Alexander Hamilton’s Other Valentine

Posted in Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 23, 2016 by Mike

With all of the hoopla around the Alexander Hamilton musical and the exaltation of the just discovered genius of Lin-Manuel Miranda (who else gets invited to the Rose Garden to freestyle rap?), I wanted to bring another historical labor of love to the foreground. A Hamilton project that was released before Hamilton projects were cool.

Back in 2000 I was given a thick script that would change the direction of my life. I was living in Beaufort, SC at the time, working at a performing arts center as a PR guy. Besides classrooms rented out for art and dance instruction, the place featured a massive performance space that was home base for a local theater company. We were putting on a production of Shelby Foote’s Shiloh, an ambitious civil war drama that required a huge number of soldiers, which was a challenge to cast given the smallish pool of young professional actors in the tiny community. So I got a part in the play, though I’m not really an actor, and performed many other functions given the “all hands on deck” requirements of community theater. As it turns out, being a “floater” has served me well while jumping between oddball jobs along my meandering career path.

Enter Michael Bober from New Jersey. Mr. Bober, aka “The Bobester,” was an old friend of Shiloh’s Director, Peter Holland, and had come down to visit and videotape a performance. I liked Bober immediately and, at a late-night party after one of the shows, he told me about a film script he had just finished. It was a self-financed documentary film project called Favorite Son, and the title referenced the close, almost familial, relationship between George Washington and Alexander Hamilton. Bober had completed the script and now hoped to shoot it in the coming months—Favorite Son was going to be something of a meta-documentary film, with fictional characters working on their own documentary film about Hamilton to commemorate the 200th anniversary of the infamous duel with Aaron Burr. (2004 was the bicentennial of the notorious event that took place in Weehawken, NJ.) Bober’s love of venerable French directors would influence the style—so it would be less Ken Burns and more Truffaut. He told me all of this while I was half-stoned and I pretended to understand his references to French New Wave film and hinted that early American History was a keen interest of mine (lies!) Though I was merely an inebriated rube nodding along to impassioned, high culture dissertations, I was so convincing that The Bobester left me the script and asked for my feedback.

So I read it, scribbling things in the margins when duly entertained or confused. I’m still struck by its breadth of subject matter. I flash to the first days with Bober’s script when I pondered how in the hell all of the information could fit into a watchable movie. Not only did it tell the history of Hamilton and the period players that helped shape that history, but there were pages and pages of dense yet lyrical script about the regional Lenni-Lenape tribe, a careful deconstruction of the treasonous story of Major John Andre and Benedict Arnold, what could be thesis notes about agrarianism versus industrialism with the Great Falls of the Passaic River in Paterson, NJ as a backdrop, and richly-detailed academic reflections on William Carlos Williams and Washington Irving, two luminary writers that wrote about the local geography and history and helped to inspire Bober’s vision. It was like everything that he researched before writing the script was interesting and must be included and imparted to the hypothetical audience. It reminded me of a time in 9th grade world history when I basically highlighted entire pages of the textbook since every bit was enthralling and worthy of remembrance and future inspection.

I mailed the marked-up script back to Bober and somehow, a few weeks later, was invited to come to north Jersey to assist in the upcoming shoot. Peter and I both went to help with the production and I felt like I’d been given a scholarship to film school.IMG_4185

One of our first tasks was to act as location scouts—a surprise considering we were two southern hillbillies who had never been to that part of the country. Being in and around New York City felt like the center of the universe. Every site was a cool place to shoot since everything was so new and exciting. We dubbed this particular affliction yokelvision, where everything looks spectacular through new eyeballs—and we both had it bad.

 

Our eventual locations took us all around northern New Jersey—Weehawken, Radburn, the banks of the Hudson River, the Great Falls in Paterson, Ringwood State Park—up to Tappan and Tarrytown, NY, down to the revered memorials of Washington, DC, and the Virginian presidential estates of Mount Vernon and Monticello, and to the southern tip of Manhattan—Trinity Church, the New York Stock Exchange, and finally, indelibly, The World Trade Center. We shot down in the PATH escalators and at the top of the South Tower exactly one year before the 9/11 attacks, with much of the haunting footage becoming unusable in the middle of the editing process. How could we include shots of all of those commuters riding the escalators up from the subway to their office buildings when some of them would die in the rubble a year later? And whatever we were trying to say by including these images in the first place would now be a totally different comment.

Beyond scouting, I got a lot of other production experience. Editor was my main job but I was also script super, boom guy, craft services, transportation, foley artist (if you watch the movie, I challenge you to identify the sound effect that was used in the duel the moment the bullet hits Hamilton), and about a dozen other titles and their attendant tasks. Anyone that has worked on an independent film will recognize this insane division of labor.

The historical and artistic nuances of the documentary format created even more interesting jobs to perform—applying for grants, researching historical correspondence, negotiating print usage with major art galleries. We would visit museums in Rhode Island, DC, Williamsburg, scrub through classic films like America and Birth of a Nation to drop into the timeline to support long passages, mine letters from the fathers of the country that would become voiceover to cover all spaces in between–this multi-media approach with live action, art, and film played side by side in the same sequence. All of this stuff had specific places to go and I was frequently amazed by The Bobester’s complete vision.

Regardless of the level of effort, it’s hard to attract much attention or interest without some star power. As it turns out, we had some. Michael Emerson—who ended up playing Benjamin Linus on the chronophrenic, ABC hit drama Lost—provided the voice of George Washington. Yes, it’s strange now, the thought of Ben melding with the Father of Our Country, a tidbit that should warrant a limited re-release of the film. At the time Emerson was less known although he had won an Emmy for Outstanding Guest Actor in a Drama Series for The Practice. Although Lost has been off the air for nearly a decade, I imagine there are people still out there rewinding scenes on their DVDs, looking for clues. I can’t tell you that there are Easter eggs in there that connect Favorite Son to Lost but I wouldn’t put it past The Bobester to have some little blue index card somewhere in his office that says, “Dharma Initiative?”–like he had a premonition and wasn’t quite sure what it meant or how to fit it in.

But not every project is going to be a smash hit. Not everything strikes like a lightning bolt and electrifies its intended audience. Alas, few people know even know the film exists. It’s like a giant temple that took the concentrated labor of many men and many years to build and it’s now sitting in an overgrown and remote jungle. But let’s jump cut to another metaphor. The film is also like a bustling train station. It’s busy and fast moving, with people coming in and out, it’s a little confusing sometimes—you’re not quite sure what’s going on or where you’re supposed to be. The sound is distracting and changes volumes erratically. But by being there you can be sent off into many different cool directions—wherever you want to go. Go to the indians, go to the literature, go to the history, go to the landscape, the period art, go to the geography. It’s all there and if you slow down and look closely, there’s some beautiful stuff in every small place you look.

Click here for link to the video

Turning Music Into Stories

Posted in Music, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on April 29, 2016 by Mike

iphone ideas

Ten random songs came up on my run yesterday. My iPhone was tuned to Pandora’s Steely Dan station, (thus the bounty of Steely Dan songs in the following list) but the overall selection of tunes was based on sonic algorithms unknown to me.

I found myself inspired by the lyrics coming into my head and thought, if you excised certain lines from basically any song, putting focus on those lines would be a great way to generate writing ideas. Whether you’re a poet, songwriter, novelist, or unclassifiable dabbler, droughts can affect the creative juices now and then. Why not go to a readily available source (your smart phone) to help generate inspiration?

From those ten random songs, I pulled interesting lines and thought it would be a neat exercise to build stories from them, using the words as pre-selected epigraphs. So use any of the following epigraphs to launch your next great short story or novel (or short and silly Facebook post). Or pull from your own Pandora playlist, if you don’t like these. Share anything you come up with! If nothing else, you will be reminded that Donald Fagen is a master lyricist.

It was still September when your daddy was quite surprised to find you with the working girls in the county jail. I was smoking with the boys upstairs when I heard about the whole affair.

S. Dan

 

Woman, let’s stay together. Loving you whether times are good or bad, happy or sad.

Rev. Al Green

 

There’s a special place for lovers, one we understand—there where neon bends in daylight sky. In that sunny room she soothes me, cools me with her fan. We’re drifting. A thousand years roll by.

D. Fagen

 

Listen to the wind blow. Watch the sun rise. Run in the shadows. Damn your love, damn your lies.

F. Mac

 

The things that pass for knowledge I can’t understand

S. Dan

 

You know, I saw Miss Lucy down along the tracks. She lost her home and her family and she won’t be coming back. Without love, where would you be now?

T.D. Brothers

 

I said to my reflection, “Let’s get out of this place.”

Squeeze

 

I am so into you I can’t think of nothing else.

ATL Rhythm Section

 

The mourners are all singing as they drag you by your feet. But the hangman isn’t hanging and they put you on the street.

S. Dan

 

Like a gangster on the run, you will stagger homeward to your precious one. I’m the one who must make everything right—talk it out till daylight.

S. Dan

 

 

Stealing Words

Posted in Writing with tags , , , , on April 17, 2016 by Mike

FullSizeRender (2)

When mom and dad came to visit a few weeks back, she brought a book of poetry we’ve had in the family since I was little. It had been in their stuff all this time and she thought my kids would enjoy it. Just seeing the cover brought back a forgotten memory of a time in grade school when I was given an assignment to write a poem on any subject I wanted. At the time I thought I had nothing important to say and couldn’t think of a single original thing to offer, so I plagiarized an entire poem from the book. This makes me ashamed all these years later, especially since I ended up majoring in Creative Writing and have spent much of my adult life tinkering with words in one way or another. But back then, maybe it was 5th or 6th grade, when I decided to cheat rather than be creative, I figured the subject of the poem would have to be a simple one since I was a kid, and the length should be on the short side since I would need to copy the whole thing word for word. I also knew it couldn’t be a famous poem that the teacher would recognize–I would love to hear my logic on that one, all these years later–written by a poet no one had heard of. Again, my selection process was a joke. I was a little mountain kid with zero knowledge of poetry or poets or what the teacher may know about the subject and could’ve just written something of my own in half the time it took to plot and execute my scam. So I chose a shortish poem about birds written by a dude I’d never heard, copying it verbatim for a grade school assignment, leaving in a few words that I would not have known and themes I would not have grasped. The memory of what happened next is fuzzy but I do recall getting a note back from the teacher saying that she doubted that I was the author of the poem I had turned in, but I can’t remember any punishment. So I’ll share the poem, decades later, and give the proper credit. I know now what I didn’t know then: We all have something to write about.

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with hooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Lord Alfred Tennyson

The Noises at Night

Posted in Verse, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , on April 8, 2016 by Mike

(Click here for audio)

Sometimes at night when I’m in bed

A sound floats in that’s filled with dread

 

A caterwauling from outside

Does speed my heart and bump my hide

 

It sounds just like a screaming cat

Or a spirit-hunting devil rat

 

My wife and I will share a look

Pick up a bat or bedside book

 

We listen for a snap of limb

Anticipate it crashing in

 

And as we scan the empty yard

And with relief let down our guard

 

A shape does form from darkened night

And steps into a band of light

 

It’s fur is matted and unclean

It’s hideous – it’s snarl obscene

 

That limp would give a snake the creeps

And fill with fear the shark that sleeps

 

And there again’s that horrid cry

That clamps my throat and sands it dry

 

But then I realize what we see

Out way beyond the dogwood tree

 

Is not a cat or rat or dog –

It’s the legendary Hampstead Hog.

 

I heard the story late one night

Told by a man sat to my right

 

At Jebby’s bar despite the game

I didn’t even learn his name

 

But he was pale and struck with fear

I was the only one to hear

 

I settled up and bid farewell

And then forgot his twisted tale

 

But now I recall what he said

His words assemble in my head

 

I make the cross, swear on my life

And say this to my wide-eyed wife

 

“On moonless nights, as bodies rest

The legend says it comes to test

 

The decency and common good

Within a chosen neighborhood.

 

It comes into your yard and prowls

Pierces the night with wretched howls

 

It lies down on your very lawn

And cries, and moans, and carries on

 

Until you have to make the call:

To lend a hand or let it squall

 

The gentle soul that kneels to help

Gets happiness and years of health;

 

The one who screams and slams the door

Gets unmet dreams and nothing more.”

 

Remember this next time you’re scared –

Though dangers come from everywhere

 

Be brave and help all things in need

And you’ll be blessed for your good deed.

hampstead hog

Shooting from Deep

Posted in Family, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 1, 2016 by Mike

I’ve never had a good memory and as I approach middle age, it’s getting harder to recall instances from my past with anything close to crisp precision. Everything is gauzy and disconnected, with only snippets surviviIMG_3971ng intact. My local library’s section on memory is maybe 5-6 books wide so I checked out Marilu Henner’s Total Memory Makeover for lack of a better choice. Oh, Marilu Henner? She was on Taxi in the late 1970s and I loved the show as a kid, but borrowing her book made me feel as girly, self-conscious, and out of style as if I’d just bought a Thighmaster.

But Marilu Henner, as it turns out, is one of only a few people on the planet with Highly-Superior Autobiographical Memory. These people are able to recall, with stunning detail, any day of their life—what day of the week it was, what they wore, the big news stories, what they had for dinner, and so on. I don’t need my memory to do all that, I just want to remember better. I feel a huge disconnect from my past and I hope there are tools in her book to help me pave those muddy, pot-holed dirt roads that lead back to my earlier memories.

Books we read can permeate our lives in unexpected ways. While I’m reading Henner’s book, I’m also reading Pat Conroy’s My Losing Season, a touching memoir about his years as a college basketball player at The Citadel, among a hundred other themes. I pick up Conroy before bed or when my computer’s booting at work or on the treadmill to distract me from the pain of exercise or when I’m embarrassed to be seen with a Marilu Henner book. Pat Conroy’s lyrical prose has always enchanted me and the way he writes about the South Carolina Lowcountry—a place I also inhabited for a few key years of my life—teleports me back to those mossy, oak-lined streets that dapple light like no other thoroughfares in the world.

Conroy died about a month ago after a quick decline from pancreatic cancer.  As a tribute and a way to hear his voice again and remind myself that at least that essential part of him will never die, I’ve gone back to read this book. I picture Marilu Henner and Pat Conroy waiting on a bench by the bus stop, patient and still, standing by until I call them back to the quiet places of my mind, those pockets of reading time between work and sleep and the lunacy of domestic life.

So maybe permeation is a natural thing with these books, along with a weird overlap. I spend a lot of time investigating artifacts from my memory with Marilu, then go back to Conroy where he mines his own head to reveal his 20-year old self that suited up for The Citadel basketball squad, the young Conroy that came before the writer Conroy. Likewise, through memory, I’m getting reacquainted with my younger, ball-player self. It’s like we all meet in a half-lit gymnasium—Marilu, young Conroy, old Conroy, young me, and old me—a bizarre lineup indeed, each of us laced up and taking part in these dreamy pick-up games.

When I close my eyes and concentrate hard enough I can smell a hot gym. I can hear the hollow echo of a rubber ball pounding against hard wood and the squeak of dozens of pivoting and cutting sneakers. I can occupy that space between dribbles when anything can happen.

My vivid basketball memories are strewn across many ages and settings. I remember getting called for traveling two straight times down the court in 6th grade—I had replaced another point guard (Marilu says dig deeper and I come back with the name and face of Chris Embler, much to my surprise) and I couldn’t quite figure out when I could take the two allowed steps. And I remember the crowd’s palpable disappointment in the new guy moving the ball down the court like a fullback on the run. I wasn’t ready for the spotlight—it was Chris Embler’s spotlight—and back then it felt as bigtime as Madison Square Garden. See, I suffer from an embarrassing lack of coordination with footwork. I couldn’t skip for a long time and my brother and stepdad would laugh at me mercilessly. Picture how you would simulate galloping while astride a broomstick—that’s how I skipped. And though the first memory (traveling in basketball) brought up a totally random ancillary memory (skipping like a goon), Marilu says to welcome what she calls sporadic memories as they still fill in the blanks. The initial memory also led to another embarrassing memory that took place in an aerobics class when I was out of sync with every other participant and then yet another memory where I couldn’t learn dance steps in a play where I was Brer Bear and the young cast had to dumb down the dance break enough for me to do it. (Marilu pats me on the shoulder and tries to give support, knowing that I will be spending a lot of time retrieving memories that make me look like an idiot. You know, Marilu, maybe that’s why I forgot all this shit in the first place?)

I don’t remember much of anything from my elementary school teams, even though I played as early as 3rd grade. All I can recall are some of the goofy team pictures and the vaguely familiar faces of the boys and my young, thin, boufy-haired effeminate self but I can’t retrieve a single memory of those games. Fast forward to maybe 7th grade, as I lay on the floor of the French Broad Elementary School gym with the other boys on the team practicing our form and follow-through—shooting up towards the ceiling, and the balls in their magical rotation descending towards our soft, awaiting fingertips. Then I remember being in the middle of a game, willfully ignoring open teammates (Kevin Gregg) to try to score and pad my puny stat sheet and my coach (Mr. Martin) reminding me that it’s a team sport. I remember taking an elbow to my braces-filled mouth and having loose wires and braces digging into the hamburger meat of my upper lip – and having to bring my wrecked mouth to the orthodontist (Dr. Taylor). Then I’m on a series of long bus rides returning from away games with my girlfriends from different times in my life (some were cheerleaders, some were players on the girls’ teams) when I was all hands and they had to deploy a staunch defense in the face of my relentless offense and how old that must’ve gotten to every one of them (names withheld to protect the innocent).

I must’ve shot on 100 different goals–Cookie’s house, the court in the public square in Cozumel, the goal by the dunes on Hilton Head, the empty echoing gym of Monmouth University, the goal at The Cave in Campobello where I learned the art of dribbling on gravel—same game in a hundred different locations. Our driveway in Weaverville, where I lived from 2nd grade to my freshman year of high school, played host to countless 2-on-1 contests. Scott Hardister and I would play against my older brother Dave into the darkening evening and my mom would yell down from the deck for us to come in and eat and we’d play until the food got cold (sorry, Mom), taking the same shots from our same sweet spots. Then we’d come in and eat and do it all again on the Nerf goal in the den.

I had a lot of time as a kid to improve my game and add weapons to my modest arsenal but, once I got to high school, all I ever wanted to do was shoot from outside. I was a mindless animal and the 3-point line was my invisible fence. Crossing it would cause a shock of indecision and disorientation—8-foot jumpers were harder and required a whole different set of shot mechanics so I camped out behind the line and waited to launch bombs. When a mob of guys would descend on the gym between classes for epic games of 21, I remember lighting it up. I could run and gun and shoot from deep. Though those memories run together, they are pleasant to think about, and I feel that for a string of years, at least during hot streaks, I was a real shooter. And though I was a guppy in a small, whitebread pond and we’re talking about games of 21 between classes, I was draining bombs at will.

High school games were different. I had no confidence in my skills in the more formal and pressurized game scenario, against kids that weren’t my buddies, in front of people in bleachers all looking directly at the court. I made some but missed most of my high school field goal attempts. Coach Lasher, a macho guy who could deflate my confidence with one withering glare, usually played other teammates who could penetrate or shoot closer, anyone whose game had evolved beyond standing out beyond the arc waiting for a clear moment to heave one up. For our opponents, it wasn’t hard to figure out my strategy and this oversight didn’t even occur to me until long after graduation, when a revelation like that meant nothing.

Add up all the camps and hours spent in driveways and gyms, watching endless plays on televised games, throw in some teenage insecurity and a tough coach, and you somehow end up with a kid stuck at a perimeter fence with only one option in mind. There was a single play drawn up in my head—launch a three if you’re open and haven’t shot one in a little while.

My career high was 17 points against Spartanburg Day School when I hit five 3-pointers in the second half. It was the only time when one of my shooting streaks happened in an actual game and I don’t know how or why it happened then. I was never able to harness it again. The other memorable highlight was when I was elected by my teammates to participate in the 3-point contest at Furman University’s Team Camp. I made it to the finals and came in second to a guy who hit 1 or 2 more than me in the 45-seconds we had to drain as many as we could. I have no idea who the winner was but I like to think it was Steve Kerr and why not, it’s my highlight reel?

It’s weird because I remember having a good reputation as a passer but can’t recall any standout assists. It’s like my selfish memory wants me to be the star of any clip its held onto and doesn’t see the appeal of a firm bounce pass.

While the team dynamic is central to the game, basketball is also one of the few sports you can play by yourself. All it takes is you, a ball, and a hoop to put it through. We have a goal at home and to hear my 8-year old son dribbling and shooting out in the driveway fills me with an athletic kinship, a connection nearly as deep as blood.

I know he’s out there imagining valiant battles between teams, with him embodying every single player. I come out to join him and he says, “Carolina is beating Notre Dame 144 to 68 and Brice Johnson just made a three-point play,” summoning players and concepts that he heard on last night’s telecast. I tell him to work on his dribbling and learn to go left or right, show him the difference between a spin move and crossover, walk him through the artful fluidity of the pick and roll. I try to instill the team mindset early as we execute improvised drills together. It dawns on me that I may be using my son to make up for my own shortcomings from decades past, but I let it go since it will only make him better—it’s up to me to play it off as nothing more than wise instruction rather than the psychological baggage that it probably is.

There are a lot of benefits to having kids but a major one is getting to play games again. Even better, you get to go back to the very beginning and go over the basics. You catch and throw and explain the most elementary of rules and basically do the sport all over—and going back to the beginning can spoil an adult. If you have an adjustable goal and little kids that are just developing their skills with basketball, you get used to having it set to a low height. A regulation basketball goal seems impossibly high after shooting for years on an 8-foot goal. The rim may as well be nailed to the top of a telephone pole. Getting it up there relies on the muscle memory of long unused muscle, muscles that have atrophied in these middle years and forgotten how to do their job. They can’t handle the assignment anymore. Shooting beyond that familiar arc on a regulation goal is a ludicrous proposition now. It’s a heave that could slam off the backboard or fall feet short, depending on how much leg I give it.

Foster has just concluded his rookie basketball season with some other 1st and 2nd graders. His team went 7-1 and he learned a lot in just a few short months. Since the early games that I once played are now lost to me, I wonder if he will remember his first basket and how perfect it looked? It’s hard to imagine that all these moments will be fuzzy memories when he’s an adult, if remembered at all. He will need his own Marilu book to help dig them up, his own Conroy to give them meaning and poetry.

Every skill and point yet to come can be traced back to this pollen-coated concrete driveway. When I go to his games, I will shuffle into the gym as an aging dad. My son will be the player and I’ll be the ride. The skills I had will be decades away and my peak a distant hill on the hazy horizon. I will take my seat in the bleachers and feel his adrenaline in my blood.

IMG_3945

 

Mark Zuckerberg, Who Would You Rather Help?

Posted in Loose News, Writing with tags , , , , , on February 15, 2016 by Mike

mark

Dear Mark Zuckerberg,

I understand that a contemporary, one Mr. Kanye West, has solicited $1B from you in support of his “ideas.” As you consider this request and other potential investments, let me say that nurturing my ideas would not only cost much much less, but may also serve a greater good. Frankly, Kanye has plenty of his own capital to float any idea that comes out of his head, including funding for a moon landing or construction of an aqueduct from fertile land in Utah to the Kardashian compound in southern California. He can produce a 2-song demo every week and make millions from each recording. He can pose for magazines both known and unknown, endorse fabulous or worthless products on a whim, and could defecate and deposit said turd into a safe deposit box like a bar of gold. He earns money every second of every day and would not be $53M in debt if he valued his fortune. He does not need your financial backing but making such a claim has put him back into the news, a place where he feels he belongs, so this is what we’re talking about today.

But I really do have creative projects that could use a benefactor. I have 2-3 book projects and a screenplay on the back burner, along with dozens of songs, stories, articles, essays that (maybe) I could fully think through, write, and publish with proper backing. See, I have a wife, two kids, and a career that keep me from finishing, and effectively publicizing, those projects. Moreover, I have a Facebook account which takes up an estimated 14% of my time. I’ve helped you, so now it’s your turn.

Publicly endorsing an unknown artist would firmly establish you as a man for the people and render as fact the fantasy you must have for yourself, a populist dream that is usually in stark contrast with vast wealth. How would my ideas serve the greater good more than Kanye’s ideas? Well, my (hypothetical) work is universal while Kanye’s material only serves the artist and his elevated sense of self. He could go to a therapist and save you a lot of money.

I think $100K would let me take a year off and finish everything. Thanks for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Mike Johnson

The Brawl on the Wall

Posted in Verse with tags , , , , , , , on February 3, 2016 by Mike

brawl on the wall

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