The Video Version of Valdemort

She's Out of Sync - Devo (mp3)
Two Times - The Blakes (mp3)*

Didja ever do those "What's Grosser than Gross" jokes as a kid? Just wonderin'.

I first heard of "The Video That Shall Not Be Named" last fall. A number of young alumni were back in town, and I stopped by early into their evening, before their mental state was in any way altered. During the conversation, someone brought up TVTSNBN. Immediately, the rest of the young guys reacted viscerally, with beloved fake-retch sounds and other such reactions of discomfort or disgust.

Now, this caught my attention because 19-year-old males are, in general, disgusted by very few things in the 21st Century. They've seen everything. Terrorists beheading hostages. Dogs having sex with cats. Laguna Beach. Trying to disgust or shock a present-day male in the 16-22 demographic is like trying to make Dick Cheney cry. It's virtually impossible.

So, I can't deny being a little curious when they reacted with such collective and universal disgust about TVTSNBN. They then started talking about videos on YouTube where people recorded their friends or relatives watching this. One dude recorded his grandmother watching it, they explained, and it's the funniest thing they've ever seen.

As with many conversations where one is the outsider on an insider joke and one doesn't much care, I quickly tuned out and forgot about it.

Then, a few weeks ago, TVTSNBN reemerged in my conscience. One of my favorite female rockers has her own blog, and I visit it every month or two to catch up on her -- I'm kind of like a stalker who can't afford to actually stalk -- and her latest entry was about her experience watching TVTSNBN with two of her friends. The entry was only a couple of sentences, but she basically said watching it made her feel alive. (Picture at left stolen from Steven via Kay's blog.)

Well hell, I thought, if this supercool badass chick can handle it, what's the big deal?? This, my friends, is what's known as faulty logic. Yes, I watched TVTSNBN. I hunted it down, and I watched it.*

Several years ago, I got so far as to click PLAY on one of those terrorist beheading videos but stopped it and closed it before ever getting anywhere near the actual beheading part. That I allowed myself the curiosity to click PLAY in the first place left me with a hollow feeling in my gut for several days, and I still squirm a little when I recall that I even went as far as I did. (NOTE: To those who've seen it, bully for you. I ain't judging. I'm just sayin' that my physical and emotional innards objected powerfully to my curiosity.)

Because there was no death or mutilation involved in TVTSNBN, I never reached that level of self-revulsion. I mostly looked at the subjects involved as I imagine Ming the Merciless looks at the stupid Earthlings at the beginning of the Gawd-awful guilty pleasure of the 80s known as Flash Gordon. I'm pretty sure if Ming had seen TVTSNBN, he would have destroyed Earth quickly rather than screwing around with it for the better part of two hours while Timothy Dalton wondered how the f*#k he got himself into green leotards for what had to be a career low even in the infancy of his career. (And yes, I watch that movie every time I see it playing on TV, 'cuz it's one of the world's penultimate guilty pleasures.)

The morning after my TVTSNBN viewing, I was still bothered. Not haunted; nothing quite so serious. Just bothered. Bothered that people did this. Bothered that people filmed it. Bothered that millions have watched it. Bothered that I jumped on board. Bothered that I have witnessed something that could not have ever conceivably reached my eyes at any time in any other decade prior to the 21st Century.

We're not talking Susan Boyle singing Les Miz here. We're talking a video of Susan Boyle degrading herself in ways that, if I told you the readers to "Think of the most horrific and disgusting non-violence-related act you could film Susan Boyle doing," you'd fall shy of TVTSNBN more often than not.

We are in a virulent age. Everything hits us sooner, faster, harder, and with less mercy, and what used to require men on ponies or Morse Code now requires a

Less than 48 hours after witnessing TVTSNBN, I found out about some heavy rumors involving some folks I know. Rumors of an extreme and sexual nature. Rumors involving kids and police and arrests. Ugly stuff. So naturally the rumors spread like wildfire around me. Along with the talk of what did or might have occurred between two kids whose lives will never again be normal came conclusions we yearn to draw. The #1 comment with a bullet: Surely the alleged predator was at one point also a victim of similar acts. Otherwise, how would he know how to engage in such skin-crawling acts? 

I thought this. Others thought this. It's the natural conclusion of people born before 1980.

But I have crossed to the other side. I've seen TVTSNBN.

It is now possible for a kid to watch stuff on an unsupervised computer that would make even deviant adults shudder. What used to be described simply as "pornography" now needs to be separated into categories like a record store, and any kid with some alone time and an Internet connection can basically witness pornography's version of death metal.

Or, put another way, I'm pretty sure teens don't engage in "rainbow parties" because they witnessed their parents do it.

Is TVTSNBN a sign of the end-times? Will it corrupt even the incorruptible? Part of me hopes so. I'd like to think this is about as low as our species can go, taste-wise. But then I remember that scene in Braveheart where bloodthirsty parents are holding their children on their shoulders so the kids can get a better view as that mean old rebel Scotsman gets disemboweled. Best I can tell, in previous eras and centuries, kids witnessed executions of all kinds, from crucifixions to disembowelments to lynchings to firing squads. If our species can survive all that, then surely TVTSNBN ain't the end of the world.

When I made an equally-obscure reference to TVTSNBN on Facebook, I got a personal record of 13 comments. Seems lots of folks have decided to bring the apocalypse one step closer by witnessing this for themselves. And nothing brings people together like a shared experience of extreme disgust.

And, as best I can tell, none of the people I know who have seen TVTSNBN have done things terribly deviant after the fact. Well, not anymore deviant than the shit they were doing prior to watching. So even something as off the charts as TVTSNBN can't seem to shake my belief that all our hand-wringing over the Evils of Technology is 95% misguided.

* -- I've since been informed that the version I watched isn't the "original." The original is supposedly even worse than the version I watched. That this is possible boggles my feeble mind.

P.S. If you're reading this and find yourself seeking TVTSNBN, and if you end up watching it, please just leave a comment to that nature as a reminder that when someone tells you not to look at something, it's only human nature to want desperately to do so.

P.P.S. Those of you who knew what I was talking about and have seen it, please feel free to tally your experience. Those who know but avoided watching, kudos to you!

The original choice for second song was "Nobody Drinks Alone" by Keith Urban, but I bought it on iTunes before we could convert them, so I went with the backup. All of these songs can be found and purchased through Amazon.com or iTunes.

Grass

Wayne Brennan--"Green, Green Grass" (mp3)
Ben Folds--"Rockin' The Suburbs" (mp3)

Grass, when you think about it, doesn't make a lot of sense.

Let's see, how about we plant a bunch of tiny, expensive, cultivated seeds over half an acre and worry over those seedlings endlessly and feed them and try to keep the weeds away and jack up our water bills to try to keep them green and then the water makes them grow faster and then we have to do more work to keep them looking good. So good, of course, that we would never dare walk or drive or practice golf on them because that would mess them up.

Left to fend for themselves, these blades would not last 5 years before they were crowded out completely by stronger, tougher weeds. They can only survive with constant oversight from human beings. Like me.

It would be smarter to plant a lawn of chives.

Same tall, firm stalks, slower growth rate. And, anytime I wanted an herb for a recipe or a garnish for a massive baked potato party, I'd have plenty, and after a fresh mowing, the whole yard would give off a gentle, oniony smell. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm........

A year or so ago, I got the crazy notion that I wanted to have a nice lawn. Years and years of living in a nice neighborhood have battered at my sensibilities and convinced me that it is important to care what the neighbors might think. I got the even crazier notion that I had a little disposable income and that it would be worth it to pay someone else to create that nice lawn.

All I can say is what has been said many, many times, though still we never learn: careful what you wish for.

In my old world, a drought was the best thing that could possibly happen. Dead grass don't grow. Get outside every week or so and mow down the weeds, commiserate with the neighbors about how dry everything is, and then go on your deck and crack a beer and celebrate the Sahara-like nature of July, August, and September in Tennessee.

In my new world, which began last spring, my lawn care professional, the father of one of my daughter's friends, is very, very good at what he does. His business is called The Grass Is Greener for a reason. He knows what needs to be done to my lawn each month of the year in order to maximize its potential. When he seeded the bare spots of my lawn in late July, with orders to keep those areas evenly moist, I got into the game, too. But the drought started the next day. Each night, I stalked my yard with a hose at half mast (you don't want to blast those seeds away), searching for seeded areas looking for nourishemnt. For as long as I could, I tried to keep those bare spots damp with fertile possibility. I failed. The heat won. Or did it? My grass looks better than ever right now.

In my new world this spring, as part of his evil master plan, my lawn care professional puts some stuff on my grass every month and now it is growing like a bastard. I can't stop it, I can't slow it, and I can't keep up with it. And the local weather has gotten into the act, spacing out its rain so that it always rains the day after I cut the grass every time I cut the grass.

A year or so into it, I have one of the thickest, healthiest lawns in the neighborhood. I've even had a few neighbors ask me about who maintains my lawn. I want to scream, "I do! I'm the poor sucker you see out here every 4 or 5 days trying to hack away at this giant field of grass on steroids!"

Grass, when you think about it, doesn't make a lot of sense, and when you're cutting it all the time, you spend a lot of time thinking about how little sense it makes. I live in a nice neighborhood with plenty of other nice lawns (though few as nice as mine this year!) and almost none of us can ever be seen setting foot on our canvases, our masterpieces, except for that day when our grass has passed that nearly imperceptible point where it's longer than the other showpiece lawns in the neighborhood and we drag ourselves out, tired as dogs, to get our lawns back on top in between the rains.

Global warming, you have let me down!

Wayne Brennan and Ben Folds are both available at Itunes.

"A" is for Absolute Crap

Get Better - Mates of State (mp3)
Rise - Eddie Vedder (mp3)

My co-blogger and former teacher likes to opine that my high school class was probably the most intelligent to ever graduate from our school. While this claim is certainly debatable in a school that's more than a century old and full of plenty of amazing alums, it's also impossible to deny that my graduating Class of 1990 was up at the very top. If we weren't the best, we were at least in the race.

We had two students score perfect on the SAT. We had one student who left school a month before graduation to take a job in Silicon Valley. We had 23 National Merit Semifinalists -- over a fifth of our class and still a record for a single year -- and another dozen or so Commended Scholars.

This isn't bragging, because my class had plenty of flaws, particularly a load of hubris even larger than our brains, and the flaws didn't stop there. I'm the first to acknowledge that being of higher caliber academically didn't make us better or easier to manage or enjoy as students.

More often than not in the past 19 years, our school has struggled to tally more than 10 National Merit Semifinalists in a class, which is a great number in the South, but isn't all that impressive amongst high-priced independent schools nationwide. Since those two perfect SAT scores in 1990, the 19 years hence has produced maybe three, maybe four perfect SAT scores? Yet, I would bet a dollar to a dime that the GPA of a graduating class in the last five years is leap years ahead of the GPA of our class.

Even if we're splitting hairs here between the academic capabilities and work ethic of today's students versus those of 20 years ago, there's no justifiable way to explain the sharp rise in GPA, and it's not just at my school. It's at high schools and colleges across the nation. I rarely find myself nodding enthusiastically to anything Walter Williams writes, but his observations -- based on data, not mere conjecture -- on grade inflation leave me wondering if anyone cares. I mean, 91 percent of Harvard graduates leave "with honors." Shouldn't that bother, like, LOTS of people??

There's a reason people stopped giving a shit what Roger Ebert thought of a movie. That guy had his thumb up so often you woulda thought it got injured in a car accident or was a carpal tunnel reaction to sticking it up Siskel's butt too much. "At the Movies" suffered from the same kind of grade inflation. When movie critics start giving Two Thumbs Up!! to absolute shit, what's next? Well, then the guys had to start saying, "Two Thumbs WAY Up!" and "Two Thumbs Way WAY Up!"

If things were "right" with the world, shouldn't a 2.5 GPA student at Harvard be able to transfer to a less selective school and, putting forth the same effort and intensity, earn a much better GPA? As it stands, I have trouble believing an average Harvard student could drastically improve his or her grades by attending UT-Knoxville (yes, I'm besmirching UTK a little, but if that offends you, pretend I said "LSU").

Here's what's funny about the school where I work. If our teachers followed the rules they claim to follow, student GPAs would sink. They'd sink like the Titanic after it had cracked in half. According to our rule book, a paper is supposed to be reduced by a letter grade for every day it is late. If a paper is four days late, it would, in theory, automatically fail. Students can then re-write the paper and make up half the distance between the re-written grade and the late paper grade.

If all our teachers abided by this one single rule, I bet the average GPA across our school would drop by at least a point. A frightening number of students would fail and be incapable of earning a passing grade by the end of the first semester.

Here's the kicker. Guess what our teachers complain about? They complain that the students wait until the last minute to write papers. They complain that the students never turn shit in on time. I almost always ask them if they enforce the grade penalty on late assignments, and they either confess they don't, or they lay it at the feet of the administration, like they're just the foot soldiers of a dictatorship.

Teachers, you see, are world class hypocrites. They complain about lazy students, but they enable laziness. They complain about being micromanaged by their higher-ups but fail to take things into their own hands when the opportunities arise. They complain about inattentive and distracted students but are easily the most inattentive and distracted bunch of adults this side of a meeting of Cocaine Addicts Anonymous whenever you gather them together and ask them to pay attention to anything.

Grade inflation angers me not because grades are sacrosanct. They are mere symbols, but they are supposed to mean something: how deeply a student grasps the expected concepts and rigors of a particular class. Either teachers are a bunch of losers who expect far too little, or they're collectively being too kind to those in their care. I daresay most teachers hear about grade inflation, shrug their shoulders and wonder what the big deal is.

Let's either ditch the grades, reinvent another way of assessing our students, or get this shit in order before the entire academic bell curve nationwide is limited to the decimal places between 4.01 - 4.50.

I'd like to go back to the day when George W. Bush received "Gentleman's C's" rather than "Gentleman's A-minuses."

[NOTE: Speaking in broad generalizations requires that I acknowledge that, if you're a teacher reading this, I certainly wasn't talking about YOU. I meant those dorks and incompetent fools with whom you work.]

The Mates of State's latest album is The Re-Arranger and is sublime. "Rise" comes from the Into the Wild soundtrack. Both can be purchased on iTunes or Amazon.com.

Memorial Day 2009

Guided By Voices--"Everywhere With Helicopter (mp3)

Lest you think we have forgotten the day where we honor our fallen with our grills (sorry for the sarcasm; it's just that right now I feel like one of the 50 or so people in the country actually working today!), here's a small tribute.

For a couple of perspectives on the day, I would refer you to something old and something new:

Here's my post from last year's Memorial Day. I'm not sure I have anything new to add to the subject.

For a similar perspective, but with some good songs to go with it (some of which have been posted on this site), go to one of my favorite blogs, Cover Lay Down.

And, finally, a recommendation. If you would like to get an eye-opening, pretty balanced perspective on what it's like to be a Marine today, take a look at Generation Kill, either the superb HBO miniseries or the book that inspired it, based on a Rolling Stone writer's experiences while embedded with Marines during the initial push to Baghdad. If, like the blogger of Cover Lay Down and me, "the military has been an abstraction" for you, this story will make it all very real.

Oh, by the way, my ribs went in the smoker at 8 AM. I'll be home to check on 'em at lunch.

Guided By Voices' Universal Truths and Cycles is available at Itunes.

Thinner: an allegory

Elliot Smith--"Ballad Of A Thin Man (live)" (mp3)

Here's a conversation that I haven't had yet:

Bob: You know, you and I aren't that good of friends, so I'm going to say something to you and then you're probably never going to speak to me again.

Him: silence.

Bob: Your wife is incredibly anorexic, she is really, really sick and you need to act now or it's going to kill her.

I don't know where the conversation goes from there, but I am assuming that he will say something that ends the conversation permanently.

Now, before you start playing a guessing game about who I'm talking about, let me assure that it is no one you work with, no one you know, no one whose husband you work with, someone you've probably seen, okay, maybe someone you work with, possibly someone some of you know. It really doesn't matter. Although I have a particular person in mind, bear in mind that I don't know who is reading this or where. I think this is a conversation that we all have been avoiding.

If you look back over my proposed discussion with this husband, you'll notice something very damning. The conversation I hope to have the next time I run into him is not going to cost me very much because, indeed, I truly don't know him all that well. He did help me change a tire on Signal Mountain one time. I run into him at Panera and sometimes at school events.

But all of us who see his wife must share the same shock: she used to be an attractive woman, but now she looks gaunt and skeletal.

I remember my first encounter with anorexia. It was 1976 and I was living in a coed dorm at Penn and my roommate liked this girl Marian and even asked her out and got turned down. But what we really couldn't process was how thin she was, especially her arms. We didn't know what to think about her, we didn't have a name to put on her.

And 33 years later, I'm not sure any of us have progressed much beyond, except that now we have the name. And we even get a kind of smug satisfaction in being able to point one out: "Wow, she's really thin" or "Annie." It's like spotting gays or a rare state in a license plate game on a long trip.

So back to the damning part: I think most of us are not willing to confront anorexia when we see it, especially if it is close to home. There is a woman who runs past our house in the mornings at the slowest pace I've ever seen a human run and she is little more than a stick and what she is exercising for only her disease knows, but all we know to do for her is to chat with her and welcome her to come and cut roses whenever she likes. We don't know who she is or exactly where she is.

But what if I knew her? What if she were the wife of a friend? Would I treat her gently and let her pet my dog, or would I confront the sickness that is slowly killing her and escalating? I know it's more complicated than that. You can't just walk up to someone, friend or not, and say, "Hey, you're anorexic" the way you would point out a piece of food stuck in someone's teeth.

Back to my planned conversation at the top. If I bring up this woman and her condition to anyone who knows her, they quickly confirm it. But none of us really want to do anything. We want to keep things easy, to hope it could go something like, "Hey, you're wife's really anorexic, but you probably know that and are working on it, so, hey, we're going to play doubles on Thursday, are you in?"

So, what is it with us? I mean, what is our obligation here? Are politeness and respecting privacy and maintaining friendships and easy relationships the most important considerations? I'm afraid that's how I act, except for a failed intervention last year and the imaginary conversation above that's in my head and will probably stay there. I am also far too much of a "heal yourself" kind of person who doesn't much go for therapists, and so, I'm caught up in a simplistic, blaming perspective of 'Why doesn't he do something to fix it?'

But out there in anorexialand, the person with the disease (hey, men can have it to!) doesn't know he or she has it and the spouse may be drowning, too, and the only lifeline, at least for now, may be that confirmation by someone known and trusted that he, too, thinks there is something wrong. Probably, in the context of a marital relationship, one partner's anorexia is, on one level, yet another negotiation that two people engage in to get through the day, not realizing how quickly those days have added up. You think you see an improvement one day and that gets you through the next five, or the next two weeks. And, way back when, for some brief window, thinner was better.

I wonder if that husband, after I had steeled my courage and approached him, would look at me with disgust and say, "Do you really think I don't know that?"

Elliot Smith's version of the Dylan classic is available at Cover Me, a fine covers blog. Check it out.

Yes, He's a Dick.

Blackjack - Everclear (mp3) *
Mean Mr. Mustard - Beatles (mp3)

To use our President's favorite words, Let me be clear: Dick Cheney is a dick.

Detesting Dick Cheney doesn't require the slightest bit of political bias. In fact, it has almost no basis whatsoever in politics. I don't like HIM. As a person.


"In the fight against terrorism, there is no middle ground, and half-measures leave you half-exposed...Triangulation is a political strategy, not a national security strategy... There is never a good time to compromise when [the lives of the American people] hang in the balance." -- former Vice President Dick Cheney

First of all, when commenting as a semi-liberal, I'm all in favor of Dick Cheney and his big mouth. Politically speaking, I want Dick out there. I want Dick to remain as the purple shiny head of Republicans on television sets, in newspapers, on the web. I want Dick everywhere Dick can go. I want Dick to grow in presence and confidence. I want Dick on the lips of all right-wingers everywhere. The far right might oppose gay marriage, but they sure do love Dick. And the liberal in me loves them for doing so.

Every day he keeps flappin' his yap, the country is reminded why we voted for someone else, and we're reminded of just how scheme-driven and stealth-lovin' these guys were for a long time.

However.

The other part of me is the part that wants America to survive and advance. I want our leaders to disagree but work together. I want compromises and debates and a genuine bipartisan search for progress and long-lasting sustainable growth. I want "sustainable growth" to symbolize something greater than money. I want it to encompass who we are as a society, what we value, how we prioritize. I want America to thrive across multiple dimensions.

That part of me despises Dick Cheney with a seething, bubbling kind of disgust that rarely works its way through my veins, and I just want the bastard to go away and leave us alone.

Dick Cheney is the ultimate non-negotiator. Dick is the kind of parent who asks you for your thoughts and then rolls his eyes or completely stops paying attention when you talk. Dick is the teacher who only gives you an A+ when you spout out verbatim the same shit he's been spewing, because creativity is for pussies. Dick Cheney is the football coach who thinks a practice that fails to get boys puking or passing out must have been a bad practice.

Do you remember the less-than-good but wonderfully guilty pleasure film Varsity Blues? Do you remember Jon Voigt's role as the megalomaniacal coach willing to do anything to win? Yeah, that's Cheney. Lie, cheat, fib, confuse, misdirect, misrepresent. Do whatever it takes, and at any cost, to win.

Dick Cheney is a bad person. Worse yet, he's just flat-out dangerous, because he's the moron who believes there's only one way -- his way -- to skin a cat, to climb a mountain, to get to the other side. Even conservative columnist David Brooks thinks so. (Brooks also takes the time to gig liberals by reminding them that, so far, Obama's foreign policy is only a hair's breadth kinder or gentler than Bush's.)

Maybe Cheney's defenders like assholes. Maybe Republicans want Grandpa Simpson with a shotgun running the country. Maybe they want Archie Bunker -- except with less heart -- making decisions that will shape the future for our children. Or, maybe his defenders would say I'm only paying attention to the Public Dick. That Private Dick is actually sweet, loving, caring, humble, gracious, and generous. That Public Dick is playing a role no one else has the balls to play.

I can't do anything about the former. If you like angry bitter paranoid spiteful men running things, ain't nothing I can say to you. But the latter... well, I think that's a crappy logic. As the well-quoted Jesus Christ says, "Even sinners love those who love them," so Dick being a swell guy with his family hardly impresses me.

Further, why was it unpatriotic and supporting the terrorists to question our government's decisions in 2004, but in 2009, if your name is Dick Cheney, it's perfectly OK to speak up in opposition to the President's direction? Five years ago, doing so was tantamount to bankrolling Al Qaeda. Now, apparently, it's safe enough in America for Dick to say stuff. Maybe he thinks he protected us well enough that dissent is now less dangerous.

If any conservatives have read this far, I want to repeat that politics has virtually nada to do with this. Were Dick a lib'ral, it's possible some of my anger would be replaced by a more-powerful shame, but the emotional negativity he would dredge up in my bowels wouldn't decrease. Just ask me what I think of Pelosi some time.

So, Dick, for the good of the country, would you please go ahead and put a sock in it? If it makes you more comfortable, you can attach some electrodes to that sock and stick it over your privates. But putting it in your mouth would be fine, too.

I'm guilty of committing song repetition on BOTG for the first time ever, but dammit, the Everclear song is just perfect for ol' Dick. My apologies to the repetition, and I'll try not to do it again for at least another year.

A Retro Summer Mix for Memorial Day

I don't have much to say, except that the boys are starting exams, the grass is green, the pool is open, the coals are burning in the grill!

Here's a little list of songs that may take you back to previous summers, as they do for me. What could be better than the Monkees and Husker Du, or a little redone Graham Parson classic, or a Trey Anastasio-fueled trip to the Misty Mountain Hop, a gin and juice sipped in the suburbs?

While all of the songs are "old school," I tried to freshen the list a little with newer covers of classic songs or alternate versions. Just plug your computer into some speakers, press play, and let 'er rip. Enjoy!




The Ramones--"Sheena Is A Punk Rocker" (mp3)

Husker Du--"Could You Be The One?" (mp3)

Jay Z--"Izzo (H.O.V.A.) unplugged" (mp3)

Ryan Adams and Gillian Welch--"The Return Of The Grievous Angel (live)" (mp3)

The Monkees--"Last Train To Clarksville" (mp3)

Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs--"Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere" (mp3)

R.E.M.--"Don't Go Back To Rockville" (mp3)

Paul Westerberg--"Daydream Believer (live)" (mp3)

Neil Young with Booker T. and the MGs--"Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (live)" (mp3)

Phish (with Warren Haynes)--"Misty Mountain Hop (live) (mp3)

Scott McKenzie--"San Francisco (If You're Going)" (mp3)

The Moody Blues--"Legend Of A Mind" (mp3)

Liz Phair--"Mother's Little Helper" (mp3)

"Gin and Juice (White Man Remix)" (mp3)