Notes as social media eats itself

Sometimes, I indulge in social media, feeding on silly videos and mindless memes. I came upon these videos in which someone engages with something from outside his or her cultural foundation. English kids eat fast food from the US? I love those. Americans confused by Monty Python? Bring it on! Now I'm watching a guy who has never heard anything by the Beatles (or anything about them) listen to the second side of Abbey Road.

I grew up listening to the Beatles. I guess I should explain how pervasively I mean this. My parents had the entire discography as I figured every house must. When I got home from school I would often put on a Beatles album and lie on the floor listening. Really listening. Trying to feel the music, hear the layers, imagine the actions. I was enveloped in the songs, knowing when to breathe, when to play air piano and and when to flail about wildly in celebration. There I was, an 8 year old (probably also when I was younger but memories fade), lying on the floor listening to Revolver. Again. Then I was up, conducting the score to Yellow Submarine but not with too much gusto because if I stomped too hard, the record would skip and some parent, somewhere, would yell at me, solely out of concern for the well being of the LP.

I read along with the Sgt. Pepper lyrics trying to interpret them and find all the clues. I forced myself to listen to all four sides of the White Album and stared at the poster while trying to make the albums make sense. And every time I listened to it, I felt myself choke up at the end of Abbey Road side 2 because to me, learning to appreciate music after the band had already broken up, I felt that "The End" really felt like the end for the band (yes, I know about the recording dates and the Let it Be sessions...I'm talking about the emotional response of a sub-10 year old in a pre-information superhighway era. Sheesh) and I always felt about to cry. That chord into Her Majesty saved me, over and over). And I would almost always then go back and listen With the Beatles or something else to help me start the journey over. My relationship with their music was a relationship with them. I felt I knew them and understood what they felt in the music. They were MY thing. I knew others were big fans and that was great -- the Beatles could be THEIR thing also. Sharing in this subculture wasn't a competition; it was a celebration.

I went to the festivals and collected bootlegs. I watched the movies. I became a staunch Rutles fan and can hear a musical reference to the Beatles if it is out there to hear. So, yeah, I'm a pretty big Beatles fan. Now why did I bring that up? Oh, yeah. The internet

So I decided to watch a gentleman listen to music. That's exactly the kind of behavior that I previously would have considered stalking or at least an unhealthy obsession, but in the age of the web, this is normal -- watch other people play video games. Watch other people watch other people play video games. Spectating is now the sport. But this reaction was to his first interaction with Beatles music and I wanted to see his reaction -- half expecting him to pan them and I would sneer and demean his tastes and knowledge and feel superior and half expecting him to recognize their genius, thus validating my opinion and pushing me to feel superior. So I watched.

First and foremost, of all the albums to have be his first Beatles' album, Abbey Road second side is a crazy choice. An experienced Beatles fan would look at the combination of styles and voices and say "this one isn't for beginners...start slow." And then there is the issue of the medley. But hey, this isn't my channel. I'm just the rube who stumbled upon it.

I found that my watching him helped me relive my earliest memories of listening to the albums for the first, second and hundredth time. I got into his place and heard the lyrics as if I didn't already know them. What must he think about a band which has a song about a mass murderer? He didn't like the song, but he was suitably surprised when he realized what the words were saying. I recall my early confusion (though I remember really immersing myself in the music of Maxwell and not listening to the lyrics for a while, and then I learned the verses in reverse order) and my roller coaster of emotions going from a soaring bittersweet high of Something to the goofiness of Octopus' Garden to the emptiness of I Want You and the profound joy in Here Comes the Sun. Lush harmonies, sudden starts and stops, tempo shifts, recurring themes and all that after (and sometimes before) a day of 3rd grade.

The gentleman in the reaction video was only able to engage with the music on the most superficial level. Geez -- reading back that sentence, I realize I sound like a Grade A tool. But the truth is, I really do "feel" the music and part of getting into the Beatles is letting it get into you and drive your movements. The viewer was already doing that unconsciously as he swayed to the beat and wiggled his fingers to the bass fills. But I can tell you that the dances that I did while alone in the living room wearing brown corduroys and a yellow turtleneck from Sears were a lot more expressive. 

Jumping in at the end of a career presents other challenges. He doesn't have the foundational knowledge of the players so he can't appreciate the growth or the individual voices or styles or the history, easter eggs, politics etc. I wasn't alive when the albums were released, but I did try, from a young age, to engage with them in a logical order. I really immersed myself in the early albums before I started mixing the later ones in. I listened to how voices change, writing styles shift and songs call to each other across time and space. Song orders mattered. Song writers -- how contributed what? I felt like "Only a Northern Song" was a dirty secret that only I and a select group of fans understood. Glass Onion? Wink Wink! The Walrus was Paul! I read up on the band so I had a clue to the socio-political backdrop. I am a fan of rock music so I studied the era as well, recognizing the influences and the impacts, seeing the band in a broader social context. My parents encouraged all of this and though they didn't lie there on the living room floor with me, knowing that they liked the same music as I did made me feel closer to them.

As I grew and studied music, I was able to put a few feelings into words, understanding why the Beatles' music had such an impact on me. It has taken hundreds of listens and I'm just now starting to get it. I hope that this guy (whose name I do not have, nor did I follow him) decides to spend a few more hours listening to Abbey Road side 2, and then he clears a weekend, turns off his phone, starts with Meet The Beatles and just goes.

Doing Science

People who know me, I mean really know me, know that I'm not much on math and science. Those who don't know me, often confuse me with the greats, like Tesla and Newton, because we share a taste in coulots. Who knew? They didn't wear coulots...I don't wear coulots...twinsies!

Anyway, I did some science this morning which is against my nature (both science and mornings, and don't get me started on "did"). I got myself all natural and such and stepped on a scale. It read 86.4 pounds (the numbers have been changed to protect the waistline). Then I took a shower. After emerging and drying myself off, I stood on the scale a second time -- 86.4 el bee esses. Exactly the same, to the tenth of a fraction of a kilogram.

I have developed a couple of theories to explain this:

1. I was actually not at all dirty when I got in to the shower, so nothing needed to be washed away. Perfect in, perfect out.

2. I was dirty with exactly the same amount of dirt as water that was retained by my body during the course of the shower.

Neither of these seems even reasonably realistic so I am going with option numero three

I actually did not take a shower -- I stood next to the shower and zoned out for a few minutes, then I reweighed myself, nothing having happened in the interim, and I therefore weighed exactly the same.

Now I need to do a series of experiments on these phantom showers I keep hearing about.

Just Hear Me Out

 I have an idea and I'd like your feedback on it. I haven't checked to see if this exists but I'd like to assume it doesn't, and an idea that popped in to my head at 10PM on a Tuesday is a world beater.

I like being lulled to bed by noise and rhythmic movements. This is why I fall asleep as soon as I get into a car or a train. When I'm driving this is undesirable, but as a passenger? Gold, Jerry. Gold.

So I was thinking about those kids' beds that are shaped like race cars and I decided that that doesn't go far enough in terms of marketability. So imagine this: a bed that looks like a berth on a train. It has computerized springs that can simulate the feeling of the moving of a train. A slight sway, a lot of clicks and such. Plus, the bed would have speakers that play a synced up audio track of the sounds of a train chugging through the forest, so you lie down and get the entire experience of being in a train -- how it feels and how it sounds. Do the same for a plane ride (the sounds of a pressurized cabin, the vibration of a plane ride without turbulence) or a boat, with the rocking of the waves and the sounds of the ocean.

The bed should provide a complete sensory experience and advanced models can have you choose between modes and customize the experience!

That's my idea -- a fully integrated sleeping experience.

Send me your money, please.

Instant Expertise

 Once upon a time, in order to have an opinion that mattered, you had to spend years studying, arguing, researching and developing ideas based on a steady trickle of ever changing input.

Fortunately, that is no longer the case. Along with our stunted attention spans and our belief that the most cogent and cutting social commentary derives from anonymous voices on internet platforms, we have the advent of Instant Expertise. You don't even need to add water!

Because we have the accumulated mass of human intelligence at our fingertips and can see anything and everything from the last couple of thousand years, we can establish positions and craft lines of thinking without all that mucking about in the process of learning. We can read all the documents, or get them summed up for us, so that we can find the voice in the wilderness which supports our pre-existing point of view. Everyone can swim in the pool of unvetted claims and bob for the one which best validates our already-thinking.

But expertise is not about knowing or even having access to data. Expertise develops over time and is equal parts fact-accumulation and judgment. Some sources are less useful than others. Some times of year engender certain types of information. Words have subtleties of meaning and use that need to be contextualized and understood. Claims are proven, unproven and disproven over time so a snapshot in the middle era won't present the ultimate understanding. In brief, though we can read everything a real expert can, though we can see anything that the great historians saw, we should not consider ourselves experts because a singular data dump does not equate to the gradual growth of an informed opinion.

Consider the AI that's figuratively sweeping the nation (I have looked and still see dirt everywhere so it is only metaphorical). It has access to everything but still knows nothing. Looking up a claim on google and then insisting that you are right and substantiated because one of the top results includes a sentence which parrots that claim is not the same as being able to construct a persuasive argument. It just means that a computer search of a fixed database of words matched a serach term. That's not "knowing," -- that's a muscle reflex. Just because the doctor can make my knee unbend doesn't mean that being hit repeatedly with a rubber hammer is the same as my exercising my knee.

Go to a debate website. People will be citing webpages, historical documents and recent news clips as if every source is equal in utility and validity. Quotes will be mined and bits, combined with pieces to make what appears to be a coherent whole, but which is more a castle in the air. Old people don't just know more -- they have seen all that stuff ripen (and in some cases, rot) so they have more of an expansive world-view in which to consider it.

People now love authority not because it is definitive and stops argument, but because it is personalizable and can become a source for an equally valid but ridiculous position. We stop being interested in ultimate truth because we can find that we are not alone in our personal truth, so we surround ourselves with cherry picked support and insulate ourselves from opposition. We dig in. That position is all we need to establish -- no one needs to rethink anything because the position was innovated in the light of "everything" so there will be nothing new to shake that foundation.

We are instantly, as informed as the most erudite scholar and our research assistant (the internet) has instant access to the wisdom of the ages so I can find the opinion I need. Who needs years of tempering and reconsidering? I can ask the google and it can tell me not just what to believe, but it can reassure me that holding that position is the only valid way to live.

Put me in front of a piano -- every note is there, every postential song, right in fornt of me. But access doesn't make me a piano player. And using a series of lights, guiding my fingers just means that I can copy what a computer decides is right. A real piano player struggles and learns WHY and HOW and WHEN and more importantly, WHEN NOT.

How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, practice. Or just walk in and refuse to leave because you are just as important as a ticket holder.

28 hours later

 Today is (insert actual day here) and it has been some weird number of hours since I landed. It might have been 20 hours ago, Celsius, which is 5 minutes and spin around 14 times in Imperial Measure. I always assumed that Imperial Measure what a section of that Darth Vader song. Whatever. I'm back in New Jersey again, and ready to sum up the last and fleeting moments of this momentous visit. So here we go.

When you last left your intrepid explorer, he was sitting at a cafe in Ben Gurion, ready to kill 8 hours. That actually went really well. The airport never really shut down -- flights were still coming in and by the time the last flight departed, people were already checking in for the first morning flights. I saw that some people were going through security so I asked when I could, as well. The gentleman said I could actually go through at 3AM (not 5AM!) and also that I was on the wrong level of the airport. So up to level 3, to the C group. When I approached the security people there they confirmed 3 AM so I sat there and waited. At 3:01 (hey, I was in the middle of something) I went through and made it quickly to the front of the ine so I could check my bag in. At the counter, the woman said that everyone else was wrong and that I would have to wait until 5AM but since I had already been through the line, I could go into the next room and sit at a coffee shop or something and then come back when it was 5. I went through and saw no coffee shop, but I did see a McDonald's. Yes, it was 3:30 in the morning but who am I to waste such an opportunity? I didn't see anywhere to wash so I eschewed bread based meals and went with nuggs, fries and onion rings. The nuggs were what I could get in any freezer section, the fries mere mediocre but the onion rings made my night. I began to wonder how anyone could have access to these and still remain remotely svelte.

A few minutes later, I found the answer and hurried to the nearest bathroom, all my bags in tow. That was harrowing. But it did help kill most of the time until I could return to the front of the line and check my bag (5:05AM). Then through various other security lines at a leisurely pace. I wandered through the food court which was lively as ever, and walked to D8. There I sat, early (but not the first one -- truth!) and relaxed. I paced, I davened, I paced some more. I even took a survey in Hebrew about my trip. She asked in Hebrew and I answered in English. At 8:10 it was time to board so I popped an anti-histamine and got to 35K on the Herzeliya plane. We lifted off at 9:05 and I think that I, wrapped in 2 jackets, a blanket and a scarf and gloves, was asleep. The next 12 hours were full of shifting around, waking up, nodding off, napping and such. Part of the problem was that my seat was next to the emergency door and there were slight drafts coming through. When outside is -62 F, a little draft is very cold. Also, at some point, I realized that my kippah had fallen, so I spent time annoying everyone while looking for it. Eventually I gave up and had visions of myself going through customs with a scarf on my head. I then realized that my left shoe (I took my shoes off when I fell asleep because my feet were swollen and warm, but some time later, I put them back on because my feet were freezing) was still tight and I checked. My kippah had fallen into my shoe. Hilarity ensued and I fell back asleep. I ate nothing on the flight because I was still burping up flavors of foods I have never even eaten. Lotsa burpin and uncomfortableness and nausea and that's without eating any of the in flight meals. I believe that burata cheese and Mickey D's was a potent combination that brought my digestive track to its knees (which are my kishkes).

Landing, deplaning, passport control (no human interaction -- it takes your picture and says "OK, cool") and waiting for bags (mine was NOT the last one out...WINNING). Racer drove me back and I have been stumbling through life since then. I did just have Dunkin for breakfast so there's that.

We will now resume the rest of my life, already in progress.

Many days, many stories

 Yes, yes, I know I haven't updated this recently and, no doubt, avid readers are stabbing themselves in grief at not having every detail of my trip at the ready so I apologize. Some things are better left unsaid so once I figure out what those are, I'll know what not to write.

I will begin on Friday evening as shabbos descended. It was a quiet and low key meal -- the kind you can have when there are only 18 people at the table. Guests galore and there was singing and stories and food to beat the band. Lunch was more people and more food. You aren't hearing me complain. I ate the food and ignored the people. It was glorious. Nomi and I went out quickly after shabbos and then I read some more. I am glad I know how to read because if I couldn't read, I wouldn't have anything to do when I'm not writing.

Sunday, I wandered into the mist in the midst of Jeruslaem.  I walked up to Agrippas and turned right to find the Maccabi building so I could visit with Steve L. He had a nice chair and people getting him tea and such and all he had to do was sit there and get pumped full of drugs. I'm not saying I am jealous, but it did look like a comfy chair. Steve, Senja and I spoke about the past, the present and, you guessed it, the weather. When I left, the mist had coalesced into active rain. I had a positive Zoom meeting and then decided to be Living on Tasha Time. Seven bus to the 22 and then to Tasha's place. As if it was actually that simple. Intermittent internet and construction zones everywhere made the supposedly simple task of walking from the bus to the apartment much more complicated. For me. I navigated the public transport admirably. The private service my legs provided was where it all fell apart. So maybe I turned the wrong way. Maybe I couldn't find the apartment or the proper entrance to the building. Maybe a lot of things. This is how rumors start. And truths, too.

I imagin it was easier to give someone directions in old Western towns which had just a Main Street. A guy comes up to you and says, "howdy mister -- how do I get to Main Street?" and you say, "Well sir, you see that road over there? You take that and you are on Main Street." "Great," he responds, "And where is the bank?" I answer, "It is on the right side, on Main Street. Take that street over there and look to the right." And then he says, "Thanks! And where is the saloon?" So I tell him, "You walk out of the bank -- you'll be on Main Street, turn around and walk back in. That's also the saloon."

Even I wouldn't get lost. Maybe. 

Tasha and I chatted like two sort of adults. She's a neuro scientist and I am a neurotic uncle so we have much in common. She told me about her kids and her apartment and her job and all the things that amaze me, considering that in my mind, she is still 4 years old. Then, as the kids tucked into some Wacky Mac (god, I love Wacky Mac), I retraced my steps (sans the getting lost part) and found the 22 bus back to KKL/King George. I found Pastito and ordered Mac and Cheese, garlic knots and a beer. The garlic knots were incredible, the mac and cheese was pretty ok (but it was no Wacky Mac...geez...the Wacky Mac people should be paying me for my effusive support of their product. Hey, Wacky Mac people, I love your stuff. Send me money!) and the beer made me not care about anything else. It was exactly what a tired tummy needed on a cold, and a rainy day. Where on earth is the sun, anyway? (Natalie Merchant, either I owe you or you owe me for that shout out. Let's call it even.) I weathered the weather and started walking back, taking a quick stop at a grocery store so I could buy a package of Liebers sammich cookies (think low-rent Oreos). Some survived the walk back. Not many, but some.

On the walk back, I ran into a Frisch colleague, D. Stein, and two of her kids. She had been trying to get my attention but I was distracted by the call of the cookies. I offered them some cookies and they said no. More for me. They continued on to shop while I rolled my way home. More Jack Reacher (thanks, Zevi!) and sleep.

Up at a relatively normal time because I had places to be and people to meet. I felt that I was really adjusting to the time difference which signalled to me that my trip was coming to a close. Off to the central train station because I stood the best chance of finding a train there. On the way, 2 people asked me for directions. One, an older woman, asked in English without any hesitation. The other was a younger man who asked in Hebrew, also without pause. Clearly, I come off as different to different people -- to older women I'm ignorant and younger men see me as uninformed. I ran into a former Frisch student in the station and we caught up quickly as I tried to find the right platform. I took a 732 train (that's its number, not a time) to Tel Aviv. At whatever station I detrained I switched over to the train that was to take me to the Holon Junction. Good news -- I got on the right train. Bad news? Wrong direction. I had to get off after a couple of stops to find the right train going the other way. Time for a Sprite Zero (they should also be sending me swag for all the plugs I give them) because the correct train in the correct direction wasn't coming for 30 minutes. This is why I always leave early and build in substantial time for me to get lost and still get places on time. Eventually I got to my destination.

After my meeting, I was given a ride back to "the" roundabout and was pointed in the direction of the train station. The gentleman who drove me assured me that it was a "5 minute walk." Now here are some possibilities:

1. They don't actually know what "5 minute walk" means and they use it as an idiom to mean an indeterminate period of time under an hour

2. They are all superheroes who can fly and they mistook me for the same, whereas, in truth I am the human equivalent of the baby of a sloth and a slug -- a slog.

3. Time flows differently here because of a warpin of the space-time continuum.

They all seem like reasonable options and I'm not sure which one it is, but that was no 5 minute walk. And, by the way, a 5 minute walk is no joke, especially in the rain.

Back at the station, I scoped out the trains and saw that one listed "All Tel Aviv stops" so I hopped on it. My English is apparently rusty as the phrase actually means "all the Tel Aviv stops except the one you want." I got off at the same stop at which I had flipped directions earlier and I flipped yet again. Savidor Center and I are now tight. I found a train back which stopped where I needed it to. Sure, all trains lead to Rome, but they don't all stop at the airport so you can transfer to the Venice train.

I got back into Jerusalem and decided to grab some food and pay for it. Bissarabak is the place. I got Asado Balls, a burger and a beer. Hey, Carlsberg people, I have name checked you plenty. How about a free case of beer for my efforts? Call me, maybe. The asado balls were sweet (think a sweet pulled brisket in a crispy coating). The burger was fantastic. My order was not supposed to come with fries but there were fries there! I told the guy behind the counter, and tried to pay but he comped me. I got rizz, no? The fries were ridiculously good, and not just because they were free. They were hot and really crispy and had potato in them. Who knew? Me. I knew. There was no place on the ordering kiosk to say "no raw onion" so I got onion on my burger and figured I would try it. Now I know why people order a burger with raw onions on it -- they are insane.

I picked up a bottle of "Gat" juice just to try it out. It tasted like (very expensive) pomegranate juice. No effects, but some nasty side effects. Let us never speak of the short cut again. Back to N+D for a relaxing afternoon/evening of reading and finishing off some more cookies. Part of the reason that there are gaps here is because I was really trying to do nothing. I wanted to relax and that's what I did, and there isn't much to report about that except ahhhhhhhhhh. And repeat.

Monday night held no sleep for me. Maybe it was my Tuesday meeting, maybe the upcoming flight, maybe the residual effect of the Gat juice. Who knows, but I finally dozed for an hour, starting at 6:30. So I started the day with a cup of tea and I finished grading the first set of papers. The ones that I expected to have finished about a week ago, so I'm right off schedule. Huzzah. Only a million more to go.

David and I went to Gan Sippor down the block for a brunch. I got a pizza with burata on it (that's a cheese bag, cheese bag) and a cup of Turkish Coffee, hold the accent. David had a little baby macchiato (or however you spell it) and some toast with stuff on it including a soft boiled egg. It was warm and filling, and balsamic vinegar on pizza isn't bad. Back to the house for some more reading (I finished a book and I can't remember the title or author -- it was that good) and hanging out with family.

My flight is scheduled for Wednesday, 9AM. The problem this presented was that I knew that if I stayed at the house and tried to get up at 4AM to schlep my overweight bag (because it is filled with overweight clothes, worn by an overweight man) up all the hills to the train station, I would be crazed and worried all night. Instead, I went early (and Yoni did the actual schlepping -- KUDOS to YONI! and was satisfied with getting to the airport 11 hours early and sitting.

So that's where I find me now: in Ben Gurion, drinking a Sprite Zero and looking at the clock every five minutes, waiting until 5 AM so I can check my baggage. I'm pretty much hopeless and crazy, but damned relaxed right now.

Unless something interesting happens, I expect to close out the coverage of my trip now (though I might have more to report vis-a-vis the wait, the flight and the ride back to my apartment, but I want to give a super-dee-duper shout out to the hosts with the mosts, David and Nomi. They housed me, entertained me and fed me and have been helping me out in so many different ways, so public appreciation! Thanks, you crazy kids. And thanks to the nieces and nephews I met along the way. Signing out until something else interesting happens.

Ketching Up

 Dinner on Wednesday was a quick walk up to Agrippas to Burger Market. I think I have been there before but it seemed like a reasonable choice. Their menu had 2 main-course options: Burger and Vegetarian burger. Guess what I had! (hint, I am not a communist)

I ordered a burger with extra meat on top, hold the raw onion. Fries on the side and a Carlsberg. There was some confusion on what I wordered, whether I paid and what I paid for because the automated ordering kiosk chose not to communicate my order to the men behind the counter. So I ordered again, and this time, I guy wrote my order down with a magic marker, on a piece of scrap paper. Much more efficient that way. I ate successfully (any meal you can roll away from is a good meal)

Back to the house and I saw Eli and cousin Elish. They went out to buy stuff for a birthday party and I asked them to pick up a Cookie Monster (in Hebrew, Jookie Monster) onesie PJ for me. It cost 100 Shekel but he got it for 40. SCORE. The rest of the evening was schmoozing with Eli, Elish, friend Ilan and whoever else happened to be around. Then Jack Reacher, 3 hours of reels and bed.

Thursday was a food focused day (making it markedly different from exactly no other days). I met Jeff Oshin at the Columbia store on Agrippas (I like Columbia clothing but those prices were at least one decimal point too high for those products) and we walked to Mike's. Jeff got the buffalo chicken strips which were spicy. I ordered a Guiness as my appetizer. Strong move. Chatted with the owner and we knew some people in common and some common people. Jeff and I caught up and discussed Israel, and food and stuff. He had a New York burger and I had a double Mike's burger. TWO LAYERS OF MIKE!

It was a wonderful meal with wonderful company so that was pretty awesome. I finished just in time to get lost on my way to dinner. I used my phone to get me to ShlomTziyon Hamalka but it kept giving me directions which seemed rather confusing. I had recalled that the street was easy to find but the phone made it unduly difficult. I believe the street must have moved because my phone was in the same place. So I put the phone away and relied on luck which paid off. This is the kind of street which one can only find when not looking for it. I met up with Nomi and Eyal at Chicken Chips (these chips don't lie) and we bellied up to the barstools and ordered.  I started with 500 ml of Muller beer and then had five pieces of crunchy chicken. They make each order to order so there is some wait time. I filled it by talking to a cat and drinking a beer. Possibly vice versa. Nomi got a sammich of crispy chicken on bread with lettuce on the side. Some things don't change. The fries were just meh but the chicken was very nice!

During the various walks, I ran into a Karben, some Mershons  and a 5 students (after a few hours, I remembered 3 first-last name and 1 first name and one no name but I should know) from Touro and Stern. Back to the homestead. Thus endeth the Thursday night.

This morning Nomi and I took a walk to look at some stuff and then back here to get ready for Shabbos. Wishing all a great Shabbos and a happy everything else!