes in boxes.  I use the word “milk” carefully, as it does retain some of its defining characteristics, but it is filled with preservatives to substantially increase its shelf live.  Don’t even get me started on the quality of the TP, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Not Black Friday.  The store has toilet paper and milk, gasp!

2) Venezuelans love Bass Proshops.  I can’t believe it.  Guys here wear the hats, shirts, and put the decals on their vehicles.  They even have their own kiosk at the mall.  I don’t get it.

3) It hasn’t rained here in four days.  Iowans- I know you’re entering into the reverse Noah’s Ark situation and Coloradoans, you guys are suffering from some crazy rains, but down here in the near tropics this is crazy.  Before this we were getting crushed with rains daily, now it’s just overcast.   I predict a great washout soon.

4)     Just got home from working out to no water again.  I need a better pail (like when you are brainwashing little kids that baths aren't bad) or something to use to take my Call of the Wildman shower.  I'm using a liquid measuring cup and the big trash can isn't big enough for me to fully get into.  Takes forever, and I question the cleanliness of the operation, but you gotta do what you gotta do right.

Some technical difficulties lead this to be a Wednesday am post, so enjoy it over coffee and pancakes (or you eggs whites, gluten free waffles, corn meal, cereal- whatever is your morning poison.

Have a great second half of the week!

Catch you on the flipside.

Until next time,

KRS

So It Goes

Howdy.

It’s been a while, how is everyone?  Hopefully cool (both figuratively and literally).

I usually start my blog on Monday night, sketching out some ideas and trying to find a way to not make it suck (aka find out ways to make lame attempts at humor) and to figure what would people care hearing about (without coming across as a social media narcissist, probably a fail).  However, things in the Venezuelan infrastructure have been challenging.

For example, as many may have read throughout the last week or two up to 70% of the country have experienced power issues.  Monday night, our school and many of the surrounding neighborhoods had no power.  Imagine having a toddler to entertain and provide for like my friends Randi and Jon.  On a less serious level, many classrooms did not have AC today due to that power outage (mine being one of them).  She was a bit humid in the ole room today- kids were hurting.

Apparently, my neighborhood has been rationing water (I didn’t know we started, no announcement or anything) for the next two months (as I’ve been told, in Venezuela “two months” could be two times two months).  I was never great at math, so that’s cool.  I don’t need to do dishes (anyone that knows me understands that dishes are the bane of my existence.  When I grow up I’ll have a dishwasher and kids to use that magical device), laundry or shower at specific times.  It’s not a huge deal, but sometimes it’s frustrating.

Also, the internet has been out.  No streaming football, watching concerts, iMessaging or reading websites.  Again not a huge deal, but a slight annoyance. (it's obviously back now)

So it goes.

Bob Ross? 

Nice lake around the mountains eh? 

Someone farted...

Paper, scissor, rock.  Luis and I lost and got stuck pushing us out into deep water.  

Not a bad view, the water wasn't bad either.  

Wide lens.

This past weekend a group of 15-20 took a trip to La Cienaga (name means nothing to many of you, but it’s a beautiful beach).  We had to get up at 4:45, rendezvous (great scrabble word, but one of the hardest words for me to spell, I always have to look it up) on the near the highway, travel up/down the mountains for a few hours, meander through a beach community, and take a fifteen minute boat ride to get there.  Not a huge beach area, but unbelievable water.  

Luckily, he did not eat the bones.

We spent most of our time in the water playing a hybrid, David-created version of football, kayaking, canoeing, and general soaking.  We hung out there for a good 6-8 hours before heading to our posada (think motel, but within a security fence that has open areas to eat, play Ping-Pong, and cook).

We got some pizzas, beverages, played dominoes, Ping-Pong, guitars, and just relaxed.  It was a really chill evening.  Due to the sun, water, and long week, most people bowed out early.

David and I led the league in early bed time (not together [not that there is anything wrong with that], 9pm for him and 10pm for yours truly).  Diana and Luis kept things going with some great guitar and singing until about 11:30pm when everyone else called it a night.

Sunday the group split up, some heading home and some staying to go to a different beach just a few blocks away.  I enjoy bodies of water with sun and waves, so I stuck around.  The place was PACKED, but we bought a few morsels of shade for 250Bs and set up shop.  Most of spend the two hours or so in the water, a few others read or laid out.  We then packed up and hit the dusty trail. (There is more below, just make it through the pictures.)

Main Street towards the beach. 

Almost a Kwik Star. 

No one on the beach.

TENT CITY!

The other side of Tent City.

My man living waiting to sell some floaties. 

No swim suit, no problem.

 

This guy had crazy knife skills.  He first swallowed the knife then cut up the coconut.  

The drive back is always crazy because people still try to go to the beach on Sunday.  Traffic is wild, and when you factor in the Venezuelan model of driving (do whatever and the hell you want, when you want) things can get interesting.

For example, we were heading up the mountain that contains lots of switchbacks when this giant bus painted with all the hues of hell comes barreling down at us.  Not only does this thing look like it came to life out of a demented Cars move, but it also has giant hubcaps of death like it came from Mad Max.  Needless to say, evasive actions were executed and Morris navigated us from danger.

Side note: this mountain roads are not like in the Rockies, their “safety rail” usually is a yellow concrete slab that is about eighteen inches high.  To ease the fear of our car, I calmly explained that there is nothing to fear because if we got launched off the yellow ramp of doom, we’d never feel the impacted a few hundred feet later.  It’d be quick.

Long story short, we made it back to civilization and Lorena took us to a BBQ joint that had some great steak and the best onion rings I’ve ever had in my life.  Luis (Lorena’s bro) is giving me the recipe, so any of you that want to try some will have the chance if we grill out in December when I return to the West.

The posada from the outside.

Hotel lobby.

Motel style, but within the safety of the external wall. 

Dinning room.

Kitchen.

"And I'm like baby, baby..." No ladies it's not Bieber, it's Morris. 

One is men the other is women.  I have no idea which one is which. 

Roadside service. 

Anthony Bourdain Travel Thoughts of the Week:

1)      Highways here are not even the same type of road as they are in the states.  These things are littered with potholes, tires, and debris that would be better off if they were a Matchbox car ramp/track.  The “highways” are full of drivers (probably on their phone) who will pull the Chicago exit (three lanes or more at high rates of speed), or stop whenever they feel it is necessary.  Lining areas of the highway are people who are selling a variety of goods and food.  Not like an oasis or at an off ramp, literally ON THE HIGHWAY shoulder.  Oh, and the shoulder is actually a third lane, unless there is a car parked there then it is a one-sided game of chicken.

2)      Shoulders/ditches are actually a very handy compost pile/garbage.  They are very easily accessible even in the state parks.  Once you are done with some food, have trash, or don’t want that empty beer can (yep saw it in front of us) just give it a heave and let mother nature take care of it.  I also saw a nice ¼ chunk of thick cut python.  It not only smelled horrible, but was scary.  I hate snakes and to think that big SOB is out there just hanging around for me is not awesome.

3)      Bartering here is awesome.  I bought some beverages and bottle of rum and we managed to talk the guy into five free cigars and some chips.  Go gringos!

4)      I know Mr. Bourdain said it himself, but seriously, plastic chairs and tables are the dinning furniture of choice here.  From the roadside coffee joints, to the sit down cafes in towns- they all use them.

5)      Venezuelans are very innovative.  While many do not have the means to acquire parts/items they need to complete a task, they can make it happen with a little thought and effort.  I am constantly amazed to see how creative people can be without the resources.  Makes me feel like I’m too pampered and need to do more for myself.

6)      Beach communities are weird, it’s a hustle and bustle to get you to take their boat and they are focused on making sure you choice there.  Guys met us at the edge of the town and literally ran barefoot beside our van to guide us to the place where we would take the park, take the boat, re-park, and get money.

7)      Don’t get money at an ATM.  Most don’t have any and others usually require a multi-step process (ask to use it, have someone call the owner, wait for the owner to get there, have the owner/manager clear it) just to get it your money out.

8)      If you experience car trouble, pull off the road, or just want to leave your car in the road so you can talk with friends just do the following: put an empty yellow oil can in the road, put an orange triangle, or burn random garbage and you are good to go.

9)  I saw some high level entreprenuership this past weekend.  A middle aged guy decided he would make a few bucks by parking his car in front of a bridge to stop inbound traffic to the town, to limit traffic to one lane (it was safer),  and collect cash for doing so.  Ingenious idea.  It's literally free money. Tip of the cap to you my friend.

10)  The last few days we have have had 20-30 minute submersions of rain storms.  What I mean is imagine as hard as you think it can rain add a tropical climate and multiple that times pour drainage.  It looks like roads are canals and the mountain parts are mud slides with red stream running all over.  I'm from Iowa and have seen some crazy rain, but man this stuff just falls differently.

Well it's been an eventful weekend/start to the week. We'll see what the rest of the week brings.

HUMP DAY is over.  Best of luck the rest of the week.

Peace,
KRS