la pomme du ciel

Perusing Google Reader today led to this little gem from Magnet, my snobby-indie-as-fuck-asshole’s magazine of choice. Dude, they are so hip that they only publish three times a year. Take that, Pitchfork, you ‘print is dead’ dilettantes.

The article is Corey duBrowa’s take on the five most overrated and five most underrated Radiohead songs of all time! He’s known for, I guess, a 1,700 word review of Hail to The Thief, which is about 1,700 more words than I need to read about that self-indulgent ode to Hunter S. Thompson’s Kingdom of Fear.

To be fair, he and I agree, with the strange exception of “I Will”, that the album is better left to listening to everything they did before instead.

Which brings us to his list of the overblown. Again, I agree. Almost completely. Name any “hit” Radiohead song, and I’ll probably tell you it’s a gust of hot alternarock air. But while “Electioneering” is a bit of an anachronism within Ok Computer, it presages the full brunt of Bush-era insecurities several years beforehand. So, given the fact that that album is so “ahead of its time”, let’s put it into a total context and agree that “Electioneering” is a badass rock song which also happens to epitomize the callow irony that so many intellectuals hide behind in the face of Politics as Usual.

Okay, onto the most underrated. I’ll get to the My Iron Lung EP slections later.

I guess I can hang with “Blow Out”, but I’m tempted to say it’s a contrarian sort of logic that points one to find one of the only redeemable tracks on Pablo Honey, an otherwise forgettable album, especially in light of the rest of the catalogue.

Kid A? Seriously? Two of the tracks made it onto the “Vanilla Sky” soundtrack. That album, by all accounts, should have never sold so well, not because it isn’t genius, but because (especially at that time) it’s fairly unlistenable for the unwashed masses. Because we all know not enough people have proclaimed “genius!” enough times.

We get it, and it’s not underrated. It might well be overrated and I never want to see Tom Cruise paired with a Radiohead song ever again.

The rest of his list seems purposefully obscure. That’s right, kiddies. Big brother is gonna tell you where it’s at with tracks you’ve never heard, but should.

Except that, yeah, you should hear them, if only to realize there are reasons they’re obscure. And if you want obscure Radiohead cuts, there’s better songs.

I’ll see “Meeting In the Aisles” with “Maquiladora”, because I’d rather rock with the “beautiful kids and their beautiful troubles” than stand around looking thoughtful, deal with the love of the My Iron Lung EP with a “Bwuh?”  and politely suggest “Cuttooth”, “Trans-Atlantic Drawl”, and above all else, “A Reminder“.

This last weekend, two of my buddies, J and B, graced me with their presence. Our time together started with an ignored call from J and a voicemail early Saturday afternoon.

“Hey, we can’t make it man. B drank way too much  last night and he’s puking.”

Satisfied to let my sadness happen later, after my hungover ass got a bit more shuteye, I tried to sleep. Then the doorbell rang, repeatedly. I knew it was them, but I had convinced myself it wasn’t, and I continued to roll around in bed for another hour.

Then, the phone call.

“Hey, did you want to get up? We’ve been here for an hour.”

I shouted a few choice profanities and cranked up some music. It was time to be a professional. After some brief hand-shaking, hugging and discussion, myself, my friends and two roommates hoofed it in the sweet sun to Tessaro’s, home of the best burger in the city.

It hit the spot (medium rare with dry blue cheese, bacon and the works), and we were off to my house for several games of Carcassonne. If you’ve never played, try it. It’s a great game, and that’s coming from a guy who has never won a single game. And I’ve played a lot. Always just one point shy. Generally because J, that witty guy with his clever little white lies, is playing. He destroys all he touches. The man has beat people at Monopoly in under five minutes. But he probably cheats.

After I had been trounced, after my roommate Quinn won playing for his first effing time, after I had been soaked in shame, we saddled up for the Roller Derby.

We missed the first half of B-Unit’s bout, but were just in time to see the ladies squeak out a tight win in the second half, beating the Ohio Roller Girls’ team by one point. My crush for any and all girls on roller skates continues to grow at a geometric rate.

The Steel Hurtin’ played a tough game with the Ohio A-squad, but generally commanded the flat track for the kind of victory I’ve come to expect from the Steel City’s best. The double-header ended and after a brief discussion, it was decided that J, B and myself were going to meet up with a friend of J’s on the Ohio team at Belvedere’s for the after-party.

I love Belvedere’s. So much. So did J and B. I trounced J so hard on the pool table, he chose to express his love for the place by disappearing and leaving me to take care of B, who brought a flask. The only time I saw the flask was when he was trying to pour its non-existent contents into his empty plastic cup. I’ll have to watch him more closely next time, but at least now I know he is fully capable of falling asleep standing up. While smiling, no less.

Eventually, J came out of hiding in the shadows of the neverending armchair section, and was joined by another derby girl he happened to know. She sat on his lap, I went to the dance floor and tried to figure out why things like that weren’t happening to me. It likely has something to do with, well…a selective lack of social skills in the pursuit of not being a creeper.

Maybe, like J, a derby girl will somehow magically sit in my lap.

Last call happened. We trudged back up Main, an icy hazard after a bit of wintry mix, and into Bloomfield, B stopping every few blocks to examine a shrub and giggle. We stopped at the Sunoco for cigarettes, where my apparent lack of luck with women reversed, and a pretty girl on her way back from clubbing in the Strip asked me to buy her some M & M’s. Sure, why the hell not? I am apparently “cute for a white guy”.

Finally home, we invited neighbors over, games were played, expletives were shouted, bottles of Jim Beam were exhausted. Various people collapsed onto the couch at various times and before I went to bed, I explained Life, the Universe and Everything to one of my roommates as the sun crept along behind the sky’s steel curtain.

I awoke to my neighbors continually calling my cellphone, painfully reminding me of promises made only hours before to go to Pamela’s for breakfast.

Despite three cups of coffee and surprisingly delicious chorizo, my physical state forced me to drag my ass through work after J and B dropped me off. I was still hurting on Monday and every inch of me smelled like Manhattans. Which won’t be delicious again for a long while.

It was a good visit, and likely the last time I’ll see J for awhile. Bastard is moving to Cali. B promises to be more visible, and it’s good to know that miles, years and the occasional bout of apathy can’t stop the friendships I’m lucky to have exported from Cleveland.

As an added bonus, I gave my Warhammer 40K armies to B for safe-keeping in the hopes they find a better home. One that doesn’t neglect them. He brought me a pair of Czech army boots, too small for him, and J sold me his climbing shoes, also too small for him. Everytime I get nice new-ish things, I feel like I am upgrading myself.

After such a positive experience, the upgrade is incidental. Turns out, I’ve done a few things right.

It's how vikings would do it. If they used condoms.

Specifically, polka-dot condoms. Although, I can’t imagine why I or anyone else would feel impelled to do anything resembling a polka dance merely because they had a snug little polka-dotted raincoat on.

In any case, yes, I mentioned polka-dotted condoms in the first real post here, a lovely little story about precisely how stupid the people I associate with can be. And yes, if you’ve read it, you are well aware that my idiot friend was thrilled to death about the prospect of polka dot condoms. And that he gave me one.

Grade: F-

I think we can all be understanding and adult enough to appreciate that ribbing anything for her pleasure is a grave misnomer and that dotted condoms are the twisted little cousins of those particularly misguided attempts at female pleasuring.

After letting the thoughts of several awkward moments seep in, accented with an, “Ow, uh, no. No, I’m done.” I was reminded of two funny monologues from two separate people. The first is one of Dane Cook’s funnier bits, where he explains that in the throes of ecstasy, he said, “My dick feels like corn.”

The second was a story from a girl I met in a bar about a year ago, and she told me the tragic tale of how she had met a wonderful guy just that last week, but upon discovering that he had the herpes, she wanted nothing to do with a “dick that looks like a corn-cob.”

The conclusion here is inescapable. A polkdotted condom gives you prosthetic genital warts, and no one should ever use them. My friend is a jackass for supplying me with one, even after he figured out they were no good. Thanks, pal.

Dear Uncommon Sense,

I have a manly physique, awesome hair, and I make six figures a year.  Despite all this I have one flaw: I never learned how to chug a beer.

I’ve tried countless times whether it’s shotgunning a PBR or chugging out of a glass, but always with the same result.  I only get halfway before I just can’t keep it down and I end up choking and spilling beer everywhere.  Even girls routinely beat me in drinking contests.  I’ve given up.

Can you help me fix this obvious character flaw?

– Can’t Chug

Well CC, it sounds to me like you may be trying to overcompensate and assert your alleged alpha-male standing. Losing drinking contests to girls? C’mon dude. Everyone knows that the best way to duck out of that sort of humiliation is to play it cool and just not run that risk. I mean, there are plenty of females that can drink plenty of men into oblivion. We just don’t know about it, because most dudes aren’t trying to show off that they can get their ass handed to them by a surprisingly robust 112-pound waif with a mouth like a sailor with tourette’s.

If the urge to thump your manly physique proves too strong and you just have to assert dominance, there are a few things you can do to prepare to at least not be dead last. Or just finish your beer.

If chugging normal liquids proves to be an easy feat for you, then all you’ve got is a nasty mental block. You want to look like a complete badass, get into a chugging contest involving a gallon of milk and win. Yeah, it’s gross, but no one can say a damn thing, other than, “Holy shit, did you see that? That dude just chugged a gallon of milk!”

Maybe you just don’t like beer, which is cool. Maybe you just don’t like chugging. That’s cool too. While the supposed badasses are winning chugging contests, you’re in for the long haul, and taking those gutter-mouthed waifs out for breakfast at sunup, right after you both bonded over a sharpie and the champions’ faces. Keep things in perspective, CC. It seems like you’re already ahead of the game.

How about your problems? Email askuncommonsense at gmail dot com for your prescription.

EDIT: The phrase “Yinzer Diaspora”, as far as my inspiration emanates, comes from this friend’s blog: virulent.nu

While Beaver County is the place 24-year-old Val McNeil calls home on technicality, Pittsburgh is home for her. After completing her Criminal Forensics Degree at Mercyhurst College, she eventually moved the the city itself, where she stayed for a little over a year before moving the Portland, Oregon- a popular destination for wayward 20-something members of the 412. After four months, she found herself back in the Steel City, extolling the virtues of living in Bloomfield once again.

Why did you leave? Is Pittsburgh really Shitsburgh?

Pittsburgh isn’t bad, I just wanted to leave, because I’ve been here my whole life. I essentially hadn’t left the same 50-mile radius with the exception of going to college in Erie. I was just ready for something new away from everything and everyone I ever knew. Plus, it’s good to know I can do that sort of thing.

Why Portland?

I chose a few really unimportant things- vegetarian friendly, good public transportation. Cities like Boston were too expensive. I had $2000 saved up. I knew I didn’t want to go anywhere near Florida or California. [Portland] sounded fun. I also didn’t want anyone to hop in a car and come bother me.

How long did you plan on staying?

Not forever. Until I got sick of it.

Now that you’re back, why did you get sick of it?

I didn’t get sick of it, I had shit to do back here.

What shit?

Shit like my little sister getting married. It’s tough enough communicating with my family when I live here, let alone the other side of the country. It ended up not really making a difference anyway.

So you regret coming back?

I used to think that coming back was the first thing I regret, ever, but I live in Bloomfield now, so life is getting better. I don’t even have the funds to get back there if I wanted to, so it’s not worth worrying about it.

What did you do for fun in Portland?

I worked a lot. The one thing I did do was go to the hotel next door to my work with my co-worker. They had a swanky bar there, we’d get sushi, go back to my place, bake, get wasted. That’s one thing that doesn’t change. The people do.

What was your living situation like?

It was a strange experience living with strangers. One roommate was sad all the time, blahblahblah. I went through craigslist. I paid $500/month, utilities included. It was a three-bedroom house.

What do you miss most?

I was sad that I left prematurely. I didn’t get to know my friends completely. I wouldn’t move back, because I’ve been there. I went and visited Seattle while I was there. If I was going to live somewhere on the West Coast, it’d probably be there and not Portland. The rest of the West Coast consists of California, and I have no desire to live in California.

What’s your beef with Cali?

The whole idea, whether it’s Hollywood or LA, I just don’t want to be associated with it. [For the record, she does not give a shit about San Diego, Sacramento, San Jose, or San Francisco, either.]

What was one thing you missed about Pittsburgh?

I missed the actual city. Whenever I think of a city, you know the city is coming. When you think of a city, you can see the buildings. Portland has a small downtown and one building. It just felt like a big area for hipsters and hippies. There were city people, but no city feel.

My strung out cigarette break and ensuing tweet all revolve around childhood memories of  this:

Your source for dancing leprechauns.

Yes, Darby O’Gill. The reason why I am still up at this ungodly hour is because if I fall asleep, the Banshee will get me. Or the horse-coach of death. Or some other misappropriated Irish folk-myth will. Or maybe a singing Sean Connery will snuff me out, that’s how I’d like to go.

Still not clear on what I’m talking about? Because I’m not either. But here’s the Banshee, just promise me you’ll watch it at five in the morning while the wind is telling you very scary stories at thirty miles an hour and it just ate your neighbor’s drainpipe.

In my junior history class, we were given the option of doing a film for the final project. Being that we were a bunch of screwups and had no intention of doing some bogus presentation, we opted to have fun. My buddy posted it up a week ago, and I feel it incumbent upon my bad self to share it.

Here’s your invitation to the best war movie barely made: Les Jeunes Perdu.

What you are about to see may shock you, or worse yet, bore you. I get a kick out of it, almost ten years later. Maybe you will too. The last half is the outtake reel, and yes, we made the class watch that.

Grade: A+ (Seriously. We got an A+)

It’s been awhile since I had a full-on adventure of an evening, which isn’t surprising given the absolutely hellacious icy nonsense Pittsburghers have been dealing with until the lovely thaw we’re currently enjoying.

A couple of weeks ago, however, I braved the cold with one of my partners in crime, V. I’m still not quite sure if it’s something I should regret or not; I definitely remember how hard it was to lie to V while we walked around- “Dude, it’s not that cold! I can totally still feel my toes” but that’s not the reason for regret.

The plan was to meet in Squill (Squirrel Hill, guh) after I made it to quittin’ time, hop a 64A to Shadyside, home of well-dressed pricks in bars. We were meeting two friends of mine for a singular drink. From there we were supposed to hit up my local watering hole, Sonny’s Tavern, because I can only stomach Shadyside for about one or two rounds at best. Then I remember it’s home to well-dressed pricks in bars.

The plan started to go bad when V and I both missed our stop. That was walking in the cold round one, and it was about a half-mile. We get to Doc’s, the doormen are exchanging brah stories:

“So then I punch him in the head an he’s bleeding and shit and he runs off and T grabs me and holds me back, cause I was about to kill the kid.”

“Aw, serious brah? I wish I coulda been there to see that shit.”

Their pulsing neck-veins had succeeded in tweaking me out, and V’s famous stink-eye twitch was bolted onto her face for the duration of our stay.

We didn’t linger too long; the push of a crowd toting Mommy and Daddy’s credit cards was more than enough for us, so we opted to leave my buddies there and meet up later.

While I was closing out my tab, a funny thing happened:

This young-looking square next to me had been acting up since I arrived, trying to make jokes with the bartender but coming off as a total toolbox; he was the type of dude that every group of friends have,  so they can slag him off when he’s not around. At one point, he yells across the bar at some chick who’s dressed to play, calls her white trash. Well, whatever. I guess money doesn’t buy you manners.

While my back was turned and V’s stink-eye was burning a hole in his head, he sprinkled pepper flakes into his hand, ran around the bar, pushed through the crowd and chucked the contents of his hand into this chick’s hair.

I completely missed it, which is a good thing- V and I have a running joke that I will one day be involved in a bar fight on account of her and she was dying for the guy to come back.

He didn’t, we left, and proceeded to walk through the icy wastes to Bloomfield.

We close the bar up tight, but as we’re leaving, my errant buddies show up, one, as the other put it, “ten sheets to the wind”. He had a lot of important things to say to everyone, especially V. So important, he had to use his tongue. We made it back to V’s and there was a lot of this:

‘”Hey, listen, I have something to tell you. Listen. Listen. Come here. Listen.”

Whereupon a tongue would emerge and V would tell him to fuck off.

I had already made the mistake of bringing him along, so after a certain point, the novelty of a normally civilized dude acting like a total creeper had passed and I stepped in to escort him out.

We got as far as the entryway, where the conversation turned to this:

“Listen. Listen. You know me? You know me? You don’t know me. Let’s go outside. Listen to me. Shut the fuck up and listen! You don’t know me. I love you man. You know me. Don’t test me. Listen. Listen. Okay, let’s go.”

That went on for about twenty minutes. As amused as I was by my friend trying to trick my barefooted self into going outside first so he could lock me outside, it got old. Finally, my other buddy opened the inner door, grabbed my phone and got a ride for them.

The lesson here, if you haven’t picked one up yet, is that while drunken behavior is relatively amusing, it gets old at a rapid rate, and while engaging in it, you run the risk of getting stomped on, thrown out into the cold or having to give your buddy a shamefaced smile when you unexpectedly see them the next day at the movie theater.

It’s cool man, everyone gets their nights. Just don’t ever tell me anything with your tongue, I’ll be perfectly satisfied with not knowing that facet of you.

Dear Uncommon Sense:

I was out at the bar the other night and ended up talking till last call with this girl I met. We hit it off, or so I thought, but she never returned my calls. Any thoughts on why I got the blow-off?

Yours,
Clueless and Sad

Well, CAS, you don’t give us a whole lot to work with, but we will assume you’re a classy guy, so the following does not hold true:

• You were sloppy drunk and in actuality, annoying the hell out of her.
  
• You’re painfully boring and did more talking than listening.
• You forgot her name at least once.
• You’re painfully ugly. Yes, that is how a majority of people operate.
• She may have a man, or she may just be into girls. Ask subtle questions and don’t be dense.

Barring all of that, any number of things went South. Sometimes it just doesn’t work or even get off the ground, but take heart- at least you got that far. Shake it off and jump back in there.

While things are never a sure-fire bet, there are plenty of smart things you’d do well to keep in mind to raise your chances. Here’s six good rules to start with:

• DO: Try and remember every little factoid thrown at you. It’s impressive when you can relate what she said three hours ago to what she’s saying now.

• DON’T: Do all the talking. You are not that interesting. If she wants details, she’ll ask. Break silences, but let her talk. Think of it as background research. Maybe she’s fucking nuts and you’ll want nothing to do with her after she tells you how she keyed her ex’s car twenty minutes ago.

• DO: Compliment something, anything. Let her know you dig the way her brain ticks or laud her genius for a jukebox choice. Steer clear of blunt, frat-boy compliments like, “You’re hot.” Be creative.

• DON’T: Proposition her. While fucking on the first date is totally kosher, you haven’t gotten to that point yet. Try getting a number first. Being explicit about a one-night stand is trashy. By the same token, if she asks to see your place, give that some thought.

• DO: Tell jokes, even at your own expense. Show off your gray matter and humility all in one go. Letting her know you are far from perfect helps her let her guard down, helping you figure out how much substance is behind her clubbing get-up.

• DON’T: Be a dick. This can include, but is not limited to: not tipping or tipping badly, cutting down other people, whining about the setting, service (or anything for that matter), not offering to buy her a drink, not having your lighter ready for her cig and most importantly, leaving her out in the cold by not asking for her digits at the end of the evening. Not being interested is fine, but don’t waste people’s time. If you’ve talked the night away, you might have a friend instead of a date, which is sometimes better.

Remember, maintain grace and humility at all times and work your charm. The rest is up in the air. Getting that connection to happen is like rolling the hard six.

How about your problems? Email askuncommonsense at gmail dot com for your prescription.

We’ve reached the part of winter where time creeps along like the mercury on a thermometer. It’s only been about two weeks since I had the privilege to witness history in our nation’s capitol, but it seems like it was months ago. I was in Cleveland a little over a month ago, but that seems so distant that all I can immediately recall is that the inflatable mattress died halfway through my visit with family and holiday cheer. Let’s just call this perception of snail’s pace timeflow the theory of winter’s relativity (TOWR); 24 hours is roughly equivalent to one week, especially if you’re soaking in ennui and waching your fish tank in the hopes that your albino frog will don a top hat and chase your existential blues away with a song and dance.

There is an upside to this interminable progression of time. To quote the famed philosopher Calvin, “The days are just packed!” That is to say, the whole TOWR brings into focus exactly how much does happen in a week. America has cut off the global gag and we will once again support and found sensible and pragmatic birth control and parenthood policies internationally. America no longer speaks from both sides of the mouth on the subject of torture: We don’t do it, period. We are ending the shame of the prison installation at Guantanamo Bay. The stimulus is on the way, and House Republicans have signed their own death warrants. As for myself, I’m still waiting on my promised health care. As much as I detested her campaign and the prospect of a Hilary Clinton presidency, she was definitely right about one thing- There’s no angelic choir, the skies have not opened. It’s winter in Pittsburgh. Our skies don’t do that, except for yesterday, but that was a sign that the Steelers were going to win Super Bowl 43. I wasn’t worried, like, at all.

But that in itself is not the problem. I know Obama isn’t a savior, he’s just the President, and he’s only been in office for two weeks. The rub is that there’s nothing worse than having your reasonably low expectations met. I mean, who wouldn’t want sunlight to issue forth and send the Wall Street scumbags back into the deepest, darkest shadows of Hell where they belong? Who wouldn’t want tragedies like this one to stop?

I’m not always the most patient of people, as I have noted before. But I think I’m in the same boat as most every other American. There seems to be so much pressure, it needs to be released in a brilliant blast of change, not the slow trickle that marks the realities of society.

I still have small bits of memorabilia from Inauguration Day; a metro ticket with Obama’s face, a Biden pin and a few other things. I’m putting them away tonight so I can decide when to have myself a bittersweet moment and not just whenever I scan my room. For that one day, everything was alright. Then the reality set in, the hangover.

Nothing is alright, and even if it were, we should never be satisfied with ‘alright’. That’s what life comes down to. You work to find that point that marks ‘OK’. And you keep working to maintain it, to improve it. We can all have that feeling shared by millions of cold Americans on the National Mall on January 20th. We just have to work our asses off and exhibit a little patience.

It’s been ages since I made it to the theater, but this last Saturday I managed to find a partner in crime. She had gotten us as far as “Movie”, so it was up to me to roll the dice and risk wasting 10 bucks.

This time I chose wisely; “Taken” might not have been worth ten bucks, but it was certainly worth my time. The money, you can always get that back. But your brain will never forgive you for introducing the latest Hollywood shitheap into your domepiece. I don’t regret seeing “Taken” for a second, though I’d love to see the international rated R version.

“Taken” started out with a really tired exposition.

Caution: I am about to spoil the first half-hour of the movie. Because it’s not that good.

Yes, you’ve seen this before. A film about a government agent, with a past (duh-duhn)! Man (Liam Neeson) sacrifices family for career, man sacrifices career to do good by his family. His ex-wife is sort of a bitch, imagine. It even had a very contrived guys’ night to grill with the old espionage buddies, you know, kicking back, talking about that one time in Beirut. They even try and convince their retired buddy to get back in the game, imagine. He does a freelance security gig with them the next day, protecting some diva, totally saves her life and beats someone’s ass.

Then the real movie starts. Against dad’s better judgement, his daughter goes on a trip to follow U2 (O ye Gods, how I loathe Bono!) around Europe. She and her friend are then kidnapped by a Serbian sex-slave ring.

Very well choreographed beatdowns ensure. Liam Neeson kills everyone. Everyone. His solo investigation goes through a number of dead-ends while he tries to find his daughter, and he calmly extracts information out of the last survivor of each particular massacre. There’s a great monologue in there about the benefits of good old fashioned American torture.

The main drawback is your own common sense. You know that Hollywood would never risk being so bold as to give audiences an unhappy ending, so you know that everything is going to be alright in the end, it’s just a matter of how many bodies a righteous-psychopath Neeson stacks up.

The move really was a showcase of how frightening Liam Neeson can be; they should re-shoot “The Phantom Menace” and let Neeson torture Darth Maul, or calmly slice off Watto’s wings and do away with the giant waste of time the podrace scene was.

I don’t have much to say about “Taken”, because there’s not much to it. It’s conservatively shot, the chase scenes are teriffic, there’s about 8,764 great fight scenes and I would like to see how it stacks up to “Braveheart” for sheer human damage. The other big plus is that it’s not a three-hour slog- it runs crisply and the exposition nothwithstanding, every scene keeps your eyelids peeled back.

While predictable action movies are rarely my thing, the good ones are a great guilty pleasure. Sure, I’ve seen it. Sure, I know he saves his daughter in the end (and if you call that a spoiler, you’re too dumb for this blog. GTFO), but I gotta see it at least once again for the body-count. It’s perfect fodder for a dudes’ night drinking game. Besides,  you’ll need someone around to high-five whenever Neeson kills yet another sleazy gangster, brah.

Grade: B