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Ice climber
Feb 10, 2018 - 08:16pm PT
Don't need a weatherman to know
Witchaway the wind blows

Do you need a calculator to tell you what your download speed is?

You get what you pay for


Do you?


Trad climber
Feb 10, 2018 - 09:10pm PT
Hey Mouse. Tell us the story about you, Skeet, and Swan Slab.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 10, 2018 - 11:22pm PT
Tea With My Honey

Sticky and messy is the way of my honey.
It doesn’t have to be that way.
I like my tea sweetened with honey;
but when my honey won’t cooperate,
clinging to the teaspoon,
a sweet sludge that won’t budge,
some always ending on the counter,
I’ve found that warming the spoon
in the steeping tea makes a difference.
You leave the teaspoon in a short time
and then it goes into the honey jar,
past the constricted narrow neck,
and into the treasure of the bees:
Lo! Out it comes and pours with ease,
problem dissolved.
Your honey responds well to warmth,
just like the woman in your life.

Credit: mouse from merced
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 10, 2018 - 11:27pm PT
Catalina, otra ves!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 11, 2018 - 12:03am PT
"The Warm-up Story"

the Rev told me a story about bouldering in Camp 4 in 1971.

Skeeter was there, Jeff, and Ron Cagle, not sure who else, he didn't say.

As Skeet goes to tackle a problem, he hands Jeff his block of chalk, who then hands it to Ron Cagle.

Skeeter jumps off the rock, asks Ron for the block of chalk, then sees a bite taken out of it.

"What the hell, Ron, this isn't edible."

"Yeah, well it tastes terrible, too."

Young Skeeter was basically a boulderer, with little or no experience on an actual climb, though I did not know this.

We decided to go up Lenna's Lieback, a newly-gardened and expanded version of a route originally done but not written up by Schmitz and Fredrichs.

Earlier, during the last autumn, Millis in slings had cleaned the bottom part of P1. He and I then had climbed it free using some new-fangled nuts, but some iron, too, for pro--I can't recall if Stoppers had come on the market yet, but that's not germane. They do work really well for pro, however.

P2 goes left, through some strange territory to a crack which takes you to the top of Swan. Most folks only do P1 and lower now.

Skeeter had no swami belt. This should have clued me in on his lack of experience, but I was not that experienced myself at choosing partners, so I gave him mine and led off on P1 using a bowline-on-a-coil, three wraps.

I also led the next part, but for some reason, maybe wanting to reduce drag, I belayed at the bottom of the crack out on the face. This is about a long way off the deck, a figure between 70-100 feet, I guess.

There was room to effect a good enough stance, so I belayed there. He came over and I handed him the rack. He led it pretty well, it's fairly easy.

When he was up there at the bay tree at the top, I heard him banging in some pin and thought, "Why is he not happy slinging that old bay tree?"

The slack in the rope got taken up, he yelled something, (I thought it might have been "Off belay!") and I cleaned my anchors, thinking it's all good.

I yelled "Climping!" Then I made one move upwards and before I could set my fingers or hand into the crack above me, one of my feet came off and I found myself twisting to the left, where the figure of Jesus stood in the air watching me. I found myself rocketing down the 75-80° slab, trailing down from tears in my Sierra Parka, watching the ground approach at speed.

The rope "boings" and brings me up short, maybe 15-20' off the deck, level with the limbs of an oak growing there to the left of the start of the climb. I had to reach out and drag myself over to the tree using its limbs.

Once there I could untie and climb down the tree to the ground. It was tough, because I'd broken an ankle bone. There had been some vague communication with Skeeter as I did all this self-rescue, but can't really remember what was said.

I hobbled over to my van, parked in the Lodge lot next to Northside Drive and went to Lewis Hospital for x-rays and a cast and crutches. This was in February of 1971. I spent the next six weeks crutching about in snowy weather.

What Skeeter had done, as he later revealed, was to drive the iron, haul up on the slack, but wasn't tied in to the tree or to the pin he'd driven. He held the force of my fall by wrapping his arms around the bay tree and felt a massive tug on his swami when the rope came short.

the Rev always point out to me, "It's a wonder we both are still alive, Mousie."

And he's right, of course, because THE REV NEVER LIES!


Boulder climber
in the midst of a metaphysical mystery
Feb 11, 2018 - 07:00am PT
Good Morning Mouse and all Flames friends,
Oh, it is cold here this morning! And it's only going up to about 10F today, although right now it is -2F outside my house.
Honey tea sounds lovely. Especially honey in Tulsi tea. Oh, and being sweet certainly does work with women, and also with men.
It is cold here. Did I say that already? I let the fire die out last night, mostly because I was too tired to get up and stoke the stove after I crawled under my two down comforters. I never turn on the heat in my room, but I usually keep the rest of the house comfortable. But I forgot, and fell asleep, and the fires went out, and now I have turned up the regular heat, and the house should be warm again by noon, I hope.
Mouse, I do hope you are feeling better, walking better, able to do a lot more things, and that your health is improving daily. And that you are warm.
It's still cold here.
I think I will take off my shoes and socks and crawl under two blankets and curl up on the couch and read until the house gets warmer.
It is cold here.
I should go work out and then I would be warmer, but it is Sunday, so I am going to put on more layers and maybe a cap.
It it cold here.
Maybe I'll go to Alaska, because it is warmer there.
It is cold here.
Ah, the temperature in the living room is up 4 degrees since I turned on the heat.
I think I'll go to services, and by the time I get home, the house will be warm again.
Not so much nattering as shivering at present.
It is cold here.

Ice climber
Feb 11, 2018 - 07:09am PT
muy caliente

one misstep so's she gonna have to settle for 9 outa 10

can she appeal?

You tell me


from out where the anecdotes roam
Feb 11, 2018 - 08:07am PT
Credit: hooblie
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 11, 2018 - 08:15am PT
Wish I could say I was healthier, but cannot, dear feralfae.
The other day I couldn't keep up with Laurie coming home from the theater...I needed to stop every half-block to recover my breath.
That is just how it goes with COPD...there is no predicting day-to-day how much phlegm one will produce to block exhalation of CO2 from the lungs.
The putrid air in the Central Valley helps not at all.
I'm comfortable enough sitting here reading and typing this morning, having taken my meds and toked on the inhalers.
It is not THAT cold here, but 38° is cold enough, thank you very much!
I intend to go visit the Cinema Cafe before they get very busy...yesterday at ten their place was jumpin', lots folks at the tables outside.
I want to go take some pics of the old El Capitan Hotel, also...I hadn't walked down that way in a week and the place is being gutted for the big renovation. On our walk back from the movie, I saw that all of the shopfronts on ground level are boarded up and it looked like a chute had been set up to dump debris out of a window.
The new owner/developer will likely finish that project and then begin on the old Mainzer Theater building, which houses the Cinema Cafe.
THAT certainly will be a sad day for me and I do not look forward to it.
I've done my exercising, mild as it is, and should go out to the store for provisions. Yesterday I received the very last check in the mail from my friends Dawn and Vern up in North Fork in payment for the car they took off my hands. My monthly income will go down by that much, so my visits to the Cafe will not be so frequent, or I will have to settle for side orders and a Cocola.
I am due to receive some funds from Liz's pension fund with Sutter Health that was never paid out, too, but that won't be for at least another month.
Providence will provide, however.
Enjoy your meeting and thanks for keeping us warm and "posty" by comparison!
Credit: mouse from merced
A bientôt!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 11, 2018 - 09:30pm PT
Good news!
Credit: mouse from merced
Peanut butter reacts like honey
when heated water is applied to a spoon.
It slides right off with very little
left sticking to the utensil.
I'm sure a knife would work,
just not as well:
it would likely slide off before
you could place it on the bread.
It does not improve the taste of tea, however.
Peanut soup is the next logical step.
Float a spoonful of honey on the PB jar lid;
or pile up crumbled saltines,
or Club or Ritz crackers,
or those bite-size Cheeze-its
and watch them float around in PB soup
very, very slowly.
If you've got good reefer,
try this at home:
place a couple of heated spoonfuls
of PB on the lid of the jar,
place the jar on your tea
while it steeps, and dip your finger
in it to create funny faces.
Credit: mouse from merced
Then watch the faces morph
before your swollen, red eyes.
Your kids will appreciate this touch
for lunch and you will, too,
I almost guarantee it!

Well, I took a short nap and had a short dream.

Sport Dream with Alex

I found myself alone on the Big Stone, quite high up there,
above EC Spire but below Sous le Toit ledge.
Maybe I was on Sous le Toit, in fact.
[I say "in fact" even though this was a dream and not real.]
The ledge was going to be a bivvy spot,
but I could not get comfortable.
For one thing, I was free soloing (I had no rope so I must have been),
and it was not a great spot to bivvy. This ledge I occupied was
porcelain-smooth: it turned out to be the tank lid of a commode,
as a matter of another dream-fact.
It covered a real commode tank, too, so water was not a problem,
but there was no toilet seat and no bowl.
Like always on a big wall, you just peed off into space,
provided the wind is blowing the right way, of course.
This is the voice of experience talking.
There was a very small ledge on my left as I faced outwards.
On this shelf of a ledge was a microwave oven.
All of this must have been installed by Peter Haan and myself
years ago when we concocted a waste disposal system for the Captain.
It was supposed to be plumbed so the waste was disposed of
in a system that all came together in several mains:
West Main, Shield Main, South Main, and the Zodiac.
This was on the Shield Main, and apparently there was
a lack of funding to finish the project.
I tried to get comfortable, but as I said, I could not.
Being on a rope has its advantages and a sound sleep is one.
So I tossed and turned (very, very carefully)
and dared not take off my boots. The boots were a remainder
of a stock which I used to haul around when I repped for
The Bird, back in the day, but the boots didn't catch on,
and no one made anything off of them. JB was no JB2,
and they didn't "catch fire" like JB2's footwear.
I had a lot of this sort of thing happen back in the day,
and a bitter ex-wife, to boot. She was a real hard-ass.
I mean it. She worked out and her glutes were sculpted,
but there was no meat, nawmean?
Bit of drift, there, and it was a short dream.
I was feeling all crabby after a while and I worked up a snit.
The damned microwave went first. I kicked the thing
and it dropped very quickly, gravity being in effect,
even in this dream. It sped downwards and hit the alcove
at the base of EC Spire and became projectile shrapnel,
flying outwards and landing in the talus forest.
It did no damage to the party that was in the alcove.
They all yelled up at me, "Next time yell rock, dumbass!"
That is the clean version. In real unreality, it was worse by far.
I said something under my breath in a loud voice
(which also does not bear repeating here),
and muttering at the top of my lungs I dropped the tank lid,
aiming for the gang of aid climbers below me.
It hit just beyond them and like the microwave it became
part of the talus pile far below.
Amazingly, a solo free climber popped up just after this
and climbed swiftly through those turds and up the chimney,
and kept coming at an incredible pace.
He surged up the cracks like melting solder in reverse.
It was Super-Alex, in the flesh. He arrived at the tank
and I told him to help himself to some water.
He smiled and said, "Sure, I'm pretty thirsty."
We spoke at length about composure when free-soloing
and I showed him my set of Dolt finger-hooks,
two for each hand, genuine heirlooms,
with very thin links of sterling silver chain
attached to a wrist loop to keep them tethered.
He readily agreed that my having no thumb was
a good excuse for using them. He was kind and understanding.
By that time, the tank water had some effect on him,
as it had on me, only instead of becoming a nasty drunk,
he became more of a genial one and this had the effect
on me of calming me down and sharing my woes.
Well, next thing I knew, I was in a car, heading somewhere
in the dark, dozing and feeling the warmth of a car heater
that was perfectly adjusted to keep me in that state.
Alex was crashed out in the front seat while
another person (we'll call him Nameless Bob, how's that?),
who never introduced himself the whole time,
drove placidly through the night, heading south according
to the compass on the dash. This was an older model sedan,
and the dash-mounted compass kept swinging around to the south,
in case you were wondering. There was also a hip-swaying
hula-hula girl on the dash, keeping time with the curves.
We drove on into the night, I eventually dozed,
and when I awoke felt no hangover. We were passing through
the outskirts of what appeared to be a small town,
reminiscent of the town of Watsonville, but it soon became
a more urban cityscape much like Ventura, only larger but
with fewer steep hills. I asked of the kindly, smiling driver,
"What are we doing in Lemon Cove?" He said, jovially,
"Why, Mouse, we are here to make lemonade. You've had enough
lemons in your life, it's time you put them to some good use."
I said, "Where are you going to get that much sugar?"
He said, half-joking, "I have some very refined friends
who have a lot of pull in the wholesale grocery business."
We pulled into the driveway of a split-level duplex,
woke Alex up, who immediately said, "It's time to play!"
And we all trooped in the door, which was wide open,
and there were people there, turned out in North Face t-shirts,
white flat hats, and 5.11 Tactical shorts.
They were involved in a game that I'd heard of but never witnessed
where you have to walk ten steps with a quarter clenched between
your butt cheeks while simultaneously balancing a coffee table book
(in this case, Yosemite In the Fifties with a capper
of Yosemite In the Sixties). It was a great party,
but by the time that I had to get up and try the challenge,
I needed to pee and woke up.
Dam it! Just when I was gonna make my reputation by being the first
to accomplish this feat, too!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 11, 2018 - 10:44pm PT
PS: I'm kinda glad that's over with.
Now I can get some more Shuteye With Justin.
This should be good!
Justin the Way.
Justin the Way.
Credit: mouse from merced
"...we are such stuffe
As dreames are made on: and our little life
Is rounded with a sleepe..."
--The Tempest, act IV, scene 1
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 12, 2018 - 05:52am PT
"Dare I say it"
Monday Morning Edition

President Donald Trump
The White House
Washington, DC.

Dear Mr. President:

Let me tell you, sir, you need to fire whoever is writing your tweets.
It's a start. Your image has been trashed globally, not just nationally.
In fact, on your home planet, Mars, they question your integrity.
You no doubt have heard the allegations that men are from Mars,
while women are from Venus.
I don't think much of this statement, but I also don't think this is a fence-riding issue, sir.
Either it's true or false: There are no Gray areas here.
You are elected to represent both sexes, not just male sexist pussy grabbers.
Get with it and let us see how much your oath of office means to you.
Your political incorrectness speaks for itself.
Get rid of that moron who does your tweets.

With all due sincerity,
Mouse From Merced

#Fool for Skirts
#Venus Fly Trapper
#Martian Crankloon
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 12, 2018 - 07:25am PT
Electric dawn.
Electric dawn.
Credit: mouse from merced
Prunes for Breakfast
Credit: mouse from merced
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 12, 2018 - 07:55pm PT
Credit: mouse from merced
I just now talked with the Reverend Mathis on the phone.

I informed him of Bridwell's illness and he in turn told me his diagnosis of stage 4 bone cancer is confirmed. He will begin chemo with pills and injections shortly and it's merely a matter of time before the big C wins.

Day by day, we both agreed. He is not able to do hardly any work, like raking leaves or bringing in firewood. Bill Nickell has been good enough to do some of that toting for him, as his sister-in-law lives part-time at Camp Runamucka and cooks for him.

He's now on the wagon, as am I. I told him of the fictional owner of the bookshop/gunshop in Edward Abbey's A Fool's Progress who was asked by his visiting friend "What's the worst thing that can happen to a man?" And as Abbey had it, the answer was, "He's got to stop drinking."

As I wrote in the funding Bridwell thread, we should have been dead when we were younger, but we lucked our way into much longer lives than either of us expected. Now, as I say, the Camp 4 days and the Sunset Inn nights are over, and midnight approaches for both of us. It's the eleventh hour.

I will be counting myself lucky to get to travel with hooblie to the OR coast soon if we can pull it off, and then to go to the Robbins memorial next month, courtesy of Ron Gomez. God willing I might make it to Facelift for more than just a single day this year. As I say, it's one day at a time.

Plan for the best, but expect the worst is pragmatism at its best. I know it can always rain on my parade at any moment. I think I'm ready for whenever the hour strikes midnight.

What really hurts is that my daughter has not called or written in the interval between Christmas eve and now. I'm leaving it up to her, though. It is what it is and I'm not gonna push her.

I've always got my sister to talk to on the phone, too, so I should say goodnight and let you get on with your lives and make a call to her.

Peaceful dreams.

Trad climber
Feb 12, 2018 - 08:39pm PT
Mathis. Wow. Trying to come up with something irreverent. No luck.

Trad climber
Feb 12, 2018 - 08:45pm PT
Credit: throwpie
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 12, 2018 - 09:03pm PT
Trump is going all out by declaring war on the poor, to my way of thinking.
LBJ is rolling in his grave.

“It boggles the mind how that would play out,” said Kathy Fisher, policy director at Philadelphia’s Coalition Against Hunger. “We know SNAP works now, when people can choose what they need. How they would distribute foods to people with specialized diets, or [to people in] rural areas … It’s very expensive and very complicated.”

The proposal is also likely to enrage food retailers — particularly Walmart, Target and Aldi — that stand to lose billions if food stamp benefits are cut, analysts say. On Monday, the Food Marketing Institute, a trade association for grocery stores, condemned the Harvest Box proposal as expensive, inefficient and unlikely to generate any long-term government savings.

I already eat quite a lot of beans, not so much rice, though. But the plan the administration is selling affects families who now get over $90/month in assistance. I receive $58/month on my EBT card. It was just lowered by $8/month beginning this month. So I will still be able to buy what I want, not what they want to send me. I never buy canned meats. My CHF demands my diet be low in sodium and not to add salt to my cooked food. So I am okay, it seems. But what of other households, the 16 million plus who have to deal with this proposed BS plan?

I'm ok with a more-than-filling meal at the Cinema Cafe of a morning and taking the portion I can't eat home to put in the fridge. That pot of lentil soup I made last Friday just got finished tonight, too. And yogurt goes a long ways. Heck, nneeeebbeeee makes her own yogut...I've yet to try it, but will be doing so very soon, beginning next month.

Just sayin'.

And Throwpie, it's okay to joke. You have my blessing, though your don't really need it. We are used to black humor around here. It helps us get through the tough times and makes us think, eh?

"I want to die peacefully and in my sleep like grandpa...not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car."
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 12, 2018 - 11:15pm PT
I enjoyed Mathis' weenie roast on the 4th of July, an annual affair. This one was in 2013.
Waiting for the fireworks.  Above Coulterville and below Greeley Hill.
Waiting for the fireworks. Above Coulterville and below Greeley Hill.
Credit: mouse from merced
I spent a lot of time here in the seventies with my first wife. Then in the eighties on my own. I got to know the way nearly blindfolded between Merced and Hardin Flat. A couple of weekends spent partying at the Bluegrass Festival, several trips up the hill with our old buddy Johnny Feaver, and in 1990 I spent a night here in one of Bill Nickell's rental cabins with Liz on our honeymoon.
Mathis' cabin at Sunset Inn.
Mathis' cabin at Sunset Inn.
Credit: mouse from merced
Jeff and Denny, his squeeze for many years now, following a string of GFs a mile long in Groveland and Yosemite.
Credit: mouse from merced
Limber Linda and Jeff putting up firewood for the Tuolumne winter when...
Limber Linda and Jeff putting up firewood for the Tuolumne winter when he was the ranger up there. She was the reason the NPS wouldn't hire him for his second winter. They were not wed! Oh my!
Credit: mouse from merced
Limber Linda flanked by Phil and Dave Bircheff and Ken Yager and Cochr...
Limber Linda flanked by Phil and Dave Bircheff and Ken Yager and Cochrane at a Camp 4 reunion ca. 2002, a Millis Production.
Credit: mouse from merced
Jeff putting some moves on sweet Ellie Hawkins at that same gig.
Jeff putting some moves on sweet Ellie Hawkins at that same gig.
Credit: mouse from merced
Jeff Stubbs gets credit for the reunion pix. He's still in contact with Mathis, but isn't doing well himself, either. He's in Bishop.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 14, 2018 - 08:36am PT
A re-post for Valentino's Day
from the original Flames thread.
Messages 5892 - 5911 of February 2, 2015

Thanks for Cher-ing.

Someone SHOULD comment on the shape SHE'S in. Not as good as Chele, I should note...

Aw, man, there I go again...dishing compliments to the choir.

Paging No Doctor...young boy at heart needs Tender Loving Cher but cannot get enough.

Zoe used to tell folks she was 'happily divorced.'

When is an Allman Joy best? When it's Cher-ed.
This was Mathis in the checked sport coat.
This was Mathis in the checked sport coat.
Credit: mouse from merced
Meadow weddin' is a tradition tried by many-many. Sharing your life with a wife is as serious as your first climb. If I say "I do" I do mean it. Even if I can't, my intentions were good.

It's not just an interesting 'experiment' like takin' the first hit, either. If we could only live life in reverse, if we could only remember how very f-ed up our previous lives were in the present one, then we would be like, immortal.

But we get so tired by the time we're old and readying to go, our bodies cry out for vengeance on our treatment of them, and there is so much about life that WE CAN'T CONTROL in actual fact, though at the time we are confident or hopeful, anyway, that some of us give up and fade.

That's not what I want, but it's what would feel best to my body, wanting its rest.

There is no peace, true peace, this side of the crypt.

All I know is that when the warm fuzzies come, at my age, with my poor circulation and lack of warm blood, they are so very much appreciated.

It's why I pray. That warm result often ensues. Whether it works for you, I don't specially care.

I'm just an old poor boy sittin' quietly at home, now, mostly; and it's as peaceful as I can do for myself--except for the prayin' and the fuzzies, life would really suck.

Some are afraid of becoming shut-ins, and at an early age, this is tragic. My heart really goes out. It's pain you're feeling, and I'm just me, and I do what I can for others.

That is what makes neebee so special. She never stops.

For a long time that was the rationale for doing drugs...feeling good.

It's what being a good parent or spouse or employee (okay, we can draw the line back at spouse) is about...feeling good about making others feel good. It's probably why each of us is here, but some don't realize it.

It's just that now I'm aged, I feel even better when I can sit in the dark like a ripening cheese and think how groovy life is deprived of vision, sound, distractions. And when the neighborhood's gone quiet, gone to bed, gone to Nod, and the dogs even are quiet, including Muttso upstairs who barks constantly when she leaves...


(Well, the 99 isn't the Interstate, but it's just as noisy.) And the trains. And there are two, not just one, tracks. I'm surrounded. Thank God Castle AFB closed. B-52s make a lot of racket.

Desert dwelling nomads were wise to dwell so.
It's just too bad that camel hair cloth tents smell so.

And the hubble-bubble goes out
because you've fallen asleep
listening to the rain on the tent;
And that's a rare event.
Plus you miss most of the lightning storm off in the hinterlands, too.

One can't argue with success.
One can only accept the blame, if blame attaches.
Like meeting someone and walking out into the future
and never parting,
always sharing,
even the occasional farting.
Such sweet tomorrows from yesterdays sweeter than wine
And such sweet dreams.
Boulder Old Man alone with himself in a dry field nowhere near the riv...
Boulder Old Man alone with himself in a dry field nowhere near the river.
Credit: mouse from merced
Alone together.
Alone together.
Credit: mouse from merced
Let me say, it's nice to have such a family as the Flames.

David Bowie/Girls

Preceding ramble is bought and paid for by


Divorce attorneys-at-law.

You have only one life, but may have more than one wife.
We're here for you, time after time.

Frank/Time After Time

(Thank you, Marlow, for your pretty compliment re this one.)
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Topic Author's Reply - Feb 14, 2018 - 08:44am PT
I'd like to Cher this with all the Flames & friends.
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