I CAN Alphabets!

Consider using the I CAN Alphabets as a journal for your classroom.

I is for Invigorated

dynamic characters.

Dynamic characters change and grow throughout our stories. They go from this to that. After completing each story, flip through the pages of Invigorated. Did any of the characters shift from being one word to another? Why? If they didn’t change they were static characters.

Ebenezer Scrooge is a ‘g’. He travels from green to grace. We can write his name on the ‘g’ page of Invigorated. Scrooge was primarily concerned with his riches (green). By the end of Dickens’s  A Christmas Carol, Scrooge is full of grace.

Words you are not familiar with, find the definition and record them right on their page.

C is for Character

literary terms.

Record the definitions of writing / literary terms on pages of your pictureless papers above each word. Below the pictureless word, draw or document examples from the assigned text.

A is for Apple

your pictureless pages.

For your reading notes for this class. Paper clip the first page of A is for Apple for easy access. On pages of Apple, take your class notes, make your own notes, ask your questions, scribble on the page, color, record, collage. You may even tear out a page or two and give to a friend.  There is a message from me to you on each page. l o v e

N is for Never Night

your Alphabet Book.

From one of our literary selections or all, write your own alphabet book at the bottom of each Night page. Words you love. New words. Words from a few different reads. One or many! Can’t wait to see what you come up with! Share with us on facebook!

fabulous

wearing w h i t e with w a y n e

Wow, what uh week!  

I'm going p l a c e s I've never gone, so I'm doing things I've never done. 

One should not wear w h i t e after Labor Day. Okayyyyyyyyyy? Why not? Why is that even a thing? It's c o o l if you're attending a white party mid-winter, or getting b e t r o t h e d. Why not in Texas when it is still over a gazillion degrees?

This is a scary thought for me -- wearing white after LD. Would a giant b l a c k Southern m a m a hand of etiquette reach down and s q u i s h me from the sky? 

Scary.

When do traditions i n t e r t w i n e with superstitions and then t u m b l e into fear? 

I hear Carrie Bradshaw. 

Not the fire and brimstone kind, nor the black cat passing. The kind of traditions slash superstitions that your mama, grandma and them i c e onto your eating black eyed peas for the New Year finishing. 

I spit on broom straws that b r u s h over my shoes. I edit all over traditions in my forthcoming middle - grade novel, d i r t that is due to my publisher in a couple of weeks. 

Egads!!!! Yes, a couple of weeks. Needing a touch of accountability.

Traditions and superstitions, even in my d r e a d e d op-positional defiance, have become like a guiding principle. Merde!

Sweetness and I listen to India Arie and Matched by Ally Condie. Condie creates this Giver-like post-modern world were the shoulds abound. "Everyone in this house does what he or she is supposed to do." We just finished scenes chronicling Grandpa's 'Final Banquet'. Not to justify a spoiler alert, people live until eighty years of age in this world made p e r f e c t with statistics. 

Something about this concept makes me want to live, and live more free. So, after a few dissolves of Sedalia, I'm still sitting, but I'm still in the place of wanting to live free. 

What if I just did stuff, not all of the stuff I should?

When thinking about such things, I often seek Dyer. W a y n e Dyer one of my long time b e a u t i f u l angels recently left this p l a n e. He has coached me many times through crazylane with his w o r d s. 

R I P

I pull my tattered copy of Dyer's Your Erroneous Zones from the shelf next to my bed. The index has a listing for traditions. 

"The important thing is to determine for yourself which rules work, and are necessary to preserve order in our culture and which can be broken without harm to yourself or others. There is no percentage in rebelling just for the sake of rebelling, but there are great rewards in being your own person and living your life according to your own standards." - Wayne Dyer

Uh--nouncement!!!

On the day that Farmer Guy started his new big time g r o w e r gig, I wore white. 

Yesterday -- after Labor Day. Work!

Carry on... Abbybama, Manchild and Sweetness... split the pole if you c h o o s e. #facingfears #911 #facingfearson911

l o v e

Chris von Halle on #iwriteYA

Check out the a u t h o r of The Fourth Generation, Chris von Halle over on free cotton. 
http://freecottonclub.blogspot.com

Title: The Fourth Generation

Author: Chris von Halle  /@ChrisvonHalle

In the future, no adults exist. Ever since the plague swept the world 100 years ago, no one has lived past seventeen.

Sixteen-year-old Gorin, a collector of curious artifacts left over from the pre-plague civilization, is on the verge of perishing from that deadly epidemic. And his last wish is to find a way to visit the rulers’ reputedly magnificent, off-limits mansion.

Up against the clock, he and his friend Stausha steal into the mansion and discover a secret more horrifying than they ever could’ve imagined—a secret that holds the key to the survival of the whole human race. 



It's c u r i o u s! You can purchase The Fourth Generation!

the age of m i r a c l e s

I found it interesting that a b e a t i f u l lady's post prior to her teenaged son's funeral stated that she expected a m i r a c l e. That seemed to be the sort of thing one asked for prior to a death, not prior to a funeral. I guessed Mary could have expected the same.

See, I met this charming lady in a charming b o u t i q u e, during a magnificent Toms sale. Or so I thought. We chatted a bit, then realized that on an occasion we stood next to each other during a yoga Saturday at the Y. I remembered her toes. H a p p e n s t a n c e our same aged children were students when Carver commenced all day every day GT school year. Those p e s k y intelligent six graders.

We talked for about an hour on those couches at Alter'd State about: marriage, e d u c a t i o n, divorce, about being single parents, artists we both knew around town, dating, y o g a and shoes, specifically, Toms.

Of course we became fb f r i e n d s right then and there. Where had she been all of my Midland life?

Sometimes people just get into your spirit. It's a s u b t l e thing.

Our same aged children, I digress. Heavy s i g h...

S w e e t n e s s  rushed from her room during one of the last mornings before the end of school and announced, "Something is wrong with a boy!"

"Dear, what are you talking about?"

Her response reminded me to d e c i p h e r it later since it was chock full of... and on Ig, and then on Snapchat, and then someone texted.

WTH was she talking about?

The day continued.  That night I caught the news that Farmer Guy watched. I intentionally NEVER c a u g h t the news. There it was, and there it was. 

She. She and him. He laid in a hospital bed, while his mother raised praying, praising hands at his side.

The she that I never saw off line again. The she that I thought a couple of weeks earlier to ask if she wanted to blog on pictureless, but didn't.

All of the s u d d e n I felt it. I hadn't even known this person existed in my s p i r i t until that very moment. I don't know when it happened, but in the moment I felt that pain, I knew she was there.

I wanted her m i r a c l e for her. 

Even at the funeral I wanted her miracle for her. I didn't attend the funeral, but I did. With a Harry Potter book in hand and a cup a tea, I sat outside of the services across the street at the GMFL football field on the aluminum b l e a c h e r s top row. Yes, I lovingly stalked a funeral. I waited for the miracle.

White butterflies danced over grasses. The clouds made intricate figurines, none that spelled his name.

Nothing much to see here.  Keep it m o v i n g.

Tires screeched, and I saw two ginormous cutie pie dogs, one a chocolate lab puppy, jaunting around all unsupervised all Homeward Bound like. A young couple out for their mid morning outing  stopped their truck on a rescue mission of pets that clearly did not belong to them. P u p s went one way, and so did the couple. P u p s ran into the field, so did the couple. This went on and on and on. They spent the entirety of the service trying to c o r r a l the playful two into the back of their truck bed. Success.

I watched them calling the numbers on the tags, and utilizing the help of two boys passing through to complete the task. I became m e s m e r i z e d by the unfolding drama, and the lengths average people really will go to save the day.

Well NO miracles happened... I really expected to see, h e a r or feel something. I wanted to report to this beautiful grieving mother that a miracle did happen, but I sent her well wishes from aclose. Started for my car and ran into a lady I see every now and then. We chatted it up about k i s m e t.

Later that day while perusing the obituary for this young teen, it noted that he had a strong affection for saving stray animals. Tickled, I s m i l ed a bit and softened. I can say that the miracle, not grandiose restoring sight in nature, did in fact take place - a fifteen year old's miracle. 

Love

After the Nothing, #LoveWins

'Bout a week ago.

It has been one week since THE collision. We are physically f i n e... we all walked away, but we had to lose some things at the scene. Bruises, aches and scrapes quickly fade.

I don't know what happened, and you can keep asking me. I was asleep in the passenger's seat. I heard Farmer Guy exclaim, "Oh, no!"

While the surround s o u n d air-bags inflate the mix-tape stops in the space of complete s i l e n c e.

And then n o t h i n g.

Nothing about my elation that Minister Robert Muhammad retweeted my t w e e t about seeing him at l o v e airport. Nothing about the Minnesota Pho restaurant not having vegetarian offerings. Nothing about un-social media. Nothing about bills. Nothing about bickering. Nothing about f l a g s (loving Bree Newsome, btw). Nothing about posers. Nothing about terrorists. Nothing about politics. Nothing about work. Nothing about who can m a r r y whom. Nothing about the Meyer's amazing Cress and Lunar Chronicles. Nothing about smoke and mirrors.

Nuhting about Nuhting.

Maybe a lot, not all, but a lot of life is exactly that... Much a d o about nothing.

The only thought that I can sort of remember in the v a c u u m...

So, this is it.

Ase! So it was.

Sound f l o w e d once again into too much.

"Is everyone okay? Is everyone okay?" The level headed Sweetness questioned.

While the Manchild sprung into Power Ranger a c t i o n.

M o m e n t s into smoked fumes and jammed doors, we exited.

After the nothing, love b l e w through, above, and around the entire perimeter. #lovewins

Love

#lovewins #iamexcitedformygrandchildren #lovewins #freebree

Oh, and #freemindsfreepeople (#fmfp2015)!

affirmation i n t o gratitude

Gratitude v i b r a t e s energy.

Whirlybird crème brulee scorching with caramelized sugar on top old skool hip-hop energy. Figgy bread pudding with f r e s h whipped creme birthday dessert energy. Thank you, Farmer Guy.

I know when I'm there. The sun shines brighter. The zephyr smells sweeter. I d a n c e  in my o w n hula - hoop. I know when I'm not. 

I'm overly committed to thinking about decisions, thoughts and d e e d s of others.

***

#o b s e s s i o n

***

I'm even thinking about possible decisions, thoughts and deeds of others.

Really? I'm sooooooooooo NOT in my own hoop. I'm way over there somewhere.

Pondering the real f o o d legacy of Caesar Chavez or wondering about Ray & Janay Rice, or s l e e p l e s s nights grieving the life of Michael Brown, or questioning will the people ever jump into a Russell Brand style rEVOLution, or the effects and causes of triangulation, or really why she always BE trippin'... Bye, Felicia!

Really? Really?

"REALLY, THAT'S NONE OF MY BUSINESS!" -Kermit




I sip my yerba mate. I exit the judgment business. Stage left.

The global domino effect may happen to be my business. Alerting the youth I get to p l a y with may be my business, but the whys of this divinely intricate and perfectly carved universe are not.


CODA anthem - All together now:

I am powerless over others.
I am powerless over others.
I am powerless over others.

Instead of trying to understand crazy as I have been known to tout. Right, Dr. Glo? 
If one understands crazy then one is also crazy or pretty close to it. 

I breathe and affirm. 

I am powerless over others.

I sip my yerba mate. I'm into the gratitude business. Shingle hung.

Signage: 

#g r a t i t u d e

Slogan:

Gratitude. It's what's real.

In my gratitude shop, there are w o r d s,  hula hoops and tasty #farmtotable food. All for sell!

The Manchild posts mama's photo on his Ig for #wcw, and invites me to tea after a local reading by Levi the Poet. Miss Sweetness rottens me with cadeaus of bricks of patchouli bars with books. We watch hours of reality shows sprinkled over Dr. Who and AHS after Sunday s t e a m s in the sauna. Sweet at home Abbybama k i s s e s me on my cheek before her trek. 

In my gratitude shop our bills are nearly p a i d. The mamas give much. 

Real p a t friends split Korean pancakes after d u s k. We mourn together. My fabulous fb family showers p e a r l s of bd w i s h e s that clog the farmlife internet ethers into the night. Bob's mom texts tales of Phookas that protect the harvest under ginormous a u t u m n moons. 

I am thankful that I have so many vibrant sensational personalities in my life, and I love knowing that I am p o w e r l e s s over them all.

I relish our s t o r i e s crossing. How awesome!

In my gratitude shop I can,

Stop giving a sh*t and appreciate love. 

The stop giving a sh*t, "They're coming, Katniss!" Mockingjay kind of appreciative love.

in g r a t i t u d e & 

love

nefeterius & the gift of the m a g i c h!

"Faction before blood." Hmmmmmm...Rather - faction and b l o o d. 

We do all, we are Divergent:

a b n e g a t i o n
e r u d i t e 
d a u n t l e s s 
a m i t y 
c a n d o r

Kudos to Veronica Roth for these f a b u l o u s words! Haven't seen the movie yet, but just finished the book. s m a r t world building!

Here's another faction...the m a g i c h! My brand new word for a sect that I don't see referenced often.

magich
[maj-eech]

noun, plural ma-gich-es

f. la magich
m. le magich

1. your MAma's GIrlfriend's CHildren.
2. magical serendipitous fantasy parallel universe subliminal bond.
3. the offspring(s) of your play aunt.

Treesia, my older magich, attended UNT.

When you were young, you played with these m a g i c h e s , while your mothers shared "tea".

I assume the mamas talked shop, traded recipes, reviewed articles and books. They probably chatted about their loves and passions. Maybe they debated education, politics, religion, diets and parenting styles. Surely, they consulted and advised on fashions, fads and all issues personal. 

I know they talked about us.

I know because I am a mother, and I have girlfriend tea. And we talk.

"What's the t e a, Girl?"

Our tea is not always as traditional as an old school version. 

If I see a f a n t a s t i c blog on "how to talk to your daughter about her body", I immediately text it to all of my mama girlfriends. We discuss and v o w to affirm our children like the article suggests. We begin to talk with our girls differently creating a similar experience for our children. 

This c o l l e c t i v e parenting consciousness can even be a side comment in tea conversation. 

"Martial Arts had such a positive impact on Is." 

Weeks after this tea comment, I enrolled my son into a martial arts program. 

This co-creation comes in a m y r i a d of forms.

There are many influences outside of your family of origin that deeply affect your upbringing. I will boldly say that we are possibly more alike in experience with our magiches than many other people on the planet. The same b o o k s lined our shelves, the same television programs were watched, the same foods plated our dinner tables, we may have even shared a holiday or a day trip or two - because our mamas were friends.

For some reason this relationship escaped my heart's magnitude until a few days ago. I couldn't define who I lost to onlookers. My speech shattered. I couldn't quite explain my connection to this love. 

Now I have the word, the words.

I lost a s u b l i m e and fabulous magich. This world lost Nefeterius Akeli McPherson.

You see, I'm the older magich, the Big Tee, at least that is what Ms. Martha, our nanny called me. 

She was Little Tee.

Then along came a Baby Tee. I love you, Tamara.

I'm not quite sure how it all m a g i c h a l l y worked with me being eldest, but Little Tee has always been in my periphery - a validation across the aisle.

If you have magiches...

You don't even know why you know all about these people's lives. It would make much more sense if they were actually a limb on your genealogical t r e e, or if you had chosen the relationship on your own.When we talked as adults we didn't have to 'catch up' on on-goings and recent events - not because of social media or gossip, but because our mamas already told us. 

We participated in a lot of the same experiences, probably at the orchestration of our dear mothers. They all get to take j o y and ownership of 'their' childrens' successes, the mama group also share pain together with 'their' childrens' losses.

They become theirs, we become theirs. Sarabis holding down Pride Rock.

J'aime mes magiches. 

My mom called last week to tell me, Little Tee only had hours to live. A quake shocked my soul. I don't know a world without her. We arranged for the Fabulous Mo Creole to escort Mama Rose three hours away to quickly be at her l o n g time friend's side. Thank you, Mo Creole! 

I wanted to play it super somber, and super cool. I wanted to hold a supportive s l a s h comforting role. Then I heard my anthem for the week...

Turn Down! For What?

I listened, prayed, kicked, screamed, cried and laughed a bit. I questioned the fairness of all things g o o d. Then my pen hit the paper and I drafted the w o r d list that I rattled off at her wake of all the things we were able to share by having mamas that were d e a r friends.

Thank you, Farmer Guy, Manchild, Daughter and Puppy G i n g e r for escorting me across Texas for this magichal trip.

Thank you, Enterprise for surprisingly renting me a car with a n g e l West Virginia plates.

These 'honest' gifts that we received as w o r d s - 

Because of our mama's friendship, we do...

Mothers
Friends, Girlfriends, Grace and Graceful. 
Lipstick and Smiles. 
Positivity and Kindness. 
Education and Degrees. More Education and Degrees. 
Children and Community. 
Social and Activism.
Flowers, Beauty and Travel.
Parties and Celebrations
Sweets and Food. 
Black. 
Volunteer and Intern. 
Cheer and Mascots (Cardinals, Mustangs and Eagles). 
Piano Lessons and Fashion. 
Justice and Integrity. 
Thank yous and Gratitude. 
Work. 
Life, Death.
and Tea.


And so it is.

See Tee's b e a u t i f u l inspirational story and fund Cancer Sucks.

Click here: http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/cancer-sucks-a-cheer-up-story 


l o v e   

 

What are we doing????

People always ask, "What exactly is this w o r d thing?"

Here's the short answer (I think), "I want a word, any word, your word to make you feel fabulous!" I have seen it happen over and over again, and I want to share with e v e r y o n e. That's all for n o w.

l o v e

Be the word you wish to see in this world!

What's your word?

f r e e inspiration!

h o w d y lovelies,

do you need w o r d s to brighten your w a y?
have a free book, and play!
it's f r e e until Saturday!!!
y a y!

http://www.amazon.com/Inspiration-ebook/dp/B003D7KB1A

we will be sharing words at the museum of the southwest this friday from 10-3. l o v e

o n l y & l o o p e r s

MaRose called last evening to c h a t about how for years she had desired to work Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. o n l y.

Which made me launch into this tale-

On October 12, 1992 at 1pm, I met a guy. He spouted slapstick h u m o r (not the pie in the face kind, but the kind that made you wanna end each line with air drummer fists and a buddut shish). We shared our intentions for sitting on the l i l a c leather chairs in the reception area at the old old Houston Press on Bering at San Felipe. Cardboard for the move already lined the walls quasi blocking our area from an adjacent filing room.

I was there because of my aspirations to write. He was there because one day he wanted to receive an ADDY  (whatever that was) for his phenomenal and a w a r d winning advertising agency. AAA or Triple A, the agency named as such for Alfred's Amazing or Artistic Advertising would bear the logo of the Spanish Cervantes crest donned with A's throughout. Les jeunes!

It reminded me of when Awkward Black Girl realized that CC was awkward, too. My brain and my head voices couldn't compartmentalize this f e l l o w, but I knew he was friend.

Steven Barnes reminded us just today to c h o o s e our friends wisely.

Friend and I received our peon tasks as advertising assistants. Uh, what had I been thinking I don't even know this town. I worked for "the third largest paper in the fourth largest city in the United States of America" as friend would often emphasize to me. Rarely had I driven past Jones Road on 290 from Prairie View, and now I had signed up to gallivant about Houston points unknown?

No worries. Friend took one look at my face and offered his extra key map. Even then he held an affection for the severely local except for his whip. When it was apparent that I didn't even know what a key map was, he took out a paper and drew a circle.

"This is the loop."

Squiggles through 610 and scribbled cross streets later, I entered my own bohemian odyssey.

Fast forward a couple of years. Friend went to work in film. I met a boy, and moved to Paris.

At some point between the two, t r a j e c t o r y began. There were wrap parties and screenings and editing suites in posh hotels. Remember the wrap at Dave & Busters with the fabulous Aussie, Jack Thompson days before my move to France?

Friend shared his Houston with me.

He had an extra sensory perception to know where the best of Houston played, with the best music jamming, that coincidentally served the best tapas.

Who knew about rolling napkins down bottles to toss around the Last Concerts Cafe? Carolyn Wonderland? Flamin' Hellcats?

Fast forward a couple of decades. I have seen Alfred at least a few times each of those twenty years. Even our children have chosen to be friends. The journey has been rich.

He's the only person in my feed who's social media status updates indicate the pulse of Houston.

He's the only reason I agreed or even proposed to assist in planning a Free Minds, Free People in Houston. He's the only reason I agreed to host a local film room at said Social Justice conference.

He's the only person that I've seen soooo super committed to promoting H-town's fabulous scene consistently for the last twenty years.

He's the ambassador of art perfection Houston. He shares his Houston with us, and the world.

When Alfred text that he would be receiving the Only in Houston award.  It made perfect sense. Alfred is pretty much one of the Onlys in Houston. Wouldn't you agree?

It was when he emailed the announcement did I have a moment, a mind movie flashback kind of moment. Like a down the rabbit hole time travel Looper loop! "This is the loop." The you from twenty years ago, you.

I love listening to loops. I love watching loops. Like when D set an agenda to acquire an a g e n t and she did. Or when the Girl on Fire, Carnival Performer, OT pitched an intention last Spring to create a mobile South American juice bar and she did. Or when S expressed the desire to learn the vernacular of academia published her team's research in a Canadian journal this week.

Life is sooooooo delicious! Right?

"This is the loop."

Intentions and full circles and hula hoops.

Alfred subjected the email- Seventh "Only in Houston"

"More people have walked on the moon." [Or not.] From the movie Farmer Guy and I watched the previous night, Up in the Air.

"Award to be given at the 51st American Advertising Federation-Houston ADDY Awards..."

This is the loop. 

Farmer Guy always says, "If one just does the work and stays out of the way- it unfolds how it should."

MaRose and Alfred have closed a loop!

Has the rainmaker placed an order to close more?

Which loop would you like to close? 


e n v i s i o n
w o r k
c e l e b r a t e


Alfred Cervantes, Friend, this o n l y ' s for you!

w i l d w i l d w e s t

Blerdesses love W e s t e r n s! I can't point my finger, yet, as to why. Oh, a [b l e r d e s s] is a female version of a b l e r d.

Westerns are not the most politically correct genre, nor, arguably, the most heady. Why DO we like?

Blerd girls play in alternate realities which makes tons of sense.

Star Wars ultimately models as a Western - which makes even more sense. Ask f a b u l o u s blerdess, Mellody Hobson?

Hot guy, Common, had a recent role in the TV Western, Hell on Wheels- which makes THE most sense.

Da haahh, da haahh
da ha-hahh- ha-hahh haahh!

I can't blerd chic my way to a logical conclusion of why blerd girls f a n c y Westerns. 

Aside from the o b v i o u s genetic component... our daddys' loved Westerns. Now we do. Background music to our lazy Saturday afternoon memories stream intro TV s p a g h e t t i Western theme songs.

Sasha and I texted on this topic during my recent holiday travels. There were too many components of Western life that we agreed that blerds adored. We realized that an entire month could be dedicated to blogging this intriguing pairing.

That was when I confessed that my favorite holiday d e s t i n a t i o n was not:

the Stratton Salon s p a trip,

or the m a g n i f i c e n t Tea Room,

or the s t e a m y hot springs at Trimble,

or even the m a g i c a l Silverton Cascade Canyon trip.

En route to Colorado...

I was extra excited to meet-up with the amazing a n g e l Adrea during the second leg of the Westward Ho annual Texas / Colorado road trip and a teeny bit excited about devouring precious p a r a n o r m a l pancakes- blue corn pinion bubbling with pine nuts at Santa Fe Baking Company and Cafe. 

Then a magnificent diversion occurred in New Mexico. 

The sign read: 

Billy the Kid's REAL resting place. 

d i v e r s i o n!!! 


Regulators, Let's Ride! 

I t r e a s u r e my own favorite Western, Young Guns featuring my own favorite cowboy, William H. Bonney.  

Back and forth through the town we searched for the REAL resting place of The Kid taking clues from confusing colorfully numbered town maps and official highway markers. 

Torn, I lamented aloud, "We don't have to go. If we can't find it this time, we should at least make it to the Baking Company," followed by tumbling exasperated sighs. 

Farmer Guy kept looking. Highly unusual for the 'let's get to where we are going- minimal meandering Farmer Guy. 

Ultimately he admitted, that in no way would he want to hear that dramatic monologue for the rest of his life, ”We were so close to Billy the Kid..." Followed by years of tumbling exasperated s i g h s.


Lo and behold! He found it! 

I was tickled to giddy. I read William's letters. I photographed everything. 

I saw the PALS tombstone. Shut - up! 

Farmer Guy thought there may have been some past life r o m a n t i c horseplay between me and the Kid. Impossible, because he's still, what, alive. 

Blerds also love people who are not really dead, but naysayers believe otherwise, but that's a whole ‘nother month of posts.

Tonto, jump on it, jump on it, jump on it...Kemosabi, jump on it, jump on it, jump on it... Custer, jump on it, jump on it, jump on it...Apache, jump on it, jump on it, jump on it...wowowowowowowowowowowowowoA- hunga-hunga-hunga-hunga!!!

love