lost chance, broken romance

After that kiss, everything changed. You know that moment in your life where you're at a crossroads, up or down, left or right, a manicheist move that would most certainly create a parallel universe where your whole life would be different according to the path you chose. So he pulled the black from the gray, he just appeared in front of my apartment not even five minutes after we've been together and he swept me off my feet. I swear I could feel a breeze beneath my sole. He just held me in his arms and I allowed myself to drown in them, denying the floor I no longer needed, for I had him to hold on to.

There were a few things we shared and a fair amount of stuff we disagreed on. We were both very cynical at the time, and mathematically if you see him as both my anti-hero and my anti-romance-prince-charming - being that two minuses make a plus - I guess he became both my hero and, though with no such doses of romance, a bit of a prince. But he had always been quite charming for that matter.

It was quite practical, our relationship; same university, common friends, and we lived in the same building - though I had to share mine and he didn't. So his place became the stage of our love, and of all the things we enjoyed doing together or did anyway just to prove to the other how distasteful they were. He liked cheesy movies; I watched in silence and then mocked him loudly, until he would shut me up with a kiss, lift me from the sofa while I will wrap my legs around him, take me to the bedroom with the sound of things falling (and sometimes breaking) through our passage, not loudly enough to make us stop kissing each other and want to reach the bed so badly, where he would softly lay me, and then lay over me, and then the softness of all that, and the soft lines on his face, they all became rougher, stronger, eager to undress me and do what kids in love do: sex with an excessive use of nails and teeth.

I loved his face in the morning. I loved his cheeks and beard, his swollen lips revealing even more the piercing he had which always amused me, to the point where I almost bit it off during a rough afternoon sex session. His eyes were incapable of opening more than one millimeter as the sun entered the room, so I just left him there. I went to the kitchen, barefoot and barely dressed, I made some coffee, grabbed my pack of cigarettes, passed through the mirror to arrange my hair - what do you expect after having experimented new sex positions almost all night? - and went back to the room, left a cup of coffee on his bedside table and went to sit on the window sill, with the ashtray beside me, lighting my cigarette, opening the window just a tiny bit to relief the smell of last night's groin, sweat and smoke. It was when he proved me he was truly in love with me. Every morning. The light was hurting his eyes so much, he was wrestling with his eyelashes to protect him from the brightness, he would make the funniest faces in such an effort, a loving admirable effort, just to watch me. Once again, he was pulling the black from the gray, turning my (and some of his -yes, he was not demon-free) darkness into luminance, just for me to be the first thing he saw everyday, against all the hurting morning light, in my panties and wearing his Texas Chainsaw Massacre T-shirt. "You're not stealing it from me, I don't care how sexy you look in it" he would say, "it is already mine" - I'd reply. He turned from the light and hid under the pillow, waiting for me to finish my cigarette and went there to kiss him on his cheek, before I went to take a shower so we could go to the university. "Don't forget your coffee", I'd say, "it's getting cold".

We were in different courses so it wasn't like we spent 24/7 together, he was working at a clothing store downtown so normally I'd give him a kiss in-between classes (except for that one time when we didn't have morning sex and I dragged him to the rehearsal room to satisfy my lust), then after his shift we'd go for coffee near his workplace, take a walk in the center, take some tourist-like pictures, some artistic ones, and sometimes - often after he got his paycheck - we would have dinner around there. There were even some other times, when I was busier with school or just felt lazy, or it rained, or we just didn't feel like it, and I'd wait him home, we'd have pasta on the sofa watching bad TV shows and complaining about everything, but always with a sarcastic humor. The best thing about this evenings was, no matter the mood I was in, he always managed to get some tomato sauce on his beard by the piercing area and make me laugh as loudly as we often made love afterwards.

We spent nights watching horror and terror movies; the old and the new ones, the ones about zombies and the others on aliens. I was never scared; but every time I got spooked and jumped he held me closer and mocked me. Then we laughed together because, fortunately, we were closer.

He loved photography; and I admired his work more than I ever told him, because I wanted him to feel challenged and always improve the immense talent he had. I was always jealous of his models, they were all prettier, skinnier, and far more photogenic than me. But that wouldn't matter to him. Because he saw me naked, he loved me naked, around his house, among his favorite things, dancing to his favorite songs in my underwear, wearing his favorite clothes and leaving my aroma on his sheets. I was in his habitat. This state of intimacy made me a living part of his art, not only because he was in love with me, but because he surrounded me with everything he loved the most: the books, the movies, the clothes, the concerts, the songs, the food, the drinks. He set the stage for our love, in his apartment. And that made it his best photo-shoot, his masterpiece; and I, I was his muse.

When we didn't have to go home for the weekends, I'd let him photograph me as he wish, with modeling poses I never knew how to do, first in black and white with all the decadent things we loved - glasses of whisky, black lingerie, cigarettes, messy hair and dark make-up - and then as the spring came along, we took some outside shots in the rooftop of our building, in summer dresses and silky blouses. I remember this particular photo - it was somewhere else, I was laying in the grass and tired of having my picture taken, I was whining and asking him to stop; and as I finally reached the man behind the camera, he got the best photo of me - or at least the most genuine - I was truly smiling, while trying to hide. I was hiding from the camera, from a picture everyone would be able to see, to hide under his chin and smile only to him. The reason of my smile.

We did not thrash his entire apartment by drinking, smoking and fucking in every single division of the house - ok, we did, but we also went out. We were both into hardcore so we went to a few gigs on the other side of the river; after releasing some tension, shouting some lyrics, and meeting some friends we would get totally drunk and lose the last ferry - all there was left for us to do would be to sit somewhere (my head had his shoulder as an established place to lay on) and watch the sunrise before being able to come back home.

Actually, when he wasn't too tired from work or had the day off we would go out nearly every night with our friends from the university, and I have to admit I always got pretty wasted because I knew I had my not-so-romantic-prince-charming taking care of me. And he always did, after going from bar to bar, drinking every cocktail possible, there he was, my prince, carrying me to his white horse - or as we may also call it the night bus - and taking me safely home. He always took my socks off because he knew how much I hated sleeping with them; and he always made sure my feet were warm too.

We took a lot of pictures on the beach that year - summer started earlier, so we often just took a train and went there, met some friends and went for some beer afterwards; but with my camera of course, his could never go to these kind of hazardous places. He would never admit it, but they actually looked quite good. Very funny, splashy, salty, sandy, sunny. I hated when he came out of the water and laid on top of my really heated body from the sun, and just shake his head like a dog for me to get all the water and salt. I remember complaining to the point of denying him sex that night, trying really hard to pout - but, in fact, I loved when he did it, it was as if during the time he was swimming in the sea he was already missing me (and furthermore, despite my pouting, we had really savage sex that night).

As the summer was starting, so were the music festivals - and there was this one (the most expensive, of course) that we really wanted to go to - and somehow, we got tickets for it. I had my final exam that day so I couldn't go with him, but we were to meet sometime later. He was already there; I succeeded both in my exam and in getting quickly drunk afterwards; and was heading for the festival. But somehow we were missing each other. Something was wrong. I couldn't find him. I tried to contact him every way I could. I couldn't seem to reach him. I didn't understand what was happening. Where was he? And where was I? And most important, why weren't we together? Then, as I blinked, I was in the middle of a crowd, in Faith No More concert, listening to "Easy", in his arms, and kissing him. Like I just fell there accidentally. But I didn't.

The wrong thing was the blinking. Its duration - and content, was somewhat different; not the usual nanosecond of darkness in front of your eyes. The blinking meant the actual darkness that never left. It meant that when we were at a crossroads, we chose the other path - he let things remain gray. And I was afraid of the consequences that might had come with the light. He went to my apartment. He did kiss me. The world stopped spinning. "Good night". The world went back to its normal pace, and so did we. But still I watched his favorite cheesy movie quietly and mocked him when it finished; still, I smoked (though with clothes on) on his window sill; and we also did go to the rooftop listening to some of our old favorite songs, and even took some pictures; still, we went to that festival. We did not made plans to go together or to meet there, we found each other by chance, and we were both alone. And still, I listened to "Easy" in his arms and he did kiss me. But once again, we chose the gray. Once again, it was "good night" and a door closing, only to hear from him some weeks after as nothing as ever happened. Because nothing ever really did.

how to alienate people

Well, if there’s anyone you’d like to alienate, I’m the person you want to see for advice. Or maybe you don’t even want to see me for that; that’s how good I am in this alienating thing. I’m just sorry I didn’t found out this sooner – I’m twenty and already in college, because if I weren’t you can bet your ass I’d get a job like George Clooney in “Up in The Air”. That’s totally my thing; getting people down and making them hate me. Can you imagine, I’d do the one thing I’m good at, I’d be paid for it and I’d travel the world.

This may sound cocky, but believe me it’s not. It’s pure reality! I know I’m full of myself most of the time – it is part of my alienating talent – but I’m pretty sure of this one. More than skeptical about people, I am now cynical. I went from being disappointed by everyone around me to being the disappointment itself. Wow, am I good or what?I can tell you need some facts right now, it seems like I’m talking bullshit here. If you know me, then you’re already aware that I am neither nice nor sweet, I don’t like physical contact and I don’t smile much. I can be pretty arrogant and I have problems with authority figures. But this marked innate ability of mine has been worked and shaped to the point where even my closest ancestor tells me I should stop visiting them at all – I’m like that dark cloud that sets some awkward mood; I am a bad company, always getting in trouble with everyone and not letting them rest on weekends. Furthermore, I was told that if I really need to go to the house I used to live in then I should get in my fucking car and disappear during the day. I think it’s a great accomplishment when you’re only twenty and your progenitor tells you you’re incapable of showing affection or any kind of emotions, thus being incapable of being part of any relationship. I’m often asked how do I even keep the few friends I have; I don’t have a clue, but I promise I’m not paying them in any way.This conversation ended with a very curious phrase: I just hope you’ll never have kids. I never thought about that, I have no idea of what I’ll do with my life (besides dreaming about getting a job like Clooney’s). I don’t think I’d be a good parent; I don’t even know what a good parent is. But I definitely know what a bad one is; someone set the perfect example of what I will never become. And no kid of mine would ever write shit like this.Don’t get me wrong, I am very glad of everything that has ever happened to me. I don’t feel damaged or broken; I feel like I have something more than anyone else, like I have a different aptitude above average ability. As Henry Miller said, “One’s destination is never a place but a new way of seeing things” - and I just reached my place.

whose bed is this, whose body is this

I feel like I've been here before. It doesn't seem new at all, nor surprising. The smell of booze, the mascara on the pillow and the clothes from the night before still hanging on my passed-out body. Now my brain seems like it just started to work again and my mind races through who I am, where I am and what happened in the past weeks. I start to regret that I woke up and allowed myself to think. That was the entire point of last night! Last night. What the fuck happened last night? I barely remember, which alone is a quite scary idea. But it did not go well. Something's wrong. How did I end up here?

STANDARD OPERATING PROCEDURE

Por muito que me agradasse, dada a limitação de palavras, não me vou permitir divagar ou criticar a ocupação do Iraque. Não. Desta vez vou falar da questão das fotos tiradas em Abu Ghraib. A questão que se coloca (ou pelo menos que eu coloquei a mim própria) neste documentário é a seguinte: será que o problema reside na tirada e posterior divulgação das fotografias ou no tratamento dado aos prisioneiros de guerra? Esta questão permite-nos ainda extrapolar para muitas outras, como o tratamento dado em Guantanamo Bay bem como em várias prisões espalhadas pelo Afeganistão e Iraque.
Uma das justificações dadas aquando do documentário para os actos de violência quer física quer mental por parte dos guardas prende-se com o facto de a sua nação ter sido atacada por terroristas e, aqueles sobre quem recaíam tais actos, eram cúmplices ou tinham informações sobre os causadores do ataque. Uma outra justificação dada por Javal Davis, um sargento que, na minha opinião, pareceu ser dos mais sensatos, foi a de que não podemos imaginar como é o ambiente num sítio como aquele, em que constantemente tememos o que vem do exterior – ataques de rebeldes iraquianos – e o que está dentro daquelas mesmas paredes, que são ora muralha contra a ameaça que vem de fora, ora câmara de morte súbita para quem lá se encontra. Uma pressão como essa, vinte e quatro horas sobre vinte e quatro horas, durante meses e às vezes anos, é bem capaz de corromper a mente e os valores em que alguém sempre acreditou. Mas ainda assim, poderá a nossa dor ser justificação para a dor de outra pessoa? Ainda na voz deste sargento, um afro-americano que, ao contrário dos outros, parecia bem mais resignado com o destino que lhe havia sido atribuído, podemos notar que a única vez (segundo o seu relato) em que realmente perdeu a calma e agrediu um dos prisioneiros foi quando uma colega sua foi agredida com um tijolo na cara, ficando totalmente desfigurada. Perdoem-me o recurso à Psicologia, mas parece-me que o grande problema desta questão (bem como do país norte-americano) é a Transferência. Não a transferência de um trauma de infância que necessitamos de projectar em alguém que nos é próximo: estamos a falar de algo em grande escala. Trata-se de um trauma historico-social: as agressões constantes a uma nação que se autoproclama desenvolvida, ao longo de vários anos de uma curta História como é a estado-unidense, levou a uma cultura do medo, a um sentimento desenfreado de localização num campo de guerra mesmo estando dentro de casa, tendo a coexistência de várias culturas num só território originado o que podemos ver hoje: um Estado que se agride a si próprio, desde as armas legais que levam a tragédias constantes até à invasão e intervenção noutros Estados. Mas a Guerra Fria acabara, e haviam prometido ter aprendido com os seus próprios erros. Tinha acabado a agressão a outros povos, a inocentes arrastados no caminho quando não conseguiam atingir o verdadeiro inimigo. Mas como Vico defendia, a História repete-se e o pêndulo não pára de balançar. Assim sendo, esta nação revela uma cultura sócio-traumática projectando naqueles à sua volta as frustrações das agressões a si próprios, desde o miúdo que entra na escola e mata colegas e professores até aos soldados que raptam (e sim, digo mesmo rapto) inocentes das vilas iraquianas e os prendem numa prisão para terroristas apenas porque se encontram em idade militar. E este é, sem dúvida, o factor que mais me indigna em toda esta temática. Não me interpretem mal, se alguém magoar os meus, podem ter a certeza que não deixo que saiam impunes. O sentido de Justiça – iustitia est constans et perpetua voluntas ius suum quique tribuendi, a justiça é a constante e perpétua vontade de dar a cada um o seu direito – está presente na natureza humana. Mas a transferência para algo ou alguém mais facilmente atingível não consiste numa imitação de um acto que consideramos repugnante como o terrorismo? Não é contra isso que nos insurgimos? Contra actos de destruição a cidadãos à parte do sistema político? Ou não será isso mesmo a definição de terrorismo? É que nem sempre os fins justificam os meios. Mas os soldados testemunham o contrário: tinham prometido encontrar o ditador, apanhá-lo e julgá-lo como criminoso, como autor de crimes contra a humanidade. Mas e se tudo o que fizeram nada tinha que ver com este fim? Que justificação poderão eles ter para os meios que utilizaram? E se, no caminho para a sua descoberta, também eles fossem autores desses crimes? Tim Dugan, que também presta o seu depoimento neste documentário, é um especialista em interrogatórios com uma vasta experiência no assunto. Este diz-nos que os métodos utilizados, nomeadamente a tortura, têm que ser cuidadosamente equacionados quando queremos obter informações tão precisas como nomes de envolvidos em operações terroristas, localizações, datas e projectos. E isto porque, se alguém que está a ser questionado está, ao mesmo tempo, a ser magoado, pode dizer-nos o que queremos ouvir (e não a verdade, os factos de que precisamos para seguir uma pista) para que essa dor pare. Janis Karpinski, a responsável pela prisão/palco dos acontecimentos aqui em questão, chega mesmo a dizer que nenhuma informação retirada dos interrogatórios feitos em Abu Ghraib levou à descoberta do paradeiro de Saddam Hussein. As únicas pistas, o único rasto seguido foi aquele traçado pelos soldados no terreno, nas vilas remotas do Iraque, junto das populações sem as retirar de suas casas, falando com elas, indo de quinta em quinta, até o descobrirem num cenário completamente doméstico: Hussein havia entrado numa casa dizendo: «eu sou Saddam Hussein, senhor de todas as casas do Iraque», tendo lá permanecido com os seus habitantes desconcertados.
Patriotismo. Nunca é demais para os americanos invocá-lo enquanto atacam outros povos. E que patriotismo reside em ataques, maus-tratos e tortura a nativos americanos? Vamos então abordar esta questão. A reacção de muitas pessoas às imagens nos telejornais que relatavam a polémica tirada das fotografias, tal como havia sido inicialmente a reacção de Tim Dugan (acima referido), foi a de que se tratavam apenas de soldados corroídos pelo ambiente da guerra e pelos actos dos terroristas de que a sua nação havia sido alvo; interrogador diz-nos ainda que achou ter sido apenas um bando de militares tontos que não sabiam o que estavam a fazer. Ora, sendo isto verdade, como é que estes patriotas justificam o seu comportamento em prisões nacionais? E quanto ao facto de não saberem o que estavam ali a fazer, talvez não fosse bem assim. Segundo o jornal Le Monde Diplomatique, alguns dos principais entusiastas (como Frederick e Graner, protagonistas do documentário) deste acontecimento tinham exercido cargos em prisões nacionais (Virgínia e Pensilvânia, respectivamente), foram acusados de violência contra os encarcerados. A escolha dos ocupantes dos cargos administrativos das prisões iraquianas também não parece ter sido deixada ao acaso: «Lane McCotter é um dirigente da Management and Training Corporation, uma empresa gestora de prisões privadas. Ele foi empregado depois de demitido de suas funções de director do Departamento dos Estabelecimentos Penitenciários de Utah, em razão do falecimento de um prisioneiro acorrentado nu a uma cadeira durante 16 horas seguidas. O secretário da Justiça John Ashcroft escolheu McCotter para dirigir a reabertura das prisões iraquianas sob o comando norte-americano». Permite-nos então concluir que, em matéria de gestão de prisões, para se subir na carreira não é preciso reeducar os encarcerados, basta castigá-los; e o mais criativo/violento ganha créditos extra.
Ordens. Não teremos já todos ouvido este tipo de justificação (desculpem-me a imprecisão do termo) num pós Holocausto? Mas enquanto que aí se tratava de um exército educado durante o poder de Hitler para os fins deste, aqui temos presente, mais uma vez, a evoluída cultura americana: a formatação da máquina. Este tema é-nos trazido por dois outros documentários: High School e High School II, de Frederick Wiseman, e que apelido tão aplicável. Numa fotografia sobre a educação americana, podemos ouvir um professor repreender um aluno dizendo: «nós estamos aqui para garantir que te tornas num homem que sabe cumprir ordens». Aproveitando o mote de paralelismo, e para que os americanos não se sintam tão sozinhos, podemos referir um outro documentário que demonstra o perigo da globalização cultural: To See If I’m Smiling, de Tamar Yaron, recolhe os depoimentos de seis mulheres que, durante o serviço militar, obedecendo a uma lógica viciada e intrínseca, humilharam civis, violaram ou mataram inocentes e tiraram fotografias divertidas ao lado das vitimas assassinadas. Alguém notou um padrão?
Vamos então observar a situação do ponto de vista legal. Em 2002, a administração de Bush, pela mão de Dick Cheney, emitiu um memorando que definia tortura, um acto considerado ilegal, como sendo toda a acção que inflija uma intensidade de dor acompanhada de ferimentos graves como falha de órgãos, paragens do funcionamento dos sistemas do corpo ou mesmo a morte. Inclui também tortura psicológica: danos psicológicos de duração significativa, que possam durar meses ou anos até se recuperarem, resultantes de ameaças de morte iminentes, ameaças de uma dor física como meio de tortura psicológica, uso de drogas e outros procedimentos destinados a destabilizar profundamente os sentidos ou a alterar substancialmente a personalidade do indivíduo ou a ameaça de fazer qualquer uma destas coisas a uma terceira parte. No mesmo memorando, conclui ainda que certas acções possam ser cruéis, desumanas ou degradantes, mas mesmo assim não produzem a dor e o sofrimento requeridos para preencherem o estatuto de tortura. Então, tudo o resto é autorizado (e, cá para nós, também estes actos o são), podendo ser considerado Standard Operating Procedure? Não. Ou pelo menos não o devia ser. A posição internacional dos Estados Unidos é de ser uma nação civilizada plena de progresso bem assente nos Direitos Humanos. Para os proteger, pode então apontar o dedo a muitas outras nações, a exemplo da China, exigindo intervenção nestes mesmos países. Para consolidar esta sua posição, ratifica convenções como a de Genebra na sua própria lei. O U. S. Code, no que toca a crimes de guerra, diz-nos o seguinte: «makes it a criminal offense for U.S. military personnel and U.S. nationals to commit war crimes as specified in the 1949 Geneva Conventions. War crimes under the act include grave breaches of the Geneva Conventions. It also includes violations of common Article 3 to the Geneva Conventions, which prohibits “violence to life and person, in particular murder of all kinds, mutilation, cruel treatment and torture; (…) outrages upon personal dignity, in particular humiliating and degrading treatment.”» Então em que é que ficamos? Podemos acrescentar que nem tudo correu mal depois da divulgação das fotografias. Não foi por acaso que em Dezembro de 2004 (alguns meses depois) a administração Bush tentou alargar a definição de tortura (o que não significa que esta tenha sido erradicada) para corrigir o que foi considerado como sendo «overtly repudiating, one of the most criticized policy memorandums drafted during President Bush's first term» pelo Washington Post.
Ainda assim, podemos dizer que esta tentativa nada vem alterar, uma vez que a Jurisprudência é talvez a fonte mais mediata do sistema jurídico norte-americano e esta, analisada em vários memorandos, permitiu-lhes definir o seguinte: embora tenham ratificado a Convenção de Genebra, esta terá que ser aplicada caso a caso, uma vez que a sua livre implementação seria um acto de inconstitucionalidade, na medida em que o impedimento ou a penalização das circunstâncias da guerra travada contra a Al-Qaeda e os seus aliados iria contra a autoridade do Presidente de dirigir a guerra.
Ainda dentro da Legislação Internacional de Direitos Humanos, ratificada (senão impulsionada) pelos Estados Unidos, esta expressa o seguinte: «The widespread or systematic practice of torture constitutes a crime against humanity (art. 5 of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court).»
«Pior seria se lhes batêssemos ou os matássemos». Ficou por perceber se esta seria mais uma tentativa de justificação por parte dos acusados… Ora, para pessoas (sim, pessoas) para quem a honra é tudo, que abdicam da vida em nome daquilo em que acreditam, será mesmo pior morrerem do que serem humilhados, degradados, rebaixados e violados? Para os americanos não. Mas a cultura deles ainda não chegou a todo o lado, e para alguns existem coisas mais importantes como a dignidade humana, até na hora da morte.
Pegando na ideia de morte, finalizo dizendo que o Estado com poder soberano absoluto acabou, queremos e acreditamos em algo melhor. E isto, não contra políticas intervencionistas no mercado, mas contra a ordem do Estado prevalecer sobre qualquer outra, libertando-se até da ordem jurídica. O poder soberano do Estado sobre a vida e a morte morreu. E a minha boa imagem da nação americana com ele.

FCUK

Isn’t love the sickest thing you have ever experienced? If you haven’t, just be glad for it. Really. There are no butterflies in one’s stomach, there’s only nausea. And the glow in some person’s eyes? C’mon man, you know when someone has very shiny eyes he/she has the flu or he/she’s about to cry. And people don’t give a shit. They’re fuck with you all over the place, they mock with your face, they humiliate you and they don’t make you feel high above – that’s weed by the way – they make you feel the most powerless person, the littlest tiny thing, the most unimportant, ridiculously irrelevant stuff on earth. And that’s just the beginning. Because if that person has an interest in you, whether it’s money or just the fact you happen to be a really good fuck, oh boy, are you screwed. And not in the good sense. They can actually make you feel like you are very important, irreplaceable, like you are his/her life. Then you start to realize he/she has another life besides that one… and you just seem too fat to fit in the picture. «Sorry, it would be easier to put an elephant in kate moss’s panties. But maybe we can stay friends… you know, you can come over with that sexy little thing on and we can have some fun… like friends, you know? Just like the old times… oh, but I’m way too busy to do whatever you want to do next week because I have so much work. Hey, but you can still come over. The garden? No, the weather’s not so good around here – though we live in the same city and the sun is shining at your window. Hey, but you can still come over, you know, here in my bedroom it’s always very hot. Coffee? Sorry, I don’t have time for that, I have this paper to deliver… hey, but you can still come over.» Just give me a fucking break, love isn’t real, not even between children and their parents. It is just a sick idea to sell postcards and flowers and chocolates. And by the way, once Christmas is arriving, go preach something even more unrealistic and absurd than love: your god’s birth from his holly virgin mother. Yeah, he was probably made by love!