There was once something deliciously naughty about an all-nighter. My mum – one who has always been an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type  - never let us sleep in , not the way other kids got to sleep in, anyway.  Summer vacations occasionally allowed the luxury of sleeping until 9:00 am, if one can possibly sleep through the sound of the coffee grinder and vacuum, both of which were no respecters of time, nor the early morning hours. And if we slept in until some ungodly hour, say 10:00 am, especially on a week day, we’d face a rude awakening. Literally. Usually in the form of the covers being ripped from us while we were dragged, kicking and screaming (again, literally) onto the cold-hardwood floor.

So all-nighters were deliciously naughty. An all-nighter was a rebellious bite at something my mother  hated – the midnight hours – and on would force her to let us sleep in until at least 10 am.

A decade ago, an all-nighter was an entirely different beast.  An all-nighter meant that Kiana and I would gorge ourselves with pizza and belch loudly, furthermore rebelling against the societal constraints upon “proper young women.”  We would guzzle soda by the bottle – and I do mean two litre bottle – and find ourselves sufficiently caffeinated for a long night of tom foolery. The tom foolery, which began with shrill giggles and demonstrative sing-along sessions with the boy band de-jour, would spiral rapidly downwards as the night progressed.  With few diregressions, in which case we found ourselves attempting to dodge blush-worthy hotline commercials during the commercial breaks in Mall Rats, we would invariably take on the appearance of caffeine-crashed zombies, riveted by Invasion of the Body Snatchers. And it was the damnedest thing; Invasion of the Body Snatchers seemed to always play on A&E in the wee hours, as though the network somehow sensed Kiana’s presence in our living room. To this day, we still embrace the imagery of pea pods as symbolic of our friendship. After watching Invasion, the sun would come up and we would release our inner hobbits, feasting on not one, but two breakfasts (of anything from pizza to hotdogs, but never real breakfast food) before imbibing the rest of the caffeine and returning to shrill fan-girl sing-alongs.

Those were the glory days. Junior high is the era in which the all-nighter is praised as a rite de passage, a coming of age. It makes sense really. In childhood we fear the dark and cling to day’s last dredges of light, plugging in night lights and begging our parents to leave the hall light on, so that the littlest bit of light will shine through the cracks around the door and prevent a monster from gobbling us up, should we need to hop from bed and dash to the toilet – something we’re only bold enough to do if the alternative seems to be wetting the bed. And so the all-nighter signifies conquest over the unfound fear of the dark of night, I think. For me it did, anyway. But I was unable to sleep after seeing Signs, the M. Night Shamalangadingdong film, for the first time; I was 15 at the time.

But, having fully embraced the midnight hours, writing until the sun comes up or reading well into the morning, the sense of conquest in the all-nighter has drained away, disappearing down the proverbial plug hole of age. It’s gone. And that’s okay. With a full plate to juggle, the all-nighter isn’t something we embrace so freely. It has no novelty, and in this stage of life, it speaks more to the ball and chain of responsibility than the fledgling freedom of adolescence.

While I’m not old, I definitely don’t bounce back quite the same way from an all-nighter, especially when I’m too busy to sit down and eat one breakfast, let alone two.

Thus, I hate all-nighters. I hate the fact my carefree adolesnces has slipped through my fingers. And I hate the fact that when I stay up all night, I’m hammering out an epistemology paper that, frankly, I fear isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. I would happily return to the days in which an all-nighter was characterized by two giggling girls devouring a giant pizza and soaking up the escapades of Jay and Silent Bob.

I will preface what is about to follow by stating it is entirely factual, although likely hyperbolized. Possibly hyperbolized to the point of unrecognition, but that is not to say that it isn’t completely true…

Last night I entered an altered state.  Or maybe it was a particularly vivid dream.  The latter is more likely, but the former is entirely more intriguing and I shall henceforth refer to whatever I experienced as such.  My altered state, I am convinced, was a resultant of an overdose on Red Bull, shoddily written Philosophy articles (Igor Douven’s; not mine), a sizable brick of chocolate, and general sleep deprivation. The cause must appear to digress from the tale, but I feel it’s important to note, as, for scientific purposes, I feel there may be merit to recreate the events of last night. I drank 1 triple sized Red Bull at approximately 7:00 pm; this was later followed by two standard-issue Red Bulls between the hours of 11pm and 2 am, along with approximately 32 squares of Cadburys delicious chocolate. I went to sleep at 5:04 – or at least that was the moment at which I sealed my eyes after casting a final look at the neon numbers of my clock. And in the darkness of my mind, I seemed to transcend human limitations and travel to a magical place.

The magical place was much like the train station at which the Narnia children arrive in the countryside. In the BBC version, not the new-fangled Hollywood version; I will permit, however, that new Lucy is infinitely less annoying than BBC Lucy (but let us not digress!). Only, it had been lifted and nestled somewhere in New Jersey; I know this because I could hear the distant chatter of people and they all sounded like Snookie and the Cake Boss.  The sprawling lawns all around the intersection of two train tracks rose into Deli’s and hole-in-the-wall cafes. It was one such cafe in which I found myself. In the cafe, I heard soft voices that told me all the secrets to unlock the mysteries of philosophy and to write what would most certainly be the most kick-ass philosophy paper of all time. Of. All. Time. In fact, the more I reminisce about my experience, I’m fairly sure the voices were those of Dumbledore and Harry Potter, from the scene towards the end of Deathly Hallows, at the point in the story when Harry has died (oops, spoiler!) and has an out-of-body experience, meeting Dumbledore – also deceased (if you didn’t know that, you’ve been living under a rock); in the book, I suppose Harry learns something of the mysteries of life and death, but it seems to me they were really talking about epistemology and the meaning of everything in the universe. Clearly, I shall have to re-read the book. It’s a dreadfully important conversation.  In any case, Harry and Dumbledore were about to reveal the most secret, sacred secrets of the universe to my listening ears when a terrible thing happened.

My bedroom door opened and my mum said, “It’s 7:30. How late are you going to sleep?”

Apparently, I was only going to sleep until 7:30, despite the fact my alarm remains set for 8:00 am. Curious, indeed.

I was cruelly snatched away from epiphany – and Harry and Dumbledore and the distant cast of the Jersey Shore – and hurled back the the cruel reality that is a drab Wednesday morning after just two and a half hours of sleep. I do not possess knowledge of the innermost workings of the universe, nor the dark and twisty corners of my mind that converge to create such an altered state. But from the experience I have learned three things:

1. In my dream I did compose the 56 words my paper lacked, which had left it hanging just below word count. I scribbled these down immediately.

2. Out of body experiences, dream sequences, and the like, all seem to occur more frequently around train stations – both in my head and in children’s literature. This must be further investigated and researched thoroughly.

3. There is a safer, at-home alternative to having John Stamos put you under anesthesia, should you want to experience vivid dream-sequences of the Glee-inspired variety.  Red Bull be thy name.

The blinking cursor seems like a cocky s.o.b., as far as I’m concerned. He’s that guy that gets baits you into an argument and gets you so thoroughly worked up that you’re ready to pitch a fit. That is, of course, until you realize you’ve grown so aggravated that you can’t string a coherent sentence together. And then he asks: “Is that all you’ve got?”

Yes, blinking man, that’s all I’ve got. Are you happy now?

The best of times, I can ignore the blinking cursor. He’s like an ever-present gnat, flitting about my head, landing on the computer screen, getting stuck to my lip gloss… you get the picture. He’s an annoyance most days, but his level of of distraction is not usually enough to derail my train of thought.  It seems, however, that nights like tonight – a night on which I’m feverishly attempting to crank through an epistemology paper, which is completely over my head even when I’m on my A-game – he strikes out with the force of a plague of gnats. And a plague of Biblical proportions, for that matter. I’m convinced that blinking cursor, if set just right would have been just as, if not more effective, had God sent him as a substitute plague to the Ancient Egyptians. But let us not digress…

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away – a galaxy in the era BM (that’s Before Macbook) – I seem to recall there was a way to reset the speed of blinking cursor. If memory serves me correctly – and this is stretching back to the days of napster and installing C++  with sets of multiple 3.5 inch floppy disks – blinking cursor could be set to blink at a painfully slow speed or a speed likely to induce seizures in children that have spent far too much time watching Japanese animation. Neither option is satisfactory. If blinking cursor is set to blink slowly, it’s easy to lose track of him entirely. And he has a great knack for popping up at the wrong place and time and wreaking havoc on an entire term paper. Quite oppositely, if blinking cursor is set even a smidgen faster, he is likely to give my over-caffeinated self an anxiety attack. As it is, his incessant blip, blip, blip upon my screen, like a foreign dot upon a radar, pokes at me. Each blink is a subtle dig and my inability to string a coherent sentence together about the Lottery Paradox.

So I confess, I hate the blinking cursor. Not just a little. A whole lot. Especially tonight.

Yes, blinking man, that’s all I’ve got. Are you happy now?

You may recall that I’ve been waging war on the prevalent populous of skyrats in my neighborhood. I’ve neglected to post updates as we’ve parried back and forth. Not too long ago, I sat outside to do some painting and found that the dastardly creatures hovered more intently than ever, no doubt hoping to soil my canvasses. Since then, I haven’t spent much time outside engaging with the pigeons.   When I hear them roosting on the neighbor’s roof, I do take the time to pound my wall or to open the window to curse at them, but I’ve attempted, to the best of my abilities, to avoid the fallout of their constant air raids.

Then, I was shopping with Mogo on Saturday. We digressed from our plans and visited Potter’s on the off chance they had begun to lay out their Christmas wares. We were not disappointed, and left the store with decorations and candy canes. However, I’m pleased to announce that Potter’s now stocks owl decoys.

The decoy seemingly appeared in a ray of light – clearly, a heavenly gift for us – next to the cash register. The shop girl found it odd that we were so enthused about a plastic owl and made a show of raising her eyebrows in exaggerated disbelief.  We bought it.

When we returned home, I climbed out the window and placed it on the roof. Since then, I have not seen a pigeon. But that might be because I don’t want to see any.

The following D.H. Lawrence has been hailed as “sourly misogynistic”:

To Women, As Far As I’m Concerned

The feelings I don’t have, I don’t have.
The feelings I don’t have, I wont say I have.
The feelings you say you have, you don’t have.
The feelings you would like us both to have, we neither of us have.

The feelings people ought to have, they never have.
If people say they’ve got feelings, you may be pretty sure they haven’t
got them.

So if you want either of us to feel anything at all,
You’d better abandon all idea of feelings altogether.

Perhaps I’m failing miserably as a feminist (and as an English major), but I don’t feel any sense of misogyny radiating from the words Lawrence wrote. Was the piece titled To Men, As Far As I’m Concerned, it might be hailed as a fundamental work of feminist poetry. Was it titled To Men, As Far As I’m Concerned, it would succinctly sum words I’ve failed to find many times. I would thusly argue the poem speaks more to the human condition than anything else. Lawrence is keenly aware that we’re often in love with the idea of love. As I’ve discovered many times, wanting to fall in love doesn’t mean you are in love, nor will it make you fall in love. And I don’t think this is trap that ensnares women only; men fall victim, too.  Maybe Lawrence is right, if we are to feel anything at all, we better stop idealizing.

Go is the word that sums my rushed existence. Go – the word itself – is hurried in nature. It’s painfully brief and lacking in substance. Without embellishment, it’s directionless. Go, like the implicit command of a starter gun, is jarring, reactionary, and hollow, as it hangs in the air. Catapulting forward, even with the speed of Usain Bolt, is pointless if you are rushing to an unknown or ambiguous line in the sand.  And pounding pavement anxiously may take you many city blocks, but it wont take you on a journey through used bookstores or allow you to browse the windows as you pass or to soak in your surroundings with a scalding cup of coffee.

Go where? Go with who?  Go to what? And why even go in the first place? It’s easy to forget.

I’m so swept up with going that I’m at a loss to remember why I started running in the first place. Caught up in the momentum of this marathon stretch, I feel like what I’m doing has lost any meaning.  It’s just empty, purposeless, journeyless, go.

I’ve been told that runners reach a second wind, that after pushing through the pain and exhaustion, they hit a new high, abounding in energy and enthusiasm. I keep telling myself that if I just keep going, I’ll hit my second wind, too. But it hasn’t happened yet, and I wonder how long I will continue harried and hurried. How long must I wait to hang up my running shoes?

There are a lot of silly, nit-picky, ridiculous things that upset me. I hate it when I share my toothpaste with someone and they squeeze it from the middle. I get infuriated if someone leaves toast crumbs in the butter. If you leave the toilet seat up in the middle of the night, I will kill you. And if you get my drink order incorrect whilst wearing a Starbucks apron, I will curse the day you were born.

I care about having silverware arranged correctly on the table. I hate when people end sentences with prepositional phrases (and sink into self-loathing when I do so).  I need for the volume on the TV and stereo to be set on an even number.

But there’s something I don’t care much about: the way my name is pronounced.

Some people fly into a rage if you mispronounce their names.  They will sneer and pronounce their names the way they prefer with a condescending air of superiority that makes everyone feel stupid for reading the name incorrectly. They show no grace, despite fact there are numerous popular pronunciations.

I’m not one of them.

I will admit that I was mildly annoyed when the Starbucks barista handed me the cup in the following picture:

Frankly, I was annoyed because Niomi isn’t an actual name. I didn’t want anyone to think my parents were crazy hippies with the need to channel their creativity through spelling a perfectly normal name in a completely ridiculous way.  But, had the barista pronounced my name NYomi or NAYomi, I would have picked up my drink, without saying a word, and strolled out of Starbucks unperturbed.

For 23 years, I have been living with two first names.

NAYomi?

NYomie?

Which is it?

I’ve never bothered to correct anyone. My parents call me NAYomi, so I suppose that’s my “real” name, but my mum’s accent occasionally makes it sound more like NEEomi. It didn’t help matters that my mum’s side of the family tended to call me NYomi, while my dad’s side proliferated NAYomi. To further the confusion about my name, on the first day of school I was always too shy to respond to the teacher’s first run through the attendance with anything more than a nod or a wave of my hand. Until I was about 14, I would have rather died than speak up in front of a room of silent classmates. The teacher could have called me Bob and I would have gone with it. Every year I deferred to the teacher’s pronunciation of my name, and every year the kids in my class followed my teacher’s lead.  Thus, my friends are almost equally divided between the NAYomi and NYomi pronunciations.

I should probably care about how my name is pronounced, but I don’t. In grade school, I was the fat kid with the last name Hogg. As long as nobody was connecting those dots, I could have cared less about what they called me. Beggars cannot be choosers! It just seems really unnatural that I have no preference; neither pronunciation resonates more deeply within me. I don’t hear one as “right” and one as “wrong.” They’re both my name.

Still, it’s been troubling that I don’t have a preferance. I recently met someone who asked me, “NAYomi? or is it NYomi?  Which do you prefer?”  I realized it was completely ludicrous to reply, “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Either way.”  It’s my name, for goodness sakes!

The thing that makes me reticent to decisively pick one pronunciation over the other is the fact I’d have to start correcting people that have known me for more than 10 years. It seems like it would be an overly burdensome – and possibly rude (?) – thing to start now.  Do I pick a pronunciation and leave a grandfather clause for those who met me before I chose?   Or, should I adopt one of my many nicknames and vehemently proliferate it at every opportunity presented, desperately hoping that it catches on?  It might be fun to be NJ, Mimi, or Mia for a while.

Although, I suppose that would lead to confusion about whether my name should be pronounced ME-ah or MY-ah…

Earlier today, I snagged a copy of Katy Perry’s new album.  By snagged I mean that I bought it from iTunes, but snagged sounds better.  I’m disappointed with the album. Katy Perry doesn’t have a particularly strong voice, so the number of ballads made the album feel completely underwhelming.  I sincerely hoped the entire album had a California Gurls vibe, but it was a lot more Teenage Dream than anything else. In any case, the album does have a few good songs, and I suppose it was a better purchase than three cans of  Red Bull.

Having listened to it beginning to end with no pauses, stops, or repeats – the way I always listen to a new album -I decided it was complete pop fluff with one exception: Who Am I Living For?

Check it out (and ignore the certain air of cheese, that seems obligatory when making this sort of video. And the spelling/grammar mistakes, for that matter. I did not make this video):

I am ready for the road less traveled
Suiting up for my crowning battle
This test is my own cross to bear
But I will get there

It’s never easy to be chosen, never easy to be called
Standing on the frontline when the bomb starts to fall
I can see the heavens but I still hear the flames
Calling out my name

I can see the writing on the wall
I can’t ignore this war
At the end of it all
Who am I living for?

This really stuck out as a timely reminder to always consider who I’m living for.

You can suit up to do battle, walk the least traveled road, and bear the most difficult cross, but, at the end of it all, what does it matter if you’re doing it for yourself or for purely selfish motivations?  The thing that keeps me forging ahead, no matter how difficult it may be, is the knowledge I’m not living for me. Although I’m not a particular fan of The Purpose Driven Life, I believe everyone should open the book and read the first line: “It’s not about you!”  Living out our selfishness and narcissistic tendencies may lead to the appearance of success, but it doesn’t lead to purpose of fulfillment.

Here’s a little something upon which I’ve been reflecting:

If you’ve gotten anything at all out of following Christ, if his love has made any difference in your life, if being in a community of the Spirit means anything to you, if you have a heart, if you care— then do me a favor: Agree with each other, love each other, be deep-spirited friends. Don’t push your way to the front; don’t sweet-talk your way to the top. Put yourself aside, and help others get ahead. Don’t be obsessed with getting your own advantage. Forget yourselves long enough to lend a helping hand.

Think of yourselves the way Christ Jesus thought of himself. He had equal status with God but didn’t think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages of that status no matter what. Not at all. When the time came, he set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. It was an incredibly humbling process. He didn’t claim special privileges. Instead, he lived a selfless, obedient life and then died a selfless, obedient death—and the worst kind of death at that—a crucifixion.

Because of that obedience, God lifted him high and honored him far beyond anyone or anything, ever, so that all created beings in heaven and on earth—even those long ago dead and buried—will bow in worship before this Jesus Christ, and call out in praise that he is the Master of all, to the glorious honor of God the Father.

Philippians 2:1-11 (The Message)

If you listen to the conservative talking heads spout their empty, thoughtless rhetoric, you might actually believe that a mosque is being constructed at Ground Zero.  Queen of the Tea Party, Sarah Palin, has tweeted the following:

Peaceful New Yorkers, pls refute the Ground Zero mosque plan if you believe catastrophic pain caused @ Twin Towers site is too raw, too real

Peace-seeking Muslims, pls understand, Ground Zero mosque is UNNECESSARY provocation; it stabs hearts. Pls reject it in interest of healing

Will Obama express US lingering pain& ask Muslims for tolerance by discouraging 9/11 mosque while he celebrates Islamic holy month tonight?

Mr. President, should they or shouldn’t they build a Muslim mosque steps away from where radical Islamists killed 3000 people?Your position?

Mr. President, why are they so set on marking an area w/ mosque steps from what you described, in agreement with many, as “hallowed ground”?

Were you to take literally these statements, and others like them, you might actually believe that a group of Muslims intend to erect a mosque where the Twin Towers once stood.  This is not the case.  Note the following:

The supposed “mosque” will actually be built two blocks from the site of the World Trade center.  From what I’ve read, the Twin Towers stood more than 100 feet south of the marked northern boundary of the TWC on this map. As you can see, this is clearly not on Ground Zero; neither is it across the street from Ground Zero, nor in sight of Ground Zero.  What most people are not aware of is the fact that Park51 (the proposed building project), is not the first meeting place for Muslims on Park street.  The new facility at 51 Park street is intended to house a larger prayer space for Muslims that have been meeting at 45 Park street for some time.  Nobody had taken issue – to the best of my knowledge –  with the 45 Park Street Muslims, who are one in the same with the 51 Park Street Muslims.

Beliefnet ran an interview with Sharif el-Gamal, CEO of SoHo Properties and lead developer of the Park 51 project. He explained why they are pursuing a building program in south Manhatan:

Prior to purchasing our current facility at 45 Park Place [note: this property was purchased AFTER 9-11], there were two mosques in lower Manhattan – although Park51 is not affiliated with either of these mosques. One was Masjid Farah, which could fit a maximum of approximately 65 people, and had to hold three or four separate prayer services on Fridays just to fit the crowds.

The second mosque, at Warren St., accommodated about 1,500 worshippers during Friday prayers – people had been praying on sidewalks because they had no room. They lost their space around May 2009. We made the move to buy 45 Park Place in July 2009 in part to offset the loss of this space. Currently, our space at 45 Park Place, accommodates around 450 people every Friday. We are also easily accessible from many different parts of Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Staten Island, which was an important consideration.

It seems completely fair that a thriving religious community without a proper meeting place would want to build a place of worship in their neighborhood and community.  Personally, I hate commuting to church, and, if what I’ve been told about New York is true, traffic is a total bitch.  The purpose of being part of a religious gathering is to foster community and fellowship, regardless of your faith. I can identify with Manhattan Muslims wanting a place to gather and engage with one another. They shouldn’t have to leave their neighborhood to meet. As the “mosque” will not be built on or adjacent to Ground Zero, I see no fault with its location.

Moreover, the proposed building project is not solely a mosque. Park51 is to be a community center, which will provide the community with the following:

• outstanding recreation spaces and fitness facilities (swimming pool, gym, basketball court)
• a 500-seat auditorium
• a restaurant and culinary school
• cultural amenities including exhibitions
• education programs
• a library, reading room and art studios
• childcare services
• a mosque, intended to be run separately from Park51 but open to and accessible to all members, visitors and our New York community
• a September 11th memorial and quiet contemplation space, open to all

According to the Park51 website, the mosque, although housed within the same building, will have an entirely different governing body.   Interestingly enough, the developers of Park 51 do not intend the community center to be exclusively Islamic.  Developers said:

We will include a September 11th memorial and quiet reflection space where people of different faith traditions and beliefs, sacred and secular, can find quiet time and solace. Park51 will also include general spaces and world-class facilities for all New Yorkers to benefit from, whether that’s a Hebrew [Jews!] class meeting weekly or a yoga [Hindu in origin!] studio looking for space on a regular basis. We’ll have an auditorium to engage large audiences, and sophisticated classroom space as well.

Thus, it seems to me that the the entire project has been blown grossly out of proportion by Sarah & Co. I believe this construction project is being emotionalized and used as leverage to further a right-wing political agenda.  Still, I find the entirely affair thoroughly concerning…

What concerns me most is the fact that so many are willing to take away the rights of these peaceful, law-abiding, United States citizens.  The  First Amendment states: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

This right - the right to practice any religion freely – is a cornerstone to our society. Like it or not, the United States is not a Christian country; the aforementioned amendment clearly states that the US will have no established state religion. Most of the religions sound bites – …one nation under God/In God We Trust/etc – evolved parallel to the evolution of the moral majority and the Christianization of the Republican party. For instance, the words “under God” were not added to the pledge of allegiance until 1954.  Further more, “In God We Trust” was first added to select coins during the Civil War era (not surprisingly, religious fanatics were spiritualizing the war); this was not made the official motto of the United States until 1956. The 1950′s were, of course, when the “Bible Belt” earned its name. These ambiguous references to God sprung up over time; they were not the doing of the founding fathers. In fact, I’m sure the founding fathers would be horrified if thet could see us now.

These Muslims are being unfairly persecuted for their faith – a faith they have a right to observe wherever they like.  The Islamic extremists are not representative of their values, faith, or their unique religious subculture.  To think this would be akin to thinking all Christians are like Westboro Baptist Church.   If this was a group of yuppy, balding, fat, white men attempting to build a palace for Joel Osteen, they would receive no criticism. And I dare say that would be more dangerous than a mosque.

But when the chips are down, I support this mosque because it is a matter of equality, justice, and observing the constitution. To disallow the mosque would be to act against a group of people based solely on their religions affiliation. Any strides we’ve made for equality and freedom would be lost. When we start telling people where they can and can’t practice their religion, we get on dicey ground.  Not only do we discount the Constitution – the lifeblood and backbone of the United States – we turn our backs on moral conscience.   Were we to tell these Manhattan Muslims to build elsewhere, we become as intolerant as the men that toppled the Twin Towers.  And they hate us for our freedom. Right?

The tom-foolery is complete!

We finished redecorating [co-worker's] office this morning, as we understood he was arriving home from Montreal today. Apparently, he caught an early flight.  We had just enough time to finish and snap a few pictures before he came into the office.  Pjete and I had another project to take care of, so we were around the corner working when he came across his office.   We didn’t want to risk implicating ourselves by whipping out the camera, so we just listened and laughed.  From what we could hear, he was generally in good humor about the foil.

Here are the final pictures: