cops and cornfields

Driving on flatland proved to be a big relief. Last night, climbing through the Rockies was stressful upon both me and Kimiko. I think we had our first fight. But leaving Denver (and Colorado) behind smoothed things over between the two of us.

I'm sure Colorado is pretty by day, what with all the mountains and whatnot, but at night it's not the most welcoming of places. If it wasn't the mountains imposing their authority, it was the cops. Driving through Utah and Nevada, I saw a total of three police officers. In Colorado, within minutes of crossing the border, I saw two plus a DEA agent.

There were police everywhere. As I descended into Denver, the steep grade and curves caused the speed limit to drop from 75 to 55, and right at the apex of the descent sat a state trooper. I didn't have anything to fear. I was keeping within the posted speed, but as the slope became greater, Kimiko had a tendency to speed up. God forbid she did that going uphill, but I don't want to get into that right now. Like I said, we worked it out. And of course, the state trooper followed close behind the whole way. I had to ride the brake. I couldn't afford a ticket. Plus, you know, the registration expired last month, so...

The trooper peeled off a few exits later and I was able to breathe easy, or as much as the climate up there would allow.

Denver was nice enough, though I only spent about four waking hours there. My host was very nice to take me in at such a late hour and showed me around her neighborhood the next day and even bought me lunch (thanks, Lisa). I got lost on my way out of town, but some dude in Brighton helped me back to the Interstate. It went something like this:

Me: Uh...I must've gotten turned around or something. Do you know how I can get to...

Guy in Brighton: 76, right?

Me: Yeah!

GiB: It happens to everyone.

Me: Is it really that hard to find?

GiB: It splits. You were probably in the left lane.

It should be noted that I was so lost, that I wasn't even on track enough to get lost in the place where he mentioned. He directed me to follow the road the gas station was on for five more miles to get there. He was right, and I was elated.

But not so elated that I could get over the desperation of being completely broke and having my cell phone turned off. You see, I have a check, that I can deposit, but as it turns out, there aren't any Bank of Americas in Colorado, nor any, as I discovered, in the entire state of Nebraska. The closest one is in Des Moines, Iowa, about two or so hours from where I am now in Omaha at a Motel 6, working on a spotty Internet connection. Tomorrow I'll have money and a phone again, and I'll be off to Chicago, where I think I'll do some partying. After that, I've added a stop in Morgantown, W.V. (go Mountaineers!), so I don't have to get stuck paying tolls in the shitty state of Pennsylvania. Plus, I hear Morgantown is lovely place for walking, which is something I really enjoy. Should be in New York by Friday night. I want to talk about Utah, but that's going to have to wait for another time. All I want to do is drink a warm beer and go to sleep.

Trip Rule #3: No Pink Floyd. Ever.

Best Radio Station Thus Far: An all-rock station out of North Platte, Neb. that played Nirvana, A Perfect Circle and MONSTER MAGNET! in the same hour.

Best Thing That Happened Today Other Than Sharing Drinks With a Friend in Denver: I didn't get stuck in the most raging severe thunderstorm I've ever seen. Luckily for me, it was only doing 40 and I was pushing 80.

Most Epic In-Car Sing-a-long: "When You Were Young" by The Killers. I own that shit.

america is way too fucking big

I'm alive. Mostly. And in Denver. It was a long day of driving...about 14 hours in total, and I'm really tired. Listened to more "mainstream modern country" than I'd care to admit. I climbed rocks in Utah and chased lizards. I'm just happy to not be in the car, and I'm sure Kimiko's pretty stoked that she's done for the night. Tomorrow, me and my Denver buddy are going to wander around the city for a bit before I'm off to Omaha, where I'll probably just get tanked at the Motel 6 and write all night or go to a strip club. But who knows. I may be industrious and do both. Tomorrow should be an easier day of driving, because I think it's all downhill from here...at least it better be. If I ever see another mountain again, I'll kill myself. More later.

Most Epic Sing-a-long of the day: "Angel of the Morning" by I'm not sure who...There are about a million versions. I don't know what came over me.

Trip Rule #2: Singing along to country music is fine as long as you're drinking a road soda.

the lonliest road/western hospitality

Sometimes things don't live up to their names, but that's not the case with "The Lonliest Road in America." I figured that in this age of Internets and Walmarts and strip malls, that there weren't many places in the country that were untouched by the swift hand of progress.

I'm big enough to admit when I'm wrong.

I pulled into a town called Fallon in western Nevada. It contained--from what I could tell--nothing but fast food restaurant that looked as if they were built just an hour ago. One of which was a KFC/Long John Silver combo that employed around 10 kids, half of whom were sitting in the dining room area bored out of their minds. They each sat in different booths creating the illusion that the restaurant was busy. I had a $5 gift certificate to KFC, so I got a two-piece with some corn and the worst potato salad ever (I only took a bite). The young woman beind the counter was very pleasant and confused by the gift certificate. After about five minutes and consulting two other employees, everything was set and my order was entered into The Matrix.

I had just about over a quarter tank of gas in the car, so I asked her if she knew how far away the next town was. After all, if I was about to embark upon the Lonliest Road in America, running out of gas would create a certain amount of distress. She asked which direction, and when I answered, "East," she started as if to say something, paused, smiled and said, "Oh, I have no idea."

That was enough for me to opt for gassing up in Fallon. I pulled into a Native American-themed MegaGas stop on the edge of town, just a stones throw from Fallon's biggest attraction: a cemetary. And then I hit the road.

Within a few miles, the strip mall town had faded into obscurity, the speed limit on the two-lane highway inflated to a whopping 70mph, and I was quite literally in the middle of fucking nowhere. But I'd found a pretty sweet classic rock station on the radio, the sun was setting over the high desert and everything seemed right with the world.

But then it got darker. The scan function on my car's stereo ran through the FM dial without settling on a single station and I was stuck listening to Helloween's "Keeper of the Seven Keys" over and over again because it's on the CD that's stuck in the radio. Wildlife lurked in every corner, mostly of the benign type, and by benign, I mean dead. I was actually surprised there wasn't more roadkill strewn about this ghostly Autobahn. The few cars on the road zipped by me doing 75 as if I was in neutral and wildlife warning signs included cows, deers and Horned Gods. However, most of the carcasses were just unidentifiable forms of rodent matter.

I did see a few living beasties. One rabbit thought it would be a good idea to launch itself at my rear tire (luckily its aim was off), and outside the town of Austin, climbing to the top of a summit, I encountered two deers in the middle of the road. Since I was only doing 35 at the time, I was able to slow down to a stop. One of the deers quickly slinked into the surrounding brush, but the other dawdled on the road for a little while and walked along side of me as a I rolled to a stop before it darted away.

The bugs weren't so lucky. As my high beams shone across the dark, high desert night, hordes of flying insects swarmed toward the sweet embrace of death. But I pressed on, plowing through the bottom rung of the food chain, because I needed to get to Ely, which as I found out this evening is pronounced E-lee and not E-lie.

The first leg of the trip ended around midnight local time, and I'm currently holed up in the Historic Hotel Nevada, which has also played host to the likes of Mickey Rooney, whose suite is just a few doors down from mine. When I got my room, they handed me a heavy brass key and a coupon to a free drink at the dive bar across the street. When I went to redeem my prize, the bartender filled up a 10 oz. mug. I figured I'd have another, but when I asked her if the place took plastic, she said that it did, but the machine was acting all hokey and she wasn't sure if it would work. She then asked me what I wanted and said she'd fix it for me free of charge, so I got a Jim Beam on the rocks. When I was done, I said good night, and she came out from behind the bar, shook my hand and said, "Hey, enjoy your stay in Eeeleee." When I got back to my hotel/gambling hall, I redeemed my other ticket for a free margarita, and won $6 on the video poker machine built into the bar top. Enjoyment guaranteed.

Best Lonely Road Sing-a-long: "Here I Go Again" by White Snake, which came on as soon as I left Fallon.

Trip Rule #1: If Tom Petty comes on the radio, you must listen to it. One drink must be taken for every instance of "Free Fallin'" (I heard it twice).

[insert song title referring to california here]

I feel that I've done all I can in California, because on Friday, I learned how to Frisbee golf (or disc golf, or, as I like to call it, Frolf, which sounds sort of sounds like a hobbit). You wind through the forest and drink beer (or smoke weed if you're so inclined) and toss discs at little poles with baskets on them. Exactly the sort of things hobbits would do. It was a blast, even though it was really hot. Like really hot.

Last night was my last night in the state as a resident, though I've kinda been homeless for the past week or so. We went to some oonch oonch yuppie party at a local hotel. We had $400 in free booze. I got obliterated. The bartender had spectacular cleavage, and there was a bongo player and a fashion show. I missed the fire dancers in lieu of getting booze, but the go-go dancers were tearing it up inside. Well, one was; she really knew how to shake it. The other one was kind of bland. Thumbs down, go-go girl. Anyway, the good thing about drinking Jameson all night (and I mean all night) is that I never wake up with a hangover, though sometimes it makes me act and speak in a way that's unbecoming of an upstanding gentleman. I think I did OK last night. I looked that bartender in the eye and everything.

Thanks for seven good years, California.

so...this is awkward

Uh.

Yeah.

So I haven't done this in a while. In the past six months, or so, I did a bit of this, a bit of that, got fired and am somewhat homeless...though not the type of homeless that keeps you from accessing the Internet. All of my stuff is in the back of my lovely Scion Kimiko who will be my only accompaniment in yet another misguided journey across the Lovely United States of America.

Starting next Sunday...or Monday...or something, I'll be on my way over the Rockies and through the Great Cornfield on my way back to New York where I probably belong.

My CD player is dead and I'm pretty sure my money will run out. So in hopes I don't go crazy, I'm going to try to write about it along the way. And take crappy pictures on my cell phone. For prosperity.

In the meantime, I'm held up here, in a lovely duplex in Sacramento, which gets a pretty bad rap for sucking balls. It probably does for most people, but I think it's pretty neat. There are a lot of trees and friendly squirrels, and you can ride your bike everywhere as long as you don't live in the Big-Box clusterfuck that envelops the smallish capital like a pox-infected blanket. I hope I get back here one day. In the meantime, I'm sure there'll be time to drink a few car bombs. You should probably join me.

Tahoe

Tahoe
Originally uploaded by mutant moth

I went to Tahoe and it was awesome. Not just because it was so close to Nevada, but that was a big part of it. Here are pics of me and things prettier than me.

we almost kinda coulda had san diego

This past weekend was San Diego Comic-Con, aka the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. It's the only time people who look like me get to mingle with one another, share our nerddom and also mingle with those who are much more physically attractive than ourselves, and the only time those people have to acknowledge us.

I didn't get to go to Comic-Con this year, though I did send a writer. I really wanted to go. I asked my boss. Last year, when they didn't send me, they said that they'd made a mistake and that I would definitely go this year. Instead, I came into the office and helped an intern move, and as a result, I missed my Rendezvous with Alba.

I can already see how it would've went. I would've been perusing long boxes for Zatanna memorabilia and copies of "Kraven's Last Hunt," the greatest Spider-man story ever told (I already have it of course in single issue form, but they're in New York, and it would be nice to have some extra copies--just in case). Maybe she would be looking for issues of Sin City to bone up on her Nancy Callahan character for the sequel, or perhaps her involvement in the comic book movie world would have sparked her interest in sequential art and she would be looking to expand her comic book horizons.

Our quiet searches would've caused us to accidentally bump into one another. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she would've said. I would've gotten sweaty in response. In my haste to shield myself from her overpowering sexy lasers (its' been a long weekend), I would've stammered something illegible and tried to move away, but she'd have labeled me a savvy comics vet because of my Sandman hat, pants and T-shirt and would've asked, "Are these any good?" She would've been holding a couple copies of Love and Rockets and I would've heard cello music.

From there, we'd grab a pick bite to eat so she could "pick my brain about comics." I'd suggest Al Aqua 2 just a few blocks away. I'd tell her that I'd eaten there the last time I was at Comic-Con in 2005, and I thought it was great. We'd head over there in her Prius. I'd order some sort of fish thing. ...I haven't really thought about what she'd get. Then she'd put it on her Amex card and I'd give a big sigh of relief, because that shit was fucking expensive. On the way back, the conversation would turn to other things: work, stress, Icanhascheezburger, you know, the important things. She'd tell me she just became single and was hoping to get her mind off things. I would've silently cursed the false claims of my "all day dry" antiperspirant.

Of course, upon our return to the convention center, reality--or as reality as the Comic-Con would get--would soon set in. Her pocket PC would've been raging with messages and she'd say something like, "I almost forgot about that press junket," or, "I can't believe I have to take that photo op with Dain Cook. He's such a tool," or, "I have to meet up with my manager so we can catch our plane out in a few hours." Or something like that. We'd wave and say it was nice to meet you, and I'd become just another balding 30-something fat-ish man in the Comic-Con crowd. Back where I belong, with my brethren. If I'd gone to San Diego.

the star

The days since taking home my car (I still haven't named her; I liked the Esme suggestion, though I prefer the full Esmerelda, but it just doesn't seem right) have been difficult ones. One of my best friends in town moved away, another is leaving, and another still may be leaving the office (and maybe even more). On top of that, my godmother died back home, and on the same day, a cousin out here in California also died. They passed within hours of each other. My first trip in the new car was to drive to a wake. I was there when the family first saw the body. The husband nearly collapsed on the coffin, the children wailed and cried. They hugged each other almost as if to keep themselves standing. I left the room.

I called my cousin "aunt," which is pretty common in my family if the cousin is older. I never spent a whole lot of time with her, but the time I did was great. She had a great sense of humor, and she was really kind. My godmother--my mother's sister--was very important to me. She went into a coma and passed away a few days later. She was one of the few who still called me. She even sent me birthday cards. The last time I saw her was at my sister's wedding, and I also called to wish her a happy mother's day. She'd been in and out of the hospital for a while. At my cousin's wake, the family expressed their sympathy for me. I wasn't able to get a flight back east. My mom asked me to go to Napa to pay respects in her place. I probably would've gone even if she hadn't asked.

I've been pretty out of it the past couple weeks. Everything that's been going on has been pretty overwhelming; it was just a whole lot at once. I've been mailing it in at work... I haven't been able to concentrate. I watch a lot of baseball scores and blog on my magazine's site and send a few e-mails or make some phone calls. I feel like I'm slacking--probably because I am.

But tonight was good. My roommates, a couple of friends and I drove about half-an-hour south of here to grab Indian food at this smaller town with a large Sikh population. I'd never actually had Indian food before, but everyone up here has a pretty big hard-on for it. Telling people I never tried it before was met with the same fear and suspicion as my admission that I hate avocado (I mean, really, it's gross). But I like Thai cuisine a lot, and I heard Indians use a lot of lamb, so I figured there was a good chance I'd like Indian. Plus I'm always down for a road trip.

The restaurant we went to was called Star of India, not to be confused with Taste of India, which was also in the same town. A couple of things tipped me off that the place would be good. First, an Indian friend of one of my dinner buddies said the place was the real deal. Second, the parking lot was packed. Third, we were the only white people in the restaurant. To top it off, they were hosting a party for a couple of high school graduates, so not only were we the overwhelming minority, but everyone there also knew each other. I would've felt really out of place if the owner of the restaurant--a man who looked kinda younger than I imagined his true age would dictate--wearing a red turban and dark bushy beard, came to greet us at the door with firm handshakes. He said he had a table for us, and gave us menus and water.

I drank two Dansberg beers, which the bottle claimed were made with Himalayan water, and they were really good. Then my samosas came out, and they were awesome. Later came the main course--lamb korma--along with steaming plates of basmati rice and naan. The sauce was so rich, and the level of spices were so complex, they kinda confused me, but god it was good.

Meanwhile, the party was reaching its peak. After the graduates gave a speech, the music began to blare. It was loud the whole time we were there, but now it was amazingly so. A DJ cranked music with male and/or female vocalists hollering passionately in a language I don't understand and dudes with drums, who were there at the party, pounded out infectious beats. When I walked past the party, women in bright colored dresses whirled together in a tight-knit group, and the men danced outside their circle. There was drums, whistling, screaming, stomping, clapping. At one point the partition that separated the general dining area from the private party rattled loudly. We turned to see a man peek over the top.

"Sorry about that," he said. "We're just a bunch of drunk Hindus."

Gnoming

Gnoming
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

Gnome says when u go 2 Vegas do it right. Roll with the god of plenty & eat buffets. Heading home with a hoarse throat & a heavy heart.

Gnome says

Gnome says
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

Had so much fun @ the party. Even went on the dance floor ' boogied with a wee, chubby Japanese woman. Then got denied entrance @ 2 night clubs before spending quality with Vegas's nicest stripper.

Free Peroni & bagels 4 breakfast.

Happy endings

Happy endings
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

Aoki & Hyde from 70s Show djing @ TAO in the Venetian. May die from my own scene points.

Vegas night recap

Vegas night recap
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

More Coronas. 60 bucks down. Hasselhoff... Being.

Vegas dispatch

Vegas dispatch
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

5 Coronas. Jamisons. Down 40 bucks.

Gnome

Gnome
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

With my chicken fingers. The woman @ the table next 2 me is falling asleep.

Vegas rules

Vegas rules
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

Im warted and tryinng to get chicken fingers. But ive been sitting here 4 15 minutes and i will be sleeping on a cot. Does this make sense? Circus circus bitches!!!

leaving to join the carnival

On Sunday, I'm driving to Vegas. It's over 10 hours away. I'm going for work--for a series of fashion trade shows where I will be pimping myself and my magazine. I will have business cards and handshakes at the ready. Maybe finger pistols too, if the mood strikes me.

It'll be my first time in Vegas, which is an exciting and frightening prospect. Considering I'm not very wealthy and am hopelessly addicted to strippers and gambling, I can get myself into a lot of trouble really fast. I told my roommates not to worry, that I would pay the PG&E bill before I left. I'm just hoping I won't have to sell a kidney to pay my next month's rent, or my credit card bills. I only figured on being there a couple days, which would have been manageable, but now it looks like I'll be there the whole week, which seems like more of a test of my moral fiber than a work-related excursion.

Other than sending the magazine and LOST's triumphant (mostly) return (don't ever leave me like that again), the best thing about this week was getting a link to M.I.A.'s new video for "Bird Flu." It's got hand drums and dudes blowing in goat horns and chickens and kid-gibberish, and it's pretty fucking awesome. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a new album this year--and soon--and as long as it's half as good as the last one, I'll be more or less content.

hello

Hi, Everyone. It's me, Jenny Lewis, singer/songwriter from the band Rilo Kiley, and more recently, my own solo project Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins. I'm writing from J's subconscious because he's pretty fried, but he wanted to let the four of you who read this (and all the pervs from Europe looking for Asia Argento n00dz) to know that he's not dead and will probably be writing soon.

Upon turning 30, he sent himself to Seattle to bask in the city's sponge-y fall weather and watch some football and stuff. While there, he was also able to catch a Seattle Sonics basketball game, visit two local microbreweries, get really shitfaced with a couple from Arizona, ate his weight in pizza and hot wings, ogled some real life NFL cheerleaders up close and saw the Dead Sea Scrolls. He also spent quality time with a friendly beagle.

Cute, huh? Upon returning home, stress-free and optimistic, he found out that his heater doesn't work, two of his coworkers are no longer employed and he has been having really bizarre dreams about right-wing Christians and lesbian nun porn (two separate dreams). I'd be worried about him if I knew him and wasn't a figment of his imagination. Luckily, he's sequestered himself in front of his living room television with an ample supply of beer and Final Fantasy XII, which I've never played, but he tells me it's the greatest thing ever. I guess I'll have to take his word for it. I'm awesomely talented and incredibly beautiful so I don't really need to play video games like he does.

Well, that's it for now. It was nice writing to all of you. Oh, I almost forgot. I actually met J once. He interviewed me in San Francisco. I'm not sure if he's mentioned it before, but we drank beer together (I had a lemon in mine), and I laughed at one of his jokes. And though I didn't really pay him much mind at first, I've come to realize that he is the most amazing and attractive man I've ever met. And I'd bet he's hung like a horse.

I hope we can do this again sometime. Later!

i heard it through the grapevine

So. The Mets clinched the NLDS in Los Angeles, and I was there. It's something I'll never forget. I was sitting in the left field pavillion, and if you were watching the game, you may have seen me, bravely wearing my Mets jersey in the bleachers, when the Dodgers Jeff Kent hit a two-run homer to tie the game at four. Some guy two seats away from me jumped over an old woman and a newborn baby to catch the ball. I was the only one not celebrating.

Never in my life had I been called so many variations of the word "faggot." In fact, I had no idea there were so many variations of the word "faggot." However, no one seriously threated or tried to kick my ass and all the things that were thrown at me ended up hitting the Dodgers fans I was sitting with. I felt bad. Kinda.

The game was really exciting--too exciting--up until the 7th inning when the Mets pretty much iced it. They jumped out to a 4-0 lead and I was feeling pretty good about that. But then the Dodgers scored two in the fourth and three in the fifth to take the lead. This was the pinnacle of the shit talking being thrown my way, and now that my team was losing, I fired back like a wounded animal. I was hit in the face with beach ball, and told one drunk dude yelling, "New York sucks" at me to keep his fucking eyes on the game because it wasn't over yet. Shawn Green led off the top of the sixth with a double and was driven in by Jose Reyes to tie the game up at five. The Mets tacked on two more in that inning and took a lead that they wouldn't relinquish. They won 9-5. I decided it best not to rub it in people's faces, but I was really excited. After the game, most people were very congratulatory. They said things like "good luck!" and "the Mets deserved it," and I was happy to see that people weren't holding a grudge. Even the guy sitting behind me who kept screaming at me that he'd heard "Mets fans give good head," and "Why don't you come up here and tickle my balls, faggot?!" gave me a congrats when I bumped into him outside the stadium.

Good times.

I just got back from LA, the drive was long and boring, until we got to the Grapevine, which is the mountain range that separates the LA basin from the long, lonely, boring valley. The change in altitude is pretty dramatic. Approaching the Grapevine on I-5 from the north, there's no subtle change in gradient. It's just flat, flat, flat, BOOM big fucking mountain range. Between driving and sleeping, I figured out I'd spent all of 5 minutes in the LA area. At least it was a good five minutes. One day I'll have to go to So Cal and give it a proper visit.

PS: Making the trip even better was that the Yankees were eliminated from the playoffs by the Detroit Tigers on the same day the Mets advanced. Oh, to be in New York and listening to WFAN when that happened. I'm sure it was wonderful.

PPS: The first episode of LOST was fucking UNREAL! Could this be the best season yet? Can't wait til Wednesday.

i think i'm gonna be sick

Tomorrow the Mets embark upon their first playoff campaign in 6 years, and I don't think I've ever been this nervous about a sporting endevor. The last thing I need right now is to become super cranky because my baseball team isn't winning, because I totally will if they don't. Also, We've lost Pedro for the playoffs, now El Duque comes up a big gimpy...it just doesn't look good. I'm trying to keep the faith, though. I'm taking a three-hour lunch to watch the game tomorrow. They can fire me if they need to. And Saturday. ... I make a trip down to LA to see my first Mets playoffs game EVER. Since I'm going, I'll be totally responsible if they don't win. It's a lot of pressure. Wish me luck.

in lieu of something less interesting

For some reason, certain songs are popping in my head. I don't own any file sharing software because of my job, and I'm afraid some of the stuff that's on my computer might leak and alert record label bulldogs whose job it is to sniff out such things. Meaning, I won't be able to get free CDs any more. That's why I'm glad there's digital places like YouTube, so I can listen to stuff I don't have readily available whenever I want to.

I went to New York for my friend's wedding, and rest assured I had a good time. I'm also back home safe and sound and didn't die in some horrible plane crash. I also didn't end up on some deserted island, stranded with Evangeline Lilly. I'm stoked about the former, but somewhat bummed about the latter. I'll write a more proper post about my trip, though there's not much to talk about because it was so brief, when I'm more sober. In the mean time, here's some of the soundtrack for my last couple days, in a pleasing audio/visual format.



Hum - "Stars"
I had my guitar teacher show my how to play this one. Too bad I don't remember how to do it.



Pharoahe Monch - "Simon Says"
This became a favorite of mine more recently. Any song that samples Godzilla's soundtrack and uses the word "titties" is pretty fucking good in my book.



The Thermals - "Pillar of Salt"
If the new Thermals album was any better, it'd be illegal in Utah.



Pras ft. Mya and ODB - "Ghetto Supastar"
ODB rapping verses + Mya singing the hook = hip-pop gold.



Nirvana - "Drain You"
Probably my favorite song ever written (turn your speakers up).