jesus knows i'm up to no good

So every Friday morning the law firm (or, as my neighbor here at work calls it the "lawffice") I work for serves bagels and muffins for breakfast. It's a pretty decent spread, with butter and jam and three kinds of cream cheese, bagels and muffins and croissants and coffee... you get the point.

Anyway, every Friday afternoon there are about three vats of each kind of cream cheese left over. And it just sits in there until next week's bagels.

"Isn't there a better use for this," I asked myself, "...like cheesecake?"

So I've been sneaking into the kitchen to pilfer one of the vats of cream cheese since Monday morning. And every time I've been in there, someone else has come in, too. It's as if Jesus knows I'm stealing the free cream cheese, and doesn't want me to do it.

Why Jesus? Why don't you want your little lawyers to be eating cheesecake instead of letting cream cheese molder and fester in the fridge?

mind blowing theatre part two

Part Two:
(No Snakes) On a Plane
The second outsanding piece I saw on Saturday was a workshop performance of Wickets, an adaptation by Jenny Rogers of Fefu and her Friends (by Maria Irene Fornes) directed by Clove Galilee and Jenny Rogers.

I have to say, I read Fefu in college and wasn't in love with it, so I was trepidatious when I got to P.S. 122 for the performance. My friend Sarah (who was, incidentally, enchantingly zany in the piece) (ew, I sound like a reviewer) had told me it was just a work in progress, that it was no big shakes, but that I would probably enjoy it. So I showed up, and as we hung out in the hallway, two fully dressed stewardesses welcomed us to Wicket Air flight 1971 to Charles DeGaulle Airport.

And they had matching costumes. Which was a surprise to me, for a workshop, a no-big-shakes. But not half as surprising as what awaited us on the other side of the door.
They had built an airplane! And not just a dinky one. They had turned the whole room into an airplane that sat probably 50 people. With a roof, and windows and carpets and recessed lighting! All the stewardesses matched -- not just same color skirt, same skirt. Same gold pumps. Same matching scarf -- except for the first class cabin staff: they had a different one. (this was 1971, after all)

The actresses were strong across the board, with the three women I know, of course, giving the best performances. Sarah K. Lippman was this passionately vapid southern girl with a love of aviation and giggles (Sue), Moira Stone (yes, again) was collected, logical and extremely focused as the oddly non-vicious-but-violent Fefu, and Liza Zapol was beautifully and tenderly bent-but-not-broken as Julia.

And apparently I like descriptions-with-hyphens-in-them.

The rest of the cast included Katie Apicella, Charlotte Cohn, Dawn Eshelman, Jessica Jolly and Emily Lutin.

Working as much as I do at a level of theatre in which too much emphasis on design elements leads to embarrassment, it was extremely refreshing and exciting to see a company (The School for Gifted Children) put so much money into their design.

We were in a fucking plane!!

And what's even better than that was that the crew (the flight crew, that is) were solid actresses giving interesting performances. Sometimes I couldn't see them, and that was a bit of a problem, but for the most part, I thoroughly enjoyed my flight. Keep your eyes out for it when they do a full production. It should be unbelievable!

mind-blowing theatre part one

So, last week, I talked about an outrageous performance in a somewhat middling show. This week, I have the pleasure of discussing several outstanding performances in two outrageous shows.

First off, Grace, written by Shannon Thomason and Sara Thigpen, which is a series of vignettes about, as they call it, "Those who give it. Those who need it. Those who can and cant accept it." What an amazing piece. I, for one, am not generally fond of vignette pieces -- I like to get to know my characters, see the roles they play in the world and watch the way their lives unfold, but somehow this show brought me just the greatest hits, and I felt like I knew everything I needed to know, just in the five minutes I got to see.

My favorite thing about this piece is how it handles something so subtle: grace. I mean, really, what is grace? Whatever it is, it's not simple.

For me, and a few of the characters, it means finding out who you are, and standing by that, no matter what. It means strength and compassion, humanity and friendship, honesty and love. It's so huge, it's like my concept of god (and perhaps grace is god, too) and I can't even begin to wrap my head or words around it. I love it when theatre takes me outside of what I can make sense of, and into my own speechlessness.

And on top of the content, the writing itself was exquisite. The characters were lovable, fallable, human and recognizable. There were no good guys or bad guys (well except maybe for the wife-beating husband. But he never showed up onstage) and the writing left enough space for the performers to breathe.

Kudos go to all the actors, and the director, Melanie Ashley. I'd link to all their pages, but links aren't working all that well for me today, and I can't find everyone, so I'll just list them instead.
Kathleen Brown, Jennifer Leigh Jones, Beth Ann Leone, John Long, Marcella Anise Smith and Brit Whittle were all exceptional, but I have to give special credit to a performer I've seen in various productions, who was both heartbreaking and outrageously funny in this one: Karen Sternberg (www.karensternberg.info) Karen is one of those actors who is so strong in so many fields, you wonder why she isn't a superstar, why she isn't on Off-Broadway, let alone Broadway. And then you remember that the business side of acting doesn't want people who can do a million things well, it wants people who can do one thing a million times in a row. But if I were an agent, Karen would be working year round.

And Grace would have a full scale run in a full scale theatre, for a long, long time.

I'm off to an audition, but will report on the second show when I get back.

a pick-up line guaranteed to fail

I went to a benefit last night for Sweet Tea Creek's production of Grace, in this year's Fringe Festival. The drinks were flowing, the folks were friendly, and even a few ladies' wallets were won during the raffle.

But by far the highlight of the evening was the extremely unsuccessful attempt by a guy whose name I can't even remember (even though he gave me his card... which I promptly gave away to someone else) to pick me up.

I was standing in a group, talking to some friends (both of whom were guys) and I had my hands on my hips (not wildly unlike I do in my picture). This guy walks right into my elbow. And then strikes up a conversation. He asks us each where we grew up, and then other random questions like what our favorite colors were or what we thought about elephants. At one point, one of my friends points out that WeirdoMan has started addressing his questions exclusively to me, and I, in my eloquence, say, "well, I am the only one here with tits."

And this is where the guy lost all points for all men for all eternity.

"Eh, your tits are only as big as mine."

Dear Men of the World,
THIS LINE WILL NEVER GET YOU LAID. If my tits are small, I don't want you to point that out. If my tits are large, then that means yours are larger, and no self-respecting woman wants to go out with a guy whose tits are larger than hers (especially not if her tits are my size).
I wish I had kept his card, if for no other reason than to seriously deride him publicly here, and use the Single Woman Amber Alert System to warn my single sisters to run in the other direction should they come across this fine specimen of masculinity in a bar.

wanna see my bubos?

I have the plague.

Much like my friend Christina, who had some weird creepy crawly disease, I look like I have the bubonic plague. Although, after the "routine" spraying in Brooklyn, more likely, the west nile virus. (great)

I innocently went out to a bar on Tuesday night and sat msyelf at a wobbly-but-comfortable table outdoors, and unbeknownst to me, I apparently opened up an all-night mosquito eatery (mesquitery?):

I have no fewer than 23 mosquito bites on my legs alone.

I feel so used. (and itchy)

tribute to an outstanding performer

You know how every once in a while you go to a show, expecting it to be fine (but not mind blowing -- you are a jaded New York actor, afterall), and the show will turn out middling at best, but one performer will just jump out at you and stay with you for hours and hours afterwards?
That happened to me this weekend with the Brick Theater's production of Greed: A Musical Love $tory and one colossal performance from Moira Stone.

I've been friends with Moira for a few years, and I saw her play Amalia in She Loves Me at Hofstra a while ago, and she was terrific. But in Greed, she's outstanding. The show itself made little to no sense to me, the songs and lyrics were extremely odd, and while there were moments that were very entertaining, what I would go back to see is the way Moira can sing lines that make no sense without even looking like she's acting. It's unreal. And her voice is outrageous.

In one scene, her character is sitting on a subway car with a microphone in front of her in which to voice her inner thoughts. They generally don't make anything resembling sense (I wish I could quote one here to show you, but I can't remember any of them), but Moira pulls off these monolouges with such skill that you begin to believe that that's precisely what the accountant in the suit sitting across from you on the ride home is thinking. These mumbly, rambling passages that often have just syllables masquerading as words make all the sense in the world to her, and you begin to buy it, too.

But the moment in the show that refuses to leave my head comes when Moira's character, Lydie Bloom (I think), goes to a Chinese restaurant by herself and eats dinner. The scene goes on about five minutes, during which nothing more happens than the pianist plays The Rose, and Moira eats Chinese food alone. The pathos, the overwhelming loneliness and isolation of the scene is soul-crushing, and not once do you ever feel like Moira is even acting.

I could go on and on, but I think you get the point.

Please, casting people of the world, discover Moira. She is an undeniable talent that I would watch in marathon readings of the phone book.

heard recently in my neighborhood

So I filed a noise complaint this morning.

No, surprisingly, not against the door-slamming neighbors. (I just growl and yell at them every time the door slams, from the within the safety of my own apartment. I have yet to figure out what to actually do about them.) No, this morning's noise complaint was filed against my landlord. And no, not for the construction, either.

It's about their new puppy.

The old dog was old, and I think had to be sent to doggie heaven for health reasons. It smelled funny and wasn't an especially pretty dog, but boy do I miss him now.

His replacement is cute, and I think it's a little german shepherd or a baby rotweiler or something. I can't tell, I don't ever see it very much, but it's black and brown and REALLY FUCKING NOISY. I hate it. And I'm not a hater. I love animals. I grew up with cats. I dated a guy with a dog and just adored him (well, who wouldn't? see below) Felix (above) is adorable, and a bit of a barker, which is fine. Occasional barking, especially if I'm already awake, is no big deal. (and Felix didn't generally get up before me.) But this dog? Early riser = early whiner.

I loathe it. I wake up every morning wanting to fling poison-laced peanut butter out my window. I want to accidentally drop an anvil off the fire escape. I want to stick small beans up its nose so it can't WHINE so loudly, so consistently, so irritatingly, every morning at 6:15.

Yeah, 6:15. What time does my alarm go off? Usually at 8. That's an hour and forty five minutes of whining that I don't want to hear every day. That's 12 hours and fifteen minutes each week. That's SIX HUNDRED AND THIRTY SEVEN hours of whining every year (which is close to a month, straight)-- assuming, of course, that I don't sleep in on weekends, which I do!

Someone had to put a stop to this, and it might as well be the only one in the building who has her bedroom in the back. Near the backyard. Where the stupid fucking dog is whining. (everyone else, apparently, wants to have a big-ass bedroom and a beensy-weensy, no-windows living room. Which is just stupid. I mean, let me ask you: where do you keep your eyes open more, the living room, or the bedroom?)

We'll see if 311 really delivers, or if this was all a charade designed to mollify me without any actual change in the whining status.

Oh, and the other thing I heard in my neighborhood recently? I was walking down the street the other night and some guy came out of a store and I could have sworn he said to me, "Hey, do you have a husband? Or a goat?"

subconsciously lost

So last night, I was wandering around my home town naked, and I realized that some kids were looking at me, so when I reached the bottom of the hill, I grabbed the grubby, old, powder blue towel that had been discarded on the side of the road so long ago it was now stiff. I wrapped it around myself and went up the other side of the hill. When I got to the top, I went into one of the new apartments (which was apparently a theatre) and found a room full of shoes.

"I'm naked," I thought, "I can use some shoes." And I proceeded to put on a really cool pair of pink sneakers with sparkley shoe laces, when Merry Friend (a real person from high school) spoke up from the next room, essentially saying that the shoes were for poor people, and I could have them.

Then I was at the roadside bar with my big biker friend (who doesn't exist in real life, alas) and I realized that I was lost. Or really, that I wasn't where I was supposed to be. And I was in sneakers and a towel. So I woke up.

And the night before, I was on a smallish sailboat in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of a storm, with one of my coworkers (two of the other people on the boat, the ones that actually knew how to sail, had left the boat earlier, at the port, maybe?) and we lost power. I looked at Myka; she was just sitting at a desk, kind of laid back.

"Do you know how to sail?" I asked.

"No."

"Are you going to freak out about this?"

"No."

"Then I don't think I'm going to freak out about it either."

(pause)

"Myka, are you going to be sick?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Good, then I won't freak out about that either."

Luckily, the coast guard came to rescue us because our beacon had gone off when we lost power on the boat. I think I woke up before they actually got there, though.

ow my stomach lining!

I was going to write some sweet and poignant entry about the two couples I know who recently got engaged, but I think I'm too envious (or just bitter), so instead I direct your attention to:

Teen Girl Squad!
(which, since links aren't working for me today, can be found here: http://www.homestarrunner.com/tgsmenu.html)

I'm not kidding, this stuff is some of the funniest stuff I've seen on the internet. I hope it proposes to me!!

flying when it's Code Orange out

Can you smell me from there? Sorry. I had to throw my deodorant out when I went through security at LaGuardia, on my way to Florida this weekend. (that was friday. I've been odorant ever since)

What's it like to fly when the nation's security warning is at the highest level it's been in for years? Read on, friends, read on.

So you know how all the newscasts were saying "get to the airport at least two hours early"? well, they were very, VERY wrong in my case. I got to LaGuardia at 2:05 for a 4:15 flight and, despite having to pitch my pitstick, got through security in a record-breaking 12 minutes. which left me with two hours and three minutes to sit in the overcrowded, ill-ventilated, unattractive and painfully outdated central terminal of LaGuardia airport for TWO AND A HALF HOURS. With my fellow JetBlue, ATA, AirTran, Spirit Air and CrapFlightsRUs patrons. Many of those hours I sat on the floor because there were too many people waiting around for there to be seats for all of us.

Fine. I can sit on the floor. I'm still a kid. Mostly.

I was, however, not a happy traveler.

When I got on my plane, I thought for sure things would get better. I mean, hell, at least I'd have a seat! Now, Jet Blue is a fun, friendly airline, and we each had TV screens at our seats. Having read EVERYTHING I brought (three plays, two magazines and a book) while I was in the terminal, I was looking forward to some tv -- at least moreso than I was looking forward to playing Elbow War for the Armrest with my teenage middle-seat neighbor. But no. Our plane was so new (i.e., 7 days old) that the direct TV hadn't been hooked up yet.

Fine. I worked on one of three New York Times Crossword puzzles I had brought with me.

Then the folks in the row behind me sat down, and the misery kicked up to level Orange. Two children, perhaps eight or ten at most, sat behind me and talked in voices so appallingly piercing that I thought I might go crazy.

Fine. I put on my mp3 player and wished them off the plane.

Then they started kicking my seat. I tried to grin and bear it. I stifled every urge that led me to believe that strangling a child in this situation would be seen as self-defense. Instead, I turned around, glared at both children, and tattled on them to mom.

Nothing changed. Except they started singing. It was a fine tune, really, one that went splitting through my brain and made my personality ache. As far as I could tell, it was called the Yum Yum Yum song, and consisted of four, perhaps five, different notes, sung at the top of your voice. The lyrics? You guessed it: Yum, Yum, and Yum.

And I doubt that they were singing about the fine cashews we were served.

I arrived in one piece (mostly), had a great time in Florida, and got to the airport to come back a mere hour in advance... and spent 35 minutes waiting to get through security. Figures. And as I was waiting, a family got in line behind me. I wouldn' t have paid them much mind, except there were NINE children (the family was Hassidic) and they all had pronounced NY accents. I knew they would be on my flight, and sit behind me, singing some modified version of the yum yum yum (kippur) song. When I got to my gate, they were lingering there. My heart sank. My nerves started to fray.

Luckily, they got on the flight to Newark!

Irritating children aside (they come when the alert level is any color), I had no notable problems traveling this weekend, other than my sheer lack of toiletries. I hate to check my bags, and if it means I have to smell bad, then I have to smell bad.

Hell, I probably smell better at my worst than the stinky terrorists do at their best. (no deodorant can hide the funk of evil. it's scientifically proven)

Fly on, travelers, fly on. Just bring ear plugs and a lot of reading material.

a letter to the stinky terrorists

Dear Stupid Terrorists,

You stink and I hate you.

Love,
Kate

p.s. did you have to do this now? I'm going to Florida tomorrow (well, technically today) and a girl this pale needs sunblock!

I've found some upsides to this travesty, however. First, I can use those Olay facial cloths I've had under the sink for six months now. don't want to risk having the expensive face soap thrown out at the airport! Second, I needed to change my flight so I could go to a commercial audition tomorrow (think good thoughts around 11 am, please) and what with there being more air-based plots, I had no problem switching to the 4:15 flight.

And last but not least, it's kind of funny to see the swivet my co-workers can get in when, on the morning of a heightened terror alert, the yahoos in the fire safety department of the Chrysler (i.e. Target) Building decide to test the alarm system, and let it go off sixteen times without making an announcement. "OH MY GOD, WHAT IF IT'S AN ATTACK?!!?!"

heh heh heh.

[side note: I asked the woman at Jet Blue if they were banning deodorant from carry on luggage. She wasn't sure, but it wouldn't surprise me in the least. It shouldn't be too bad on the way down, but coming back, nobody'll have had deodorant all weekend. I'll be flying Jet Phew!]

my sister's amazing discovery in the basement

I asked my sister if her tenants downstairs had moved out this weekend like they were supposed to (turns out they were a door-slamming bunch as well) and she said (in her own words... as a guest columnist!):

Yes they did, and funny story . Jake and Jill left a lot of stuff in the basement and claimed that it "was there when we got here" but strangely enough, I found Victoria Secret boxes that said "Congratulations on your Wedding Jill" and about fifty boxes from LLBean, which is where Jake's mom worked.

So needless to say I'm annoyed, and upstairs meanwhile, Scott's taking down the ceiling in their old apartment. There was a big hole and so naturally, I asked "is there any secret treasure up there?" The house was built in 1920 so I KNOW that somewhere in there, there is something valuable and/or interesting. But alas, nothing in the ceiling per usual (the same thing happened with the upstairs floor, we got a fake wig and a old broken wooden box -- I left a quarter down there for the next guy).


More proof that all the crap was theirs was the discovery of a phone. Jake was from Maine and the phone has a 207 area code on it. Scott's giving me this report while I'm at work.
So at my office, I have those old school phones that you had in the 80s, no caller ID, regular push pad buttons, mine is grey but they make them in off white too. There isn't even a little red light for when you get voicemail and there are two settings for the ringer-on and off. You control it on the bottom of the phone with this dial type thingie. They make my neck hurt so I got a stick-on shoulder booster uppper. But that fell off. I tried to glue it back on with a hot glue gun. It worked for a while and then it fell off again but I couldn't get the hot glue off the receiver so I had to covertly swap out my phone after hours with some unsuspecting new guy.

But I digress...Later that day when I arrive home, I walk into their old apartment and there it is.
It is the most amazing thing I have seen in a long time and I am in love.

It is a perfect, red, rotary phone.


I take it out of the filth and mire of the junk pile and bring it over to my chair for thorough washing. It's mesmerizing. It's so old that on the bottom of the phone it says "property of New England Bell." Mr. What Are You 100 (aka Scott) tells me that back in the proverbial day, you couldn't buy phones, you had to lease them from the phone company, just like a cable box.
It's covered with dust but other than that, not a scratch on it. It's like there was an ice age in my basement in 1973 and the phone was perfectly preserved. I gingerly rub it with a rag, sticking the corner of the towel into the zero and spinning it just like I was dialing. I notice there is no Z and on the 0, it says operator.

I want to take it to work. It matches my work phone exactly. I want to make it the fake emergency line at my desk. But I can't. I leave it on the counter and look at it some more. Scott picks it up and carries it around by the handle that's meant to carry it around by. "You do this while you twirl the cord around," he mimics himself when he was 16 talking on the phone. I pick it up and put it to my ear, like I'm going to hear something. It's not even plugged in. I don't even know if it would work on our phone line what with all the new fangled digital subscriber line stuff. But there is something about it that I can't even describe. I put it back on the counter.

"You're not really taking that to work are you," he asks. I said,"No, I'll leave it here so we can play with it for a little while."

i was a high school hottie... er, no i wasn't.

My guess is that most of you didn't know me in high school. It's probably better that you didn't. Although one of my subscribers (bless your heart, Jamie) actually dated me in high school.
Turns out that my high school is doing some sort of "retrospective" on their drama program, and they're looking for posters, programs, photos and other stuff to put in the lobby of the high school. Especially valuable, they said, was anything before 1995.

Ouch.

So I rifled through my parents' attic, and came up with a buttload of attractive pictures of me and all my friends at the time -- most of whom were in theatre with me. I've got scads and scads of pictures, but I'm not in most of them; I took them. But if you're interested in seeing others, let me know and I'll send some your way. Other than that, take a peek, laugh your fill, and thank god I grew out of it.

Our Town. I was fourteen. Fourteen!

More Our Town. On the left is my friend Dave Kuhr, who is now an actor and calligrapher out in Los Angeles. Should you ever need calligraphy, contact him here (he did some of my sister's wedding invitations), or if you're interested in his theatre company, Theatre Junkies, go here: http://www.theatrejunkies.com/
The best part of doing Our Town was when my dad came backstage afterwards, with tears in his eyes and told me that I could do whatever I want in life, but would I please never die in front of him again?

Heartmelting.

Hello Dolly! (I'm the round-ish one, with braces)
And this was easily one of my most favorite costumes EVER. I'm not sure I could polka at all, but I sure looked nice trying!

I grew out of high school (luckily) but I still had some really attractive theatre experiences. Like playing Susie Needlethread in The Emperor's New Clothes at Summer Theatre at Mount Holyoke:

And most recently, Regan in King Lear in Central Park. (my mother captioned this picture "Kate Throws Up and Dies" which is pretty much what was going on...) I guess bad pictures are just a risk you run when you're super famous like I am.

Right?

a series of firsts

I've been out of my office a lot recently (THANK GOD) so I haven't had the time or wherewithal to navigate the internet via dial-up at home, but I'm back now, and have a lot to say. (Sadly, I also have a lot of work to catch up on, so I will post things sporadically.)

I was in Vermont this past weekend, at my sister and brother-in-law's cabin, with no running water or electricity, and I had a blast. But more than that, I accomplished a series of things I've never done before. Among them:

1. I rode in the "back seat" of a pickup truck (you know, that shelf where you're supposed to store your toddler), wearing a safety helmet (just because) and trying not to watch the cat barf (for the second time that trip).

2. I mowed a lawn. A big-ass lawn. A big-ass hilly lawn. A big-ass hilly lawn in high heel sandals. I rock!

3. I chopped wood. Nuff said.

3a. Although while chopping said wood, I did wonder, however, who would take me to the hospital if I chopped my leg off, and how far away would said hospital be... turns out it would be a good 45 minute drive. Luckily, I didn't chop off my leg.

4. I lost all feeling in my feet. I'm not saying how this happened, but let's just say it was VERY late and it was Vermont and I might have been doing something that often gets done in Vermont (and I don't mean cheese-eating, cow-tipping or skiing).

5. I stayed up until 4:45 in the morning (which was not a first) and was not grouchy the next day (which was).

6. I did dishes with no running water. No stream, no taps, just bottled water. Very festive.

7. I played frisbee in the dark. Luckily, we had a glow-in-the-dark frisbee, so that was sort of cheating. But by that point, the odds were against my ability to catch anything at all, so I'd say I did very well.

Here are some other valuable pearls of wisdom I picked up over the weekend:
Popcorn does not pop when thrown directly into a monstrously large fire. It should, but it doesn't.

You can tip over in a chair-in-a-bag, but you can do it in such a way as to not injure yourself at all, and end up sideways in a chair being very, very comfortable, actually. (takes an advanced degree, though, to get you back up)

A hybrid engine that does not use a gas motor to recharge the electric motor, isn't really a hybrid. (I didn't learn what it was, but I did learn that).

I'm better at frisbee in the dark.

People are more likely to tell you secrets while sitting near a campfire. They'll also tell you what's wrong with themselves, why being an elitist is better than being a liar, or recount to you the merits of Steely Dan... which is a very hard sale to yours truly.

Want to learn more? Make friends with my sister and get your ass invited up there! Definitely a good time!

a prescription for wasting time

Tired of slacking off in the same old ways?


Well no more xeroxing your butt! No more prank phone calls to Managing Partners! Here's a new at-work pasttime that can keep you busy for at least a couple of hours!!


It's Fake Prescription Labels! (no, this is not illegal, and no, I'm not a drug dealer. Just shut up and keep reading...)


The guy I had been dating (his name and work address appear on the labels, but that is NOT an invitation to stalk him... please don't, he's good people!!) was about to go into tech for Mother Courage at the Delacorte Theatre in Central Park (starring Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline (previously, Christopher Walken, but he quit)) and I knew he was going to have a rough time of it, so I filled prescription bottles with candy and smacked these labels on them. There are a bunch of inside jokes that may not be readily available to everyone, but I'm pretty sure they're funny to anyone who knows what theatre is.


Maybe not.


Either way, here they are: