Kings Island: Come On Get Happy?

My wife and I took the family unit to Kings Island for one last hurrah before school starts again.

We had a good time.

The following are some random thoughts and observations:

Ohio’s/Cincinnati’s roads are pretty nice compared to Indiana’s rough-as-a-cob wagon trails.

Bring a bag o’ cash to Kings Island.

Food and drink cost twice as much there as outside the park.

You will pay extra for parking, lockers, some select rides, and any extra deep breaths.

Snot

What’s up with people spitting on the ground all the time?

In some locales it used to be illegal, but it’s always disgusting.

Men, women, children, boys, and girls…hocking their lung oysters all over the ground so I can step in it.

I really don’t want to see you expelling pussy green globs from your face.

Swallow that shit (I had a drill instructor say it’s good eatin’ anyways), or puke it up in a napkin and dispose of it properly.

Assholes.

The cigarette smokers have been banished to the Leper Colony of Shame.

It’s time for you Lugie Launchers to get yours now.

Assholes.

Fat

We Americans are an unfit and wasteful bunch.

One day at a water park will clue you in on this.

I wanted to gouge my own eyes out with a rusty soup-spoon.

It’s one thing for adults to be whales, but there’s really no excuse for an 8-year-old kid to be spilling over the waistband of his swim trunks.

I saw one fat-ass kid take a huge greasy bite out of a massive $10 slice of pizza, and then he shit-canned the remaining bit and ran off to Mommy.

Saw another bulbous boy throw a stiff-legged tantrum about wanting a sugary $5 cup of shaved ice.

He had ankles the size of Hillary Clinton’s, and couldn’t even lace up his $150 high-top Air Jordans.

Here’s a tip, America.

If you have kids or are thinking about having them, toss the X-Box, PlayStation, U-Verse, DishNet, and the PC.

Forget the electric/motorized Barbie cars, scooters and ATVs.

Get little Johnnie and Janie's fat asses off the couch and outside.

Get them tricycles and bicycles.

You know…the ones with leg-powered chain-drive.

Get them into activities.

Sports. Swimming. Hang gliding.

Anything.

Competitive eating is not an Olympic event.

Mix in a salad. A carrot. An apple. An orange.

Do it for God.

Do it for Country.

Just do it.





Tattoos



Generally speaking, I don’t think tattoos are a good idea unless you are a Longshoreman or a sailor, and there are not a lot of either one of those in the greater Cincinnati area.

Women especially should avoid tattoos, in my opinion, and the pop-riveting of various bits of metal into one’s flesh is most times not appealing.

Nothing says “unemployable” like a good string of body “art.”

You may be thinking that you are expressing your individuality…that you are being “different.”

Yes.

Yes you are.

Just like all the other idiots.

If you want to record your earth-shattering thoughts and ideas permanently, start a diary or a blog…and send me the link.

I am sure society will appreciate that you have done this for the benefit of posterity and stuff.

Maybe.

Small town chain restaurants

Batesville, Indiana McDonalds

It was so nice to be treated like a valued customer instead of an annoyance.

This rarely happens in Indianapolis.

Smiling, helpful, courteous, awake, attentive, English-speaking employees behind the counter who didn’t look pissed off that they were at work.

Clean restrooms.

I was so impressed that I waved down the manager and told her so, and asked her to pass on my compliments to her crew.

I’m cool like that.

Sorta.

Yes.

A fun and pleasant time was enjoyed by all at Kings Island.

Pretty much.

Something Old Like New Again: GT Outpost Trail Gets A New Lease On Life

As some of you may or may not remember, I like old stuff.

Old stuff is cool, and it bugs me to no end if I see serviceable old shit sitting around neglected.

If I figure, “I can use it. My dad was a TV repairman, and I have his awesome set of tools. I can fix it,” then I have been known to dumpster-dive for all kinds of things.

In my job as a delivery driver in the city and state, I often frequent my customers’ loading docks. In these areas, I stumble across various items being discarded.

Old computers, office furniture, lighting fixtures, and building supplies are just an example of some of the old, unwanted shit I have rescued from oblivion.

In my own special way, I am reducing, reusing, and recycling.

Yes. I am green like that.

Or a cheap broke bastard...

I have issues, but so did my old man, so I came by those issues honestly.

For over a year, I have had my eye on an item at one particular customer’s loading dock. It had been sitting outside, exposed to the elements…snow, rain, mud…probably kicked around and mistreated…for far too long.

I couldn’t stand it any more.

I recently decided I had seen enough, and I asked the customer what the story was behind this old piece of shit.

He replied, “Hell if I know. It’s been sitting there ever since I started working here. You can have it if you want it.”

So, I put this hunk of crap into the box of my truck, lugged it back to the warehouse, and then loaded it into the back of my car.

I had a new project!

I was now the proud owner of a 1995 vintage 18-speed GT Outpost Trail mountain bike (MTB) equipped with a quick release front wheel and center-pull brakes because those kinda things are old school and cool!

(Interestingly, a dealer's sticker on the bike indicated that it had been originally purchased from the now defunct Chico's Bike Shop in Indianapolis...the same bike shop where my wife and I purchased our Schwinn Frontier MTBs way back in 1990.)

It was going to take some work and tender loving care to get this old and abused bike back on the road.

My plan was to give it to my teen daughter when I was finished with it.

Once I got it home, I performed a closer inspection that revealed:

-The tires and inner tubes were dry rotted, flat, and falling off the wheels.

-The front brake line was snapped.

-The rear sprocket was rusted and seized.

-The handlebar grips were torn and dry rotted.

-The chain was caked with rust.

-The plastic pedals were broken.

-The bare metal handlebars were rusty on the outside and full of mud on the inside.

-The 26-inch aluminum wheels were funky and tarnished.

Before I spent a nickel on this turd, I wanted to make sure the wheels were straight and true.

If I found either one of the wheels was bent, I was going strip the bike of serviceable parts and put the rest of it on the curb on trash day and be done with it.

Happily, the wheels were good to go, so I set about cleaning, rebuilding, and repacking the wheel bearings.

I used paint thinner to clean up the old ball bearings and the races, repacked them with automotive disc brake grease, and slapped the whole mess back together.

I freed up the seized rear sprocket with liberal applications of penetrating oil until she spun freely.

I wire brushed the rusty teeth of the rear sprocket until they gleamed.

I stripped the wheels of their rotted rubber, then scrubbed the piss out of them using Bar Keepers Friend (BKF).

I hosed all the mud out of the handlebars, and scrubbed the rust off the exterior, again using BKF.

I used bolt cutters to remove the corroded chain.

Then, it was time to go buy some new parts, but before I did that, I had to decide on what kind of tires to get for my project.

Knowing my daughter as I do, I figured she’d be more likely to use the bike for going back and forth to her friends’ houses rather than insane extreme trail riding like my destructive younger son.

So, I got a pair of awesome Bell “commuter” tires with the throwback tan gummy sidewalls, and a set of sturdy new tubes.

Also purchased:

-New Schwinn handlebar grips.
-Brake line and shifter cable tune up kit.

-New chain.

I removed the broken plastic pedals, a chore in and of itself due to the fact that their steel threads had reacted to the threads of the aluminum cranks (galvanic corrosion), and replaced them with tricked out aluminum pedals stolen from my younger son’s box of “rad” BMX parts.

I replaced the front brake lines and adjusted all the brakes.

I adjusted the gears and shifters as best I could so that they don’t clatter and skip too much. Adjusting the derailleur thingies has always been my weakest point in bike mechanics.

Perhaps I should consider hiring out for such things.

Or not.

For $100 in parts and a weekend’s worth of work, the old GT turned out really nice…I think.

I’m pretty proud of my handiwork.

I am like an ace bicycle mechanic.

Or something.

Maybe.

The bike rides like new, and my daughter seems to like it and is very appreciative.

She’s got her Daddy wrapped around her finger.

Pretty much.

Stevie Ray Vaughan: 20 Years After He Leaves Us, and He’s Still One of the Best

So…the other day I’m on the highway at 0 dark thirty.

I am sober.

It’s a warm, clear, full moon-lit morning.

Sunroof open.

Windows down.

Smith & Wesson on the bucket seat next to me is riding shotgun.

He’s my only friend at this hour.

Stereo is blasting with the SRV and Double Trouble album Couldn’t Stand The Weather on the mp3 player.

The song Things That I Used To Do comes on.

I let it track through.

When it’s over, I actually say to myself as I tear-ass down the interstate, “Gawd-damn! That song fucking rocks! Stevie’s getting the fuck off!”

I wish I was a Texan.

Maybe.

I play it again, Sam.

Now…I’ve heard that cut probably 500,000 times, as I have owned the vinyl album since its release way back in the mid-80s, and SRV in general has always been one of my favorites.

In this case, the planets must have been in alignment, or the conditions were perfect, because it was like I’d never heard the song before.

Or, maybe this was the first time I ever really listened to it closely.

It was truly amazing and spectacular, and I vowed to find a video of SRV performing the song live, because I figured it would be even more awesome than the studio recording I had just listened to twice.




The thiiiiiiiiiiiiings… that I used to do… lawd I won’t… do no mo’…

I was fortunate enough to see SRV live and in concert at Emens Auditorium at Ball State University way back in 1986.

I don’t remember too much about the show, probably because I was TIRED, but I do recall that it seemed as if SRV played rhythm and lead guitar all at the same time.

The thiiiiiiiiiiiiings… that I used to do… lawd I won’t… do no mo’…

It was amazing and spectacular, and his rhythm section, known worldwide as Double Trouble, was stupendous!

A few years ago on the anniversary of SRV’s unfortunate helicopter ride, I was sitting home alone and drinking screwdrivers, nursing a bad back with muscle relaxers, and jamming through my SRV record collection at ear-splitting levels.

I was enjoying myself too much, apparently, when my wife and kids came home from some kinda wholesome approved activity.

They were horrified at my condition and the decibels of my ass-kicking stereo.

I exclaimed to no one in particular and everyone, “Damn! This shit rocks!”

It wasn’t long before I got TIRED, and fell face first into my plate of spaghetti at the dinner table.

I was a bad Dad that day.

Here’s a little tip: Try not to mix muscle relaxers with screwdrivers. It is neither prudent nor proper, but it makes you forget all about an aching back!

The thiiiiiiiiiiiiings… that I used to do… lawd I won’t… do no mo’…

Now…I have heard it said, on the intardnets and elsewhere, that SRV really wasn’t that big of a deal.

…that his amazing sound was simply because of the super-sensitive nuclear powered pick-ups on his guit-box Fender Stratocaster…or something…and that any dumb monkey could play and sound like he did.

I’m no guitar geek, and I can’t read or play a note of music on any kind of instrument known or unknown to mankind.

But, I say to this, “Whatever, man.”

I’ve also heard it said that SRV simply ripped off about a thousand classic black blues men and Jimi Hendrix and electrified everything and never really did anything original or cool.

Whatever, man.

I told my kids that when they say ‘whatever’ to me, I interpret it to mean, “Fuck you, Dad.”

Same kinda deal here with the SRV naysayers.

Fuck you…and your dads.

Rest in peace, Stevie.

Coming up on twenty years since you left us, and I still miss you brother, but your music continues to bring joy to my heart.


The thiiiiiiiiiiiiings… that I used to do… lawd I won’t… do no mo’…

A Letter To My Dad On Father’s Day

Hey, Dad!

I know you’ve been watching, but just in case you’ve been busy up there, I thought I’d update you on the goings on down here.

The kids are all teenagers now! All three will be in high school this Fall. They are all healthy and doing great.

Lynda and I have tried to raise them right, and I think we’ve done a pretty good job of it so far.

I imagine you would be proud of them and how we’ve raised them.

I’ve used many of your tactics…changed some, reduced others, added my own twists.

I guess that’s the way it goes.

Rick effortlessly glides through school, gets excellent grades, and is a multiple Varsity letter winner on the swim team. He makes it look easy. He is 6 feet tall, and a good-looking kid. He’s like a bigger, smarter, more athletic, and more attractive version of me. His passion is computers and related things, but I suspect he will be highly successful in whatever he decides to do with his life.

Recie makes school look easy too. Good grades, popular, free-spirited, and multi-talented. Music and competitive swimming are her passions, and she has done both expertly with many awards. She is like her mother…tall, pretty, and lady-like. She is a treasure.

Willie is smart as a tack, built like a brick shit house, and is most like me mentally and emotionally when I was his age. He is a very active young man. Handsome, strong, and always on the go. He enjoys music, swimming, and bike riding. Strenuous physical activity is his passion, but he is far from being a dummy. He has excellent powers of deduction and reasoning, and can read people and situations unlike most kids his age. He is capable of getting good grades and has done so, but he must actually apply himself and work at it. It doesn’t come easy for him.

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it, Dad?

Lynda has been extremely helpful in keeping Willie focused on schoolwork.

Lynda is healthy and busy as ever. I couldn’t have chosen a better wife. She is the biggest reason the kids are doing so well. I tagged along for the ride and contributed an important fatherly influence.

The value of an intact family, with a mother and father, cannot be overestimated.

You and Mom set a fine example for me.

Speaking of Mom…she is healthy, and is keeping busy helping with grandkids and great grand kids.

She still misses you terribly, and she speaks of you often.

Hell…we all do.

Mom has moved on with her life. She seems happy, and enjoys the company of her family surrounding her.

All of your children are healthy and doing great also. They are free-minded and contributing members of society. You raised us right.

I have kept your memory alive by contributing many of your racing photos to various projects. Your work has been published in calendars, magazine articles, promotional advertising, and many internet sources.

You might be angry that I haven’t been paid for allowing your photos to be used, but I didn’t feel right about profiting from your work.

I am happy that your skills are so well appreciated and acknowledged now…something that didn’t happen often enough while you were with us.

I also published all of your Vietnam articles on the internet. They are highly acclaimed and well received also.

I have had many Vietnam veterans and their families contact me to tell me how much they appreciate your work.

It has been emotionally rewarding and personally satisfying that you are finally getting the recognition you deserve.

I never knew much about your professional life and attitude, but I have a sneaking suspicion you were never a braggart or a show-boater. I think you didn’t crave attention and accolades. You wanted to be respected as a professional in your field.

I know you are up there with your mom and dad and Uncle David. I can just imagine the shenanigans you four are up to!

Even though he is advancing in years, Uncle Tom is as healthy and robust as ever. Must be that clean living, and that wonderful wife he has! She is an angel.

I have come to really enjoy Tom’s company. He is always coming up with another humdinger of a story about you that I’ve never heard before.

You know that I always loved you and respected you. I appreciate your guidance, and I am thankful you were my dad.

I know now it wasn’t easy.

I still miss you and think of you often.

To this day, you still help guide me through this life.

A son could ask for nothing more.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Part 19- My Humongous Astronomical 2010 Indy 500 Blog Mess: Race Recap And Farewell

The race itself consisted of intrigue and many wrong mistakes, and I have no doubt that both the Penske and Ganassi organizations will be conducting mass terminations of many of their associates in the very near future.

I got one of these today! I bet I know of some associates right about now who wish they had one.

I will not recap for you every nuance of the race, because it would be mind-numbingly tedious for me to write, and for you to read.

Suffice to say that it was fun and exciting, and that those of us who didn’t puss out because of the heat deserve some kinda medal.

Pretty much.

If you weren’t there, you need to be next year, or I’m afraid you and I can’t be friends much longer.

I sincerely wish for Mike Conway’s speedy recovery. That crash was truly horrific, and it is only by the grace of God that it wasn’t much worse.

Dario Franchitti was the class of the field and drove away to win his second Indy 500. Congratulations, Mr. Judd! A well deserved victory in deed!

Another Indy 500 is in the record books.

As usual, it did not disappoint.

Can’t wait until next year, at which time I hope IndyCar comes to its senses and gives me my second week of practice.

I need to be entertained, and one week of practice is NOT enough.

But…then again, a good entertainer always leaves one wanting more, so maybe, in the long run, the powers that be know what they’re doing.

Who’s to say?

Certainly not me.

_____

Thus endeth my 2010 Indy 500 blog type thang.

I hope you have enjoyed it.

If not, I am sorry, and I will delete it.

Not.

Thanks to all the folks who have made the two weeks of Indy special for me.

Hanging out with you, having cold beers, and bullshitting is the most funnest part of it all.

And, without you, my life at Indy would be nothing but a hollow shell.

Special thanks to Curt, Dark Marc, Grover, Mike, Trevor, Ziggy, Trackforum and its members, and the fine folks at Camp ‘n’ Brew.

I love you, man, but that doesn’t mean we’re gonna swap spit in the shower any time soon.

You know what Indy means.

Thanks to the drivers and crews.

You guys and gals kick ass, and I wish I had a fraction of your talent.

You know what Indy means.

Thanks to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and its staff for giving me a beautiful, fan-friendly facility I can always be proud of.

Thanks to all who encouraged and supported my blog foolishness, and I apologize if I don’t remember all your names.

I’m getting old, and the fact that I’ve had a few beers when we meet doesn’t help matters!

Thanks to the guy who let me check out his cool vintage car shop. It was one of the highlights of my month.

I’d also like to thank the following: RayBan, Coors, New Castle Brown Ale, Pepsi-Cola, Coca-Cola, Budweiser, Miller, Lipton, Chrysler, the convenient stores of Speedway, Dell, Motorola, HP, Olympus, Kodak, Coppertone Sport SPF 50, Avia, Glock, Smith & Wesson, Penske Logistics and MOST of the lads there.

Thanks to Mom for shacking us up night before the race.

It means a lot.

You know what Indy means.

Extra special thanks go to my wife and family for understanding that they will be widowed and fatherless during the month of May.

I love you and am very thankful you are in my life.

Generous thanks to sister Mary for the tickets.

Dedicated to my old man, Rick Johnson, who introduced me to auto racing at a young age.

You took me to Indy, the Hoosier Hundred, Terre Haute, Milwaukee, and Atlanta.

Thanks, Pops.

You know what Indy means.

I still miss you and think of you every day.

If I was half the writer and photographer you were, maybe I could make a buck doing this.

But alas, I’m just a dumb truck driver with a camera, intardnet access, and some vacation to burn.

Oh well…

I’ll share my passion with my sons, and carry on the traditions of Indy, so that they'll know what Indy means.

See you all next year.

Maybe.

Part 18- My Humongous Astronomical 2010 Indy 500 Blog Mess: Pre-Race Festivities

Race day was fun and exciting and Equatorial Africa Space Shuttle Rocket Booster Hot.

I was almost dreading the uncomfortable conditions, but a true and real Indy 500 fan doesn’t bitch much, so I prepared accordingly.

I dressed my oldest son and myself in loose, baggy, and light-colored clothing.

SPF 50 sunscreen was applied liberally, and vintage wide-brimmed, Government Issued floppy boonie hats were worn.

We traveled light, with canned soda, iced tea, and bottled water.

Amazingly…for the second year in a row…no beer in the stands for me on race day due to the warm conditions, as it is neither prudent nor proper to soak oneself in alcohol on a blazing hot day.

(The fact that I had abused my body with exotic liquid alcohol substances the previous evening probably had something to do with it too.)

Good old Marine Corps hot weather/desert survival training comes in handy sometimes, and I didn’t want to pass out or make a million trips to the pisser and miss any of the pants-wetting excitement.

Icy-cold, water-soaked towels on the head and neck help keep the body core temperature down, and I never once left the grandstands for the entire duration of the race.

I’m hardcore like that.

My son and I arrived at J-Stand just in time to witness the Parade of Military Heroes.

I am pleased to report that behavior in J-Stand was as it is supposed to be this year, with no douchie anti-American comments from clueless Communist heathen sympathizers.

The only improper incident I witnessed in J-Stand was from a well-meaning but uninformed fan that yelled out, “Boogitty-Boogitty-Boogitty!”

Thankfully, I heard this only once, and I was not later forced to throat-punch this ignorant individual.

The pre-race ceremonies were OK, but seemed kinda flawed and the timing was a little off, and I bet the Indianapolis Motor Speedway audio guy gets fired for malingering.

Jewel sang the National Anthem with a pair of microphones malfunctioning, but at least her pears were out there to look at…and they were not malfunctioning at all.

IndyStar Photo

Not one little bit…

The Navy F-18s were a little late for the flyover.

Way to go, Swabbies!

Mike Young Photo

Maybe next time we’ll have some proper naval aviators do it…like US Marines in some Harriers.

That would be cool.

Then, a lone bugler played Taps.

His microphone went on the fritz too.

It would have been a good idea to have fresh batteries in the cordless mics, sorta, or, make sure your cheap Radio Shack equipment was tested properly BEFORE the Greatest Spectacle In Racing began.

Back in olden times, I was a part-time weekend radio guy making $5/ hour, so I know a little about what I’m talking about.

Maybe.

Soon, Gomer sang the Indiana National Anthem.

He was in fine form.

Then, the helium-filled celebratory devices were released, and the command to start engines was given.

For some reason, the two-seater was out there with Mark Wahlberg riding shotgun and Mike Andretti driving.

I was uninterested in this activity, and quietly wished to myself for this cheese-dickery to cease and conclude with fiery wreckage.

IndyStar Photo

I’m chock full o’ hate like that sometimes, though.

I am not impressed with Hollywood or its celebrities.

…and I am NOT sorry about it.

Jack Nicholson waved the green light.

I didn’t care about that either.

IMS Photo

Jack is a dirty old man, and troll-like in appearance.

Now that I think about it, Jack and I are similar in many ways.

Maybe he's not such a bad fella after all.

Anyhoo...Jack's a great actor, but I'd be careful about canonizing him.

He's good at pretending to be something he's not.

Big fucking deal...

In other news, Jewel is still a pretty girl.

stuff.co.nz Photo

Let’s race!

Part 17- My Humongous Astronomical 2010 Indy 500 Blog Mess: The Night Before The Race

Well…the roar is over. That’s what the clichéd douches in the media always say after the Indianapolis 500 is run and everything’s quiet.

I don’t know why I said it.

Anyways…this will be kinda like part of my Indy 500 wrap-up report.

The last couple of days have been fun and exciting and Africa Hot.

The last two days have also been a good example of poor parenting and fatherhood.

See…I took both of my disgruntled teen-aged sons to Camp ‘n’ Brew down on Georgetown Road to observe the debauchery of Night-Before-The-Race festivities.

We didn’t leave there until well after 1:30am race day morning.

I am a bad dad.

My sons were treated to many observances of full frontal mature female breast assembly displays.

During all this, I stood calmly and observantly off in the distance…close enough to intervene if threatening shenanigans ensued, but far enough away that I would not interfere with my sons’ enjoyment of the proceedings.

One time during the evening, my sons were in line at the official Camp ‘n’ Brew Porta John.

They were chatting up a couple of inebriated young ladies when I strolled upon the scene.

I asked my sons if they were behaving themselves, and one of the drunken hussies spoke up and said, “Are you their dad?”

I replied in the affirmative.

Then she said, “They are so cute and nice and polite. They are behaving like perfect gentlemen. You’ve done a good job raising them.”

I said, “Thanks. They’d better behave, or I’ll rip them a new asshole!”

It made me feel somewhat good that even a stumbling slobbering drunk had noticed my somewhat successful attempt at child rearing.

(A note for all you young and inexperienced parents: I have found that the frequent threats and infrequent applications of bodily personal violence against one’s own children are effective in this department.)

Your mileage may vary, of course.

Raise your brats the way you see fit.

At this point, I was getting TIRED from the draft beer I was drinking, so I rounded up my two lads and we stumbled back to our base of operations to get ready for my Christmas…race day at the Indy 500!

Part 16- My Humongous Astronomical 2010 Indy 500 Blog Mess: Zoomie Gets Off...The Beaten Path

Sometimes, a dork like me is able to hang around cool and real racing insider people who know even cooler people.

Then, sometimes, dorks like me are able to go to secret undisclosed locations and look at truly bitchin' gear-head type stuff.

I refuse to tell you where this super-secret location is, because some of you might be unsavory and try to steal some of this cool shit which isn't yours to begin with.

Then, I would have to hurt you.

Bad.

Anyhoo...the following are some pictures I took inside this location.

When I walked in this place, my loins felt all tingly and stuff.

Sorta.

I have issues.

The owner and skilled craftsman at this location has a pair of vintage Alfa Romeo racing units. I think they are from the 1923 year of manufacture, but my memory retention is not very good, so you may have to utilize Google for further information.



He works on them himself and fabricates by hand many of the parts he uses in his restorations. Back in olden times, he was a crew member of a real and fast Indy racing team, but he got tired of the bullshit and went to work for himself.

He is amazing and spectacular.

Also in the shop I saw this 1980s version of a racing Corvette from like the GrandAm or American LeMans Series or something...I don't know which.


It was cool too.

Then, I saw these two antique motorcycles, which always are fun and exciting to look at.



I thank the proprietor of this secret establishment for allowing me the privilege of looking at his cool shit.

It was fun!