Tom's Lead Balloon of Writing

Exploring the heights of literary and personal failure

Given the horrific catastrophe I was expecting, I would actually consider this a small success. Huzzah!
“Given the horrific catastrophe I was expecting, I would actually consider this a small success. Huzzah!”

  • Dogs Age in Weed Years

    “How old are your dogs?” Having senior chihuahuas, my wife and I received that question a lot, although always in a well-meaning way.

    One pleasant, sunny afternoon, I was walking both dogs as we encountered a gentleman, sitting on the corner, in broad daylight, smoking weed. Totally legal, so no one cared. In fact, he appeared to be on his lunch break from work, so I gave him extra points for that.

    As our group turned the corner and passed in front of him, he asked, “How old are your dogs?”

    I said, “About twelve years old,” which they were at the time. 

    That surprised and delighted him. “Wow, that’s like 40 years old in dog years.”

    As a numbers person, I was somewhat bewildered by his calculated figure, but didn’t cast any judgment. My only thought was, Damn, that’s some good weed.

  • Unfresh Patch

    For the express relief of all dogs and people involved, my wife purchased this low-tech, but life-saving product called Fresh Patch. It is a small, rectangular, cut-out piece of grass, set in a shallow plastic tray, for our dogs to relieve themselves on.

    It is a major convenience for dogs and for dog owners who don’t have a ground-level backyard or don’t have quick and immediate access to one. We place our Fresh Patch on our back deck, which is one floor above a very small outdoor patio. We receive a new Fresh Patch each month, conveniently shipped to our front door. My wife pays the monthly expense. I’m in charge of its maintenance, disposal, and rolling out its successor. 

    It is an additional expense we pay for our dogs, but it is completely worth it. It is a life-saver when your dog desperately needs to go at 2:00 a.m., or 5:00 a.m., or both. No more need to run out front, to the sidewalk, street, or nearest allowable tree. 

    The patch saves my wife from having to make such a trip by herself, late in the evening. It also saves us both the indignity and shame of having to present bed hair and bed face to the early-rising public at 6:30 a.m.

    Fresh Patch, in its beautiful, fresh, verdant state

    When a new patch is unfurled at the beginning of the month, it is pristine and unsoiled, it is indeed a fresh patch. As the month progresses, the patch gradually becomes less fresh and more ripe.

    Our dogs are small dogs, but there are two of them. Each urinating frequently–a minimum of once a day–on the turf. Accumulated over the course of a month. At the end of the month, depending on excretory patterns and weather conditions, it becomes, to varying degrees, a gross, sour, putrid patch. (That’s by design–that’s what it’s for. No complaint or disparagement against the product or the company.) 

    The patch requires very little oversight or maintenance, as it is just a flat, stationary, pee-soaked piece of grass. The biggest wildcard is rain. The patch needs to be covered effectively with a tarp when it rains, as I found out the hard way.

    One particular month in the spring of 2023, we happened to experience a higher-than-normal amount of rainfall for our area. On more than one occasion, I either completely forgot to cover the patch or I covered it inadequately. Looking at it, I could see that it had turned into a waterlogged piece of sod, sitting in the plastic tray, in a shallow pool of stagnant rainwater. I was dreading the day the new turf arrived and that drenched thing had to be handled. But of course, inevitably, that day did arrive. 

    As I initially approached the patch, I could smell right away that the pool of rainwater had not only reawakened and released the glorious natural scent of the dog urine, but was chemically reacting with it. 

    During the actual handling, the turf was soggy and heavy, which made for an unwieldy one-person job. However, the most challenging and treacherous part of the task involved the scent. All of that dried, stale dog piss, which had been absorbed over the course of the month, was now renewed. And fermenting. Without the use of some type of mask, the strong, sour scent was inescapable.

    While wrangling the heavy, wet, disgusting biohazard, I made an explicit effort to only breathe through my mouth. And yet, multiple times, I had to step back, take a break, exhale the fumes, and loudly gasp, “Ohhhhhhh!” I’m actually glad, kind reader, that the words on this screen can’t accurately capture the full majesty of that scent.

    And while carrying out this task, to add insult to olfactory offense, I could hear my wife providing her moral support and gratitude by laughing audibly at my plight from inside the house.

  • Landlubbers

    What? I’m not a landlubber. In fact, I’m great on boats in the water. Just as long as they are docked and not moving. 

    The truth is, historically, I don’t travel well on boats, not even on short ferry rides. As a preventative measure, I always take Dramamine before boat rides, but despite that, I always still end up getting seasick. Below are two of my favorite boating misadventures.

    As a teenager, I traveled on a ferry from Long Beach, California to Catalina Island. On paper, it was a baby boat ride–30 miles–but for me, still a treacherous journey. 

    At the time, there were two Catalina ferry services available. One was the express–one could travel to Catalina Island at a faster speed and in a shorter amount of time. Since the express boat traveled quickly and cut through the water, it rocked less. And obviously, the boat was on the water for a shorter amount of time, meaning less total time to get seasick.

    The other option was the standard service. It was cheaper, and although the boat was larger than the express boat, it took its sweet time on the way to Catalina and bobbed up and down along the way.

    The express service wasn’t really an option for me, due to price. However, given my landlubbing and my nonexistent sea legs, I would have probably also gotten sick on the express service. 

    With the standard service, getting seasick was a lock. The only outstanding questions were: when and how badly?

    And sure enough, at some point on the standard ferry service to Catalina, I started feeling very sick. I was standing outside, on the deck, trying to fight off the inevitable. Once I knew I was defeated and puking was imminent, I ran into the nearest bathroom. 

    The doors to all of the bathroom stalls were closed (which should have been a sign), so without any better options available, I threw up in the sink. I might have thrown up in the garbage can, too. Either way, I was half-relieved; although I didn’t make it to a toilet, I did barf in some type of receptacle, and not all over the floor, in front of an audience. 

    Speaking of which, after I puked very loudly and frantically, a few women emerged from their respective bathroom stalls. Shit! Wrong restroom. The women greeted me with a combination of, “Are you okay?” and, “You gotta get out of here.” So I did. 

    I slinked out of the Women’s Restroom and passed by several puzzled female faces, with my head and eyes down, shamefully trying not to acknowledge my misplaced presence. I just wanted to disappear and wasn’t interested in explaining to the interested onlookers the reason for my meeting in the ladies room. No, I will not be back real soon.

    . . .

    Several years later, my college girlfriend and I took a romantic trip to Sausalito, California, which included a short, but unromantic, ferry ride. It was another baby boat ride: less than ten miles from San Francisco, and less than an hour on water enclosed within the San Francisco Bay. However, that was still more than enough for me.

    I felt sick on the ferry ride to Sausalito, but made it to shore, just barely, without barfing my guts up. After disembarking, I stood stationary on the deck, bent over, and inhaled deep breaths until I recovered. After I was in the clear, my supportive girlfriend and future wife laughed at me and my green face. One of the dock workers observed her reaction and remarked that it was mean. I tended to agree. (And yet, I still married that.) 

    Oh, but on the way back, the big payback! My girlfriend, after intelligently and strategically consuming alcohol right before our return trip, got sick on the ferry ride back to San Francisco, and did throw up. Although part of me wanted to make a remark about comeuppance, I didn’t. I didn’t have to, she still received the message.

  • Bike Ride Pre-Gaming

    My life is pretty boring and uneventful. For source material, I am reduced to including tales of others. But then again, it is a HELL of a lot funnier to laugh at other people’s foibles and fiascos than your own.

    In July 2012, as I was diligently training for my first marathon, a couple of friends were about to participate in a long distance event of their own–a cycling event. We were all well past our 20s at the time. Their event was to take place in Healdsburg, California where the summer temperature can easily get into the 80s and 90s, which is not ideal for prolonged physical exertion. 

    The cycling event offered several distances; they opted for 20 miles. To be fair, their event was considered a ride, which is less competitive than a race, but was still timed and still required participants to complete the full distance to finish. And 20 miles is a very respectable, nontrivial distance which requires training, a game plan, pacing, adequate preparation, etc.

    So to celebrate this milestone, this upcoming physical achievement, on the night before the ride, one friend in particular proceeded to eat, drink, socialize, and have a good time. And by drink, I mean drink a lot of red wine, which is incredibly dehydrating. And by have a good time, I mean stay up too late, well past midnight. Not great decisions for an auspicious beginning, but fortunately for him, things could get worse, and they did.

    As for myself, my upcoming event was scheduled for the following weekend. For my preparation, I had been a good, obedient boy: sticking to a training schedule, running consistently with my training group, buying the right equipment, carbing up and getting good sleep before long runs, having proper nutrition and hydration before and during training runs. What a drag! Don’t I ever want any adversity and improvisation in my life?

    Returning to our cycling friend, as a direct result of staying up too late and consuming too much red wine, he got up late on the day of the ride. Late enough to miss the 8:00 a.m. start. A late start meant the temperature was only getting warmer.

    In his haste to leave, he decided to forego breakfast. Which meant he was going to do 20 miles of cycling on the previous night’s meal and red wine. Not exactly rocket fuel.

    Also in his haste, he quickly but consciously decided NOT to bring along any water or nutrition for the ride itself. Fuck it! I’m going to wing this part, too! 

    And of course, he didn’t know exactly where the start line was located, which delayed him even further. So, he was late and lost, and due to being lost, late even more. And the temperature just continued to get warmer.

    Suffice it to say, the ride didn’t go well for our intrepid cyclist. There was no peak performance that day. No personal best or personal record. Just misery and brutality.  

    The good news is that he overcame his series of self-inflicted debacles and completed the ride without puking, collapsing, or dying; however, afterwards, he, surprisingly enough, felt like total shit. 

    He made it, he did officially finish, despite the fact that he did absolutely everything wrong. Every single decision he made was a bad one. Just for kicks, let’s recap those:

    • Entering and taking lightly a serious athletic event many years past one’s physical prime.
    • Staying up late the night before the event.
    • Drinking and getting dehydrated.
    • Getting a bad night of sleep.
    • Skipping breakfast.
    • Getting a late start.
    • Inadequately preparing for the course (including not finding the start line).
    • Encountering increasingly warm weather.
    • Not bringing along any water or nutrition.

    This tale is extra juicy and hilarious to me, as a no-fun, uptight, detailed, organized individual who overplans and overprepares for everything, especially races. However, on my part, there is no schadenfreude or You got what you deserved with this. I don’t care what others do. I just focus on myself and on running my race. 

    Nonetheless, such an episode does provide me with reassurance for properly preparing, even if I’m overpreparing. It also provides me with a moment of self-love for not being a cardio clown, bumbling through a miserable circus that I created for myself.

  • “You’re Weird” Series of Greeting Cards

    In this age of electronic communication, my extended family has kept alive the tradition of exchanging physical greeting cards. Even as an older adult, I still regularly receive greeting cards–with money–from relatives for birthdays and for Christmas. 

    One particular birthday, I received the card below from a thoughtful relative.

    It begins innocuously enough, featuring a puppy wearing headphones (Aww). Presented next to the puppy is a quote from Thoreau (Uh oh), suggesting that I move to the beat of a different drummer (Oh crap). That notwithstanding, the message written inside was actually very nice and warm.

    I read it, thought about it, and then reread it to make sure I understood the true meaning of the message. Was I being called weird, on my birthday, but in a well-meaning, polite, and celebratory way?

    Dear Tom, You are a wonderful, if somewhat odd, boy.

    Thanks? I had very mixed feelings about it, as you might imagine. They make cards like this? Apparently so, I’m holding one. There’s a market for it? Who knew?

    Two years later…are you fucking kidding me…again for my birthday, I received the card below (slightly redacted) from a different thoughtful relative. 

    I looked at it, read it, then had my memory triggered. Wait, didn’t someone send me this type of “You’re Weird” card before?

    I dug through a paper bag of old cards that I’ve kept and found the previous card. Damn! I wasn’t wrong. I did remember correctly. Granted, the exact messages, the designs, and the animals used to symbolize eccentricity were different, but the general message about being different was similar. And that kind of cemented it for me–I guess I am weird. I have independent sources telling me that, in the nicest way possible, and “celebrating” it with me.

    However, I will say, given our family history, being weird or atypical and doing things differently can actually be a good thing.

    But as a final thought, just out of curiosity, how widespread is this notion and how long has it been floating around? Is it good that I’ve ONLY received two “You’re Weird” cards throughout the years? Are others holding back their true thoughts? Actually, I don’t know if I want to know. I’m okay not receiving any more of these cards. Can we find some other personal quality of mine to acknowledge on my birthday? Is there a series of cards celebrating chronic halitosis?

  • Left Siiide!!!

    Of course he’s weird, he’s left-handed. Guilty on both counts, not apologizing for either. Shifting focus to the latter, I like being left-handed and I love my fellow lefties; we notice that in each other, without fail, whereas righties are usually oblivious to the physical and behavioral signs. Sometimes the discovery is expected: “You? Oh yeah, that makes sense.” Sometimes it’s not: “You? I would have never guessed.” You’re so normal and drab.

    There’s something about certain, but obviously not all, lefties. Those blessed are just a little different–they’re a little odd, offbeat, quirky, kooky, eccentric, unconventional, irreverent, free-spirited, or free-thinking, but in a socially acceptable and endearing way. Granted, our squad also includes full-blown nutters and whack jobs that take it too far.

    For lefties that are straightlaced, stodgy conformists, or corporate suits, I feel it’s kind of disappointing, it’s a waste of potential for quirkiness. 

    I won’t go on any extended lefty rants here, that has been done before. But I will say our camp can claim Barack Obama, while the other one is stuck with you-know-who. On that note, below is a short, selective, and subjective list of my other favorite lefties. These individuals also seem like they would be lefties. They are outstanding embodiments, living up to their potential, fulfilling their destiny. 

    • Jimi Hendrix
    • Matt Groening
    • Lewis Carroll
    • M.C. Escher
    • Jerry Seinfeld
    • Jon Stewart
    • Jim Carrey
    • Nikola Tesla
    • Marie Curie
    • Sandy Koufax
    • Bill “Spaceman” Lee 

    You have to look up that last guy. He is the textbook example of a wacky left-hander. Look at the nickname he was given. He had to be left-handed, it would just be wrong if he wasn’t.

    And just to continue the fun, below is a short, selective, and subjective list of well-known people who seem to me like they should have been left-handed. They also seem to fit the type. I’ll call them Honorary Lefties.

    • Theodor Seuss Geisel (Dr. Seuss)
    • Robin Williams
    • George Lucas
    • Thomas Paine
    • Oscar Wilde
    • Weird Al Yankovic
    • George Carlin
    • Steven Wright
    • Gary Larson
    • Jesse Cole (creator of Banana Ball)

    Despite wishful thinking, apparently the lesson is that eccentric excellence knows no dominant hand. Of course, there is nothing scientific or statistically valid about this little exposition. It’s based on cherry-picked anecdotal information, involves some presumed correlation between handedness and personality type, and downplays the frequency of quirky right-handed people as well as conventional, onbeat, uncreative, uninnovative left-handed people. (Yes, insufferable right-handed reader, I’m aware that one of the descriptors above is not an actual word; you’re playing your prescribed role, you dupe.)

    This was simply meant to be, and will remain, a light and amusing piece, so long as we have Obama.

  • 0 to 100, Back to 0

    Russet and Yukon, our two senior chihuahuas, are excellent lap dogs and arm dogs. They are talented sleeping dogs, sleeping as many as 20 hours a day, but at the same time, are also keen guard dogs. They bark when they hear or smell a new person inside the house. They protect our house and family from a variety of nefarious evildoers–plumbers, painters, electricians, utility company workers, and package deliverers.

    I warn such intruders ahead of time about the impending wrath they are about to experience and mention that our dogs are senior chihuahuas. Almost invariably, they understand and actually condone the barking. “A barking dog is a good dog.” “That’s good.” “That’s what a dog is supposed to do.”

    Chi-Unit!

    Russet and Yukon have two special barking routines:

    Team barking. Once one dog barks, the other one starts barking, even if the latter isn’t aware of the reason for barking. It’s very supportive–strength in numbers, I got your back. The double chihuahua barking attack is every intruder’s mortal nightmare.

    Bed barking. The two also bark remotely, from their bed. Rather than running to the point of intrusion and confronting the interloper head-on, they conveniently bark from their home base, in another room. Perhaps this is part of an ambush strategy. Russet even barks from under his blanket in bed, without feeling the need to emerge.

    The two really don’t bark much otherwise. Not until it’s go time. Then instincts kick in and they bark like they mean it, with conviction. They are not playing around, they really throw themselves into their guard dog roles. And I wonder what their mindset is. What kind of shit talking do they think they’re doing with all that barking?

    A dog from a police K9 unit confronting a suspect? Sure, I can imagine its barking as a vicious and credible threat: Hey asshole! I’ve been training all my life for this! If I get off leash, I’m going to chase you down, sink my teeth into your ass, and make you gush blood!

    But two tiny senior chihuahuas? With Russet, I imagine his barking as: Hey intruder, my vision is bad and I’m not going to get up from bed. But if you come over here, right up to me so I can find you, and stand still and don’t move, I will go buck wild on your ass!

    And then Yukon comes in for the team barking: Me too, motherfucker! I’m 98 years old, smaller than your shoe, and don’t have any teeth remaining. But if you take off your footwear, I will chomp your pinky toe with my gums until you scream and flee in terror!

    Impressively, after one of their trademark barking episodes, after all the excitement, noise, and verbal intimidation, they are able to go back to sleep in less than two minutes. It’s amazing. They wake up suddenly from a deep sleep and immediately start barking. And then just as suddenly, they go back to sleep.

    I am envious of that–second part. I wonder how they manage to wind down so quickly after such an adrenaline rush. If I got into a heated verbal altercation with strangers and was yelling physical threats, I would be amped-up for hours.

    However, that’s not something I have to worry about. I don’t have that kind of drama and excitement in my life. On the contrary, my life is quite mundane, stable, and boring. Hell, if I worry too much about this week’s grocery list, I’ll lay awake in bed forever. Somewhat pathetic, I suppose, but I strongly prefer my boring, altercation-free life. And I strongly prefer it with our two dogs.

  • Tarps Off, Anyone?

    There’s a new sensation sweeping the bleachers of Major League Baseball stadiums. It’s called Tarps Off and involves groups of (mostly) male fans taking off their shirts, en masse, and waving them above their heads, in a collective celebration of…who knows what.

    It looks stupid and fun. It also looks extremely low-tech. My fascination is why now, all of a sudden, in 2026? Something this basic could have become popular fifty years ago. There’s nothing novel about dudes going shirtless at baseball games and cheering.

    According to the definitive history on mlb.com, Tarps Off had its Major League Baseball debut on May 15th in St. Louis, when an enthusiastic group of knuckleheads–God bless them–from the Stephen A. Austin club baseball team started waving their shirts in the air and whooping it up. And it spread from there. 

    My wife and I attended a San Francisco Giants game in mid-June and witnessed the phenomena in its full pasty, unchiseled glory. It took place mainly in the center field bleachers–of course–but there were small, scattered pockets of fans taking part elsewhere in the stands. Tarps Off had landed in our home stadium.

    Who knows how long this frivolity is going to last? I need to get in on it now, while it’s still a thing. Fortunately, my wife and I had tickets to an upcoming game two weeks later, even better, a day game. I asked if she was okay with me going Tarps Off. She was, under some conditions, or should I say, suggestions, which were perfectly reasonable, and which I followed.

    For context, no one wants to see me in public with my shirt off. I get that, and for the most part, I keep my shirt on, as a public service. However, on the rare occasions that I go to the beach or go swimming, I take it off. 

    My body is nothing to look at, on the contrary, it’s something to look away from. I have a terrible farmer’s tan, a very unimposing chest, and spindly limbs. I have more of a distance runner’s body, which is not a good look.

    However…relatively speaking…especially for a man of my age…it could be a lot worse. Among American men, the bar is low, or more accurately, round and flabby.

    In preparation for the upcoming game and exhibitionist celebration, I got in a few additional runs, did crunches and upper body exercises, and visited a professional service provider for some strategic hair removal.

    My game day strategy was as follows: when the time is right and the tarps start coming off, head out to the bleacher section and find an available spot, being careful to steer clear of toned twenty-year-olds, gym rats, and fitness bros. Rather, seek out and slide in amongst the Dad bods, and look decent by comparison.

    On game day, the conditions at the ballpark were ideal: sunny, 65°, and a good fan turnout for a game against the A’s, the Giants’ former cross-bay rival.

    As I watched the game, I also kept my eye on the bleachers, eagerly awaiting the right time. I put sunscreen on my chest, my wife applied it to my back. I was ready. I waited. And waited. Opportune times came and went. When was it going to start? When were the tarps coming off? 

    It never started. Tarps never came off. How disappointing, but for me, also so typical: overplanning and overpreparing for things, including things that don’t happen.

    At least I had the right attitude and was looking forward to getting out of my comfort zone and doing something fun and uncharacteristic of myself.

    At the end of the game, my wife tried to console me with, “Next time.” I’m not trying to wait for next time, there is no guarantee of a next time. I’m trying to be about this time, about now. In addition, I don’t want to do any more unnecessary vanity crunches. I hate crunches.

  • Falling Out of the Bathtub

    Sure, anyone can accidentally slip and fall in the shower or tub. But it takes a special individual, a real overachiever, to slip and fall out of the tub. 

    Before proceeding, I don’t want to make light of this too much; slips and falls in the bathtub and shower can be serious and result in serious injuries–broken bones, spinal injuries, and head injuries. I’m simply sharing this personal story, like most others, for readers to enjoy and to laugh at my misfortune.

    This episode occurred six years ago, but I still remember it vividly. I was taking a shower, washing my own business, when the surface of our porcelain enameled bathtub apparently became very soapy and slippery. 

    At some point, I shifted or shuffled my feet (nothing unusual), and lost my footing. While slipping, my body somehow turned 90°, perpendicular to the left side of the showerhead. My momentum carried me backwards and I toppled ass-first over the rim of the tub. I grabbed the shower curtain with both hands, but still fell out, and landed on our plastic toilet seat lid, which cracked from the full impact of my 170 pounds and bare ass. It all happened in about two seconds, but seemed to take much longer as it was happening, although nothing cool like in The Matrix.

    I was fortunate the toilet broke my fall. I fell two feet onto it rather than three and a half feet directly onto the tiled bathroom floor. I was also lucky to land ass-first instead of randomly landing back-first, hip-first, head-first, etc. 

    In addition to ordering and installing a new toilet seat lid, my wife and I purchased removable bathtub appliques (non-slip pads) to prevent future slips and falls. 

    As an additional safety measure, I reduced my exposure to risk. I cut back and now shower a few times a week, with soap optional. One can never be too safe.

  • My Softball Fans Are Killing Me

    Many years ago, while my hand-eye coordination still allowed it, I played slow pitch softball in our city’s recreational league.

    I played on a team with a bunch of similarly-skilled and like-minded guys in their 30s and 40s. We played primarily to have fun. We also played to win, but it wasn’t the end of the world if we didn’t. The other main goal we had for ourselves, all kidding aside, was not getting injured. During my time on the team, I injured my knee twice (sliding and fielding), my calf (base running), and my quad (base running). 

    It was rare that our team had any spectators attend our games. On a good night, we would have one faithful spectator. I think our maximum crowd turnout was six people. 

    During one memorable game, my wife took two nephews of ours, ages seven and ten at the time, out to the old softball game, to cheer on their uncle. I can still see them, not sitting passively on the wooden bleachers, but standing in back of the chain link fence behind the first base line, shaking it with their hands, and yelling. That part was great. 

    During my at-bats, they yelled, with great excitement, “Hey Uncle Tom, do something! Do something!” That’s not exactly a traditional baseball or softball cheer, but I appreciated their enthusiasm. 

    My teammates and I, while not immature biologically, always relished opportunities to joke around and rib one another. I think that’s just part of slow pitch softball. So, of course, once the two young nephews started their cheer, my teammates chimed in. “Do something! Hey, Tom, do something!” Which is hilarious, unless you’re the one standing in the batter’s box, trying to focus on the next incoming pitch. 

    And to top it off, the catcher on the opposing team joined the mocking chorus of jokers. “C’mon, Uncle Tom, do something. Hahahaha.” I couldn’t fault or blame him for that. It’s right there, it’s too easy, he’s got to do that. The original intention of “Do something!” was to cheer me on and encourage me. Instead, it was turned against me and I was now getting razzed. See what my nephews started? They’re killing me.

    I played with the team for 13 years, alongside a small core group of guys who played for most of that period. Towards the end, as I got older, my defensive skills got weaker, and I was hurting the team with errors. I was kicking the ball around the field, which is great if one is playing soccer, but not great if one is playing softball as an infielder. At some point, I made the humane decision to retire. 

    My concern that I was a liability was promptly validated the next season. Without me on the roster, the team went undefeated and won the championship for our division. 

    I contributed to my former team’s success by walking away. For that contribution, I crowned myself the unofficial team MVP, based on the clear and tremendous impact of my absence.





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