In the summer of 1980, I returned from an out-of-town weekend Saturday/Sunday summer camp to my home in Starkville, MS. I pulled the power knob of our 9 inch Zenith television to the on position, flipped between the three channels we could pick up with the rabbit ears, found myself on channel 2, and began staring at Mississippi ETV. What I found myself watching was episode 2 or 3 of the Doctor Who story Revenge of the Cybermen, originally broadcast a mere five years earlier in the UK. This moment was a pivotal one in my life, for it was my very first exposure to the BBC show Doctor Who. From that moment on I have been a fan and still count Tom Baker as my favorite actor to have played the Doctor to this day. I, of course, was back for the next installment the following day at 6 p.m. and as much as possible I tried not to ever miss an episode of my new favorite show. (By the way, I’m now astounded I was so taken with the show based on Revenge of the Cybermen of all stories, because it’s not especially great and contains maybe the laziest Cybermen designs ever. I honestly prefer the cloth-faced original Mondasian Cybermen designs to the ones from Revenge… with their lazy-assed plumbing flex-hose head-handles. The worst.)
As a child in 1980, going into the 4th grade, though, this show was magic, with dark tales of science fiction and horror given illumination by the contrastingly light performances of Baker and his onscreen traveling companion Sarah Jane Smith, played by Elizabeth Sladen. I loved their relationship, which was clearly one of great fondness for each other. I loved the Doctor’s long coats and immediately set about trying to find one of my own (it would be a few years before I managed it). And, of course, I loved his scarf, but it would be another 20 years before I was finally given a replica of the Doctor’s first one, as knitted by my mother-in-law; instead, I had to make do with wearing my dad’s girlfriend’s cream-colored muffler for the first few years instead, which only looked like Baker’s scarf after being filtered through my imagination). I loved the Doctor’s grinning manner, his gadgets and I loved his habit of offering everybody Jelly Babies (which, in lieu of, I had to make do with Gummy Bears). And I especially loved his mode of transportation, the TARDIS.
Standing for Time And Relative Dimensions In Space (though some sources vary), the TARDIS was a blue police public call box that was, though dimensional shifting, bigger on the inside. (Had to get my dad to explain that one to me.) The Doctor would step through the doors of this glorified, over-sized phone booth, into apparent darkness, and then the camera would cut to the TARDIS interior set and we’d see the Doctor entering through two giant blocky doors faced with pizza-sized circular roundels, into the bright white control room, the central feature of which was a five-sided control console with a bobbing clear cylinder filled with lights and gizmos. The Doctor would hit a switch, close the doors behind him, and with the manipulation of more dials and switches would cause the TARDIS exterior to fade from view, accompanied by its famous wheezing mechanical groan of a sound effect. Magic, I tell you! My wee mind was captivated by it all. I shortly began trying to craft my own Time Lord adventures by playing Doctor Who in the back yard, using the patio as my control room, a dog house as my control console and the chain-link side gate as my relatively smaller TARDIS door, leading me and my muffler to whatever monster was menacing the front yard.
Since there were no Doctor Who action figures available in the U.S. (and they were pretty thin on the ground in the U.K. at that time) I also tried to create my own action figure adventures. Having no Doctor replica on hand, I substituted the most curly-headed, side-burn-bearing action figure I owned, a green-suited diver from the Fisher Price Adventure People scuba diver playset. And for a companion, I used the armless and legless red-headed princess from Fisher Price’s medieval castle playset. (Cause I’d somehow misplaced the lady diver who came in the scuba diver set.) These might seem like poor substitutions, but they were all I had. My TARDIS was even sadder, though. I had nothing approximating one, so rather than get my dad to build one out of cardboard (which I’m sure he would have done) I just used a mason jar.
My Doctor Who toys were so low rent that I eventually gave up pretending they were even related to Doctor Who at all and just made up my own analog characters. I called my Doctor, Dr. Mum, named after the 1970s/80s cream deodorant, a small round container of which I used as my logo in imagined recreations of the theme song. (My theme was hauntingly similar to that of Doctor Who, I assure you.) I called the companion Princess Sally (since she a crown she had to be a princess), and I called their Mason jar spaceship the Blue Crystal (which was in no way blue, though the Mason jar itself lent something of a crystalline quality).
The idea of owning an honest to goodness TARDIS toy, however, was something beyond the realm of possibility for me. I didn’t even wonder at the time if such a thing existed. I did not yet know about the Denys Fisher TARDIS toy of the late 1970s, recycled out of the Star Trek Enterprise toy set Fisher also made (a set that I actually had owned since age 5 or so). I did not yet know about the corresponding Tom Baker Doctor Who doll Fisher made, with real removable scarf. And I didn’t know anything about the Leela companion doll and would have found her confusing since PBS weren’t showing any of those episodes yet. Instead, I had my dreams. (The first TARDIS toys I ever saw were ones I imagined in actual dreams. And they were awesome.) It would be years yet before I got wind of even a TARDIS model, or set actual eyes on the TARDIS tin bank with the grinning image of Tom Baker beaming from its open door, let alone a TARDIS toy and action figures. In fact, by the time I saw such things I was well out of the typical action figure purchasing age range–not that I’ve let that stop me much, hence why I’m typing this.
As my wife can tell you, I now own an excessive number of TARDISes. Most of them are in my office, taking up the space across the tops of two full book cases and, technically, spilling down the side of said case in the form of TARDIS string lights. Others live elsewhere, from my bathroom to my car, to my living room, to, occasionally, my bed. While it’s an impressive collection, by no means does it encompass the number of model/toy TARDISes that have been manufactured over the past 50 years. It’s actually pretty small comparatively (which is what I keep telling my wife). I have, as of this writing, around 49 of them (a nice number, though there is always the chance I’m forgetting one or two somewhere). We’re talking three dimensional TARDISes, too, not just pictures of them–of which I have more than a couple. I tracked down my first two back in 2002 or so. And since the show came back in 2005 and proved itself popular, new TARDIS products have hit the market each year.
Why do I have so many? Why do I love them? Wellllll, there are many factors to the answer, but, if you distill it down to a base, I collect TARDISes because I feel like I owe it to that 4th grade boy back in 1980 who didn’t have even one TARDIS and who had to make do with a Mason jar.
I really dig my TARDIS collection. As an ongiong exercise, and in an effort to produce more content for this blog, I’ve decided to write about each of them here, in no particular order, and with no real time table for doing them all.
And you can keep up with them all with this LINK.
You’d think after logging my 10,000 Malcolm Gladwell hours doing it I’d be better at drinking coffee. Yesterday I burned the ever loving shit out of my mouth, though.
Here’s where I think I went wrong. I had a warm cup of coffee that I wanted to reheat. I also wanted to put a dollop of coconut oil into it cause, y’know, health. This I did, setting the microwave for the standard 1:11. While it was rotating around inside, I decided to just go ahead and make a new pot of coffee, so I took a tumbler cup and began filling it from the filtered water of the fridge, conveniently beside the microwave. And because it’s a Samsung refrigerator this meant I was standing there filling that cup for the full 1:11.
(Hang on…. Open letter time:
How come your water and ice outputs have to be so damn slow? Other fridges just pump it on out, filling a cup with ice or water in seconds. Why yours gotta be such a slow pissy trickle?
Your friend, who paid an inconvenient amount of money for this fridge, which has had to be repaired twice since its purchase,
The microwave dinged, I opened the door, pulled out my cup, saw a delicious looking skim of coconut oil on top, and took a deep pull on that mug in manner that might suggest I expected it to be a cold brew iced coffee. And instantly I knew a horrible mistake had been made because my lips and mouth were on fire.
I made the split second decision to abandon my sipping plan and dumped my half mouthful of coffee right onto the kitchen floor. Fortunately, I still had possession of the tall cup of cold fridge water, and I put it to my mouth and let its cooling touch caress my charred lips, tongue and gums.
I spent the rest of the day sucking on ice cubes and nursing my lips with antibacterial ointment and Burt’s Bees. My sense of taste is still diminished, and it hurts to eat anything, but the inside of my mouth wasn’t burned too badly.
Beestung lips were a thing for a while. How bout scalded, blistery lips?
Just returned from my first trip to Cleveland and my first Midnight Oil concert.
As many Americans did, I became aware of Midnight Oil in the mid-80s with their hits Beds are Burning and The Dead Heart. My buddy Gordon bought the album those came from, Diesel & Dust, and played it in his car until the album was etched in my noggin. I soon bought it myself and got even more into it. What I didn’t realize was that these guys had been playing together in one form or another since the year of my birth some 13 years before. I soon purchased Red Sails in the Sunset and loved it as well and eventually found my way to the album I call Countdown, but which is more accurately titled 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. But it was their 1990 album Blue Sky Mining that cemented them as one of my all time favorite bands. Despite all the problems in the world that riddled me with angst, somehow it seemed like things would all turn out okay as long as Peter Garrett and Midnight Oil were calling out the injustices, the politicians, environmental catastrophe, and government corruption in their lyrics. Between them and The Church, I was really starting to dig Australian rock.
Whenever I would catch them in TV appearances, such as on Late Night with David Letterman, I would often make the joke that I’d love to see them on tour some day, but early on tour, because I was afraid Garrett’s voice, which is like gravel coated with velvet dust, would surely be shot by the end. But Midnight Oil never played anywhere close enough to me that I heard about it and I couldn’t afford tickets anyway. And then, in 2002, Midnight Oil sort of unofficially broke up so that Peter Garrett could go into politics, finally getting to try and make a difference beyond calling attention to the world’s problems through music. Every couple of years since, I’d look at their website to see if there was any word of a reunion, but none seemed in the offing. Most recently, I’d read that Garrett had retired from politics and had put out an album with his kids, but it just didn’t sound like Midnight Oil to me.
Then, back in late May, the wife and I were going down a YouTube music video rabbit hole, watching videos for bands she loves such as the Allman Brothers and Stevie Ray Vaughan. I pulled up my laptop, hoping to add some of my favorites to the mix and decided Midnight Oil would be the first. What should pop up at a search for them, though, but a new video of the band announcing that not only were they back together but they were embarking on a world tour starting in May. Of course, by the time I saw this announcement in LATE May most of their U.S. dates had passed, including a fairly close one in Pennsylvania, or were tragically sold out. Then I saw that after tour legs through Europe and Asia, they had added a few more U.S. dates in August, including one at the House of Blues in Cleveland. I’ve never been to either that venue nor that city, but at 5 and a half hours driving distance it was doable.
“You want to go?” I said hopefully to the wife.
“Sure. They’re not my thing, but I’ll go see them.”
I immediately bought us tickets for actual balcony seats, not standing room only floor space. They were maybe the most expensive tickets I’d ever purchased for a band, and it was certainly the furthest distance I would be driving to see one (even beating out that time we went to see Ladysmith Black Mambazo for our anniversary), but at long last we were headed to see Midnight Oil.
I had no real thoughts about Cleveland before going there, other than knowing it as the butt of many a geographical joke in the 80s and 90s, along the lines of “Well, things may be bad, but at least we’re not in Cleveland.” I suppose, like Detroit, things were pretty terrible there for a long time. The Cleveland of today likely still has its problems, but we saw lots of growth and renovation and the repurposing of spaces. There is vitality there and it’s a gorgeous city with some pretty astounding architecture, particularly in its many Gothic-revival churches. We stayed in Ohio City in an AirBnB located in what looks to have once been a pretty run down area that has revitalized in recent years. It was in walking distance of 25th street, which is where a bunch of awesome restaurants are located, as well as the West End Market. I might be in town for Midnight Oil, but the wife was there for the West End Market–which is deservedly legendary. Just stall after stall of vendors selling astounding meats and cheeses and veggies and breads and dumplings and fried things and cheese–did I mention the cheese? (Whiskey cheese is goooooood.) We were glad we’d thought to bring a cooler with us to take home all our perishable purchases.
Our first night there we dined finely at the Great Lakes Brewing Company, whose house-made tater tots were like five regular tots mashed together in one dense, savory, log. Despite the fact that they only gave me four of them, it was still too many. The GLBC’s Nosferatu Imperial Red Ale is a new favorite. The next day we breakfasted at the West End Market Cafe, where I had Hungarian hash to my wife’s chicken & waffles–both very nummy.
And, being in Cleveland, we had to go to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Took us two tries to actually get there because we attempted to drive their on our own the first time. We had hoped to find a parking garage central to both the museum and the House of Blues, but with an Indians game happening that wasn’t possible. Turned out to be way way cheaper and infinitely less enraging to return our car to the Air BnB and take an Uber back. (Always remember Uber, kids. They’re a terrible company, and Midnight Oil probably wouldn’t use them, but, dammit, they conveniently get you where you need to be.) The museum was definitely a good experience, though it is something of an assault on the senses. Almost anywhere you inside will leave you buffeted by hundreds of different directional audio sources for the music of the honored artists and commentary about them. It’s kind of overwhelming, but largely worth it.
We Ubered from the museum to the House of Blues. Our car even took us through the back alley, nearly the loading dock where a bunch of roadie-looking dudes were hanging around. After the drop off, we started looking for a place to eat and were walking along a blocked off street between the HOB building and a row of restaurants and shops. We were just passing an alley that led to the HOB loading dock area when Midnight Oil themselves exited that alley and walked right past us. I turned, wide-eyed, and beamed back at my wife who mouthed “Was that them?” I nodded like a madman. I wrote my friend Chris Hudspeth from college, who is an even bigger Midnight Oil fan than me, and told him what had just happened as he was one of the only people I knew who would appreciate it as much as me.
We wound up returning to dine at the House of Blues itself–which I had suggested earlier as a joke. I know, I know. Never dine at the venue, but dammit they were offering an early seating pass to anyone who dropped $40 there, and they had perfectly cooked fried chicken. And as a bonus, while waiting for our food a couple of non-Peter-Garrett members of Midnight Oil came out of the HOB and chatted and smoked on the sidewalk next to us while hungry autograph hounds lurked nearby. The band seemed quite gracious about it all.
I can report that the concert was amazing. I was especially impressed with their opening band, The Living End, who I was unfamiliar with but will become more familiar with after that show. They can play the shit out of a guitar, drums and standup bass–the later instrument being stood upon multiple times during the course of the show. They reminded me of a better Green Day. As for Midnight Oil itself, they were everything I wanted them to be and played almost all of my favorite songs and a couple of latter day hits I’d forgotten about. And it would have been a perfect show but for the efforts of the two people in front of us who tried their level best to ruin the show for the row behind them. I call them Mr. and Mrs. Dipschidt.
Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Dipschidt (of the Ohio Dipschidts), were two people we met before the concert began, as they sat down in the seats directly in front of us. And as far as people go, they were very nice, commenting to us on how awesome they thought the venue was. As we were to learn when the concert began, however, they were also the very sort of people who utterly cannot enjoy a moment for the moment, but must document that moment eight ways from Sunday throughout the entirety of that moment or it is somehow worthless to them to be there. These two would-be documentarians, therefore, kept holding their phones up in our sightline, blocking our view of the stage, to take photos and video throughout the concert. Now, they were not alone, as there were plenty of people snapping photos during the show, myself included. I got no problem with a photo or two. Even a photo or two per song I’d be okay with. But the Dipschidts needed such hard core photographic and video coverage that if interventions had not been made they would likely have continued blocking our view for the whole show. We weren’t alone. The Dipschidts moved their phones around so much that they also managed to block the view of the two people seated deeper in our row on the other side of me.
After it became clear that this behavior was something they intended to engage in for the duration, I leaned forward and tapped Mr. Dipschidt on the shoulder. I intended to keep things polite and let him know that the two of them were blocking the view of the four people behind them. I wasn’t even going to ask him to stop, but to just keep their phones lowered to their own face level, where we could still see over them. As I touched his shoulder, though, Mr. Dipschidt immediately lowered his phone from my view and wouldn’t turn around to see who was tapping him and why. Maybe he didn’t want my comments picked up on his audio, but I suspect he well knew what the issue would be and that it was probably not the first time a hand had tapped him at a concert. The lady of the couple seated next to me thanked me for my effort, but it only helped for a couple of songs. Meanwhile, Mrs. Dipschidt, seated in front of my wife, was not trying to video the whole concert, but till needed multiple pictures throughout every song. (I kept imagining her showing them to her friends later. “Okay, and this is what Peter Garrett looked like during ‘Redneck Wonderland.’ And this is what Peter Garrett looked like during ‘Feeding Frenzy.’ And this is what Peter Garrett looked like during ‘Truganini.’ Oh, and this is another picture of what Peter Garrett looked like during ‘Truganini.’ And here’s what he looked like after he took off his button up shirt, then wiped the sweat off his bald head with it before chucking it to the guitar tech off stage, then revealed that he was wearing a politically-minded t-shirt beneath it the whole time, and then sang ‘My Country.’ Oh, and here’s what he looked like during ‘Arctic World.'” ) She kept raising her camera into the wife’s sightline, holding it there as she focused and zoomed in and zoomed back out and got her composition right and made sure it had time to properly refocus, and then took a picture before doing it all again for the next one. So, again, I leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder. And, just as before, as soon as my hand touched her shoulder the camera dropped from view and Mrs. Dipschidt remained face-forward. I believe I even detected a coldness to her shoulder. And, naturally, another song or two later, both phones went right back up in the way again.
Many things began to flow through my head, not the least of which is the knowledge that this scene would be playing out very differently had my friends Glen or Joe been present. More than anyone I know, Glen and Joe have no tolerance for cell phones in settings where cell phones are a detriment to the viewing pleasure of others. I’ve both witnessed and heard them call people out by loudly shouting “PUT YOUR PHONE AWAY!!” across movie theaters. And I’ve seen the people with their phones out quickly put them away as all eyes turn to them. I could continue to tap them on the shoulder every time their camera crossed my field of view, or maybe there was another avenue.
It occurred to me in that moment that it would be fun to lean over between the two Dipschidts and offer to demonstrate for them the new HD Rectal Filter feature of the Galaxy S8. I mean, as we all know, the S7 was known for taking pretty decent pictures of the interior of the sigmoid and descending colons (while the Galaxy Note 7 was known for burning them). But boy howdy can the S8 really get crystal clear 2960 x 1440 pixel images of the transverse colon, provided someone is really diligent in cramming it up there for you.
Before I could get myself in trouble, the couple beside us got up to go report the Dipschidts to the ushers. Presently an usher came down, stepped into our row and leaned over to speak sternly to Mr. Dipschidt. I couldn’t hear exactly what she said, but the wife later reported that the usher had told Mr. Dipschidt that he was allowed to take still photos but was not allowed to record video. He nodded emphatically, yet continued to roll video through the whole dressing down, his strobe of a flash beaming into the heads of the people in front of him. However, when the song concluded, he and Mrs. Dipschidt put away their phones for a blessed while. It was not to last.
Mrs. Dipschidt simply could not remain in the moment and enjoy the concert they were at while they were at it any longer. She again took her phone out. Seeing this as a signal, Mr. Dipschidt whipped his out too and they whiled away the latter half of the concert taking photos and video mostly from face-height. (The picture included is from that period when they were “behaving” themselves.) In fact, in order to try and get better shots from the new lower angle, Mr. Dipschidt was often forced to violate Mrs. Dipschidt’s sightline of the stage, causing her to crane her neck to see around the phone. That never got old for me. And for her part, Mrs. Dipschidt was unafraid of trying a few shots back in our sightline, but she kept them limited to only a handful of pictures per song. (“And this is what Peter Garrett looked like when he faked the whole audience out by saying it was their last song of the night, but then it turned out it was not their last song. And here’s what he looked like coming back on stage with a different politically-minded t-shirt.”)
As soon as the encores hit and the Dipschidts were within spitting distance of the end, they must have figured it wouldn’t matter if they got kicked out, so up went the phones again and Mr. Dipschidt resumed his videography. To retaliate, the couple beside us began loudly screaming the chorus to “Now or Never Land,” off key, at Mr. Dipschidt’s phone to screw up his audio. This he was unable to ignore, and glared back at them, but he kept his trap shut. I’m pretty sure even Peter Garrett himself got in on the protest. As he was singing the next song from the stage, he pointed up into the balcony directly at Dipschidt’s camera flood light and gave him the flat palm-out/eye-shielding universal sign language meaning “that’s super bright, please turn it off.” If he noticed, Mr. Dipschidt did no honoring of the request.
The concert ended and we left the House of Blues without acknowledging the Dipschidts.
Our final morning was spent breaking fast at Jack Flaps, who served me what are now pretty high on my top 10 list of favorite pancakes eaten and which are currently arm-wrestling for top spot with Austin’s The Original Pancake House. After that, we headed back to 25th street to check out a book store, the cheese stall at the West End Market once again, the Great Lakes Brewing Company for some more Nosferatu, and eventually wound up at Penzy’s Spice Store, located in part of the ground floor of what had once been a massive and ornate bank building, now subdivided into retail spaces.
After checking in with the wife at Penzy’s, I stepped outside to our car to get my Nosferatu out of the sunlight. On my way back, who should I see standing on the corner waiting for the light to change but Mr. and Mrs. Dipschidt. Mr. Dipschidt was even wearing his Midnight Oil t-shirt. It was a real moment of decision for me. I mean, do I say something to them? Do I run up behind them and tap them both on the shoulder to see if they notice? Do I let them know that the only reason the two of them hadn’t ruined the entire concert for us was because Midnight Oil rocks too hard to allow that? Do I just push them into traffic? As I watched them, though, the WALK signal illuminated and the Dipschidts crossed the road and were gone to enjoy their day.
Remember your concert etiquette kids: Take a few photos, try not to ruin the experience for your fellow audience members, and put your phone away. Don’t be a Dipschidt.
The end of the world is an event that has been predicted for millennia. It is always on the horizon, but so far has not come to pass. Mr. Daniels, however, has his own prediction and, unless he’s wrong, the danger of the end of the world is very real indeed.
And it just might begin at Starbucks.
This live-reading of “Nigh” was recorded at the 2015 Summer Conference of West Virginia Writers, Inc., on June 12, 2015.
This podcast adapts the short story “Nigh” found in the collection A Consternation of Monsters.
A Consternation of Monsters is now available as an ebook through the international ebook powerhouse Kobo.
The podcast for A Consternation of Monsters is now available via Soundcloud.
That is all.
(Note: I am the host of a sporadically-released podcast called West Virginia Writers Podcast, the official podcast of West Virginia Writers, Inc. )
The writer Lee Maynard passed away on June 16, 2017, in New Mexico. He was an notorious son of the Appalachian literary scene due to his less than flattering depiction of growing up in West Virginia in his novel Crum—infamously banned from sale at Tamarack. For all of the sex, violence, and combustion of outhouses Crum depicts, however, it remains a beautiful novel and a love letter to West Virginia. It speaks volumes about the power of place, family, and friendship in our lives—strange and bewildering and infuriating as those things may sometimes be.
For the past 15 years, Lee has been a regular presenter at the WV Writers Summer Conference, often accompanied by his friend and collaborator Pops Walker.
In this episode of the WV Writers Podcast, we talk to Pops himself about Lee and his work. Also included are Lee’s previous podcast appearances, including a recording of one of Lee’s readings with Pops Walker, a resonant interview he did with Cat Pleska in 2009, and other recorded material.
If you’ve not read Lee Maynard’s work, I highly recommend starting with Crum as well as his memoir in fiction The Pale Light of Sunset: Scattershots and Hallucinations in an Imagined Life.
TO DOWNLOAD: Right mouse click on the link below and choose Save Link Target As to save the file to your computer. Listen to it at your convenience using Windows Media Player (or whatever product Mac offers for media).
LINKS TO TOPICS FEATURED IN THE PODCAST
- “The Maynard I Knew” a belated eulogy by Pops Walker
- “Shenandoah River Songfest 2012” by Lee Maynard
- Lee Maynard JUG Award Ceremony
- Lee and Pops at the WV Writers Conference
- Crum: The Audiobook (by Mountain Whispers)
BOOKS BY LEE MAYNARD
The Mexican Gray wolf is among the rarest of North American wolf species. Few humans have seen them, fewer still have heard them growl, and far fewer have heard the pangs of hunger from the stomach of one.
One old man, seated on the cliff of an Arizona mesa, could possibly lay claim to all three of these feats if only he could be bothered to pay attention. He is a puzzle that most of the local wolves have given up on–save for one. The strange, silent, unmoving, and seemingly invulnerable old man makes for the ultimate unattainable prey, as the wolf’s own teeth (chipped from previous attempts) are a constant reminder.
When more men arrive at the mesa, the wolf’s frustration and hunger give way to hope–if only he can survive against these two-legged predators, intent on harming one of their own.
This podcast adapts the short story “Wolves Among Stones At Dusk” found in the collection A Consternation of Monsters, available in print, ebook, and audiobook formats.
(Album art for this episode is called “Anakin #100” and is copyright Felipe Zamora, used under creative commons license 2.0)
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