Info
Subscribe: 
friend me on Facebook
follow me on Twitter
view my photos on Flickr
watch my videos on Qik
find me on Dopplr
join my MySpace
check my MyBlogLog
my Technorati profile
view my Tumblr
my Blogger profile
Blog RSS feed
Comments RSS feed
Recent posts
Fourteen
Thirteen
Twitter 10
Race
Bold
Proposal
Body
Twelve
Love's Language's Lost
Run
Places to shop and visit
My Top 10 Toys - Women
My Top 10 Toys - Men
My Top 10 Toys - Couples
Fleshlight UK
Condoms
Durex's Ora!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Name
"Look, I have to say, I know who you are."
"Sorry?"
The hotel receptionist grinned at me sheepishly. "You. I know about you."
"About me?" What might he know? That I'm so clumsy I always trip up on my feet (even when I am not in heels, or drunk)? That I usually end up with crumbs of food in my cleavage at the end of a meal? Or, perhaps, how I tend to burp rudely when I've drunk too much whisky of a night? What did he know?
He slowly nodded at me. "Yes, you, the book, everything."
"Oh." I bit my lip awkwardly, suddenly feeling uncomfortable as it dawned on me what he was saying. "Um, how come you know?"
"I recognised your name on the list we got from the TV festival!" he said, triumphantly.
"My name? But..."
"We read all the papers here. I knew I had seen your name somewhere before..."
"Oh. I see."
"So then the manager and I googled you," he continued, "and that's when it fitted into place. We read it all."
I groaned and hid my face in my hands. "You googled me?! So then you know everything?"
"Ach, don't worry: we've seen it all here. You're fine. In fact, I think what you do is wonderful."
Blushing, I lifted my head. "Thanks, I'm just, er, a bit thrown that you recognised my name."
"Well we always check the TV festival list to see if we have anyone important staying. I knew your name was familiar and I was right."
"Evidently." I shifted nervously in my heels and wondered how much of the blog he might have read - and what opinion he had reached about me from that.
"Anyway, I told my girlfriend that you were staying here and she was so excited: she has read your book three times and thinks it's brilliant."
"Really?"
"Really. She asked if you would sign her book, but she forgot to give it to me before I left for work this evening. She's so gutted!"
"Well, I've got some copies upstairs - I could sign one of those for her if you like."
"Would you?"
"Of course. It'd be a pleasure. I'll be back in two ticks."
I returned with the signed book a few moments later and handed it to him.
"She's going to be so happy about this: it'll really make her day."
"Well, hearing that she's read the book three times has really made my day, believe me."
"Sorry?"
The hotel receptionist grinned at me sheepishly. "You. I know about you."
"About me?" What might he know? That I'm so clumsy I always trip up on my feet (even when I am not in heels, or drunk)? That I usually end up with crumbs of food in my cleavage at the end of a meal? Or, perhaps, how I tend to burp rudely when I've drunk too much whisky of a night? What did he know?
He slowly nodded at me. "Yes, you, the book, everything."
"Oh." I bit my lip awkwardly, suddenly feeling uncomfortable as it dawned on me what he was saying. "Um, how come you know?"
"I recognised your name on the list we got from the TV festival!" he said, triumphantly.
"My name? But..."
"We read all the papers here. I knew I had seen your name somewhere before..."
"Oh. I see."
"So then the manager and I googled you," he continued, "and that's when it fitted into place. We read it all."
I groaned and hid my face in my hands. "You googled me?! So then you know everything?"
"Ach, don't worry: we've seen it all here. You're fine. In fact, I think what you do is wonderful."
Blushing, I lifted my head. "Thanks, I'm just, er, a bit thrown that you recognised my name."
"Well we always check the TV festival list to see if we have anyone important staying. I knew your name was familiar and I was right."
"Evidently." I shifted nervously in my heels and wondered how much of the blog he might have read - and what opinion he had reached about me from that.
"Anyway, I told my girlfriend that you were staying here and she was so excited: she has read your book three times and thinks it's brilliant."
"Really?"
"Really. She asked if you would sign her book, but she forgot to give it to me before I left for work this evening. She's so gutted!"
"Well, I've got some copies upstairs - I could sign one of those for her if you like."
"Would you?"
"Of course. It'd be a pleasure. I'll be back in two ticks."
I returned with the signed book a few moments later and handed it to him.
"She's going to be so happy about this: it'll really make her day."
"Well, hearing that she's read the book three times has really made my day, believe me."
Comments
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Objectify
Point Break had a profound influence on me.
That is not to say that this cop-buddy action movie featuring surf dudes and incompetent FBI agents was intellectual or thought-provoking or challenging in any way, because it certainly wasn’t. But this particular film had a huge impact on me regardless.
As a fresh-faced eighteen year-old, I watched Point Break in open-mouthed fascination. From the very opening frames of the movie I was captivated: there, on the big screen, was a sequence that changed the way I viewed films and my sexuality from that point on.
Picture the scene: Keanu Reeves soaked to the skin in a torrential downpour. The tight t-shirt he wears clings wetly to his taut, muscular frame. Manoeuvring himself with great agility around a firing range, he rolls around on the ground, splattering his curvaceous body with wet mud. The camera lingers, lovingly, over the round of his arse; it glides gracefully across his chest, highlighting his erect nipples poking through his wet t-shirt; it tilts down his torso, allowing us a full view of his crotch. Shot in poetically fluid slow motion with a long lens narrowly focused on Keanu’s toned physique; we get to see every ripple of his body in glorifying close-up. The camera adored him and it beckoned me, the viewer, to do so too.
I hadn’t experienced this before: I don’t recall ever seeing men sexually objectified in this way. Sure, there was Top Gun a few years prior, but I was too young to enjoy the torsos on display back then (and Tom Cruise makes me want to vomit). But when Point Break was released in 1991 I was - with a body full of raging teenage hormones - at the perfect age to appreciate it. As I watched that opening sequence I knew that this film was different: that it was offering me something different too. And when I obtained the film on VHS tape, I rewound that scene, over and over, filling my head full of the sexy imagery that I would use later to pleasure myself.
Prior to watching Point Break, I had felt something was wrong with my sexuality. I knew I liked to look at men’s bodies; I was aware that I found them attractive and erotic, but I felt isolated by this. In the movies I watched, the camera always seemed to focus on the physical attributes of whatever woman was on screen but never on the bodies of the men, so I assumed my wanting to see a male body was weird somehow. In the opening of Point Break, I was revelling in the fact that not only was I offered the opportunity to look at a man’s body in all its glory but I was invited to indulge in it too. This validated my sexuality: it made me feel it was OK to openly enjoy looking at a man in a sexual way.
Point Break also made me question why so few films objectified men: perhaps this was related to the fact that most movies are directed by men? Knowing that Point Break was directed by a woman (the terribly under-rated Kathryn Bigelow) confirmed it to me: if we want the female perspective on-screen, we need more female directors to portray it. This was the movie that first propelled me to seek a career in the film industry, so you could say that it had a serious affect on me.
Certainly there have been some other films in recent years that also pander to the female gaze but that have been directed by men (Troy, 300, Casino Royale etc), but a handful of movies which include a few oiled-up male torsos to get female bums on seats does not balance out the sexual (and sexist) inequity that exists in all media.
Women like to look at men. We like to fuck men. And we like to look at men and imagine fucking them – and have a wank about that later. My saying this isn’t new, or profound or even original, but I think it needs repeating. It’s 2007 and when it comes to sexual material for the heterosexual women, I’m bored of only being offered female imagery – as if everyone, men and women included, should find that stimulating.
I want to see images of men, sexually ready, willing and able, who will be the object of my desire. I want to see magazines being openly marketed to women (rather than solely at gay men) which allow us to look at hard cocks. I want to turn on the television and see a hot naked man on a programme featuring sexual content. Basically, I want to have, at my disposal, the visual materials which will give me the same ability to sexually objectify men, as men do with women. And I want to be able to say, as men can, that what I have seen will “go into my (wank) bank for later.”
I’m all for a more open and uncensored sexually liberated society, but if women are still going to be marginalised purely as objects for men’s pleasure and not as the subjects seeking and obtaining pleasure in their own right, then I’m destined to be a moody fucking bitch who will not shut up about it.
I’m currently at the Edinburgh TV Festival, where today (Saturday), I may end up saying a few words at a debate about sex on television. Rest assured if I do, I will be arguing the usual: that is, we need to see erections on-screen, an end to faked female orgasms and a proper, equal, balance of men being objectified – in all their sexy glory - too. I understand Ofcom will be there: I expect a fun discussion about penises might be had...
[If anyone reading this is at MGEITF, do come up and say hello if you see me about. I’ll be the loud-mouthed girl with the five inch heels and frizzy hair]
That is not to say that this cop-buddy action movie featuring surf dudes and incompetent FBI agents was intellectual or thought-provoking or challenging in any way, because it certainly wasn’t. But this particular film had a huge impact on me regardless.
As a fresh-faced eighteen year-old, I watched Point Break in open-mouthed fascination. From the very opening frames of the movie I was captivated: there, on the big screen, was a sequence that changed the way I viewed films and my sexuality from that point on.
Picture the scene: Keanu Reeves soaked to the skin in a torrential downpour. The tight t-shirt he wears clings wetly to his taut, muscular frame. Manoeuvring himself with great agility around a firing range, he rolls around on the ground, splattering his curvaceous body with wet mud. The camera lingers, lovingly, over the round of his arse; it glides gracefully across his chest, highlighting his erect nipples poking through his wet t-shirt; it tilts down his torso, allowing us a full view of his crotch. Shot in poetically fluid slow motion with a long lens narrowly focused on Keanu’s toned physique; we get to see every ripple of his body in glorifying close-up. The camera adored him and it beckoned me, the viewer, to do so too.
I hadn’t experienced this before: I don’t recall ever seeing men sexually objectified in this way. Sure, there was Top Gun a few years prior, but I was too young to enjoy the torsos on display back then (and Tom Cruise makes me want to vomit). But when Point Break was released in 1991 I was - with a body full of raging teenage hormones - at the perfect age to appreciate it. As I watched that opening sequence I knew that this film was different: that it was offering me something different too. And when I obtained the film on VHS tape, I rewound that scene, over and over, filling my head full of the sexy imagery that I would use later to pleasure myself.
Prior to watching Point Break, I had felt something was wrong with my sexuality. I knew I liked to look at men’s bodies; I was aware that I found them attractive and erotic, but I felt isolated by this. In the movies I watched, the camera always seemed to focus on the physical attributes of whatever woman was on screen but never on the bodies of the men, so I assumed my wanting to see a male body was weird somehow. In the opening of Point Break, I was revelling in the fact that not only was I offered the opportunity to look at a man’s body in all its glory but I was invited to indulge in it too. This validated my sexuality: it made me feel it was OK to openly enjoy looking at a man in a sexual way.
Point Break also made me question why so few films objectified men: perhaps this was related to the fact that most movies are directed by men? Knowing that Point Break was directed by a woman (the terribly under-rated Kathryn Bigelow) confirmed it to me: if we want the female perspective on-screen, we need more female directors to portray it. This was the movie that first propelled me to seek a career in the film industry, so you could say that it had a serious affect on me.
Certainly there have been some other films in recent years that also pander to the female gaze but that have been directed by men (Troy, 300, Casino Royale etc), but a handful of movies which include a few oiled-up male torsos to get female bums on seats does not balance out the sexual (and sexist) inequity that exists in all media.
Women like to look at men. We like to fuck men. And we like to look at men and imagine fucking them – and have a wank about that later. My saying this isn’t new, or profound or even original, but I think it needs repeating. It’s 2007 and when it comes to sexual material for the heterosexual women, I’m bored of only being offered female imagery – as if everyone, men and women included, should find that stimulating.
I want to see images of men, sexually ready, willing and able, who will be the object of my desire. I want to see magazines being openly marketed to women (rather than solely at gay men) which allow us to look at hard cocks. I want to turn on the television and see a hot naked man on a programme featuring sexual content. Basically, I want to have, at my disposal, the visual materials which will give me the same ability to sexually objectify men, as men do with women. And I want to be able to say, as men can, that what I have seen will “go into my (wank) bank for later.”
I’m all for a more open and uncensored sexually liberated society, but if women are still going to be marginalised purely as objects for men’s pleasure and not as the subjects seeking and obtaining pleasure in their own right, then I’m destined to be a moody fucking bitch who will not shut up about it.
I’m currently at the Edinburgh TV Festival, where today (Saturday), I may end up saying a few words at a debate about sex on television. Rest assured if I do, I will be arguing the usual: that is, we need to see erections on-screen, an end to faked female orgasms and a proper, equal, balance of men being objectified – in all their sexy glory - too. I understand Ofcom will be there: I expect a fun discussion about penises might be had...
[If anyone reading this is at MGEITF, do come up and say hello if you see me about. I’ll be the loud-mouthed girl with the five inch heels and frizzy hair]
Blocked
The last few days have been stressful. Blogger, the hosts of this blog, in all their intelligence, marked this blog as "spam", threatened to delete it, and blocked me from publishing any content on it - even an update to an old post. I filled out the Blogger "verification" form, wrote emails of complaint to them, asked advice from helpful bloggers (thank you Violet, Jonathan, Gordon and Viviane) and waited with baited breath to find out what would happen.
Thank god someone somewhere has seen some light (and pulled some strings) because finally I have received word that this blog will be allowed to continue and won't be deleted from their servers. Hurrah: three and a half years of writing not wasted then...
Suffice it to say, I am not in the least bit happy about all this: I don't want to be with a service that can indiscriminately prevent me from being able to blog when and how I like. I think a move to another service is long overdue: I plan to migrate to my own website domain soon.
Until then, let's hope I can carry on blogging here - minus the accusations that what I write is "spam". Honestly, is saying the word "cock" really that much of a big fucking deal?
Thank god someone somewhere has seen some light (and pulled some strings) because finally I have received word that this blog will be allowed to continue and won't be deleted from their servers. Hurrah: three and a half years of writing not wasted then...
Suffice it to say, I am not in the least bit happy about all this: I don't want to be with a service that can indiscriminately prevent me from being able to blog when and how I like. I think a move to another service is long overdue: I plan to migrate to my own website domain soon.
Until then, let's hope I can carry on blogging here - minus the accusations that what I write is "spam". Honestly, is saying the word "cock" really that much of a big fucking deal?
Monday, August 06, 2007
Anonymity
Today marks a year to the day that the Sunday Times newspaper ran a news story ‘outing’ me as the author of Girl with a one-track mind.
Remembering this day last year, I could blog about how it affected my family, with both my parents fearing the loss of their earnings and reputation.
I could talk about how I was the laughing stock at work; everyone in the UK film industry knowing and discussing the most intimate details of my sex life.
I could talk about how I had to go into hiding and how for a week, the tabloids poked their long-lens cameras through my parents’ letter-box and rang their doorbell and telephone constantly, making both me and my parents live in a state of anxiety.
I could talk about how profoundly I was affected by the articles on me, both in the media and online; how I wanted to challenge the lies, misrepresentations and personal attacks, but couldn’t.
I could talk about how I rejected money from the gutter press for an “exclusive”, because I didn’t ask to be in the limelight; and then resorted to do an interview with the Guardian in the hope that it would make the tabloids disappear from my and my parents' doorsteps (it did).
I could talk about how I wasn’t made rich by the book and that losing my film career as a result of it made me worry that I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent.
I could talk about how my friends were offered money to spill the ‘dirt’ on me and people from my past suddenly reappeared in my life, making me paranoid that I couldn’t trust anyone.
I could talk about how I lost all my confidence, becoming a recluse for some months; fearing getting intimate with anyone again.
I could talk about the hate-mail I received; the malicious comments; the vitriol people chose to send my way and how it did in fact get to me, even though I tried to have a thick skin.
But if I did talk about these things on the blog, then people would accuse me of feeling sorry for myself and trying to court sympathy. I can understand how it may look that way, but it’s far from the truth: by mentioning these events, I am just stating facts, nothing more.
So instead, I could talk about positive things on the blog: how well the book has done; that it’s sold over 140,000 copies of the UK edition; how proud I am that it’s still consistently selling well each week, a year on from publication.
I could talk about how thrilling it was, getting my first paid writing commission for a newspaper and how I was simultaneously proud of that, but also relieved, because it meant my bills for the next month were covered.
I could talk about how chuffed I felt when I received emails from book readers new to the blog, who told me my writing resonated with, or helped them in some way.
I could talk about how amused I have been that a large handful of production companies have approached me to make a film about my “story”, starring me; it is especially humorous and ironic, given the loss of my previous career behind the camera.
I could talk about how honoured I am to be asked my opinion on sexuality and feminism, in the press, on the radio and speaking in public and how grateful I am to have the opportunity to discuss these things in a more mainstream forum than my blog.
But if I did talk about these things on the blog, people would accuse me of being a narcissist, of being self-absorbed, of craving publicity. My rebuttal: that I’ve been unwillingly thrust into this position and feel I should continue to speak out to uphold my beliefs and to stand up for other women who are derogatorily labelled because of their sexuality, would fall on deaf ears. Plus, it’s hard to embrace your achievements in public without sounding like you are full of yourself.
So instead, perhaps I could talk about every-day things, like my personal life; after all, this is what the blog has mostly been about.
I could talk about how all my ex-lovers contacted me, concerned that I had disguised them fully; all of them now aware of my previous (hidden) feelings about them.
I could talk about how I lost all my confidence with men; that face-to-face I was terrified and totally self-conscious.
I could talk about how I then decided to give online-dating another go, only to discover that somehow every man I got into conversation with/ended up on a date with, knew that I was ‘Abby Lee’ and was a fan of the blog, making me immediately scarper in the other direction because I felt so vulnerable.
I could talk about how almost all the men I’ve met and/or been intimate with have asked me not to write about them, even when we’ve had no more than a pint together.
I could talk, in explicit detail, about all the hot (or not) sex I’ve had, but feel too exposed now that everyone knows who I am and my friends, colleagues and acquaintances all read the blog.
I could talk about all these things on the blog if I were still anonymous. But I’m not.
My ‘outing’ last year was a huge strain on me and yes, I have managed to find a silver lining out of it, but the ability to freely do the one thing that gave me such pleasure – blogging – has been destroyed. Take the anonymity away from a blogger who depends on it and you get a blog with no heart: true sincerity and authenticity about events, people, thoughts and feelings rely on anonymity. I'll challenge anyone who says that anonymity shouldn’t matter when someone’s writing about their own life. It does.
People have suggested I should have quit the blog when I was ‘outed’. Perhaps I should have; maybe I should now – it’s certainly not giving me the same catharsis as it once did, which was the main reason I wrote it. Mainly though, when I have the time to blog, I do still enjoy it, even if people complain that it is “not what it once was”. Well, blame the Sunday Times for that…
It may sound like I am spending today feeling morbid about the last year. I’m not, but nor am I celebrating the past 12 months either. Instead, I’m taking an optimistic outlook about it all and feeling energised about the fact that today, on the anniversary of my ‘outing’, the proposal for my second book is in. I can’t wait to get stuck in to writing it, not only because I think it will be a great book, but also because it will be my way of sticking my two fingers up at the backstabbing Sunday Times and saying, fuck you, you haven’t managed to shut up this “shameless” “seedy” “slut” yet – and nor will you.
Remembering this day last year, I could blog about how it affected my family, with both my parents fearing the loss of their earnings and reputation.
I could talk about how I was the laughing stock at work; everyone in the UK film industry knowing and discussing the most intimate details of my sex life.
I could talk about how I had to go into hiding and how for a week, the tabloids poked their long-lens cameras through my parents’ letter-box and rang their doorbell and telephone constantly, making both me and my parents live in a state of anxiety.
I could talk about how profoundly I was affected by the articles on me, both in the media and online; how I wanted to challenge the lies, misrepresentations and personal attacks, but couldn’t.
I could talk about how I rejected money from the gutter press for an “exclusive”, because I didn’t ask to be in the limelight; and then resorted to do an interview with the Guardian in the hope that it would make the tabloids disappear from my and my parents' doorsteps (it did).
I could talk about how I wasn’t made rich by the book and that losing my film career as a result of it made me worry that I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent.
I could talk about how my friends were offered money to spill the ‘dirt’ on me and people from my past suddenly reappeared in my life, making me paranoid that I couldn’t trust anyone.
I could talk about how I lost all my confidence, becoming a recluse for some months; fearing getting intimate with anyone again.
I could talk about the hate-mail I received; the malicious comments; the vitriol people chose to send my way and how it did in fact get to me, even though I tried to have a thick skin.
But if I did talk about these things on the blog, then people would accuse me of feeling sorry for myself and trying to court sympathy. I can understand how it may look that way, but it’s far from the truth: by mentioning these events, I am just stating facts, nothing more.
So instead, I could talk about positive things on the blog: how well the book has done; that it’s sold over 140,000 copies of the UK edition; how proud I am that it’s still consistently selling well each week, a year on from publication.
I could talk about how thrilling it was, getting my first paid writing commission for a newspaper and how I was simultaneously proud of that, but also relieved, because it meant my bills for the next month were covered.
I could talk about how chuffed I felt when I received emails from book readers new to the blog, who told me my writing resonated with, or helped them in some way.
I could talk about how amused I have been that a large handful of production companies have approached me to make a film about my “story”, starring me; it is especially humorous and ironic, given the loss of my previous career behind the camera.
I could talk about how honoured I am to be asked my opinion on sexuality and feminism, in the press, on the radio and speaking in public and how grateful I am to have the opportunity to discuss these things in a more mainstream forum than my blog.
But if I did talk about these things on the blog, people would accuse me of being a narcissist, of being self-absorbed, of craving publicity. My rebuttal: that I’ve been unwillingly thrust into this position and feel I should continue to speak out to uphold my beliefs and to stand up for other women who are derogatorily labelled because of their sexuality, would fall on deaf ears. Plus, it’s hard to embrace your achievements in public without sounding like you are full of yourself.
So instead, perhaps I could talk about every-day things, like my personal life; after all, this is what the blog has mostly been about.
I could talk about how all my ex-lovers contacted me, concerned that I had disguised them fully; all of them now aware of my previous (hidden) feelings about them.
I could talk about how I lost all my confidence with men; that face-to-face I was terrified and totally self-conscious.
I could talk about how I then decided to give online-dating another go, only to discover that somehow every man I got into conversation with/ended up on a date with, knew that I was ‘Abby Lee’ and was a fan of the blog, making me immediately scarper in the other direction because I felt so vulnerable.
I could talk about how almost all the men I’ve met and/or been intimate with have asked me not to write about them, even when we’ve had no more than a pint together.
I could talk, in explicit detail, about all the hot (or not) sex I’ve had, but feel too exposed now that everyone knows who I am and my friends, colleagues and acquaintances all read the blog.
I could talk about all these things on the blog if I were still anonymous. But I’m not.
My ‘outing’ last year was a huge strain on me and yes, I have managed to find a silver lining out of it, but the ability to freely do the one thing that gave me such pleasure – blogging – has been destroyed. Take the anonymity away from a blogger who depends on it and you get a blog with no heart: true sincerity and authenticity about events, people, thoughts and feelings rely on anonymity. I'll challenge anyone who says that anonymity shouldn’t matter when someone’s writing about their own life. It does.
People have suggested I should have quit the blog when I was ‘outed’. Perhaps I should have; maybe I should now – it’s certainly not giving me the same catharsis as it once did, which was the main reason I wrote it. Mainly though, when I have the time to blog, I do still enjoy it, even if people complain that it is “not what it once was”. Well, blame the Sunday Times for that…
It may sound like I am spending today feeling morbid about the last year. I’m not, but nor am I celebrating the past 12 months either. Instead, I’m taking an optimistic outlook about it all and feeling energised about the fact that today, on the anniversary of my ‘outing’, the proposal for my second book is in. I can’t wait to get stuck in to writing it, not only because I think it will be a great book, but also because it will be my way of sticking my two fingers up at the backstabbing Sunday Times and saying, fuck you, you haven’t managed to shut up this “shameless” “seedy” “slut” yet – and nor will you.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Early
"We've been doing really long days."
"Those, I do not miss at all. What sort of hours?"
"Usually get home around 10:30p.m. then up again at 4:15a.m."
"Fucking hell, that's horrid. 4:15? Jesus: it's been ages since I've had to be awake for work at that time..."
"Well I don't need to be up until 4:30, but I always give it an extra 15 minutes to have a wank: got to start the day off right."
"That's what I like to hear: you really are a man after my own heart. "
"Those, I do not miss at all. What sort of hours?"
"Usually get home around 10:30p.m. then up again at 4:15a.m."
"Fucking hell, that's horrid. 4:15? Jesus: it's been ages since I've had to be awake for work at that time..."
"Well I don't need to be up until 4:30, but I always give it an extra 15 minutes to have a wank: got to start the day off right."
"That's what I like to hear: you really are a man after my own heart. "