Vol. 10 - A Summit and a Taxonomy

What follows is only the first few pages from a lengthy hand-written list of Soft Rock terminology, names, and objects that I have been transcribing from the original loose leaf and legal pad pages.  From Holiday's own notes found with the list, I know that these are the result of a soft rock summit of sorts held in 1994 in Baltimore, MD.  Perhaps as a way to brainstorm the terms that would be needed to write a formal Soft Rock document, the attendees chose first to compile this list.  Besides Holiday and Adolf, it appears that Herb Feemster (of Peaches and Herb fame), Barry Gibb, Sigfried and Roy (!?), Rita Coolidge, Richie Furay (of Buffalo Springfield and Poco), and former President Jimmy Carter were in attendance (others were mentioned only by first name, unfortunately).  There will be more of this to come, but I thought that, in the absence of a true manifesto, this list would help define the original Soft Rock movement and its 1990s resurgence in great detail.  Enjoy! - ed.
  
LeCar
Fondue
The Goodbye Girl
Mood rings
Suede
Minnetonka moccasins 
Beaded guitar straps
Dreamcatchers
Vinyl LPs
Self portraits
Sit-ins
Flutes, piccolos and recorders
Violins
Grand pianos
Harpsichords
Harps
Rickenbacker
Paul McCartney
Baseball
Ashrams
Stationery
Native American, Latin or Asian wives and girlfriends 
Golden retrievers
The Courtship of Eddie’s Father
Bill Bixby
Flipper (the show not the band!)
The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams
Dan Haggerty
Love, American Style
Baguettes
Dulcimers
Chai
Curry of any sort
Tea ceremonies
Mushrooms/hashish/frogs and other naturally derived forms of acid
Curt Boettcher
David Gates
Michael Bolton
Rufus Wainwright
Ann Murray
Celine Dion
Jimmy Carter
Joe Biden
Schwinn
Ducks
Seagulls
Alan Alda
Tall grass
Rose petals
Incense
Kittens
Polaroids
"Conversation pits"
Foot massages
Tantric lovemaking
Sting
Cunnilingus
Terrycloth
More cigarettes
Camping
White wine
The VW Thing
Longboards
Jams
Tretorns
Velour
Dashikis
Kufis
Danskos
Birkenstocks
Wool socks
Fly rods
AM radio
Ex-wives as friends
Espadrilles (for men)
Consort for men
Headlamps
Spelunking
Cycling hats
Feathered hair
Mopeds
Van carpets/mattresses/curtains
Woven belts
Cut-offs
Stretch Levi’s
Double knit polyester
Ship in a bottle
Sand dollars
Shag
Macramé plant hangers
Yellow-green
Burnt sienna
Sea foam green
Linoleum "bricks"
Wood paneling
Whittling
Duck decoys
Anchors/sails
Atari
Pet rock
Jumping beans
Auto pilgrimages
Comb/pick in back pocket
Mixed nuts
Prunes
Pez
Ribbon candy
Passion fruit
Astronomy
Astrology
Subaru
Peugeot
Laughter in the rain
Hugs
Eskimo kisses
Hummels
Precious Moments
Roller skating
Xanadu
Canada
Quilts
Car phones
Black/Latino best friends
Uncles
Simian sidekicks
Chest hair
"Winter bush"
Rugged looks/soft heart
Key parties
Lancers/Mateusz/Blue Nun/Black Tower wines
Seagram’s 7
Michelob
Lowenbrau (US made)
Wood-paneled station wagons of immense size
Peter Frampton
Bay City Rollers
Leather making kits
Radio Shack
Avocado green kitchens
Avocados
Starsky & Hutch
David Soul
Mary Hartman
King Biscuit Flower Hour
Fellatio
The Joy of Sex
VHS tapes (tasteful stag films)
Richard Dreyfuss
Woody Allen
Crochet anything
Reel to reel or cassette tapes
8 track players and tapes
Blue eye shadow
Feathered hair
Feather earrings
Perky nipples (braless)
Dudley Moore
Loves Baby Soft
Phisoderm
Andrew McCarthy
Jon Cryer
Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific!
Phonics
Scotch
Brandy
Looking glasses
Sailors/Sailing
Paddles/oars
Microphone stands
Gongs and gamelans
Name tags
Topol, the Smokers Tooth Polish
Swisher Sweets
Portraits of naked mother and child (sometimes father, as well)
Maternity bikinis
Hand-written set lists and liner notes
Political masks
Robes
Jean jackets
Mustaches
Patchouli
Clogs
Fantasy Island
John Denver
Tank tops/belly shirts (for men)
Sweaters
Back hair
Chap Stick
Buttercups
Honeydew
Jello
"Sun tea"
Homemade popsicles/ice cream
Jiffy Pop tins
Serapes
Ponchos
Doves
Richard Brautigan
Portnoy’s Complaint
Hemingway (Mariel, Margaux)
Bull fighting
Transistors
Kites
Typewriters
Andy Gibb
Battle of the Network Stars
Tailors/shoemakers/blacksmiths/millers
Jockeys
Tom Seaver
Dr. Jason Seaver
Pele
Jovan Musk
Aquanet
Canoe (cologne and the vessel)
OP clothing
Hobie Buchannon
Skateboards
Sit-coms
Designer jeans
Bisexuality
Cocaine
AMC autos
Water powered kid’s rockets
Moon boots
Trampolines
Salem/Cool/Winston
Whiskey sours and high balls
Wide lapels and ties
The perm (for men)
Stouffers TV dinners
TV dinner trays
Silver jewelry
Wallpaper
Italian sculptures with the imitation beaded rain falling on thin wires
Mirrored walls with gold crackle design
Scarring or burning wood décor in any way
Soap on a rope
Hammocks
Electra shave
Brut 33
Joe Namath
Uncircumcised penises
Natural skin condoms
Cotton headbands and wristband
Singing drummers
Enormous drum kits
Lesbians
School buses
Pop-up campers
Black lights
Tie tacks
L’eggs
Nestles
Playboy articles
Penthouse Letters
Velveeta
Console TVs/Stereos
Automated turntables
Claims of "highest in Hi-Fidelity Sound"
Solid State
Marital aids
Quaaludes
Wife/Family Swapping
Lamps
Chandeliers
Crushed velvet
KY (jelly not the state)
Hang gliding
Gay bars
Philip Roth
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
Free to Be You and Me
Godspell
Jesus Christ Superstar
Theme parks
Barbara Bach
Cooter
Boss Hogg
Trousers
Slacks
Vests
Gauchos
Dr. Scholl’s
BJ McKay
Bear
Sinbad (not the actor) movies
That’s Incredible!
Black Power
The Poconos
Hot tubs
Weathervanes
Almanacs
Tarot cards
Oblique Strategies
David Bowie
Barbara Streisand
Barry Gibb
Jim Croce
Steve Guttenberg
Sewing machines
Sewing patterns
Soup
The Rockies/Himalayas/Alps
Any ocean or body of water
Trees (preferably old with diaries or poetry hidden beneath)
Robert Craig Knievel
The Snake River
Wide World of Sports
Howard Cosell
Mutual of Omaha
Feminism
Bomb Pops
Coconut cream pie
Earth Day
Tires on playgrounds
Bulges(in pants)
Members
Members Only
Epaulets on outerwear
No Nukes
Long hair on balding men
Crystal Gale
Kristofferson
Adrienne Barbeau
Ban de Soleil
Bareback riding
"Riding bareback"
"The rhythm method"
Klute
Donald Sutherland
Tim Matheson
Midnight Express
The Slurpee
Plexiglas
Birdhouses/birdbaths
Pigeons
Turtlenecks
Hamsters
Fruit of the Loom
Wax fruit
Kibbutz
Kwanza
Bicentennials
Suriname
Above-ground pools
Decks (non-nautical)
Pipes
Chew
Benzedrine
Angel Dust
Scared Straight
Attica Prison
Harness Racing
Demolition derbies
Michael Landon
Calligraphy
"Generic" sundries
Cleft pallets
Tattoo (the TV character not the body art)
Sanka
JoJo Starbuck

Vol. 9 - Fred Knobloch: Why Not Me? Love, Dignity, and Forbearance.

This year I was particularly moved by the emotional toughness of Cee Lo Green but also disappointed that his sentiment was not manlier; in fact, in the terms of this project and the manifesto slowly being unfolded by Adolf and Holiday, it was decidedly unmanly.  His ubiquitous hit “Fuck You” showed a man keeping a strong front while he ached inside, but there was no quiet dignity here.  I was reminded of a similar song circa 1980 by Fred Knobloch, perhaps best know, unfortunately, because his name has become a euphemism used when any man has been made the metaphorical bridesmaid at a wedding where he should have played the male lead.  “Poor, so and so,” they say.  “His ex-girlfriend Knobloched him and married his best friend!” Well, again, I am struck at how timely my work with editing the writings of Adolf and Holiday has become.  Even though we have never met, it is often as if we share one mind, and this alone has reinvigorated my search to find them and speak to them.  I am no longer content simply to share their words and draw connections to my own, but I hope you will be content with this arrangement for a while longer.  Trust me when I say that their work knows no genre, racial, or even gender boundaries (Stay tuned for an upcoming exchange about Ann Murray.  Talk about wedding songs!!) but continuing for now in the country vein, Holiday and Dolf share their wisdom about Fred and show us how far we have devolved.  I think you’ll agree that the move from Fred’s resignation to Cee Lo Green’s resentment is quite alarming in the present context. As an added bonus, David Gates of Bread, a man that Adolf and Holiday both hold in highest regard, also gets just treatment here. – ed.

Holiday writes:

Dolf, my friend:



Speak now, or forever hold your peace...



We both have heard a minister say, “Speak now or forever hold your peace, “and no doubt thanked the heavens that no stranger stood to interrupt our nuptials with professions of love for our would-be spouses.  While soft rock is real, that infamous scene from The Graduate is pure fiction.  Nevertheless, no man can see Dustin’s work in said film and not fear this specter.  Thankfully, in the days of our heroes, this never would have happened.  That is not to say, hypothetically, that an unhappy father or inebriated auntie has never interjected that his daughter or her niece might be better served by a nice Jewish boy in lieu of goyim delivery boy, but the real men in the audience would sit in quiet acceptance, perhaps even feel joy in knowing that someone was making their loves happy, even if it could not be them.  I myself have kissed a potential soul mate on the forehead and whispered, Go to him, more times than I care to divulged.  Sensitivity means real sacrifice, not just tight trousers, belt buckles, and turquoise jewelry.  It is human to feel slighted, and Mr. Knobloch was human (perhaps super human in the truest sense: more human than human) as evidence by the lyrics below, but he remained quiet and dignified:

And the ceremony is grand

But old lovers never get to make a last stand

And I held some rice in my hand

I let it fall to the floor

I just don't care anymore

I have no doubt that Fred does indeed care, but he cares truly and unselfishly, cares more than the brides own fiancé, I would assert, nay, more than her own father.  If you love someone, set them free, says the Romantic poet Gordon Matthew Sumner.  Set them free, indeed.

Adolf replies:

Oh, Kevin, I've been Knobloched one too many times myself. The feelings Fred elicits from me are far too great.  I remember a young Irish lass, hair red as the Burning Bush, skin fair like ivory.  Her name is to remain undisclosed for the sake of discretion, but I believe you know the fair maiden to which I allude (Though surely not in the Biblical sense, I pray, for being Knobloched by you would be too much to bare!).   Finding in each other a shared affinity for the arts, film, and politics—especially the Nouveau Roman of Messieurs Robbe-Grillet, Butor and Simon—a great love affair with the aforementioned ginger consort ensued and remained intact throughout my university years.  Imagine the pain and fury, then, when I found a comrade, friend, and roommate had taken interest in this lass!  Far be it for me to have disclosed our torrid affair to him, for that is not our chivalrous way.  But, alas, this lad and lass were together for a time and subsequently joined in holy matrimony.  Yes, my dear friend, I've been Knobloched.  I was the one sitting in that chair!  I was the one wondering why.  I was the one watching.  But, I carried with me in my mind (and on my body) that last moment together, the fresh smell of latex paint and stretch Levis…  The scent of her hadn't wandered far from me in the days since we parted.  Let's just kiss and say—goodbye, we said.  A kiss!  For shame!  As I sat in the chapel and watched her embark on a new journey, my calves still sore from the labors of our love, I wished them both well and, like our Fred, stayed silent and composed, even as blood from the abrasions on my knees—the last evidence that my own “knob” had indeed been “locked” within her paddock—threatened to stain my Native American leggings and complimentary breechcloth.   Au revoir, mon vagabond irlandais!  Au revoir!  Forgive my sordid revelry, Kevin!  I cannot go on!   

Holiday provides this conclusion:

No, I have never Knobloched you, friend, although I must confess I was tempted by your Columbian beauty (tempted by her beauty alone—her wit and substantial carne del suéter (¡Ay, caramba!)—for she certainly did not overtly tempt me in any way)!!   Picturing you in your Native American garb at the nuptials of your former love, gave me great joy for many days.  A necktie is a noose, my friend.  And leather, beaded chaps are… well, I digress.  In further pondering your tale, however,  I was also reminded of David Gate’s [of Bread –ed.] masterpiece “Diary,” a tune for which your affinity is well known, and I pictured not only Fred, but also you and I and other selfless lovers throughout history.  Men who loved so genuinely that, even when jilted, have harbored no ill feelings.  David Gates, a master storyteller, casts such a pathetic protagonist, but not in the way the contemporary idiom would denote, mind you.  This hero is one for whom we feel real pathos in the classical sense, as he is mired in a case of mistaken self-identity.  Picture in your mind’s eye: A beautiful woman smiles warmly at you and you smile warmly back only to notice that the object of her gaze, the real protagonist in this blossoming love affair, stands behind you.  I cannot give David’s words their just due, so humor me as I share them with you verbatim.  From the final verse and chorus of the song:

I found her diary underneath a tree
And started reading about me
The words began to stick and tears to flow
Her meaning now was clear to see

The love she'd waited for
Was someone else not me
Wouldn't you know it?
She wouldn't show it

And as I go through my life
I will wish for her his wife
All the sweet things she can find
All the sweet things they can find

Gates, of course, has the distinction of being a boilerplate, a gold standard for all men of soft rock, but I do think that he and Fred Knobloch (and you and I, alas) are kindred spirits.  They broke the mold, as they say, for could the world actually handle an army of men cast in the image and likeness of Mr. Gates?!  Could that much good hair and tasty guitar picking be tolerated in any age?!  But, again, I digress.  Suffice to say, the sentiment that Fred conveys has a long history in our chosen field of study, and he conveys this sentiment better than most artists, better than most men, and for that alone he deserves his place in the Soft Rock canon!  Farewell for now, my dear friend Dolf.  Do send my regards to your lovely wife and partner.

Vol. 8 - Take Me Home Too Soon: John Denver - Ecologist/Humanitarian/Actor/Pilot/Musician

As the editor of this blog, I have mostly refrained from making comments that one could construe as “editorial,” but my work with these particular manuscripts coincided with not only the final flight of the space shuttle Discovery but also the civil unrest in Libya and the disasters still unfolding in Japan.  John Denver, no doubt, would have weighed in on these delicate issues.   Who can forget his homage to the Calypso and its mission of exploration, collaboration and, most importantly, peace?  (The irony of using a retooled minesweeping vessel for these missions cannot escape mention!)  Ah, that joyous yodel of chorus rivals the Woo Hoo! of Blur’s “Song 2” for its simplicity and emotional efficacy.   Would John have commemorated the space shuttle in the same way?  Would he have rushed to Japan via private and fuel efficient plane to lend a hand?  Would he and Jimmy Carter, armed only with folksy wisdom and the power of what Dolf calls the “toothy white grin," have negotiated the peace and compelled Muammar Gaddafi to abdicate?  Dolf and Holiday wrote the following exchange in a different decade, but like them I too am struck with how cyclical history remains and how the loss of great lives leaves us with much  greater holes.  Enjoy and reflect. – ed.

Holiday writes:

Dolf:

Experimental aircraft!

Being a fan of soft rock is not easy in these disquieting times; it never was, my friend.  But being a soft rocker is far more difficult.  We feel too much!!!  Consider the tormented genius and careworn life of Mr. Henry John Deutschendorf, whom most know as John Denver.  Dead at 53, alone in his experimental aircraft  after years spent battling DUI convictions, enduring failed bids to reach the Mir space station, and watching his creative powers stripped and replaced by an ego-consuming concern for the whole world.  How could he wield a guitar when his beloved crystal waters barely reached the sea due to thirsty and morally bereft Los Angelinos?  How sing, “Thank God I’m a Country Boy,” when his own country stood in awe of an actor turned President who was destroying the planet and the middle class in one doddering faux swoop?  How sing with a Muppet when real furry animals like his beloved polar bear were being threatened by a greed for oil?  Where are champions like this today?  Where?  One man, a man whose spirit still haunts Monterey Bay, couldn’t do it alone.  We should use John's story to rally our compatriots.  Time has passed but the battles remain the same!  Oh, John, it takes a dorf!

 



...like bourbon over ice.

 

Dolf replies:

Thank you my dear friend for championing the much maligned John Denver.  A man petite of stature yet big of heart.  Hair like a golden helmet and face round as a pancake.  A simple man whose words poured out of him like bourbon over ice—bolstering the collective spirits of the young and old during his prime.  I think back to times spent as a child listening to his great live (An Evening With...- ed.) album—popping and hissing on my father's hifi.  “Music paints pictures and often tells stories/some of it magic, some of it true" opens the first tune.  Think about that in relation to today's heavy world.  What does the popular music of today speak to us of?  I’m ashamed and too frightened to go in to that dissertation.  Let’s simplify it by saying, not much.  Maybe if we took to heart the man's theme of conservation, respect of the Earth and kindness towards each other—this world could be a better place.  I want to live in a world where Saddam and his people live in harmony.  Maybe instead of dropping bombs in that war-torn land, we should drop recordings of John's music.  Mission Accomplished, indeed.  The pilot John was would no doubt have appreciated this. His music is timeless, enduring --- able to soothe the most restless of souls.  We need to return to this quality of entertainment, for see what our world has turned to in its sad wake.  I leave you this, friend:

You fill up my senses

like a night in a forest

Like the mountains in springtime    

like a walk in the rain

Like a storm in the desert

like a sleepy blue ocean

You fill up my senses

come fill me again.”

And I mean that.  John, come fill us again...

Holiday concludes:

Again, Dolf, you have provided me with just the right sentiment and another tempering tale of soft rock’s power.  Still, I cannot listen to John’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” and not shed a tear for our country’s immense loss.  John was equal parts seer and seeker, it seems.  It saddens me that he saw the sinking of the mighty Calypso but not its raising and ongoing restoration!  What a metaphor for a life taken short.  John’s spirit still lives, however.  It lives in all who embraced his life and his life in song. Oh, but how I wish he too could rise from the sea and lead us to a better place.  His docile, albeit vigilant, ghost still secrets the Pacific coast, I am told.  I have little doubt.  On my visit to his Monterey memorial service in 1997, I believe I saw his spirit in the faces of children and seniors alike.  Every time I place a capo on a weathered acoustic guitar, or watch a single-engine plane cut the sky in two, I feel John emerge from the spaces in between.  The highs and the lows.  The mountains and the valleys.  The earth and the stars.  That is where he lives now.  He simultaneously belongs to the quiet abyss and the limitless cosmos. 

Aye Calypso the places you've been to,

the things that you've shown us,

the stories you tell

Aye Calypso, I sing to your spirit,

the men who have served you

so long and so well

Godspeed John, Godspeed. – ed.







Vol. 7: Firefall from Grace: Country, Gentle, Men

Holiday and Adolf here continue to illumate the works of artists, like Lightfoot, with roots, folk, and country lineages who openly embraced their softer sides.

Country, Gentle, Men

From: Kevin Holiday
At: 10/18 13:25

You know, D, there was a time not so long ago when noble men in rhinestones and spurs (some metaphorical,of course) ruled the pop charts.  Sure, there are plenty of women in today's charts who have country roots, but they don't truly embrace country.  Instead,they're made to look hip and sexy in slinky gowns and belly shirts.  I needn't list these artists, or the smattering of male counterparts, here for you.  Like the lion's share of music today, it just doesn't matter.   What does matter are names like Glen Campbell, John Denver, Poco and, of course, Firefall.


Country, Gentle, Men... They were all of these things and so much more. At times, Country only in spirit, for many were pop stars simply enamored of the potential grace in country music, a grace they often realized in fine lyrics and finer melodies.  Always Gentle they were, but no less strong. And Men, yes, but only in the flesh, perhaps, for their sentiments were decidedly female, the softer and, in my opinion, better sex.

It should surprise you, friend, unless you know the history of these dusty poets, that a band with such a respected lineage should be so under-appreciated. The Byrds and the Flying Burrito Brothers are the epitome of influential and critically acclaimed in the ever-popular genre of roots or country rock.  There would be no Mumford &Sons, no Wilco, no Uncle Tupelo, no Sun Volt, no John Mellencamp, no Tom Petty, no Lambchop, no Edith Frost, no Cowboy Junkies, no Mazzy Star (Oh, were I to wrap frail Hope Sandoval, my dark muse, in my own dusty parka! But I digress...) without the aforementioned pioneers.  As you well know, I could care less if this genre lived or died.  When the boys of Wilco hang up their collective hats, I will not shed a tear (like I did when the Smiths dissolved like so much warm semen). This is not about roots rockers; they are but a vehicle for my purpose, a stout wagon drawn but stouter steeds. It's about Firefall, of course, a band reanimated from the clipped wings of the dying Byrds, re-inspired in the warm and richly scented breezes stirred by the Flying Burrito.  My point is this: How can a band with a respected history in a respected genre (perhaps even groundbreaking at the time), especially one that took these roots (and roots rock, mind you) and softened them with love and celestial falsetto--how can this band be forgotten, relegated to the withered hands of a late night oldies disc jockey, the disrespectful words of an irony-addled college radio program, the SUVs of middle aged men building homes in the Jersey suburbs, the offices and cubicles of closeted soft rocker?  And don't get me started on the worse fate of sister Poco.  I must confront this crime at a later date.  Poco, conceived by one Richie Furay of the band that serves as the other influential axis of roots rock, no less than Buffalo Springfield.  If I did not believe in soft rock and its healing powers, I might just lash out in anger at the hypocrisy that surrounds our beloved rock genre. Tell me how this can go on, for I do not, cannot understand, will not. I seethe, awaiting for your reply.

Adolf shares his tempering thoughts:

Kevin - Please excuse the brevity of my reply, for my heart hangs heavy with the current events of the day.  Not only has the tragedy of the WTC struck close to home (For as you know, I worked in the financial center for two years!) but, now Anthrax has materialized but miles from my home!  The hallowed grounds of greater Trenton scarred by the insolence of others looking to do evil (or evil doers as GW says).   These are heavy times my friend... 

Alas, I have had joys in the past weeks to rectify these maladies.  Firefall was to play no small part in this joy.  A friend of mine who is small in stature, yet big in heart had compiled for me a CDR of various soft rock favorites.  This gentle, gnome-like fellow is surely a friend of soft rock and all of the accompanying pleasures.  As I drove home the other day with heavy thoughts swirling in my mind (for my present job with a news/media company inundates me with tragedy and fear being preached by hair-helmeted dolts) I inserted said soft rock compilation into the CD player of my SUV.  My ride through the NJ suburbs couldn't have been more enjoyable, for what was jolting my malice into uncontrollable joy was the graceful flute intro of Firefall's "You Are the Woman".   As the song progressed I found the shroud of my ill humor quickly lifting and my voice singing out in accompaniment.  I rolled down my windows and giddily gorged fresh air and music, sweet music.  The gentle, easy country rock sounds of Firefall delivered me from my bad place and allowed me to transcend the crumbling world around me.  Just for a moment, all was okay and I sang another chorus, another verse...

Holiday replies:

Thank you, Dolf, thank you!

You are often too clever for your own good, friend.  I have learned a great deal from your tale, and you should feel pleased in knowing that my spirits have improved, my anger subsided.  Just the images you conjured sent me rummaging through stacks of vinyl to locate the antidote to my misanthropy. So often, like the enemies of soft rock themselves, I cannot see the forest for the trees.  The lyrics of another Firefall classic, "Just Remember I Love You," leads me home:

When it all goes crazy and the thrill is gone

Your days get rainy and your nights get long

And you get that feeling you were born to lose

Starin' at your ceiling dreamin' of your blues

When there's so much trouble that you wanna' cry

Your world has crumbled and you don't know why

And your hopes are fading and they can't be found

Dreams have kept you waiting friends have let you down

Just remember I love you and it'll be alright

Just remember I love you, more than I can say...

I'm sure my indignation and ill humors will surface again but, for the present time, your words and the words of Firefall are an antidote, a little purple pill to combat what burns in my belly.  Again, thank you, D.  And just remember...