Wednesday, March 31, 2004
File-Sharing No Threat to Music SalesA study by two American university researchers [pdf] has come to the conclusion that "... file sharing has only had a limited effect on record sales." They also found that file sharing had a differential impact across sales categories - high selling albums, for example, actually benefit from file sharing. The study, by Felix Oberholzer (Harvard Business School), and Koleman Strumph (UNC Chapel Hill) undermines many of the claims that have been put forward by the music industry (namely the RIAA in the USA, and RIANZ here in NZ) as to the financial effects file-sharing have had on their business. Indeed, statistics just released in Australia actually show that, in that country at least, album sales have been growing significantly since 1998, when the first mainstream p2p client (napster) hit the internet. "In that year," reports the Sydney Morning Herald, "Australian record companies sold 39.6 million CD albums. Five years later the figure had gone up to 50.5 million. That makes it hard to argue that downloading and CD copying has been killing sales." Too right. The SMH article also highlights the spin that the record companies put on the figures to fit their 'doom-and-gloom' picture. Over the last year, for example, singles sales went down by 16.5 per cent - an 'obvious' indicator that individual song downloads are eating into that market, at least. But no, this statistic "...neglects to mention the record companies are not releasing as many singles as they used to. Sales of singles do not make much money. Singles are these days pretty much released for promotional purposes - to get radio play and drum up interest in an album. In the US, singles have virtually disappeared from sale." The same is probably true in New Zealand, where, for example, the only New Zealand #1 song of 2002 - Fur Patrol's 'Lydia' - got to the top of the singles charts without actually being available to be bought in shops. On the flipside, the RIAA in the USA is still arguing that profits are down, as a direct result of file-sharing. It's true that profits are down: from $13.2 billion in 2000 to $11.2 billion in 2003. One might point out that the USA was going through an economic recession during this period, that a couple of the bigger companies dropped (some might say 'made fair') their wholesale CD prices to 'combat piracy', and that, a lot of the time, the music being released by the major labels was just complete crap and not worth buying. This latter argument is backed up by this article, which reports of an increase in kids getting into their parents' record collections and 'classic rock' as a way of finding some decent music. "Before I listened to classic rock, there was nothing I really liked," says Kristin Clarke - an eighth-grader. "Every new band has one good song and the rest of the CD is garbage. On old rock albums, every song is great. I'm always hitting the repeat button." Kids are savvy, eh? For this reason, AC/DC's Back in Black, Queen's Greatest Hits, Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, as well as most of the back-catalogue of The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin, are all consistently good sellers, year after year. This is a lesson that seems to have been forgotten by all the major record companies: decent albums by established artists can sell truckloads over many years, and at a decent price (most of the 'classic' records I spot in the stores tend to be priced around the nearly decent price of $20-$25, as opposed to the rip-off $35 that most new releases go for, or the $5-$10 bargain bin price for last year's Vengaboys album). For the last decade or so it's all been throwaway disposable pop - massive marketing behind a weak product that sells millions but will be forgotten within weeks by the people who were sucked into buying it. Obviously, until p2p came along, this scheme worked fine for the record companies - you didn't know an album (with that great single you'd heard on the radio) was crap until you got home, gave it a couple of listens, and realised that most of the album was just filler - essentially $35 for a single or two, and a dozen (crappy) b-sides. File-sharing has allowed consumers to truly try before they buy (none of this standing at a listening station at the noisy record store, getting a 15 seconds snip of each song before having to decide whether it's worth your while or not). And as a result .. well .. album sales are up! Maybe all that file-sharing has just allowed people to more accurately decide what albums they actually want to spend their hard-earned cash on. [On a tangent: I had a discussion with some of my mate's the other night about 'classic albums' (specifically UK artists) that had come out in the last 20 years. The only one we could agree on was the Stone Rose's debut album. Debated hotly were Primal Scream's Screamadelica, Radiohead (The Bends and/or OK Computer), Coldplay's A Rush of Blood to the Head, and, um, that was about it. There must be more, surely - something that kids in 30 years will get as much of a musical/emotional kick from as kids today are from the Beatles albums, Dark Side of the Moon, Back in Black. Suggestions in the comments box please.] Back here in NZ, record companies are up in arms about the impending amendment to the Copyright Act that will allow for format-shifting of music you already own from (for example) CD onto your iPod or a cassette tape, an act that is presently (insanely) illegal. "At the end of the day, you're sending a message that it's okay to copy, and that is going to kill our business," says Michael Glading, managing director of Sony NZ. OK, for starters 'At the end of the day' is a cliche that I think should be restricted to sports stars who have taken one too many hits to the head at the bottom of the ruck, instead of being spouted by senior executives working in multi-national corporations. Secondly, the study quoted above points out that there is insignificant impact from file-sharing of songs that people don't already own. How allowing people to copy stuff they have bought for their own personal use is going to kill the business is an effect that I somehow fail to see. # | Tuesday, March 30, 2004
BooksWhen I worked at the public library in Christchurch, I always used to chortle when I spotted the 'I-have-read-this' marks scrawled inside the covers of many of the books. Thinking at first that it was some sort of low-level vandalism, I eventually figured out (it was the large print books that really gave it away), that many of the older patrons would develop a small hieroglyphic-style squiggle that alerted them to the fact that they had already read a book, thereby avoiding the nuisance of taking home a novel they'd already spent a good proportion of their precious time reading. 'Ahahaha, old people!" I would laugh to myself.But then, typical, I started getting old myself, and I did exactly that on holiday earlier this year, when I was about half-way through P.J. O'Rourke's All the Trouble in the World, and I realised I had read it before. Admittedly, I must have read it in the same way I did the second time around, picking chapters at random instead of reading from start-to-finish, as I was pretty sure there were a couple of chapters I hadn't read, and others that I had pretty good recall of as soon as I'd skimmed the first paragraph. But still, the old brain isn't what it was... So, from now on, I'm going to keep a record of what I've read. I'll do it here, because, with the magic of the interweb, I can hook my booklist into my affiliate scheme over at amazon or real groovy and potentially make a few cents here and there from anyone who bothers to click through and read the same sorts of books that interest me. I might even write a review or two, if I'm feeling particularly enthused. Anyway, so far, this year... ...and I'd swear there were a few more, but I seem to have forgotten what they were. # | Monday, March 29, 2004
You have 48 hoursAhh, the stag night. I haven't actually been on a traditional stag night - my own was undermined by my (successful) attempts at avoiding some of the usual humiliating rituals - so on this Saturday night, with a dozen other lads out to celebrate a good mate's impending nuptials, I was technically a stag-night virgin, and, as a result, vaguely nervous at what the night held in store ("four venues! four activities!" announced the night's organiser).Things started out innocently enought - an hour or so of shooting pool while watching the Crusaders/Highlanders game at the Ballroom on Courtenay Place. I'd arrived first after dropping my wife off at the equivalent 'hen's night' up the road, so had some time to practise while waiting for the other boys to arrive. I just about cleared the table off the break in my first solo game, was shooting like a total gun for the next half or so, and then the other lads arrived and my game went to custard. Typical. The evening's organiser introduced us to 'Suzy' - the disembodied head of a mannequin to whom we were entrusted with looking after for the evening. There was, in fact, a polaroid at hand, and a small book entitled 'How to Treat a Lady' into which snapshots of us showing Suzy a good time were to be entered into, to be ultimately handed over to the soon-to-be bride, to show that, yes, her man (and his male friends) did know how to show a lady a good time. Venue #1 (the pool room was merely a rallying point) was the Courtenay Place TAB. What's a more manly pursuit, after all, than hanging around a TAB, flitting your dosh away on the nags? I daringly put $5 on a 40-1 outsider to place in the first race I could find, and nearly had a stroke of beginners luck when my horse (Bella Starr) led the field from the start, only getting pipped in the last 50 metres, when, it must be said, the entire rest of the field swooped past her. Must have hit her wall, or something. The group decided we should move to venue #2 - the Cambridge Hotel - for a couple of manly jugs and to watch the rest of the races that the boys had bets on. The group stopped in at one of the lad's offices to drop off bags, jackets and whatnot, and to take the chance to have an evening-enhancing smoke in a private environment. Some laughing gas was produced and partaken. We were well set for the evening, and all I needed to set myself right was a quick toilet break before heading off to the pub (which would no have one of those doubt terrifying communal piss-walls, where stage-fright is forever an impediment to a good whizz). And this, as they say, is when it all went horribly wrong... As I stood there in the toilet, I found myself looking at a sticker stuck to the wall above the toilet tank. "You have 48 hours," it said. Do I? I thought. I wonder what for? I finished up, zipped up and washed up, then walked out into the central corridor that connected the various offices in the building together. It was pitch black. Everyone had left. I dashed to the door that led downstairs, found the lock, opened it, tried to snib it so it would lock behind me on the way out, and then saw that the last person out was locking up the downstairs door at the bottom of the long and dark stairwell that connected the office complex to the street below. It was just like a film, and I'd swear I shouted in slo-mo: "Nooooooo!" I knew the bottom door was a deadbolt, but I dashed down anyway, hoping my memory was flawed on this fact. It wasn't. And then, faaaark! Had I just snibbed the upstairs door as well? Was I to be trapped in this dark stairwell until someone realised I was missing? Thankfully, no - the upstairs door was a deadbolt as well, so I at least had access to, well, what? A dark upstairs office complex, the doors to the various offices all appearing to be locked. My first thought was: fire escape - there must be a way out onto the street somewhere via a window and ladder or something. I stumbled around in the dark, found my way back to the toilet where there was a small window. I could have struggled out with some keen twising and contorting, but only if I'd wanted to plunge six metres straight down into the alley below. So, more exploring. There was a kitchen area that wasn't locked, but offered about the same option as the toilet, and around the corner from that, a dis-used junk room where some previous incarceree seemed to have reached the same sort of dead-end as me, and had punched out the centre of a large locked window, scattering broken glass onto a small ledge below, (from which it still would have been a one-storey jump into the alley below). Whoever had broken the glass had either given up on the idea, or cut themselves to shreds getting out, as most of the glass was still hanging in the window, and I was loath to go through all the smashing and associated noise in order to get myself to a point where I might or might not risk a broken bone by leaping for freedom. No fire escape. At this point I really wish I had a mobile phone. You have 48 hours, I thought. I was to be stuck in here all weekend? And Monday? At least I'd have a fullproof excuse to give my wife about not attending the inevitable strip club. "I didn't go! I was locked in an office!" Slight paranoia was starting to creep in now, so I tried to distract my mind by looking for another means of escape. I tried all the doors leading off the corridor, and, finally (thankgod thankgod thankgod), a door swung open. I could see the blinking lights of computers in the dark of the room. Yes! Computers are my friends. Surely there was a phone in here somewhere. I felt saved. It was still pitch black though, despite the odd blinking LED, and I really needed some illumination to find out what use any of this technology was. Buggered if I could find a light-switch, despite scrabbling around on the wall all around the door frame. I got to my knees and found one of the PC towers. I turned it on. Voila! The happy cathode-tube glow of the monitor sparking to life gave me enough light to see that there was a table-lamp on the corner of one of the desks. I turned this on. Brilliant. Underneath the lamp was a phone and the white pages. I knew at least three of the guys on the stag night had mobiles, so it was only a matter of getting their numbers, and giving them a call. None of them were in the phonebook. I rang home and got the number of the groom-to-be and bride-to-be from our babysitter. I rang them both, and got answer messages. I left messages: "Ahhh, yeah, hi, it's James. I'm locked in [----]'s office downtown. Can you get someone to save me? Thanks." I figured that, since I had time on my side, I may as well try and get hold of the other lads there, and proceeded to track down another couple of potentially useful numbers by ringing the home phone of another husband/wife team who were on the simultaneous stag/hen nights. I knew their cell-phone numbers were stored on their answer message, so just needed it to ring through to get them... "Hello?" says a pleasant sounding voice with an English twang. Ah, hadn't been expecting this. Ummm... "Ah, hi. Um, my name's James, and I'm out on a stag night with [-----], and I've got myself locked into a building in town somewhere. You don't happen to have his mobile number on you, do you?" "Ah, hell, no! I do have his wife's though." "That would be great, I can call her and get her to ring him." "Great, here it is." I got it. I now knew that the chances were that she'd be on answer-phone as well (the ladies were partaking in belly-dancing lessons we'd been told, so may not have been checking their mobiles as regularly as I would have liked), so I thought I may as well get [-----]'s number while I was at it... "That's great, thanks. Hey, I'm just going to ring back - can you let it ring on to the answerphone, the other number I need is on their answer message." "Oh, ok, and good luck with getting out!" "Cheers, yes." I rang back. The phone got picked up. "Hello?" "It's me." "Oh, hell, sorry..." I rang again. This time I just got a quick click. Nearly there... Third time lucky, but, again, both the numbers I had got me straight through to answer messages. I left my plaintive call for help on those phones, and started to work on my next ploy. The pub! Of course! Just ring the pub, I knew where the lads were, after all. Ring the Cambridge and get them to pass me onto the guy in the bar carrying around the mannequin's head. How could I have been so stupid? (Yes, yes, smoke, nitrous, etc.) I got the number from the white pages, rang it, and got into their automated phone system, from which I eventually got onto the bar's line, which went straight onto hold. I held for about 5 minutes, during which time the tiny phone speaker blared out some pretty stonking hip-hop beats - just the sort of thing I imagine the Cambridge clientele are really into, but didn't inspire me into thinking anyone at the bar was going to answer it in a hurry. I was in a pro-active mood by now, so did another ring around of the mobile numbers I had - still no joy. I was wondering if I could get an internet connection on one of the three or four computers that were scattered around the office, and get one of my online buddies to send a messenger around to the Cambridge, when I heard the downstairs door rattle. I was saved! Yes, much hilarity at my expense on rejoining my companions at the pub - but, already it was a night to remember. The big bottles (no jugs, mores the pity) were coming out thick and fast, as a couple of the boys had had good wins on the fillies, and we tanked up in preparation venue #3, where we were booked in for a couple of games of... LaserForce. Running around with laser guns and targets, shooting each other - very manly. I was a dab hand in my younger days, playing every friday night with some friends, so I rather rated myself tonight. The suits you wear are all have name-plates on them. I was Radar - this seemed fitting, somehow. Having suited up and been given a quick rundown on the rules, the two teams entered the arena ... and everything went hazy green. At first I thought there was lots of dry ice and weird green lighting, but I quickly figured out that my glasses have some sort of coating on them that react to the UV-light that makes its glow like crazy in the same way it does to your teeth and finger nails. So I was essentially looking through this glowing green haze for the entire time. We had two games, a team v. team effort, then ten minutes of every-man-for-himself mayhem, and I was waaayyyy down the bottom of the stats for both. We had a group breather at that point - the strip club was next, and I think we needed to get some mental resolve issues sorted out before heading that way. Some lads went for kai, and the rest of us stayed in the Laserforce foyer playing some spacies. I finally got the gumption up to give the Dance Dance Revolution (or whatever flavour it was) game a go, which also gave me my opportunity for my photo-op with Suzy - after all, what better way to treat a lady than to take her dancing? Unless it's dancing with me, of course. "You are Loser!" the game informed me after my first spastic effort. It wasn't until about a third of the way into my second game that I figured out I shouldn't just be standing there stabbing my feet at the appropriate footpad when told to, but actually bouncing around a bit in time to the music (aha! yes, dancing I think they call it), so you just need to realign your stance to hit the targets at the appropriate time. Duh. Even with that revelation, it was still: "You are Loser!" I figure what I need is an equivalent game where you could stand there, motionless, a beer in one hand, and have well-timed head nod score you points. So yes, first time DDR player, and now, as the lads walked into the often seen, but (for me, can't vouch for the others) never crossed threshold of Santa Fe, first time strip-club goer. $15 to get in, and, out of $20 I got some funny money for change. There's an 'official Santa Fe' currency, wouldn't you know? Same thing happened when I went to buy a drink (I noticed that all the drinks were cunningly priced at whatever dollars and fifty cents, forcing you to break bigger notes, and get their own currency as change). Our group probably doubled the total audience size, and we crowded around a couple of tables to watch the entertainment. Now, well, yes, um, it was quite entertaining. We caught the end of one girl's show, and while another blond started the slow removal of her relatively skimpy costume, the first one sidled down into the audience to earn a few tips. I quickly sussed the routine. She'd come up, you held out some of the funny money, and you got a routine that was in accordance with your tip. I imagine a bit of a lap-dance cost you $10 or $20 or something, but I wasn't to find out, as I took the married man's route out with the $2 'please-go-away' tip. It worked a treat. In fact, I suspect just about all the married men (and most of the single lads) took that route out with either a $2 or $5 tip, meaning, for the effort of walking around a table with her breats out, this young woman had just earned an extra $30-$50 or so. I had to laugh when I heard a guy at another table say "No, not tonight," and she replied, loud enough (but not too loud) for everyone else to hear: "Having a cheap night out are we dear?" Brilliant. Notes of every denomination appeared in hands around the room in an instant. Nothing much else to report on that front. Our group, to a man, were extremely well behaved. Once the initial repressed-white-boy-embarassment had worn off, it was even a bit boring, and I found myself eyeing up the pool table, wondering if I could get someone to play. Talk was made of moving off to meet up with the hen night girls, who were at a bar across town, so we got our last drinks down, and looked to spend the last of our funny money. There was a small asian girl doing here thing around the poles at the time, so I joined the other lads with cash-to-burn on one of the side-stage tippers' stools, and waved my last $10 at her. She eventually caught sight of it, and came over in front to give me the $10 routine. It was pretty good. There are some steel pole beams that go across the roof above the stage, and she leapt up, did an upside-down splits that evoked cheers and applause from those assmbled. She was, I would like to point out, still wearing her entire costume at this point (red and black - very good - lacy knickers and bra), so there were no eye-watering views of anatomy that one doesn't normally see during gymnastic routines anyway. She then leapt down and stood directly in front of me. Crikey, I though, this is trouble. And it was. She put one foot on one shoulder, dropped backwards so her hands were on the ground, and lifted her other foot onto my other shoulder. I was staring up her legs, thinking about that woman in the 007 film who broke mens' necks with her thighs, wondering if my wonky glasses were going to stay on, and trying to think of what I should say to her should she really start to get jiggy with it. As my mind was racing with all this, she just stayed in that intial position, wriggling in a totally non-erotic manner, obviously trying to find her balance. She then pulled her feet off my shoulders, went into a squat in front of me, lent forward, and whispered into my ear... "You are too tall." "Eh?" "You are too tall, I cannot do it properly. If you would just bend down..." Saved! Again! From whatever 'it' was. "Ahaha, no, that's fine, thanks very much." "Thank you, " she said, as I nimbly tucked the $10 funny money into her bra, "have a nice night." "No, thank you, " I said. And that was it. I left the boys behind when I realised the time was "two fucking thirty. No way!" and jumped in a cab home. "Good night?" asked the driver. "Yeah, except for getting locked in an office for half an hour." He hesitated, perhaps not sure if I was taking the piss or not, so I took the inititiative and asked him if he knew the final score in the cricket for the day, which totally put him at ease and opened him up like a can of beans. We quickly got onto chatting about his efforts in club cricket that day, and when lightly pressed, his cricket career in general. His top club score was 73, and he'd scored 50+ three times. He'd scored a couple of centuries at school ("Happy memories") but was disappointed not to have done the same at club level. We then moved onto global politics (by way of the recent India/Pakistan one-day seres, which seems to have done more to ease tensions in the region than years worth of diplomacy), but had barely touched on the Afghanistan situation when he dropped me home in Island Bay. Cricket, though, how good a conversation starter is it? # | Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Couldn't think of a sloganI must admit, I laughed when I saw this photo of the Iraq invasion anniversary anti-war march in London... The right wingers over at Little Green Footballs (and most of the other US right wing blogs, when I had a trawl around) are having a field day with this and other similary ill-thought out slogans and banners with some suggesting it's a subtle bit of counter-protest, trying to undermine the anti war movement by making it look 'stoopid'. Admittedly, some of the American protesters slogans are a bit moronic - but you find the same sort of intelligence-deprived sloganeering going on in the pro war crowd (yes, they do exist, and they even get out and protest). In the English case, it just makes me think some of this particular anti-war crowd have a sense of humour, which is more than what can be said for most of the right wing, pro-war mob. Mirthless bunch that they are... # | Monday, March 22, 2004
Independent Record stores enjoying the p2p buzzNice post by Dubber over at The Wireless, who's dug up an article that reports independent music stores are starting to see a 'buzz' created around tracks that are being downloaded illegally via p2p. The owner of one store blames major label greed as the difference between kids buying a CD, and deciding to download it from kazaa/soulseek/shareaza/whathaveyou. The going price for a new release is US$18, but should be, according to this particular record shop owner more like US$15. "That $3 can make the difference in terms of whether or not a CD is going to sell." And furthermore, the availability of all that music on the web turns people into music junkies - they just can't get enough, in any format, and the only thing holding them back is the cost. The story is the same from the several record store owners interviewed. And one of them is savvy enough to point out "it's like radio, another form of promotion that spurs sales." Hooray, they've seen the light. As Dubber points out, there was the same palaver when radio was born, last century... "...the record companies screamed. Why would anyone want to buy records now that you could hear your favourite songs for free over the radio? And high-rotates?! Agh! You're killing us!" In other news, the NZ government looks set to at least allow us to burn a CD we own (just once, mind you), in an update to the local copyright laws. A step in the right direction at least, but one that seems to be at odds with the major labels theories on what is right and wrong. I heard Adam Holt, managing director of Universal NZ (and a usually sensible soul when it comes to the music biz), complaining about it on National Radio this morning. His argument was along the lines of "Why would anyone need to copy a CD they own just so they could have it at their bach? Why not just take the CD to the bach?" Jesus. I'm in the habit (so, repeat offender, if any law-enforcement officer is reading this - I'm ready for the cuffs) of making a copy of any CD I buy, and stashing the original away in an archive box. Why? I've got two pre-schoolers, and I don't want to see my $20-$30 investment destroyed in a moment by an inadvertent scratch when one of them's clumsily loading a disc into the stereo. This sensible (or at least, I think it's sensible) behaviour is currently illegal, and the majors don't even lose out if the law is passed, as I've already bought the disc. Unless, of course, they forsee the scratched disc problem, and are actually banking on me having to buy it again in x number of years anyway. Wouldn't put it past them actually. Anyway, Dubber again nails it on the head... This is archetypal stuff from the majors: self-interested, counter-intuitive, anti-consumer, plain old bad business and even worse PR. Adam Holt's due for a bonus from these guys. And this from someone who reportedly likes the Smiths. For shame. # | Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Radio Active 89FM NZ Music Show : 16 March, 2004 Got a call about tea-time from one of the Active crew informing me that there was to be a live-to-air from local act the Inkling on the show tonight, and then an interview afterwards, and would I (and Jules) be cool with handling all that? Well, my one experience with handling a live-to-air involved hitting one button at the appropriate moment, and then the same button again when the band had finished, so that seemed well within my realms of ability. I'd never done an interview before, but, well, I've been in bands, been interviewed myself, so how hard could it be? "No worries," I said.We arrived nice and early, so as to make sure we were on top of the technical side of things, which, as I'd surmised, was as simple as fading in the feed from the studio downstairs, and then cutting them out again when they announced the end of their set. The only real problem was letting them know when to start. There is no intercom or suchlike between RadioActive and Marmalade Studios, so the plan was to ring them up about a minute before they were due to start, and give them a countdown. All very sophisticated. The live-to-air was due to start at about 9:15, so we kicked into the show as per usual. The previous host wrapped up his set and told us that he'd done a 'technically perfect' show, a rare thing for him. Jules and I vowed we would try to follow suit, and then instantly proceeded to forget to turn off our mics on our first voice break, rambling inanely over our first track of the night. We queued up some ads to give us some breathing space before calling the studio, and then, typical, just as Ju went to pick up the phone to call the studio, we got a call. Minor panic as our countdown was but a minute or so away, and I had visions of another 'hippy van' discussion, but, thankfully, it was just someone wanting to be buzzed in downstairs so they could get to the studio ("Probably their singer," I jested), so, with them through the door, we rang the studio, gave them a few vague time-to-go indicators, and, when we got to 10 seconds, realised that it was actually more like 20, but heard them start after 10 anyway, leading to a very subtle fade-in of the performance... ...which was fantastic. The Inkling do a nice turn on post-rock instrumental jazz noodlings, a la Tortoise, maybe a touch of Sigur Ros or Mogwai - all dynamics and clever playing. Luke from indie rockers Paseload plays keys, Phil of the now defunct garage-rock outfit Two Lane Black Top is on the drum stool, and the rest of them all seem to be self-taught musical legends. After that, we had my (and perhaps their) first ever interview. Chaos ensued. # | Monday, March 01, 2004
AwaySheesh. You go away for two weeks, and this is what's waiting for me on return... # | |
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