covington-shenanigans

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The voices in my head.

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i keep wondering if i should watch "wicked" but i actually don't have to because i already saw that time kristin chenoweth's life was changed onstage by the voice teacher she pulled out of the audience to sing "for good" in 2013

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Hello! Sorry to hop in your inbox without introducing myself, but I was hoping you might have some ideas or suggestions for a question I’ve been having. Do you know of or have suggestions for vintage clothing for us trans men who are…well, vertically challenged? I’ve scoured most of your asks and your recommendations for vintage clothes and they’re wonderful, but it seems like most of them would swallow me up at 5’1”. And I’ve found some sites for more modern wear, but very little for vintage styles.

It feels like there’s only so much a tailor could do. Are there options out there, or should I be moving figuring out a sewing machine up my list of things to do?

Heya!

Thomas Farthing's "made to order" suits are the same price as what's in stock. It's still off-the-rack sizing, but they go as small as a 32S for the coat, 32R for the waistcoat, and 28/28 for the trousers.

I find their cut to be a middle slider between vintage and modern (trousers sit a bit too low, waistcoats are a bit too long, overall a bit more ease than I'd expect), so check the measurements and see if they work for you.

Another option is to aggressively hunt for true vintage. I see small sizes quite often, as teens would be wearing suits in many situations. Gem.app is a search engine that scours second-hand sites.

The vintage menswear group on facebook has folks selling both true and new vintage from time to time. The group also has custom tailors that specialize in vintage fashion that regularly post, and many of their prices are very reasonable.

New vintage is also very popular in the Asian markets, so of my recommendations, do always check the size tables. Sites like Bronson and Olderbest, I often have to go up 1 or even 2 sizes.

As for alterations, your trousers are likely the best bet for getting them to fit, assuming it's mainly the length you need tweaked. Changing the fit of a suit coat is difficult when you're slight -- if the shoulders don't already fit, don't bother. You have a little wriggle room with the length, but not too much because of the pocket balance. Sleeves will likely be the easiest to shorten, though those again can only go so far before buttons get thrown off. Beyond all that, another option is a tailor that caters to the queer community. There are several out there (whose bread and butter is wedding suits), but I can't personally vouch for any or confirm if they do vintage cuts -- I'm hoping perhaps some of my followers might.

Also -- I'm not sure if you're on T, but if you aren't yet and are planning to start soonish, I'd discourage getting any nice clothes for at least a year, maybe even a bit longer. I'm still slight, but some of my sizing changed drastically, especially in the neck (went from a 13" to nearly a 15" in dress shirts) and shoulders (I have been fitting 38R coats more often, when I used to be a solid 36R).

Good luck!

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As someone from the rural south, I actually don’t mind evil Republican Californian transplants. It’s kind of funny to witness them crash out after realizing there are no sidewalks and the nearest hospital is an hour and a half away. Maybe if enough of them vacate the state, the cost of living will go down and I can move there.

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The Aesthetic of Resistance: Why Some Western Leftists Support a Regime Which is Everything They Claim to Hate

(Dedicated with appreciation and admiration to literally every single Iranian person I've ever met for educating me.)

A vocal current within the Western Left has become inept at recognizing abuse of power…when it speaks in the language of 'resistance.'

Objectively, Iran isn't a scrappy underdog challenging imperialism. It's a repressive regime that embodies everything the Left claims to despise.

A Theocracy Run by Religious Extremists

If you believe in the separation of Church and State, the regime isn't an ally.

Iran is ruled by unelected clerics who claim divine authority and answer to nobody.

The Supreme Leader, currently Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, is not an elected politician. He's a religious messianic figure with ultimate say over everything from military policy to women's clothing.

The Guardian Council is all male, conservative religious fanatics who regularly disqualify moderates, reformists, or women from participation in any public matters.

This is textbook authoritarian theocracy, a system where dissent is heresy and religious doctrine is law. There is no religious freedom in the Regime's Iran.

They Stone Women. Yes, Still.

The regime's laws on women would make the Taliban proud.

Women must cover their hair and bodies in public.

They cannot sing solo in public.

Their testimony in court is worth half that of a man.

They need male permission to travel, study, or even get a passport.

And yes, they have been stoned to death for adultery — in the 21st century.

When 22-year-old Mahsa Amini was arrested in 2022 by Iran's morality police for allegedly wearing her hijab improperly, she was beaten to death in custody. Her murder sparked mass protests, which the regime crushed with bullets and mass arrests.

There is no question what the response would be if a US state like Alabama enforced such laws. The outrage would be deafening and justified. So why does that same righteous fire for justice seem to extinguish itself somewhere over the Atlantic? What principle justifies this selective vision?

If you chant "ACAB" as a denunciation of state violence and the enforcement of oppressive norms as a moral principle, consistency demands you cast that same critical gaze towards the Regime and it's morality police.

These enforcers serve as agents of the state's ideological control. They target women for unveiled hair, arrest dissidents for defying religious codes, and violently suppress basic civil liberties.

If your anti-authoritarianism stops at Tehran's border because it feels geopolitically inconvenient to criticize a state opposed to Western influence, you're not anti-authoritarian and are not promoting moral principles. You're just performing selective, aesthetic outrage.

Solidarity, if it means anything, must extend to all those resisting state oppression, not just those who fit your aesthetic of revolution.

They Kill Gay People. By Law.

Iran's government executes gay people.

In public.

For being gay.

As state policy.

Consensual same-sex acts between men are punishable by death. Between women? Up to 100 lashes. The regime often forces gay and trans Iranians into exile, prison, or coerced surgery.

This isn’t some rogue judge. This is the actual legal code of the Islamic Republic.

Iran's LGBTQ+ rights record makes Putin look like RuPaul.

Yet somehow, the same activist movements that cover their feeds in rainbows during Pride Month can't seem to work up a single post about Iran's state-sanctioned homophobia.

If your pride doesn't cross al borders, it's not pride. It's an aesthetic, just branding and performance. You can't claim to support LGBTQ+ liberation while ignoring the regime's brutal state-led persecution...unless your solidarity is only for show.

Real allyship doesn't flinch when it's inconvenient or challenges your preferred villains. Pride isn't pride if it's selective and intersectionality is meaningless if you use it to excuse abuses in one nation...which you'd condemn in another.

They Crush Labor Movements and Workers' Rights

Iran doesn't just jail journalists and students. It jails bus drivers.

Labor unions are illegal. Strikes are illegal. Demanding back pay is treated as "national security sabotage."

Teachers, steelworkers, truck drivers — anyone who organizes is beaten, arrested, or disappeared. In 2023 alone, dozens of labor activists were sentenced to multi-year prison terms for trying to negotiate wages or demand safety protections.

You can't champion the "worker’s struggle" while turning a blind eye to a regime that jails, tortures, and executes labor organizers.

If your solidarity skips over Iranian workers because it complicates your anti-imperialist narrative, that’s not internationalism, it's performative ideological convenience. You don't get to wave the red flag for workers' rights while ghosting the ones bleeding for it under a theocratic police state. Labor solidarity isn't real if it ends where the slogans get uncomfortable.

They Colonize and Militarize Their Neighbors

The Islamic Regime of Iran is not just a local bully. It's a regional empire.

It bankrolls and controls violent militias in Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, and Yemen not to support anyone's liberation, but to spread its own political and religious dominance.

In Lebanon, Hezbollah functions as an Iranian outpost that undermines democratic politics, murders critics, and uses civilians as human shields.

In Syria, Iran helped Assad murder hundreds of thousands of people, including with chemical weapons, just to keep Assad in power as an ally on Israel's border.

In Iraq, Iranian-backed militias have assassinated reformists, hijacked politics, and turned protests into bloodbaths.

In Yemen, Iran arms the Houthis, prolonging one of the world’s worst humanitarian crises so it can poke Saudi Arabia from afar.

If any other country did this, the Left would call it neo-imperialism. When Iran does it? It's "resistance."

You can't claim to stand against imperialism and ignore Tehran's regional warlords. If empire is wrong when it’s Western, it's still wrong when it wears clerical robes and claims to operate under the banner of "resistance."

They Practice Ethnic and Cultural Domination

Iran itself is not a culturally unified state. It's a multi-ethnic empire where Persian Shi'a identity is imposed from the top down.

Kurds are surveilled, imprisoned, and gunned down in the streets.

Baluchis live under occupation-like conditions, with entire towns attacked by the military.

Ahwazi Arabs are denied clean water and education in their own language — in the very province that produces most of Iran’s oil.

Azeris, Turkmen, and others are pressured to assimilate and punished for cultural expression.

Baháʼís, Sunni Muslims, Christians, and Zoroastrians face discrimination, harassment, and systemic exclusion from public life.

The regime bulldozes indigenous cemeteries. Bans non-Persian names. Executes poets and religious leaders.

And yet the Western Left doesn't call this apartheid or colonialism.

If your anti-colonialism skips over this because it clashes with your chosen narrative, then it's not principle. It's just performance.

The Iranian Regime Censors Everything and Jails Everyone

There is no freedom of press. No freedom of religion. No freedom of speech. None.

Journalists are imprisoned for reporting the truth.

Filmmakers are banned or exiled.

Internet access is filtered, throttled, and monitored by the state.

Peaceful protests are met with bullets and mass arrests.

Torture is standard. Forced confessions are routine.

When students protest, they get shot. When families demand answers, they get threats.

Iranian prisons are filled with feminists, union leaders, teachers, students, environmentalists, atheists, reformists, and even children.

Where is the Western Leftist solidarity for them?

You rally for free speech and civil liberties at home, so why the silence when Iran shoots students and jails teachers for demanding the same?

A regime that censors art, criminalizes dissent, and tortures activists is authoritarian.

If your solidarity evaporates the moment it's inconvenient for your narrative, it was never about justice. It was about fashion.

You can't be both pro-liberation and mute about the Regime's prisons overflowing with feminists, filmmakers, and kids. Either stand with the oppressed everywhere or stop pretending you have any moral principles.

If the Regime Wasn't Anti-American, You’d Hate It

The reason some progressives give Iran a pass is because it opposes the US and Israel.

That's it.

If it were a Christian theocracy executing gay people, torturing minorities, and colonizing its neighbors,they'd see it for what it is: a violent, fascist, patriarchal, ethno-nationalist police state.

But because it wears the right aesthetic, they (either through dishonesty or pure ignorance) mistake the Regime as seeking justice.

It’s not.

The Regime Is What the Left Says It's Fighting

It's everything they claim to stand against:

Misogyny

Homophobia

Theocracy

Anti-labor authoritarianism

Militarized ethnonationalism

Colonial violence

Censorship, repression, torture, and propaganda

So the next time someone chants slogans lifted from Tehran, ask yourself: do they know what they’re endorsing? Or are they just cheering for the empire they want to believe is innocent...because that narrative appeals to them.

The regime isn't the voice of the oppressed.

It's just another boot on 90 Million Iranian necks...and millions more in the region.

Sources and Further Information:

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Reason #1,324,789 of why I love this show.

This was a casual side conversation between Bashir and Sisko about a fellow crew member, completely unrelated to the episode’s plot, and its just so sweet.

It’s nice to know that if you’re a pregnant father-to-be on DS9, your buddies Julian and Miles will build you a hatchling pond, buy you baby clothes, and throw you a shower eagerly attended by the station’s commanding officer (who was practically beaming with joy when he found out that you were expecting).

How wonderful.

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henmazzig

As the sun sets on us in Israel and Shabbat begins, I'm thinking about the past seven days. Seven days of hell. Sirens. Missiles. Explosions. Death. Fear. Bomb shelters.

If you're posting from LA or watching from Paris, you don't get it. Even if you've visited or lived here, you don't get this. It's not a headline. It's not content. It's 3 a.m. You're barefoot, running to shelter. Your heart is pounding. The walls are shaking. You wonder if this is it. If your building is next.

Over 500 missiles and drones were launched. Not by proxies, but directly by Iran. A hospital was hit. A kindergarten. A family in Tamra. A family in Bat Yam. A Ukrainian girl who came here for cancer treatment was slaughtered with her parents. Thirty thousand homes were damaged. Thousands were displaced. No emergency UN session. No outrage. Just silence.

Israel responded with precision. It targeted military infrastructure and nuclear scientists. The strikes were surgical and strategic. But those facts do not fit the script, so they are buried.

Instead, we are blamed. We are lied about. Some even say we deserve it, or worse.

And still, we live.

We speak. We create.

We breathe.

To my Iranian friends, I know many of you do not want this war either. I believe in a future where you can walk freely in Tel Aviv, and I can walk with you through the streets of Tehran.

But until that day comes, we both need strength. We both need hope.

We will overcome.

Shabbat Shalom.

Am Yisrael Chai

alanalindsay

The latest ballistic missile attack on Israel directly hit both a mosque and a kindergarten. In Iran, the Islamic Republic has turned off the internet where 90 million people now have no way to receive evacuation communication or update their loved ones as the operation on the nuclear targets continues. In Gaza the war still rages and David and Ariel and 51 other hostages remain tortured in Hamas captivity.

We are now hearing reports that America's B2 bunker bomb has made its way to Israel. I truly have no idea what's coming, no one really does except for the unhinged men who are making the decisions. I just know that we the people are all scared and wishing for this to be over.

I can't stress this enough, the people of the Middle East do not deserve this. None of us. Whatever our leaders are planning next they must prioritize the millions of innocent lives who are caught in the balance.

littlestarthelabel

post-ballistic missile. jews just be different, for real.

of course there are bad apples and extremists everywhere. but on average idk any other ppl who rise like this and create in the wake of destruction. it is how we have survived. it is why we survive.

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Pride 2025

These Colors Don't Run!

this Pride remember your roots, fight the fuck back, remember your allies and friends and don't get distracted.

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I don't think it's oppressive that people complain about bi women having straight boyfriends at pride, but it is definitely annoying. "I don't feel safe because he's straight" okay and I don't feel safe that your white lesbian girlfriend is consistently racist 👀 we gone get rid of her too 👀 or do we only care about the complaints and the support needs of a few 👀 like if we gone talk people making other people in the LGBTQ community feel unsafe then let's get to brass tacks

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All the other bullshit wars we started for no good reason turned out to be huge clusterfucks where countless people died and the troops on the ground got whipped like rented mules and are only considered partial "successes" because Raytheon's shareholders made a little money off it, one after the other like clockwork, but surely *this* one will

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STOP! before you decide you are irretrievably doomed, try one of the following options:

transition

bdsm

iron supplements

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Time to take out the terf trash I guess. Regular reminder that I love pornography, sex changes, and cock. Pornography, sex changes, and cock make the world a better place. If you follow this blog you love pornography, sex changes, and cock. I'm a transsexual transspecies bi lesbian and I encourage pornography, sex changes, and cock in all aspects of life, and so do you.

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It really is 2003 again Jesus Tapdancing Christ.

Like, all Republicans did was replace Iraq and gay people with Iran and trans people.

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THERE IS. a website. that takes 3D models with seams and pulls it apart to make a plushie pattern and informs you where things need to be edited or darts added for the best effect. and then it lets you scale it and print off your pattern. and I want to lose my MIND because I've lost steam halfway through so many plushie patterns in the mind numbing in betweens of unwrapping, copying all of the meshes down as pieces, transferring those, testing them, then finding obvious tweaks... like... this would eradicate 99% of my trial and error workflow for 3D models to plushies & MAYBE ILL FINALLY FINISH SCREAMTAIL...

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my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

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also there are legal implications to possessing human remains, if nothing else

if you find a part of a human body (not your own) you shouldn’t keep it in your house for the next 50 years. yeahhhhh. that jawbone is not for youuuuuuuu.

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The city watchman had a choice: acknowledge the corpse, or continue eating his sausage roll. His stomach growled. To acknowledge this particular corpse would mean acknowledging that it was a famous and politically charged corpse, one with potentially ruinous consequences for his pension, weeks if not months of hard thankless work, and mountains upon mountains of paperwork. To continue eating a sausage roll meant a warm and savory snack to ward off the cold. And! Would a policeman risk getting sausage roll crumbs on a crime scene? Of course not. Especially not a crime scene with such momentous implications for his career and personal safety. That would be unprofessional. It was perhaps the easiest choice he had ever made. Someone was going to have to deal with the corpse. As long as it wasn’t him.

The respite of the sausage roll allowed him time to weigh his options. He turned to face the street. He would have remarked on how bad the rain was getting, had a small plastic woman not collided with him.

After an embarrassingly long moment of regaining his footing and groping for anything grope-able, the watchmen seized her by the lapel of her ratty raincoat. “Hey!” He barked through a volley of sausage roll buckshot. “Watch where you’re going! Don’t you know this is a crime scene?” He put the small plastic woman down as quickly as he could, and shoved her a good distance away.

Digit the Witch tried to speak, specifically to swear, but all that came out was an electrical cable. Digit the Witch could not stand cities, and this one was in the running for the worst city she had ever visited. It was her turn to take a moment. After slurping the cable back into her throat, and punching herself in the stomach to reset the connection, she managed to croak out: “Kshmorri saur,* are you with the city watch?”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. Surely he didn’t hit her that hard. “What’s it to ya?”

“I was hired by the constabulary, but I cannot find it in this strandher** of a city.”

The guard laughed at her. He wasn’t forcing it either. The idea of her joining the city watch was truly, genuinely, hilarious to this man. Digit scowled up at him, and the city beyond.

“Actually” he chucked. “That is a great idea. The constabulary is down on viridium road. You can’t miss it. The street is green. You head down there, and tell them the governor guard has a case for them. There’s a body at the Calf and Camphor. Got that?”

“Green street. Calf and Camphor. Got it.”

“Good!” the guard laughed to himself again as he watched the small plastic woman scramble away. He took a final bite of his sausage roll. The moment she was out of sight, he strolled away. What luck! He thought to himself. What luck indeed! ---

*apologies, ugly hog **shit-heap

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