Earth Mother just means I'm dusty

ePedigree. The Dating Website for Dogs.

 

 Are you tired of that stud expecting to get lucky just because he let you lick the peanut butter out of his Kong?

You're not looking for lots of dates, just better ones. Take our relationship questionnaire below and we'll help you find the most promising matches, based on your goals, dreams and American Kennel Club classification.

 

General information

Name:

License #: 

 Microchip # Implanted in Your Skull:

Level of education completed: (please choose one of the following)

* Obedience school

* Obedience school GED

* Wee-wee pad trained

* Sit, Stay, Roll Over

* I don't fetch for The Man

What is your ethnicity?

* Purebreed

* Mixed Breed

* "Designer Dog", i.e. Labradoodle, Puggle, Cock-a-tzu, Eskapoo, etc.

* "Hybrid", i.e. any breed mixed with other household pet whose cage door was unfortunately left open, i.e. Guinea Pog, GoldenRetrieverFish, Beagle Bunny, French BullFerret, Iguanador, Potbellied Pug

 How would you describe yourself to a potential mate (please choose one)?

* Cold nose, warm heart.

* I think outside the bowl.

* I think it's important to take the time to stop and smell the butts.

* They named the "Field Dog Stud Book" after me.

* I am a Bitch because I am a female dog of puppybearing age.

* I am a Bitch because I am a Bitch.

 

Please rate how strongly you agree or disagree with the following relationship statements:

* I am looking for a long-term relationship that will lead to litters.

* Just because we've "tied" doesn't mean we've got to be tied up.

* Mi doghouse es su doghouse.

* I heart humping.

* A dingo ate my baby, but I still love him.

How well do the following words describe your physical appearance?

* Fluffy

* Spotty

* Weinery

* Walking dustmop

* Docked ears, docked tail, docked dangling dewclaws

* Looks hot in a thundershirt

My free time interests include:

* Sleeping

* Eating

* Sleeping and eating

* Barking at passing strangers, dogs, bicycles, insects, dust and sunbeams

* Chasing that thing on my butt

* Shedding

* Howling hysterically for the entire eight hours that my best friend is at work

* Sampling the hors d'ouevres in the cat box

Important characteristics in a potential partner (please choose as many as apply):

* Commitment to personal upkeep (bathes yearly, eats Milk Bones after engaging in coprophagia, anal sacs properly expressed, FURminated)

* Commitment to emotional honesty (Just admit those are Neuticles, dude)

* Commitment to personal growth (would be open to input from Cesar Millan or Victoria Stilwell)

* Commitment to personal integrity (will chew proper chew toys, not the remote control or house guests)

* Commitment to modogamy (No, it's not adorable that every puppy in the neighborhood looks like you)

 

CONGRATULATIONS! You have completed your relationship questionnaire! Using your answers, we will now put you in touch with singles that best match your profile! Who will be your bowlmate?

Edward, Anchorage, AK

Tiffany, Miami, FL

Alberto, Omaha, NE

Mary Elizabeth, Los Angeles, CA

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Edward:  photo credit: faster panda kill kill via photo pin cc

Tiffany: photo credit: whatsnextonline via photo pin cc

Alberto: photo credit: la jul via photo pin cc

Mary Elizabeth: photo credit: Ula Gillion via photo pin cc

 

Slow/Dynamo

Can you be "slow" and a "dynamo" at the same time?

I had an epiphany not so long ago. I realized that I was so rushed and overbooked, that I was in "hurry!" mode constantly. Even when it was unnecessary to "hurry!", I was still "hurrying!"

I have a natural propensity towards "hurrying!" I suppose it makes me feel like I'm important and accomplishing something. All it really does, however, is make me ditzy, dizzy and disheveled. And trust me, a ditzy, dizzy and disheveled Dusty is some damning alliteration.

So I decided to slow my pace a bit. Nothing too drastic, just ease up on the gas pedal. It's been nice. I've actually seen a bit more scenery and caused less roadkill.

Have my kids noticed? Well, I won't brag, but I did receive this from my daughter for Mother's Day:

I am officially the best Mom in my daughter's price range. If that's not a thumbs-up, I don't know what is.

Soon after my decision to Snail myself, I started reading this great book, No Regrets Parenting by Dr. Harley Rotbart. This is not an affiliate link, just a recommendation. Dr. Rotbart's sound bite is "Turn minutes into moments" and he gives some practical and sound advice on how to take the time you already have and make it worthwhile. Small steps. Small and meaningful.

I also wanted to tell you that I saw Godspell again with Mama Rose.

"Wait, let me put the program under my chin so you can't see my wrinkled neck."

I wrote about the show when it first came out, but I have to say that it's gotten even better since the previews. The spectacular ensemble is still in place, with one awesome addition: Corbin Bleu has replaced Hunter Parrish as Jesus. No offense against Mr. Parrish, but Bleu's a Messiah to be reckoned with. He's manly, strong and full of personality (he also sneaks around the audience when not needed on stage and sat down next to my sister, scaring the crap out of her/delighting her, which is exactly what any Jesus worth his salt should do). If you had any inclination toward seeing the show, now's the time! Not only do you get a virile JC, but there's a deal running until the end of May, two tickets for the price of one. So, Get Ye over there and see this amazing revival. 

Also, thanks to PLAYTIME!  and MamaDrama NY, I saw Rapture, Blister, Burn at Playwright's Horizons starring Amy Brenneman. (I know, it doesn't sound like I've slowed my pace at all, does it?) Ok, this is a must-see for women/wives/mothers/academics/etc., and even men will get something out of it. The cast is sublime, particularly Ms. Brenneman and the pitch-perfect Virginia Kull, and the story is engaging and tumultuous and funny and heartbreaking and intelligent. I couldn't stop thinking about it and all the issues the play raises for 21st century feminism. Of course, being a "Christian feminist", I have some strong opinions. Which, apparently, I will attempt to convey in 140 characters or less as a moderator for the Rapture Twitter party on May 30 at 9pm. I do so love a brevity challenge.

Well, I think that might be it. I would just like to leave you with one more image that hopefully will amuse you and not cause you to call Social Services. My kids have this long-standing joke with Mama Rose; because they are "screamers", she's been threatening to duct-tape their mouths, which they find the height of hilarity. So while she was visiting I went to do an errand and came back to this:

Oh ho ho, the dark humor abounds in the Dusty household. Just so you know, they did this themselves.

I hope you're laughing. And not dialling 911.

 

Disclosure: My tickets to "Rapture, Blister, Burn" were provided by PLAYTIME! which offers affordable childcare for you and your friends right in Playwrights Horizon’s building while you see a show. But all opinions are my own. Because if they weren't, they wouldn't be opinions, they would be facts, right?

Emerging From the Whirlpool of Fun

Glug. Bllleeefffff. Hmmmnnaaahhhh.

I beg your pardon. One makes strange, wet sounds whilst emerging from the whirlpool of fun.

It was a wild weekend.

Wine was drunk.

And more wine was drunk.

 And disgusting amounts of chocolate were consumed at Max Brenner's.

And musicals were seen.

But perhaps my favorite moment of the weekend was courtesy of this man:

That's my brother-in-law. While a truly good egg, he is not known for being Mr. Romance. But he tries. He gave my sister a lovely card for Mother's Day. It said, "To My Beautiful Wife" across the top in large letters.

Unfortunately, those were the only letters he read when he purchased it. Because he had forgotten his reading glasses. So imagine his surprise when my sister opened the card and burst into hysterical laughter.

In smaller letters, underneath "To My Beautiful Wife", it read "You are my strong black woman".

The first words out of his mouth, after "Oh, crap!", were "I suppose I'm going to be on the blog now."

That's right, my dear BIL. You and your strong black woman made the blog. Congratulations.

 

Young in Spirit. And in Epidermis.

So I'm drawing ever nearer to my 49th birthday and I've been toying with titles for my post.

49 And Still Divine

49 Is Just A Number. A Very Large Number.

Fiery and Fine at 49

Dear God, I'm Going To Be 50 Next Year, How Did That Happen?

As you can see, I'm kind of going back and forth between joy/satisfaction and jaw-dropping amazement that I, too, have aged just like the rest of humanity for all time. 

I mean, I know that all 600 trillion human beings since the beginning of time have aged, but et moi, Brute, et moi?? 

In response to this looming event, I will show you two photographs:

This is a picture of me with Cristie Ritz-King and Dr. Aaron Tabor. Dr. Tabor is one of the physicians on the newly re-launched Healthy Directions website, the creator of Inside Out Beauty products and a heck of a nice guy. He's also 100 years old.

Jes' kiddin'!

Yeah, I used that joke when I met him. And of course he said "you stole my joke", so, hmmm, great minds? Anyway, I started using his products almost two weeks ago and I have to say, I've been very pleased with the results. So if you want to hear the whole story about how I'm going to look 29 on my 49th birthday (ok, maybe 39 and a few months) go here.

And here's the second photograph:

If you're thinking "Hmmm, that looks like Mama Rose dressed as a Victorian hooker and being attacked by Jack the Ripper", you're absolutely right.

It seems that Mama Rose's friend Maryann called her out of the blue and said, "Do you want to go to a Victorian high tea tomorrow? You have to dress up." Well, you might as well say "raw meat" to a stray dog; Mama Rose loves to dress up. She put this little number together in one day out of this'n'that in her closet and was the hit of the party.

Except she couldn't tell anyone. Because Maryann's other friends would be mad that they weren't invited to a Victorian high tea. So even though her picture is going to appear in the local newspaper next week, Mama Rose has been sworn to silence. Uh huh. Let's see how that plays out.

And guess what?? That little Victorian lady of the night is going to be my house guest in a few days. That's right, Mama Rose is getting on an airplane, even though all airlines hate old people and they will dump her in some unknown city where she will have to sleep in the airport for the night because they hate old people. She's coming for Mother's Day because she's brave.

And young in spirit.

See? I may ramble for a while, but I usually can justify my title by the end.

 

Wild Food on an Urban Platter

Have you heard of foraging?

Oh, come, come, it's all the rage.

"Foraging" is basically being a modern-day hunter/gatherer. Apparently, there is food everywhere, all around us, if only we were paying attention. And were carrying a spade, gardening gloves and a copy of "Guide to Edible Plants As Opposed to the Ones That Will Kill You Immediately" in our pocketbooks.

I first learned of foraging in a New Yorker article entitled "The Food At Our Feet". There is a restaurant in Copenhagen called Noma which has won every award in the foodie book and garners much, or most, of their cuisine through foraging. The dishes run along the lines of Wild Sow Thistle Cooked in Pigeon Juice and Sea Urchin Wrapped in Beach Horseradish and Grilled Salad Puree of Spinach, Wild Herbs, Ground Edler, Spanish Chervil, Chickweed and Goosefoot with a Morel and Juniper Wood Broth.

This is incredible to me.

So incredible that I've decided to open my own restaurant serving only the 'food that is at my feet'.

The food foraged from Hoboken, New Jersey.

Appetizers

A Salad of Playground Grasses Drizzled with Free-Range Labradoodle Urine

Tender Community Garden Slugs Wrapped in Emulsified Flier Paper Harvested From Toyota Windshields and Laced With Crispy Gravel

Main dishes

Confused NYC Pigeon Eggs on a Bed of Plastic Flowers From Italian Catholics Front Porch Blessed Mother Shrines 

Dumpster Diver Nuggets with Hudson River Crème Fraiche

Flood Zone Worm 'Noodles' with Upside Down Tomato Planter Sauce

Vacant Lot Moss Tossed With Squirrel Roadkill and Finished with Heirloom Poison Ivy Reduction

Desserts

Mud Cake. Made with Authentic Hoboken Mud.

'Frank Sinatra Tiramisu', Made with Authentic Severed Lady Fingers and Dusted with Authentic Frank Sinatra Ashes

Dog Crap

BON APPÈTIT! 

photo credit: Jason Michael via photo pin cc

Oh, To Write For The Alan Brady Show!

The other girls were in love with David Cassidy.

After all, it was 1973 and "The Partidge Family" was hot, hot, hot.

But while the other 10-year old girls were singing "I Think I Love You" and not even bothering to notice that Susan Dey was playing air piano, I was turning my television dial to Channel 9, WGN, in Chicago.

Because I was in love with Rob Petrie.

"The Dick Van Dyke Show" aired from 1961 to 1966; I was only three years old when it went off the air. So by the time I found my man, he had been in re-runs for a number of years. But it didn't matter to me. I loved him retroactively.

I dreamed of being married to Rob. I wanted to kiss his googly lips and hug his tall lanky body. I wanted to be the one dancing with him at the Petries' casual gatherings in the living room with full orchestra. I wanted to be the one to catch him when he tripped over the ottoman.

But for all of my twin-bed New Rochelle fantasies, the place where I most wanted to be with Rob was in the comedy writing office of "The Alan Brady Show".

That was where the magic happened.

Oh, to spend the day with Rob writing jokes! Oh, to be hair-bowed Sally Rogers, a female comedy writer, trading zingers with my man! Oh, to stare at Rob over my pastrami on rye delivered by a pre-M.A.S.H. Jamie Farr as we engaged in witty banter! Oh! Oh! Oh!

As I look back to my first crush, there is no doubt that I adored Dick Van Dyke and still do. I'd marry him today, except that he likes younger women.

But it seems obvious that my real first love was that comedy writing office. A magical place where you met up with your friends, turned on the coffee pot and spent the day coming up with the funny. Where you got paid to create laughter.

I've worked for many years with my writing partner, Charlie Shahnaian, with whom I co-wrote the comedy "Maybe Baby, It's You" and whom I like to think of as the Greek-Armenian Rob Petrie. We pay homage to "The Dick Van Dyke Show" in our writing sessions by calling out "Sally! Get that one down!" when we come up with a good line.

Charlie has always maintained that I laugh hardest at my own jokes, which is true. But my laughter is only part "hey, that was funny!" The rest is plain old joy. Joy that I get to participate, even a little bit, in the creation of joy and the enjoyment of joy. Yes, I said "joy" three times. Because any comedy writer will tell you that all jokes follow the "rule of 3".

Rob Petrie, I love you. Thank you for being a comedy writer and not an accountant, otherwise this would be a passionate post about tax season. Thank you for not being David Cassidy, otherwise this would be a passionate post about touring in a multi-colored school bus while wearing bell-bottomed jeans. Most of all, thank you for letting me into that office and into the notion that one could laugh for a living.

*trips over ottoman as sign of respect*

 

Six Degrees of Al Capone

“Did you know that Grandma Simpson lived across the alley from Al Capone’s mother in South Chicago for twenty years?”

It is not unusual for there to be jaw-dropping revelations tossed about at will in my family. Nothing really surprises me anymore.

You know, except for the news about Mother Scarface.

What?! How did I not know this?! For the love of Prohibition, am I not a humor writer?! And no one thought to tell me that my Irish father and his brothers used to do errands for Ma Capone and her son, “Bottles” Capone? Withholding a gangster named “Bottles” from a humorist is like depriving a scrapbooker of puffy paint letters. It’s just cruel.

Our 2.5 degrees of Capone separation was divulged by my cousin Friday night as we drove through the quiet streets of Ohio. I was in the Buckeye State for the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop at the University of Dayton, and took a little side trip to visit my cousin in Cincinnati. Apparently, she herself only recently discovered our near-familial relationship to a man who owned a Tommy gun and used it, so mystery solved.

Sort of.

I suppose most families have a few skeletons in their closets, but mine often seems to have an entire cemetery.  Most of the bones have been excavated on Mama Rose’s side, but on my father’s side, there still remains much that is unknown. A lot of the Simpsons died young, and those who hung around weren’t talking. Possibly because they didn’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but more likely because they were drunk during most of the events and don’t remember. I felt very grateful for my cousin, one of the few Simpsons who has the distinction of being not only sober, level-headed, and kind, but also alive.

So I was processing this new information while we drove, working it through my mind, trying to decide from which angle I was going to humorize the fact that Ma Capone would send food over to my Dad's family on Christmas, Easter and St. Joseph’s Day. Was Joey the patron saint of bootleggers? Did my grandmother wink at Ma on Easter and say, “hope that ham came from a real pig”? What kind of goodies did Mrs. C. send over on St. Valentine’s Day?

But this was not to be the only revelation of the night.

I learned of our Caponeishness on the drive to visit my aunt in the nursing home. Aunt J suffered a brain aneurysm twenty years ago and almost died, except she didn't. Instead, the aneurysm robbed her of her short-term memory, most of her eyesight, and a myriad of other abilities that we take for granted. One thing it did not take from her, however, were her zingers. Here are two recent ones:

"My mouth feels like the bottom of a bird cage."

"I'm so hungry, I could eat the ass out of a raccoon."

If you're thinking that these lines sound like they could have come from Mama Rose, just be delighted for me that I come from such fine zinger-heavy stock on both sides of my family.

Knowing that this would possibly be the last time I would see Aunt J, I leaned down close to her ear and told her something that I'm not sure she understood, but I wanted her to know anyway. I told her that every Thanksgiving, when other families are spraying Readi-Whip on their pumpkin pies, I whip heavy cream in a bowl with just a touch of vanilla and a teaspoon of sugar.

"You taught me to do that and it's my absolute favorite thing and I think of you every time. Every Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for you."

She smiled and laughed and nodded. I'm not sure she actually remembered, but she felt my giving thanks and took it in stride, from wherever her mind is now, whatever place she lives in her own world.

When we left, my cousin said, "It' so interesting. Before the aneurysm, my mother was such a worrier. She worried about everything. Now... that's all gone. I remember her saying the year after the accident, 'this was a good year.' How about that?"

This was a revelation to me.

So if you asked me what was the most surprising thing about the discoveries of Friday night, that my father's family was chummy and thisclose with the most notorious gangster who ever lived, or that God had somehow brought good out of the seemingly terrible incident that my aunt suffered, I think you know what I would answer.

Capone.

Because the good that God does never surprises me.

And because, COME ON! Seriously?! My Dad was Bottles Capone's lackey?! How golden is that, people?! Do you smell a book deal?!

xxxooo

 

 

 

The Evolution of a Headshot

I used to be an actor, don'tcha know.

As any actor or former actor will tell you, the quest for the perfect headshot is tantamount to the search for the holy grail. It has to be "you", except with lots of make-up that makes you look completely natural, and a facial expression that covers your full performance range from tragic Shakespearean heroine to ecstatic Mountain Dew drinker.

I was cleaning out my file cabinets recently and happened upon my file of old headshots, covering the years 1990 to 2000.

I tried on a lot of different personalities in ten years. Here's just a few.

 

I'm blond, I have sculpted bangs, and I wear a leather jacket and a half-smile that shows my sassiness and is certainly not designed to hide my bad Irish teeth. Please hire me.

 

Okay, now I'm a redhead and I wear suits. And yes, I can keep my eyebrows arched up like that at all times so that no one attempts to purchase advertising space on my forehead. Please, please hire me.

 

Hey look, casting agent! I'm the modern-day Carol Burnett! Oh, you're too young to know who Carol Burnett is? If you hire me I'll stop crying.

 

I know, I'm not sure what's going on with my blush here, either. But if you hire me, I'll let you wear my puffy shirt.

 

  Look into my eyes... you're getting sleepy... when you awake, you'll have no recollection of this conversation... but you will hire me immediately...

 

In those ten years, I was hired and not hired. But I will say that I am happy to be a writer. I would so rather be hired or not hired for my words than for my 8 x 10. 

10 Packing Tips for people who want to spend their vacation at Wal-Mart buying stuff they forgot to pack

I absolutely love to travel.

I'm crazy for cars, trembly over trains, perky on planes. I love the journey, the destination, and even the ride home. I love hotels, B&Bs, tents, villas, cruise ships, house exchanges, houseboats, and treehouses.

In fact, I'd venture to say the only thing that's as genuine and enduring as my love of travel is my complete inability to pack anything I might actually need on the trip.

 

Dusty's 10 Packing Tips for People Who Want To Spend Their Vacation at Wal-Mart Buying Things They Forgot to Pack

 

1. Make lots of packing lists. Pack nothing that is on those lists. Instead, tip the clean contents of the laundry basket into your suitcase, zip quickly and hope for the best.

2. Carefully select jewelry for every outfit you plan on bringing. Forget to bring every one of those outfits.

3. If you're going to forget to pack anything, forget to pack clean underwear. Not only can you get away with not wearing any underwear at all, but also, washing that single pair of underwear out in the sink will make you feel like you're at a youth hostel, which will make you feel young again, which will make for a very lively vacation, which is what you intended all along, which means that in some backwards way, you're very smart. Also--

4. Wal-Mart sells underwear.

5. Conversely, if you remember to pack anything, remember to pack pants. You cannot get away with not wearing pants. Unless you're Lady Gaga. But then you'd have to remember to pack your crown, and if you can't even remember to pack underwear, are you really going to remember regal headware?

6. Find every liquid you have in your house and pack them deep in your suitcase in 3.5 oz. bottles. Because then you can say fun things to Security like "Come on! It's half an ounce! Are you really going to make me throw away all those bottles over half an ounce?!" Throw away all those bottles. Go to Wal-Mart when you reach your destination and buy bottles that are CLEARLY MARKED "Travel Size". Forget all those bottles at the hotel because even though they are CLEARLY MARKED "Travel Size", "Travel Size" happens to be the same size as the bottles of stuff they gave you at the hotel and everybody knows the stuff they give you at the hotel is crap. Repeat.

7. Don't forget to pack a $20 jar of Italian honey.

8. Don't forget to forget to bring the currency of the country you are traveling to, so that when there's a ten-hour train strike and you arrive in Paris after all the money exchange booths are closed, you can end up staying in the hotel of a madman wearing lederhosen.

9. Time all your prescriptions to run out three days into your trip. Unless it's your epileptic dog's prescription. Because that's just pathetic.

10. If you're traveling to the Erma Bombeck Writing Workshop, all you need to bring is your sense of humor! And hope that those awesome bloggers Marinka, Wendi, Ann, Alexandra, Nancy, Amy, Anna or Erin bring you some underwear.

 

photo credit: ro_buk [I'm not there] via photopin cc

Even My Psyche is Sore

Here it is, Resurrection Day, and I couldn't even Rise from the bed.

I'm so sore. My hamstrings are sore, my back is sore, my neck is sore, my lungs are sore. That little "C" of skin between my index finger and thumb is sore. The curve of my bellybutton is sore. My eyestalks are sore. My nosehairs are sore.

After a strong evangelical effort failed to convert our children to the Church of Skientology, the husband turned his crazy eyes on me.

"Can't wait to ski with my honey! We'll have a skiing date! We'll start out on the Snubber, and then we'll take the SuperQuad up to Tote Road and ski all the way down together! I'M SO PUMPED, BABY!"

This is what I have to deal with, people.

In case you're wondering who filmed that little Vacationland promo, it was him. While he was skiing. (Be grateful for the goggles, because they're the only barrier between you and the crazy eyes.)

So there I was, out on the Snubber (don't ask) with my MIL's ski outfit from 1986.

Yes, I am gnawing on my knuckles. And not because I'm afraid someone's going to make a pass at me because I'm so hot. It's because I'm a terrified skier.

I've skied many times. Many terrified times. I keep skiing because I'm so certain that one time I will ski unterrified, but it hasn't happened yet. I'm like a junkie who keeps using based solely on the recommendations of other crackheads.

Many have tried to tinker with my technique, but I find that the "keep upright by sheer muscle lockage" works just fine for me, thank you very much. Yes, it's quite possible that complete and utter tissue rigidity for prolonged periods of time in frigid temperatures may have something to do with the next-day soreness, but I'll take that over broken bones anytime.

Here is an example of my inner monologue while skiing:

"GodGodGodGod--I'm MOVING!! NONONONONONO lockyourkneesWait Hesaiddon'tlockyourkneesButImustlockmyknees SNOWPLOW!SNOWPLOW! SNOWPLOW!FORTHELOVEOFJESUSSNOWPLOW! Edge! Wedge! Pizzaslice! Don'tthinkaboutLiamNeesonsWifeDon'tthinkaboutLiamNeesonsWifeDon'tthink aboutSonnyBonoDon'tthinkaboutSonnyBonoDon'tthingaboutthatguyonWideWorld ofSportsTheAgonyofDefeatSNOWPLOW! SNOWPLOW!It'sEasterTomorrow BeMercifulJesusSNOWPLOWWWWWWWWWWW!!

This, while 3-year olds whiz past me and old women so gnarled they look like they morphed out of the tree trunks call out to their ancient husbands, "I'll meetcha on the moguls, Morrie!"

And yet, I persevere. Yes, for my beloved husband who would probably burst into happy tears if I ever made it past the beginner's slope, but also for me. Because it's hard and I can't do it and it baffles me. And if you know me, you know how I love hard and baffling and impossible. That's the best stuff of life.

Of course, the best stuff of life would be a whole lot better in a ski outfit from this century. Drop a hint to Crazy Eyes.

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