Saturday, February 06, 2016

"Style is a Function of Theme

not imposed on subject
      matter but arising from it.

             Style is truth to thought"

                        Julian Barnes

Julian. Some say he was the big man

who thought outside the box
a giant in the cannon

 an anonymous author nobody read

who remained unknown and unrecognised
and could not get arrested if he was 

cart-wheeling naked on the high street.
He was a country bloke. A big fellow

great for 
field work and labouring. His
 family's blue eyed 
Jewel - destined for

Be handy for a bit more than
sweeping up and swilling down the yard.

 D’yer get it?

Couldn’t put a foot wrong. A farm boy
   and youngest who grew up tall

shovelled muck from sty to dung
heap, dug ditches; a bit of building


            he was a man who thought about
all sorts, not just pig swill or chickens

  and having a lend of his neighbour's
sheepdog. He was a crackerjack who

            out-thought the lot

   tossed out ideas on spuds, swedes
  beetroot, dairy produce, small rural

industry, stocks, bonds, and treasury

     domestic think-tanks

and strategies that rid the workplace
 of prejudice, promote tolerance

inclusion, diversity, fairness 
     and transparency in local transport

and territorial issues; the national health
 contingency for a state of emergency

and the most practical way of
 mucking out effluent from piggeries

    stables and chicken coops.


Several pub’s number one
 writer-in-residence, who, in no time at

all, could whip up a master-plan 

of attack on the back of a fag packet

or beer mat - when he wasn't devoting
his energy to farm work, or thinking

of what style might arise from 

the subject matter of his next essay.

Many don't care for the doings
 of his life, or read his works 

 couldn’t give a toss if his style was
imposed or arose.


    was an intellectual giant
who’d direct operations from a lounge bar

or hay-barn HQ. Wield a shovel for six
 hours solid, and run the economy with

invisible ink. Could write wonderfully
 well, grow a muzzy - any dodge going.

He could keep an army on its toes
 if he bothered getting out of bed

and he knew how to keep a dream
 hidden when love was terminal.

He fought in the trench of Art
and plotted to overthrow the status quo

cycled the countryside picnicking
keeping fit; necking a few scoops

as he moved about bossing the troops
 whipping up the craic

and firing off one-liners. 

He had a great gas
 taking it to the max, tittering

giggling at being a legend
 and taking the piss out of titular rich ones

who thought they were doing themselves
 a favour by not leaving Her be and fecking
off out of it.


His doings foxed everyone but
 Kathleen up until that night. He was

always straight with her. He had to be
  because she's a right one who

 always knew the score. Still does.
She’s unreal. None of 'em conned



in Barnesly Bloomsbury and Brum, 
he knew lovers, fighters

fanatics, violent shit-houses, loons
frightened bullies, spivs, liars, cowards

  and good people with a desire for
 freedom. In Dublin he roused peace-
nicks who looted

hearts, minds, mythology and shops
 on his whim; but only when desperation

kicked in for the extras he never
 had as a kid.

More than all this though Barnsey
 he was a style expert who spun tales

          by jumping straight in.


"Aoife mouths words but it’s all
Kathleen’s world, and the brown

leather robe draped across the chair
tucked beneath the table

contained within this locked box
is mine" 

Niamh cries
coming through the door of the
occupational therapy room where

nurse Aoife O’Brien sits listening to
angelus bells peel havoc at the hill


deport to the readers mind
let them see beyond
stereotype freaks from a secure

ward and out-patient casting
agency of unknown background

artistes on a promise a day for the full
bore shoot of pretending to be Tom

Robert or Marlon's heir. And through
those who share your consciousness

connect them to angelus energy.

Have the sense to look for meaning
where few dare peek for fear 

of being branded mentally unkempt, like
Niamh was before she died a derelict in
the loony bin

opined to be beyond all reach by the
boss head doctor of a crumbling

psychiatric hospital, where she lived
in nineteen ninety nine

when nurse O’Brien dished up pills
and injections from ten to eleven

depending on
depending on…

"If there is a cow in the field and
a machine out of order.. 


 Niamh is on-ward and in role play as
a not-yet dead nut-nut strapped in

to the naughty chair and babbling freely
at the table.

                 ..the machine is out of order. "

Niamh continues 

              "Within the four walls of this crypt
            I conjure the tall author, architect 

         of state and soldier of memory who
        lives on ...

Does Niamh now flit with the tall
fellow’s shade

        .... in books 

deconstruct schoolchildren
 from shadows in caves

and tower over oath bound men
 to find a simple mountain grace

  written ...
at life’s end? 

       .....when Yeats ruled a world of
      words his imagination shook fairly

     from her tongue pouring forth to
    make prayer and fable a nation’s


Me me me me me more than he it was
             back when Niamh gobbed off

and got on with the business of
    being la la. Nuttying it up for

medication and a cosmic life
of ticking boxes and flapping

  wings across forms Aoife’s boss
Kathleen - the chief executive - read

before deciding the only option on
   offer for Niamh were a few large

energy jolts to her brain.


A one woman universe who returns
her tribe to disperse underground
and travel through air as ether. 

Niamh knew Aoife’s way was the
leather restraining belt and the
moniker they used


her daily jacket.

  will be where the morning lit
 mountain’s phantasmagoria and shade

  leisure with the ghost of a man
 who topped a fella who took draughts
of demands to London.


ECT demons came haunting Niamh
in the TV room, until

the liquid cosh tipped her mind into
overdose and she disappeared during
the angelus bell

silently faded and was instantly
whisked to VIP at the post-life bash
in paradise.

    Will Kathleen tell?


Niamh never spoke
once the initial dissolution instantly

dissolved any questions lingering in her
bonce, just got stuck underground in a

box after Kathleen called her to dance
her reflection in the grave where a well

of time will return in wild spring


"An answer blown on ageless dumb
stone tells of what love fell there for

you Kathleen, who saw what went
on when my heart beat alive and I

breathed being driven through the
breeze to an ambush that night

when the windows blew in and a
bullet got shot through my skull. "



Anonymous dreamer

did not scatter 

as the other protagonists withdrew 
- who moves now in shadow -
and told Niamh

Kate’s phantom triggered Mick’s
quick return to her. And in the

immediate aftermath a faint ghost
trail appeared to flicker on the track

glowing, they say, for the short time it
took for his spirit to pass over. The

light dimmed as it drew in beneath the
foot of Mouth-flower rock, then paled

out and disappeared. The big fellow’s
shade dissolved into Kathleen Ireland's earth.


              "Style is a function of theme.
        not imposed on subject
                  matter but arising from it.

             Style is truth to thought"

                        Julian Barnes

Tuesday, December 08, 2015

Mersey Ó Bhéal

By the telepathic act of wish fulfillment, came Lonnie
Donegan's Bridgeton Skiffle and Bridie Gallagher's

Donegal sean nós. And live from St Peter's garden
rock gods in pale elemental form found wisdom

through friendship, when John finished a daytime set,
stepped off the back of a lorry-stage, and first met Paul

at the fete of a church where Eleanor Rigby's history
was sealed after the night gig, in a place philosophers

preach friendship. The church hall Woolton rocked
to Berry and Presley direct from the Quarrymen

Lennon's mob on home turf; a plusher suburb than
Speke, McCartney's manor. And thus their partnership

began, where music rolls melodic and silent Sophia's
poetic hand, in a Mersey omphalos, the Well of Segais,

beneath hazel, dealt soft dappled showers of sienna
light upon reed and sedge as it wavered and ripples

in ageless dumb wisdom, folding through strings
in a wind chime of history that rings a bell our mind

cannot muffle. Animal voice, the fictional eyewitness
woven within, who'll rock, out-pour, and apportion

in proper ennobling form, myths Her chief creators
mouth in works of air. They accomplish detachment

and sight the island goddess of memory, Honey gob
Ogma and Amergin the White-knee, who gift us fully,

half, or none, knowledge of Eber and Eremon. Their
wheel spun diverse in chance as death spells nurture

philosophies; draft and balance humanity's egg
in cosmic incubus to lie right-side up, no short cuts

or improper attempts at self wisdom. Just the logical
art-god weaving a question on rock 'n roll rooting in

a person: If the bow & lyre both are strung, through
good-body Sir Paul, or the soul of bono Saint John?


Some say all who knew he did nothing without soul
know John learnt the art of rock and roll with Paul;

that they are symbiotic, in the body of all fans'
fictional cauldrons, tilting or not. And those possessing

a Revolver, Abbey Road, and Rock And Roll Music 
Volume One, will know the word of John, and holler

along to Bad Boy, Twist and Shout, I Call Your Name
and Imagine, the reality of this orbiting sound-force,

whispering a knowledge they hear via him; destiny's
child filled fully upright, decoding ancestral music,

chosen to color and program humanity. Sir Paul

singing Long Tall Sally, I Saw Her Standing There, 
Kansas City and I Wanna Be Your Man, was destined

to come; through John, past I Wanna Hold Your Hand,
beyond a void of prerequisite ability, to the widest

reach of experience, and easily ascend in oracular shift,
one cauldron side-slanting, another on its lips, both

stir in a fictional pot: no fire or hell below us, above
us only


Imagine the brotherhood of man, its easy if you find
one body and soul, who remotely taught all less able

at turning a rhyme-bag born slanted how to become
gods: the good Sir Paul and bono Saint John, who eye

from a planetary rhythm in people of bard-craft; reveal
to a poet searching for tropes, each time they'll rock

or fold in silence an epithet driving lofty in a life-pan
filled with sung event. Sing in a voice fully effable,

balanced on it's back by sorrow, ineluctable mimesis,
poetical process of time, trial, hope, unaired draughts

of Sophia from the hearth of mystery, and mythical
Mersey wisdom, to rock from Woolton and Speke,

and fleet with their reflection in a well of friendship,

Kevin Desmond

Tuesday, September 01, 2015

A Rap Round Up

Originally began as a comment on the All Ireland Poetry Slam Facebook, responding to Dublin rapper Inkredible, posting his latest urban rap recording to the page. 

Clicking Play: An Advisory Notice. Extremely explicit over 18 XXX rated adult language-content many will find inkredibly offensive. WARNING. Do not listen to a majority of these recordings if you are offended by ultra-aggressive and explicitly satirically toxic language in the contemporary urban form of battle-rap trash-talk. The subtle (and not so subtle) irony of which will be missed by those offended by extremely 'bad' language. 

If you will be offended, please chill out listening instead to this 2011 recording, by DJ Chester x The Lost Instrumentals (with scratch x poetry x vocal snippets). That, we are informed: 'has since been a work in progress every time I re-visit and desperately try to finish it. It started off as just an all-vinyl record instrumental quick mix of soulful beats by DJ Spinna, Sa-Ra, Chirm Son and The Strange Fruit Project. However, after listening to it several times, I decided to add some spice by layering it with scratches, vocals samples, song samples and finally some poetry lines by Common, Alicia Keys and Lauryn Hill from Def Poetry Jam. So here’s my experimental attempt at doing a mix with a laid back vibe but sounds different from my other mixes.' Enjoy. 


OFFENSIVE WARNING language-content in the linked recordings that may be found distasteful. Please do not listen if you are radically offended by XXX trash-battle rap-talk.


This is the recording I find most creatively perfected and realised of the Dublin rapper Inkredible's chunes. A current high-viewed recording from the wholly underground Irish urban rap scene, and a genre of rhythmic poetry that i must admit - more of an ancient bardic poetry buff than contemporary urban Irish rap and hip-hop aficionado - this kind of linguistic material is not top of my list of personally most sought out or most loved literary lyrical and spoken forms or contemporary globally popular poetic genres. 

This one however, They Can't Handle Us, (imo) exhibits a flow that is linguistically impressive because it exhibits a sheer authentic lyrical brilliance, that, tho many will find offensive, i suppose because i witnessed it first ten years ago when Inkredible was a teenager starting out, i admit to being able to purposely hear, 'snatch out of the passionate transitory', and articulate, the artistically positive air that can be drawn from a dispassionate critical assessment of its language.

Combo after combo kicks creative ass and lays down a high bar on the Irish urban rap genre and scene, with its own modes, mores, technical terms, feuds, rap battles and language; populated by rhymers spitting bars created by the gritty urban Irish experience.

And tho i knew next to nothing of the scene before researching it for this piece, there are plenty of Irish hip-hop practitioners and urban rappers out there.

I have come across before in Dublin at poetry events the very talented Finglas rapper Temper-Mental MissElayneous, aka the poet Elayne Harrington, but only now researching this piece, the sheer number of other Dublin rappers that make up a thriving underground Irish urban hip-hop rap scene that seems poised for a greater global awareness. From what I can gather, mirroring its American source, Irish urban rap has its own creative feuds, the BBC reporting in 2012, at the time a BBC3 documentary by contemporary documentarian, Ronan McCloskey, on the new Irish urban rap and hip-hop scene, was first broadcast on BBC and RTE:
The Working Class Army see rap as a means of spreading a social message and are prepared to forgo commercial success and give their music away for free. The Class A'z however are rapping with the intention of making money. This has caused a public feud between the two groups.

There was also an Irish Rappers documentary on the (2012) RTE series, Reality Bites, exploring the verbally extreme creative contention between these two groups of Dublin rappers:

The feud between the Dublin rappers is explored within the film as is the rap battle scene made famous by the Eminem film 8 Mile. Like in America, Irish rappers also attempt to settle their differences by having rap battles in underground clubs which are judged by their peers. The threats and insults traded by rival rappers at these events almost have to be seen to be believed and whilst the footage may seem more reminiscent of an illegal fight club, actual violence is rare.

With handles from the various Dublin camps such as Costello, Equalizer, Funzo, GI, Lethal Dialect, Nucentz, Nugget, Siyo, Terrawrizt, and many more from across the Irish urban rap and hip-hop spectrum of talent and experience that I am unaware of to name. At all level of linguistic creative ability and exhibiting all manner of rap and hip-hop influence. 

There's one of Limerick's (and Ireland's) current hottest young rappers (his first DIY youtube rap recording, at a bus stop, released eight months ago, has over 1 million views on just one account, and his one year old fb page 193,000 likes) Lynchy

There's Cork outfit, Rebel Faction, Sligo-London's Ahren-B; and another Sligo hip-hop trio, that I chanced across one weekend doing a gig in the vibrant grass-roots music venue, the Sweeney Mongrel pub, on Dublin's Dame Street; This Side Up, and remember being very impressed by their positive lyrical flow. And I think the only Irish hip-hop outfit I have actually seen live outside of an open mic rap-battle.

And  adding to that another of Ireland's hottest hip-hop rappers, that I had not heard of before researching the piece, Waterford's MC Pat Flynn, whose ten month old youtube audio recording, Get on Your Kneez, accounts for half of the four million views of the seventy youtube recordings on the ten month old Irish Rap Movement Youtube Channel, that has 20,000 subscribers.

And also, Wexford's Rob Kelly

Whilst, a quick search reveals, in the North, there's Belfast's JunTzu; and North West, Derry's Wileman, rapping over more laid-back and chilled out snoop-dog beats, a coruscating contemporary commentary of cultural alienation.


All this is new to me, and there are no doubt plenty of urban Irish rappers I am not aware of that would also slot seamlessly into this brief synopsis of what I have learnt in a few hours online. 

And this is only the white Irish contingent.

I have witnessed plenty of talented Afro-Irish rappers and poets, including this South African rapper who was always at Write and Recite, JoJo, who unlike the urban Irish rappers, rapped in the name of Jesus Christ, with a beautifully simple and positive message of Love. This was his signature piece, African Queen, along with Does God Exist

And from this I discover Dublin rapper, Rejjie Snow, with two albums released, 37.4 K Twitter followers, close to a million views on his two year old track, Lost in Empathy; and half a million views on his latest two month old release, All Around the World. I read online that this very academically successful intellectual and talented athletic thespian, dropped out after his first year in an American university, to return to Ireland and pursue his urban musical Irish hip-hop and lyrical rap recording dream. 


Whilst in the Irish language there's a godfather of the urban Gaeilgeoirí genre, the brilliantly committed and fully believing adherent to the filidh curriculum faith and priestly druidic code of coimgne, Gearóid Mac Lochlainn; along with the unclassifiable, young transcendental Kerry, Listowel poet, and All Ireland Slam Champion 2011/12, Séamus Barra Ó Súilleabháin.

Tho i must confess that the ultra-aggressive and hyper-competitive male poetic language in most of what I have linked to, with a few notable exceptions, is off-putting and not at all my own favourite cuppa, in this urban rap and black American derived poetic form; it is only now researching this piece, that I have become aware of just how fully primed and poised for potential global success the currently huge underground buzz of Irish urban rap and hip-hop poetry actually is. 

And tho we do not have to like or practice it as a compositional form ourselves, it is foolish, once becoming aware of the buzz surrounding it, not to acknowledge Irish urban rap and hip-hop as a globally popular form. In terms of the audience for, and interest in, Irish rappers, it dwarfs that for the average mainstream Irish page and spoken word rhymers.


But i remember first coming across Inkredible's piece, They Can't Handle Us, and being intellectually impressed with not only the creativity of the battle rhyming, and clear passionate love of language, however satirically toxic, but the quality and inventiveness of the recording. 

A shoestring budget that looks classier than the outlay would suggest. With a great mix and use of musical sound and verbal irony - 'we're from the place where track-suits are the fashion' - that exhibits the person making it, is not a novice on the fruity loops but a seasoned veteran of this wholly nu contemporary poetic DIY urban Irish battle rap and hip-hop genre he has been plodding away at the cutting edge and forefront of since 2004/5.

I remember Mr Inkredible, as he was then known, first turning up to the weekly poetry open-mic in Brogans at the start of the Write and Recite (2004-8) WaR at the height of the Celtic Tiger bubble, a precociously talented teenager, with no paper, reciting from the 'dome' as i first heard Raven Aflakete put it. And i remember thinking this kid is gonna be either very good, or very shit. Just a huge and confident presence.

And he blew the room away. One of the most memorable nights i recall there. And then the busking with an artist, who, because of their long-bearded appearance attracted the moniker, 'God' (aka mike), who had that unique gift of genuinely spontaneous flow, imbas forosnai, and with the unacknowledged godfather of spontaneous contemporary Dublin spoken word, Noel Sweeney, (plying now his rhymes elsewhere), whose unique hip-hop style he picked up cutting his live teeth in 1990s Brixton rasta sessions and south London shabeens, influenced, was imitated and appropriated wholesale, by some of today's most lauded and supported Irish spoken-word stars, during the whole mad swirl of noughties poetry in bubbalin Dubalin tune. 

I was with Inkredible and Mike aka 'God', the very first time any of us busked, or maybe the second or third occasion for them. And, stood as a trio, shoulder to shoulder, on the sidewalk, we all took turns doing our own thing in front of our continually passing audience, tide of pedestrians and potential momentary patrons, opposite the statue of a seated couple and bike-lock frames outside the then fish tackle shop, Rory's, in Temple bar, at the height of the Celtic Tiger's economic bubble

And i was only doing it for the craic, an old geeza with the young bucks. And mid-flow when we got the first quid in the hat, there was an inward joyful leap and laughter as the other two younger rhymers tried to mask the disappointment of not being the first to earn a rhyme on the street. Coming second to an oldsta with wafty lofty poems of faeries and the sidhe, gerrin the first financial gift tossed in a hat on the pavement in front of us. Yeah, that was the only time i bothered, having busked live poetry once, just for the sheer feck of it.

But we did used also to bang out live poetry in public on the streets; every few weeks at the Temple Bar Square Speakers' Corner that was there every Sunday afternoon for a couple of years. Anyone could and did get up and rant. 

From the roaring street alcoholics gleefully shouting to themselves, to passionate and concerned intellectuals learning on the stump. It was a great way of overcoming stage-fright, just lashing it out as loud as you can in the very heart of Dublin city-centre, and something I would personally recommend to any newbie in the live literary thicket and poetry wood of the aul Fur Shitty / Fair City, with its ever evolving poetic beat and always morphing cultural buzz.

Because, slowly, shedding any live performance anxiety and poetic inhibitions, getting metaphorically as naked as one can be as a public rhymer, it is a great way to learn, for free, and at a very high-level of urban poetry professionalism. 

Ready to rhyme anytime at all at the drop of a plastic bag on the sidewalk and into which a few coins would flow from passers by getting the sheer artistry and human theatre of what is occurring in front of them, passing by and mere random souls sailing down life's river to our destination and return home to the warm and loving spiritual reunion with sidhe of the shee of Her, faery woman of Ireland, bean sí, cuisle mo chroi, pulse of every living breath and heart-beat with which Her hand guides our own lives as entertaining and eloquent public speakers rhyming and timing, earning the right to be heard by our act and process of continual experience speaking live Her poetry and spoken song.

Tho we parted ways after our first performance as a trio of busking rhymers, Inkredible and 'God' stuck at it and within a short time had really took off as a double act, learning lessons only a very few talented talkers are lucky, creatively daring, or positively mad enough to ever give a go, literally, by busking spontaneous rhymes on the streets of bubbalin Dubalin town. Not many doing it then, i recall, just us poetically filled linguistic nutbags.

Good old days, and Inkredible still in his twenties. And a wicked hooky beat to it, They Can't Handle Us, bouncy, peroppa woppa; and the very last thing the polite spoken word sets of bubbalin dubalin tewn wud invite to recite at the very tastefully and officially approved of do's custoded by the crazee fukas that say fuk a lot and peroppa woppa and deadly and love it and all that shallow shit we luurv baby.

'. with an I and a N and a C and a REDIBLE, yu'd betta wotch up it's Mister Inkredible: 'original, traditional, indigenous, i'm original, clinically clinical, individual, no principles, invincible missile-pistol, i cripple little artificial spittle, i'm international, an actual land mammal cannibal with mandible, adaptable animal, my pallet does spit flammable, i'm untrackable, yeah you're trackable, we're not compatible, you're flow's collapsible, mine's impassable, like impossible obstacles on top of all you popsicles, i'm logically logical, philosophical chronicle, yeah..' .. very verbally inventive. imo.

But this one, that the above flow appears in, yeah, tho the only bruv of five girls, i am not at all a fan of the misogynist terminology (very anti- it indeed), i think, that, unlike some of the more scankier Inkredible stuff, it just about gets away with it, (imo), considering the gritty, sweary and working-class language of its inner-city urban rap form. 

A cheeky brilliance, cocky yet comedic, and a wholly authentically genuine contemporary Dublin working-class note struck; and, above all, proof in the pudding - thousands and thousands of people watching and liking it across the world. And which will bring - especially in the ultra-competitive genre Inkredible is a success in - a lot of negative energies from fellow ultra-competitive urban rappers sporting and competing with one another in this form.

That, as has been noted, is not everywuns cuppa poison. But as Amergin in the Cauldron of Poesy text, only first translated into English in 1979 (by late (2011) Galwegian academic P. L. Henry) - and used, along with many other texts, including core text (first published in English translation in 1917) Auraicept na n-Éces / Scholars Primer puts it - instructing forty generations of literary filidh/poets of Ireland since the dawn of the written word - during the druidic/bardic crossover, from a wholly oral reality, to the birth of post-Ogham page/stage reality, in the 7C Old Irish vernacular written language: one of the four human sorrows is 'jealousy', and one of the corresponding four human Joys of poetry is 'the joy of health untroubled in the abundance of goading one receives when they take up the prosperity of bardcraft.' 

Good luck, s/he god creation and the unknowable order of unconscious chune - bless our souls with song and our hearts with love. May we all live forever and never grow up, old, or lose the flow of what it is we're here for as poatz and Her earthly loving servants ov tha peroppa woppa wurda singing n spittin chewns from tha royal boozaliars ov bubbalin tune. slainte.

I posted They Can't Handle Us to Poetry Ireland's now extinct FB group page during the two week long conversational kerfuffle and community consultation process i initiated by directly bringing to wider attention the one-message 'community extinction notice' that had been buried under a daily diet of scores of ditties and doggerel posted from all over the world.

A one-message only group-notice of its deletion/shut down, that all but me seemed unaware was going to occur; as it had been served only once and without any real notice, as it was not pinned to the top but buried immediately after ten minutes beneath the waves of individually published texts of all quality across the board, from shameless happy doggerel to world-class lines of brilliant poetry. And (i was the only one to point out) the 3000 members with less sharp poetic faculties harmlessly spamming our ditties and doggerel, would wake up and feel very intellectually cheated on the allotted day to find our 'community' no more.

Made extinct with a click of the mouse, as the result of a unilateral decision made by an incoming team of unknown faceless art bureaucrats and the custodian/s of the social-media page and web presence of an island-wide poetry body tasked with the important role of praising whatever in language is well made.

i put this one on as part of the chatter i was doing, joyfully creating and sporting in letters, extolling the virtues of - love/hate it - Kredible's cultural full force compositional form of contemporary rhythmic urban lyrical rhythm and poetry exhibiting a very creative use of language that fulfills any ancient authority's definition of the word. Horace especially.

It does proper do the heads in of many a pawsh sooth dub dreamer yearning to be Famous 2. good luck, love to the family. healing hugs and positive energies gerrin beamed from the Leburtaze! Sloppy Bob.