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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo noticed the ballyhoo this week over the 50th anniversary of the Apollo 11 mission.

The fact of the matter is that I was only four years old at the time of the first Moon landing, so have no clear recollection of it.  Thus, this is read-about-it history to me instead of lived-it history.

I do have vague recollections of being awakened at odd times of night to see various events associated with some of the later missions.  The last two I remember following quite closely.

And the other thing I remember very clearly after Apollo 17 and the end of the program was thinking, “Oh, well.  We’ll be going back again soon, I’m sure.  Then Mars.  Then who knows?”  Even at the tender age of seven, I had some historickal sense of the Spirit of Exploration, so I figured we’d simply carry on forward with what to me was, and still is, a completely logical progression.

Fifty years after Apollo 11, I’m still tapping my foot, glancing at my watch, and waiting….

Thus, all this celebration really kind of rubs me the wrong way, as it seems rather hollow.  Just what the heck have we done since then?  Fooled about in Low Earth Orbit with a flying dump truck?  Built a couple LEO “stations”?  Lobbed some unmanned probes here and there?

I’m not saying these programs haven’t had their benefits or been technologically marvelous in their own ways.  And I’m not even complaining here about NASA nowadays frittering itself away on things like Muslim-outreach and the Globull Enwarmening scam.  I’m just saying I’m disappointed we don’t have colonies on the Moon and Mars, asteroid mining, and a high-orbit space port for deeper space missions.  Because until we do have such follow-on achievements, the Apollo Program is really something of a blind alley, isn’t it.

To this end, I really think governments should take a page out of history and allow and encourage more private space exploration.  It is, as Captain Kirk would say, the Final Frontier, after all.  And it isn’t going to be conquered by gubmint bureaucrats, but instead by adventurers, people in it hoping to make a huge profit or else just doing it because they get a kick out of it.  (Absurdly enough, the movie Star Trek: First Contact nails this idea nicely:  Zephram Cochran’s self-interested quest to develop warp drive is the wave of the future, IMHO.  Ol’ Robbo likes to think whoever wrote that story-line had Adam Smith’s “Invisible Hand” floating around in the back of their mind, even if I really rather doubt it.)

Ah, well.

Maybe, just maybe, the current song and dance might kindle in others that same expectation I had back when I was a boy and still do.  And on the privateering front, I continue to be impressed by the advances being made by Space-X.  Moar, please!


**Could not resist the apropos quote, although the fact of the matter is I’ve never been a Jackie Gleeson fan.  I appreciate his talent, but his brand of humor was too broad for me.  It’s just a matter of taste.

UPDATE:  Speaking of NASA and humor, an oldie that has always made Robbo laugh:









Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo has been busy cleaning out his desk at work, as our office is upping sticks and moving to new digs in a couple weeks.

Pawing around in the drawers today, not only did I find a bottle of Tums that expired in August 2011, I also found my old Blockbuster Video membership card and a stash of Daytimer**  monthly planners from 2004 and 2005.

Good thing nobody booby-trapped them with snakes, giant rolling rocks, or death-dealing false copies back in the day.  (My file cabinets were a different matter. Spiders and collapsing doors, y’know.)  Also fortunate that I didn’t run into a party of Nazis competing to find them.  (What, you think Hitler wouldn’t have been interested in my movements for August 2004? Ha! “Vot ist in zis miserable diary?” Nothing goose-stepping morons would understand!)

Ol’ Robbo hates to throw anything away, so in order to overcome my reluctance to chuck these and many, many other bits of long-expired garbage, I just kept imagining the voice of Sean Connery in my mind saying, “Let it go, Robbo, let it go….”


** Looking up the link just now, I’m astonished the company is still in biznay, what with everybody typing everything into their iWhatevers and their email calendars.  Paper organizers in leather cases is very old school.  I like it!

Greetings again, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo has some time on his hands this afternoon, so even though I already posted this morning (and nobody reads me on Sundays anyway), I thought I’d go ahead and get round to another matter about which I’ve been meaning to write for some time.

Back in 2001, my old father put together a book of his favorite recipes (titled “Cooking With Pops”) and distributed copies to each of us kids.  In fact, he was a pretty good cook in the robust tradition (especially Italian and some German dishes), even if he couldn’t hold a candle to the Mothe’s command of French cuisine and pastry.

I use probably eight or ten of the recipes in his collection.  (I’m a picky eater.)  One of them is for grilled chicken breast with prosciutto and blue cheese.  This one baffled me the first couple times I tried to make it because it sounds so very delicious but the finished project always came out rayther bland.  So finally I decided to tinker a bit, and I must say I believe I got it bang right.

First, the Old Gentleman’s original recipe:

Ingredients:  Chicken breasts; slices of prosciutto; 1 tbs. Worchestershire sauce; 2 tbs. lemon juice; 2 tbs. butter; any blue cheese (Gorganzola, bleu, Saga, etc.)

Preparation:  Insert a sharp knife into the thick end of each breast and cut a lengthwise pocket carefully, making it as wide as possible without puncturing the sides.  Wrap pieces of cheese in prosciutto slices and insert into pockets, sealing openings with a toothpick.  Heat Worchestershire and lemon and add butter to melt.  Grill chicken over coals, basting frequently with the sauce.

Now, Robbo’s modifications:

First, don’t fool about with cutting pockets.  Instead, butterfly the breast.  Also, use a meat hammer to (carefully) flatten each side of it out.  The advantages are that you can get a whole lot more stuffing in and that the chicken itself cooks more thoroughly through.  (If you’re grilling – see below – you’ll want to make sure and lock down the flap tightly with two or three toothpicks and to be very careful when you flip it over.)

Second, regarding the sauce, the Old Boy’s proportions regarding the ingredients are correct, but obviously you may need to adjust the actual amounts depending on how many breasts you’re doing.  Now here’s the thing:  Don’t wait until you’re cooking to start adding the sauce.  Instead, make it up a couple hours ahead of time and let the chicken marinate in it in the fridge until you’re ready to go.  You can lay the breast outer side down in the marinade and just brush some over the inner side.  I suppose because of the butter, it clings very well once brushed on.  True, things get a little messy when you’re adding layers of proscuit and cheese and folding the breast over on itself, but it’s worth it.

I think the problem with the original recipe is that it leaves the chicken to filling ratio too high, and also that the marinade has no real time to penetrate.  Hence, at least to my taste, the blandness.  (To be fair, Youngest at least thinks my modifications make the meat too strong, but she says that about all my cooking.  Snowflake!)

Oh, and a final tip:  As for actual cooking, an alternative to grilling if it’s too hot/cold/rainy outside is to bake your chicken in the oven at 350 degrees for forty-five minutes.  The only downside to this is that baked chicken never looks as aesthetically pleasing as does grilled.

So there you have it.  Easy-peasy and delicious!

UPDATED:  Definitely the right call for Robbo’s Sunday dins.  Nom, nom, nom…..

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo has nothing of interest to report in a normal Saturday Gardening Post.  It was the usual round of mowing, trimming, and clearing off the driveway, and the only notable thing is that I didn’t exhaust myself doing it because, despite the fact that it’s very warm here, it was also very dry today, and I deliberately guzzled water by the quart.

So that’s that.

But what post-worthy activity did Ol’ Robbo engage in today?  Tell ’em, Johnny Olson:

Robbo bought a new toilet!


You see, some months back, the loo in the Port Swiller Manor Mawster Baath started weeping water out of the bottom of the tank.  It got so bad that a towel placed strategically underneath would quickly become sodden.  Ol’ Robbo surmised that, given the age of this particular thunder-box, it was likely that the seals around the bolts anchoring the tank to the base had probably gone duff.

So Ol’ Robbo duly investigated.  I shut off the water, undid the line, unscrewed the bolts holding on the tank, and pulled it off.

Yes, the bolts looked pretty cruddy, and so did the washers underneath.

Ah ha! says I.  And since we were going over to Lowe’s the next day to buy a parcel of spring plantings anyway, I deviated over to the plumbing section to pick up some replacement bolts and washers, figuring I could dazzle Mrs. R with a seeming miracle fix that would only cost a couple bucks.

Returning to Port Swiller Manor, in full Mike Rowe mode I put the tank back on the base, switched in the new hardware, re-attached the water line, and turned on the water.

The tank still leaked, maybe worse than before.


Completely un-Mike Rowe-like, I then said the devil with this, I’ll get a pro to deal with it.  In the meantime, I cut off the water again and instructed Mrs. R not to use this potty until we got it fixed.

And time rolled on.

This past week, growing sick of using the Gels’ loo, Mrs. R made an appointment with My Plumber to have one of their bravos come out and take a look.  He arrived this afternoon.

As we climbed the stairs, I explained the above history to him.  It took him about ten seconds after he’d taken the lid off the tank to say, “Oh, yeah.  There’s a hair-line fracture trending out from one of the bolts.  There’s your trouble.  See it?”

I saw it.

And I remembered guiltily back to when I tried to fix the thing myself and half-wondering whether I had maybe heard or felt a faint crack as I was tightening down the new bolts.  Porcelain is a real bitch to deal with and must be handled delicately.  I put this to the fellah.

“Well,” he said, “Look at it this way.  If the thing was leaking already, it’s probable you didn’t do anything to make it worse.”

Ol’ Robbo is perfectly willing to go with that.  If it weren’t broke, I wouldn’t be trying to fix it in the first place.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Anyhoo, the new unit eventually was installed and all is now well save the unexpected money involved.  Godfrey Daniel, these things are expensive!

By the bye, the whole time, I had this old Electric Company bit running through my braims.  Any friends of the decanter remember it?





Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo snapped this pic this morning upon arriving at work.  Yes, La Wrangler has cracked the 100K mark.  (I could have tried to capture the actual rollover, but a) I was whizzing down the Parkway at the time, and b) I’m not a Maryland driver.  So I waited until I reached my garage.)

And it’s only taken me…..sixteen years and three months in order to get there.  (I bought her brand new in April, 2003.)

She’s always been great fun to drive.  And so far she’s been quite dependable, with only a few signs of early middle age creeping in lately.  (Although I’ve an idea I’m going to need a new clutch in the not-so-very-distant future.)  Plus, she has absolutely none of that on-board computer techno-garbage that I so heartily loathe.

Of course I’m going to go for another 100K, and why not?  Bet she’ll make it, too.  (Unless our Neo-Totalitarian Overlords ban her for Gaia-hate, that is.)

Huzzay, Huzzah!

UPDATE:  Friends of the decanter may notice rayther a lot of pollen on some of the surfaces in this photo.  Meh.  All I can say is that the old girl gets a bath twice a year whether she needs it or not.


Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo was delighted to see this post by Gail Heriot over at the Puppy-Blender’s place this morning:  Today is the anniversary of the birth, in 1920, of Ed Lowe, the inventor of kitty litter (which he came up with in 1947).  G’wan over and read the story of how this now-seemingly-must-need product came about.  (It’s a true Yankee Ingenuity/entrepreneurial tale.)

To be perfectly honest, although Ol’ Robbo loves this kind of obscure information (an actual sin according to some theologians – a kind of gluttony, I b’lieve), and although I’ve been knee-deep in cats most of my life, I can’t say that I’d ever thought about the origins of Tidy-Cat and its ilk.  Now I know.

We’ve three litter-bins at Port Swiller Manor, one for each floor.  (This was somewhat more necessary when we had three cats, the eldest of which hated her much younger fellows.  With the eldest’s passing last fall, I suppose we really don’t need that much sand anymore but we’ve never got round to cutting back.  And cats, after all, are creatures of habit just like Ol’ Robbo.)

There’s supposed to be a regimen vis a vis who is assigned to clean out which litter.  Somehow, that regimen is never maintained, and the whole biznay devolves into a sort of last-across-the-tracks game of chicken as to who will be first to break down in disgust and start digging.  (A similar game is played regarding emptying the kitchen trash.  I usually lose that one, but when I complain I get a lot of “You’re the man so it’s your job” pushback.)  And even when a Gel can be compelled to do the litter, I notice they don’t go very deep, but merely skim the surface.

That brings up a perpetual debate about proper litter depth.  Mrs. R likes to say you don’t need a beach.  Oh, yes you do, I always argue.  Skimp on depth and much more of the, er, doings remain at or near the surface.  And stop to think about where the kittehs put their delicate little feet  after making a pit stop.  (Kitchen counter? Dining room table? My lap any time I sit down?  Anybody? Bueller?)

Anyhoo, those of you who have feline companions and who, without Mr. Lowe’s brainstorm, would still be fooling about with dirt and sawdust if not just kicking the little brutes outside, will be more than happy to join me in raising a glass in salute to his birthday!


Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Pray, Ladies and Gentlemen, fill your glasses, bumpers all round and gunn’ls under, and bless the anniversary of Our Country’s establishment with three times three and no heel taps!

Huzzah Huzzah Huzzay!!

As it happens, Ol’ Robbo will be spending the day on his own, a general diaspora of his wimmin-folk hither and yon this week not ending until the first of them returns tomorrow.  I had thought of undertaking the very patriotic duty of cleaning out the garage today, but the forecast calls for a constant threat of thunderstorms and the last thing I want is to haul everything outside just to have it get caught in a downpour.

So I plan to just chill with the dog and the cats.  My beloved Nats have an early game today in which they’ll go for a sweep of the Fish, so I’ll probably watch that.  Perhaps some exercise later on.  I do have a nice big strip-steak for dins, so there’s that.

Fireworks? Ol’ Robbo loves him some fireworks.  Back in my misspent yoot, we used to shoot off bottle-rockets by the gross. (Of course, that’s verboten now.)  I suppose I could go to the local publick display but it would be hot and crowded and I’d feel like an idiot going on my own.  There’s the “Capital Fourth” on teevee, I suppose, but I don’t care to encourage PBS.  As a matter of fact, I’ll probably just sit out on the porch with an adult beverage and listen to them going off in the distance, as I usually do.


UPDATE:  Getting the grill ready for my steak (pray the storms hold off just a little while longer), I looked up and beheld a B-2 bomber power by overhead.  I’ve never seen one in person before.  Looked like a giant bat.

Either that sumbich Trump has got us in a war, or else it has something to do with the festivities downtown (and Ol’ Robbo is enjoying bigly the Lefty bed-wetting over this year’s military display).

Either way, my reaction was, “Oh, hellz to the yes!”


UPDATE DEUX:  Prayers answered.  The rain (which is starting now) held off, and Ol’ Robbo cooked that steak to absolute perfection.  There is simply no other way to do proper respect to a good cut of meat than to give it the bare minimum time over as hot a charcoal fire as you can manage.  No. Other. Way.

UPDATE TROIS: Oh, and the Betsy Ross flag up top? I’ve been doing that for years and years.  I know all about the Nike Corporation/Colin Kaeperbottom kerfluffle this year, but see no reason at all to change my ways.  They are invited to take their Stalinist airbrush virtue-signaling campaign, roll it into a cylinder, shove it up their collective backsides, and set it alight.

Oh, and Nike? I need a new pair of running shoes. Take a wild guess at where I’m not going to buy them.  Kisses!

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

As those lynx-eyed friends of the decanter who have been following Ol’ Robbo’s train of thought for the past two days already know, today marks the anniversary of the last day of the Battle of Gettysburg, culminating in Pickett’s Charge, called by some the “High Tide of the Confederacy”.

More about that in a moment.

Poor George. He never did recover from having his command destroyed.

Ol’ Robbo may very well finally get around to watching “Gettysburg” this evening, at least the last part of it anyway, because the staging of the Charge is really very well done.  I think I read somewhere that they used 5000 re-enactor volunteers for it, and I’ll bet every one of them had a blast.

My only real criticism of the thing, indeed of the whole movie, is that it is almost completely lacking in blood: Shells cartwheel soldiers over (in what I call “Dukes of Hazzard shots”) and bullets plink them down, but there’s simply no gore.  Also, when the two sides start clashing hand-to-hand along the wall, while the overall scene is impressive, if you start focusing on the actual individuals you’ll notice a lot of them just going through the motions half-heartedly.  (I suppose this was a safety matter as much as anything else, since most of them are insurance salesmen and dentists, not professional stuntmen.)  But ne’er mind, it’s still very impressive, as well as quite accurate in its details.

As to the “High Tide” label, while there’s an understandable romance to the notion that the South was this close to winning the War, both the movie and the novel on which it’s based strongly take the Longstreet view that the Charge was suicidal folly and doomed from the start.  This view is certainly supported by Earl J. Hess’s Pickett’s Charge – The Last Attack at Gettysburg, which plots practically every step of the way in very dry measurements and figures, and shows clearly that the attack as carried out hadn’t a prayer.  Had it been properly supported with either re-enforcements or subsidiary attacks elsewhere?  Or had Lee called it off and maneuvered around to another position?  Who knows.

So what was ol’ Bobby Lee thinking?  The movie’s rather vague on the point, at least so far as his dismissal of Longstreet’s tactical objections goes.  Personally, I think it was a cross between arrogance and desperation.  (I don’t buy the movie’s hint at blind religious zealotry, nor do I think much of another theory that physical illness clouded his mental capacity.)   He’d got away with bold yet risky moves in other battles – most notably Antietam and Chancellorsville – so perhaps he simply felt an unexpected hammer-blow would panic the Yankees into collapse.  He certainly would not have launched it if he thought it had no hope of success. We’ll never know for sure, of course.

So that’s that.  And to cap things off, may I recommend Glenn Tucker’s High Tide at Gettysburg? It has a folksy style to it, but is clear and informative.

UPDATE:  Speaking of Civil War reenactors, Ol’ Robbo has been meaning to comment on the surprise sad news of the death of Tony Horwitz.  (He was only 60.)  I finally read his Confederates in the Attic within the past couple years, and also have his Blue Latitudes (tracing the voyages of Captain Cook) and A Voyage Long and Strange (about European exploration of North America). He was in the middle of promoting a new book, Spying on the South, when he died.  I haven’t read it yet.

At least from what I have read of his work, Horwitz was definitely liberal and I disagreed with some of his points, but he was also fair-minded and respectful and did not reduce complicated historickal moral issues to Lefty bumper-sticker sloganeering.

He’ll be missed.


Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Today is, of course, the anniversary of the Second Day of fighting at Gettysburg, and it seems fitting to Ol’ Robbo to keep up with my theme below concerning the movie about the battle which I still haven’t decided whether I’ll watch again.

For the reasons I discuss below, I believe the movie (and the novel on which it’s based) does an inadvertent disservice to its audience to the extent that said audience believes it to be anything like a full recounting of the Battle.  This is nowhere more evident than in its portrayal of the Second Day, which in the movie is confined almost completely to a depiction of the fighting at Little Round Top, and the actions of Col. Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain therein.  (Bowdoin College and the Brunswick, Maine Chamber of Commerce both say Thank You!, by the bye.)

Col. Strong Vincent of the 83rd Pennsylvania, who recognized the importance of occupying Little Round Top and did so on his own authority., thus arguably making him the true hero of that part of the Battle. (You’re welcome, Vic!)

Not that I would argue that the movie gets much wrong about this fight (except that it sets the action in a forest and Little Round Top was clear-cut) or overstates its critical importance to the Union cause.  Rayther, by the time it’s over, one would think that Jeff Daniels won the entire Second Day of the Battle all by himself.  This simply isn’t the case.

The novel, at least, spends somewhat more time on Longstreet’s development of his attack against the Union Left, and discusses the Wheat Field, the Peach Orchard, and the Devil’s Den.  But neither novel nor movie have much of anything to say about the Confederate attacks along other parts of the Union line, including Ewell’s movement against Culp’s and Cemetery Hills and A.P. Hill’s probe toward the Union center.  Again, Little Round Top was a crisis that the Union managed to survive, but there were plenty others that day as well.  (This is where I always mention the emergency charge of the 1st Minnesota to plug a hole along Cemetery Ridge until reinforcements could be brought up.  They went in and suffered something like 90% casualties, but they held the line.)  The fighting lasted well into the evening, by the bye, and was nip and tuck right up until the end.

So there.

Of course, I’m indulging in nerdy quibbling here, and I suppose I really ought to be grateful that the movie was made in the first place.  As I remarked in comments below, it couldn’t have been done at all nowadays because although it clearly sides with the Northern Cause, it treats just about all the players on both sides with sympathy and respect.

And we certainly can’t have that now, can we?


Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Following up on my post immediately below, shortly after Ol’ Robbo updated it mid-day Saturday, the heat-exhaustion did indeed set it.  (I’m something of a martyr to it.)  My muscles cramped up, my head split, my ears started ringing, and my chest got all froggy.  I consequently spent the next 36 hours pretty much flat on my back sucking down water and Gatorade.

“Maybe it’s time you hired somebody to mow!” said Mrs. R in her most quarter-century-plus wifely voice.

Damme if I do.

Anyhoo, between my extended rest and the fact that it has been cooler and drier the past 48 hours, Ol’ Robbo is back to normal enough to say a thing or two about the Battle of Gettysburg which began this day in 1863.

Or rather, not so much about the battle itself, but about its most famous recent cinematic depiction, which I may or may not re-watch for the eleventy-millionth time again in the course of the next few days.  We’ll see.

Ol’ Robbo has some beefs about this film, some major, some minor.***   But my biggest has always been this:  Michael Shaara, who wrote The Killer Angels, the novel on which the movie is based, was very careful to state explicitly in his introduction that the book was not a story about the Battle of Gettysburg itself.  Instead, he said, it was the story of some of the men who fought in that battle.

Fair enough.

But the movie, in taking the title “Gettysburg”, by implication spools the story back out to encompass the entire battle.  And even though that may not be it’s intent, the average movie-goer, assuming they haven’t read up their history independently, and aren’t completely pedantic nuts like me, come away thinking that the story presented in the movie is pretty much the whole story of the Battle.*****

What irks me about this is that so much which ought to be celebrated (at least if you’re a Unionist) or at least acknowledged, gets swept aside. (Yes, I know it’s a drama and not a history. Make that clearer, is all I’m saying.)

Doubleday: “By the way, what the hell is this ‘designated hitter'” rule? Find out who called for it and have them shot immediately!”

Which brings me to the portrayal of the action on July 1.   The movie faithfully follows the book’s description of the initial clash between Federal and Confederate forces through the eyes of Buford, Heth, Reynolds, and, farther back, Lee.  But once Reynolds is killed, you get about five minutes of Heth telling Lee the Confederate forces are coming down in flank from the north, a bunch of Yankee soldiers panicking and running away, and then another officer telling Lee the Yankees have fallen back through Gettysburg and are reforming on the hills behind.  The fact of the matter is that Abner Doubleday, taking over the 1st Corp in place of the fallen Reynolds, and Oliver O. Howard, with his much-maligned 11th Corp, spent the rest of the First Day putting up a hell of a spirited defense against the overwhelming numbers and flanking movements of the Confederates.  Without additional support they had no chance of actually winning, but they were able to hold their forces together, give the Rebs several local bloody noses, and withdraw without going completely to pieces (although it wasn’t pretty).

Oliver O. Howard: “Yeah, I know Stonewall got the jump on us at Chancellorsville, but that wasn’t really our fault. We stopped him in the end, didn’t we?”

The Second Day could not have been fought at all without their (and their Corps’) gallant efforts on the First.

So when Sam Elliot leans against the caisson wheel at the close of the First Day in the movie and says, “Well, General Reynolds, we held the high ground,” Ol’ Robbo gets a bit miffed on the part of those others who helped make it happen.

Harumph! Harumph! Harumph!

(Okay, maybe I’m not quite completely over the effects of the heat.)


***I’ll give you an example of a minor one.  When C. Thomas Howell, as Tom Chamberlain, stops to chat with a trio of Confederate prisoners, the staging of the scene is lifted straight from Winslow Homer’s painting, “Prisoners From The Front”.  In the movie, Howell (in an ungodly accent that wouldn’t have been heard within a thousand miles of Maine), talks with the Reb on the left, who in the painting is a slack-mouthed bumpkin.  Were the scene faithful to the painting, he more likely would have exchanged courtesies with the cavalier officer on the right.

Another egregious borrowing is the scene in which Reynolds dies.  It ends with a blatant nod to “The Death of General Wolfe” by Benjamin West.  Ol’ Robbo will be generous and assume that this is tribute and not plagiarism.

*****People often say, when I argue this sort of thing, “You may be right, Tom, but the movie will encourage people to read further and become more informed.”  I’ve yet to see any real evidence that this is the case except far out on the margins.






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