lyrics this week. Still Worx and

This song was written after having a weird dream about my first "real" boyfriend, Tom, who I met at a summer camp in New Hampshire. I'm sure he grew up to be a golden boy, with all the right things that a golden  boy should have, but for a few months when I was 17, he was everything to me.

Still Worx
(c) 2013 Cathe B. Jones, (ratmando band)

head still above my shoulders, shoulders drowned in inner depth
heart placed near the couch on sundays, or on the sundae in the bed
the taste of warmed grass mowed summer smoothly drinking in the night
the taste of sweat and curled lips pursing, piercing time, timed right.
mountain ranges shaped so strangely curled this away and that.
two hands held one finger pressed so tightly through the fat

Memory of youth when pressed leg higher than the walls reach
being still with cycles rooting through the click tracks of the beach
molted sun, earth will be done, bedsheets now are flattened skies.
heart beats as alarming, stars beguiling, and under it all, lies.
everything still works, still needs still hurts, still feeds a lowing ache.
touch just there, just below near and watch the hunger fade.

You couldn’t fit this find in another’s mind.
You couldn’t walk this path on any back.
You couldn’t taste this life, with the dullest knife.
And it seems to be the same again. It seems to be the same.

Still works through the history and the mysterious past refined.
still works though the mystery’s gone, and then only in the mind.
tickticktick and licklicklick and kickkickkick it out of the sky
beatbeatbeat and eateateat and flower fountains up just to try.
It still works brother, won’t you taste what I’ve made?
It still works brother, won’t you face it when laid?
That rumbling calling and breath that’s cowled in blue.
Racing blood, when it done, a little bit of life has died.
racing blood when the fun has ended it’s all inside.

head still above my shoulders, shoulders drowned in inner depth
heart placed near the couch on sundays, or on the sundae in the bed
the taste of warmed grass mowed summer smoothly drinking in the night
the taste of sweat and curled lips pursing, piercing time, timed right.
mountain ranges shaped so strangely curled this away and that.
two hands held one finger pressed so tightly through the fat

You couldn’t fit this find in another’s mind.
You couldn’t walk this path on any back.
You couldn’t taste this life, with the dullest knife.
And it seems to be the same again. It seems to be the same.

Still works through the history and the mysterious past refined.
still works though the mystery’s gone, and then only in the mind.
tickticktick and licklicklick and kickkickkick it out of the sky
beatbeatbeat and eateateat and flower fountains up just to try.
It still works brother, won’t you taste what I’ve made?
It still works brother, won’t you face it when laid?
That rumbling calling and breath that’s cowled in blue.
Racing blood, when it done, a little bit of life has died.
racing blood when the fun has ended it’s all inside.


Second lyric today- I spend a lot of time with my music and art in my house, and I live nearby Red Rock Canyon. The opportunities to create in this environment are great, but it seems like no matter how much freedome I have, or how much I am given, there's always rules to follow. In the desert, you aren't supposed to play music in the public parks as it's too loud, however, you can, apparently, scream at your family, call people names, get wasted and leave trash everywhere. Or you can't and some people  have more self-freedom than others. So that's Freedom, a tale of conditions.

Freedom is a misnomer, it seems to be only structured at best,
Cages are bigger, and the air is bigger, but we’re just caged, like the rest
The activities are far more covert, and the undercover is deeper than that.
The smiles are so much bigger when the cage keepers hold the keys back.
The names are crossed out but the punishments the same again,
You can’t do what you want, or think how you think again.
The only real freedom is the moment you take your first or last breath.
The only real freedom is the moment you take that first our your last breath.

There are glimpses of self possession riding on the waves, or high above
Flying out the clouds on hanging on the kites, or in the trails, or in the sighs of laughter
But fleeting moments, fleeting moments
There are moments when you can see it, but you can’t feel it, can you? Not really.
You can try to touch liberty, you can try to see what freedom means, not knowing, really.
No one knows for real, not really. But I know jail keepers when I see them,
they’ll try to be well mannered, and they’ll try to be well statured
They’ll try to waltz with you into their prison walls.

Freedom’s not part of this world, it seems to be structured at best
Those who wish to speak their minds must pay the prices to the rest.
Presumed protectors of our rights are stabbers with pens in the night and
The blood runs deeper when they cage keepers try to push away the plans and
The names crossed out from freedom front sighing history at best.
No one can say how they feel, or how they think again, again.
None of the freedoms that we’re supposed to have exist for you and me.
None of the freedoms we’re supposed to live ever exist for you or for me.

You could imagine there’s some place where anyone can breathe and scream
You can imagine there’s some places where we can breathe or scream
You can’t imagine there’s a place where you can bleed and scream in freedom,
In freedom the only place free is in birth, death or in dreams.

Then there are moments when you can see it, but you can’t feel it.. not really.
Can’t touch it, maybe moments, in micro minutes, and moments, not really.
You can try to touch the liberty you can try to see what freedom means,not knowing, not really.
No one knows for real, not really. But I know jail keepers when I see them,
they’ll try to be well mannered, and they’ll try to be well statured
They’ll try to waltz with you into their prison walls.

Fly with me and ride the waves and fly with me and ride a wave and fly and ride. and fly...
(c) cathe b jones (words and music, just like all songs)

Dear Gina...

I was reminded by a child who enjoys scanning bloggers for ideas to bring to school for show and tell. She told me that I hadn't updated any music, and the music on my other sites is always on the shelf. And I asked if she would mind me to write about her letter, and tell those who had also wondered if I still wrote songs, I'm still here and writing. I'm still writing, not performing though, I haven't kept my face like I did when I was twenty. Nor do I fit in leather jeans. Responding, she made me laugh, because she said, "You don't look that old, like my mother or my father" who are both decades below me.

Today I shot a video that makes me look like I did when I sang in a punk band somewhere in a darkened club. I guess it's not called singing, because its more like it's emoting, and it's somehow bleeding volumes of the pain, that then I felt. Below are those same lyrics from the song that I was singing, and soon on my music website, you can find the film and sounds. But for now, my new friend Gina, who lives somewhere in New Jersey, now has a friend from decades before she was ever born. Her mother and her father, thanked me for the words I sent her, and said she was very happy meeting me, somehow, as well. I leave these couplets here, to thank again, her parents, and to remind that music is never something that should limit thought. It should be a free expression, whether punk or folk or gospel, this atheist, you know well, is never talking gods. Gina, I'm back here writing, and I promise to update the pages, you have bookmarked, and someday, I may meet you as well.

But for now, we'll share the music, and thanks for the picture of me, that you drew for me this morning, it makes me look like an elf. So this elf will grant your wish, and a new song I have written, about you, just a first grader, you may some day see yourself. In my words, and in your own, I will read when I'm near gone, to remind me that music is as timeless as the stars. Some words are considered bawdy, and some may take opposition, that I write them here so freely, without warning from some tag. I don't believe that feelings deserve any suffocation, by government or churcher's, nor even from myself. Thanks again, miss Gina, and your parents, Ted and Toni. I hope that you get an A when you go to Show and Tell.
(er, and tell your teacher, the FONT MiX up IS intentional and see what s/he can read into that.)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

HEard InSide Your HEad.

(c) 2012 Cathe B. Jones (the RatmanDo Band)

he said, “how many women make a living playing music?”
I said, “I’m pretty sure it’s not as many as the men, but,
“I am not willing to make money from my heart’s blood.
“I’d rather be the one who’s heard inside your head.”

he grunted, ”Why do you think you’d be the one who’d change the visions
“that have been in there from birth until I’m dead?”
I smiled slowly because I knew that it had happened
And there’s no turning back from tattooing that blend.

Billions of people have been and yet to come here
Billions of songs are written, words invented, and
We only hear about the ones who’ve made some money
In my life I’d like to hear all the rest instead.
In my life I’d like to hear what’s heard inside your head.
I’d like to make some music that’s heard inside your head.

He said, “you’re too old, and too fat to be given any notice’
I said, “I figured that my figure isn’t what I’d sing, no.
“I figure you can see me with your heart instead. But,
“If you’re thinking music is just about my look then,
“It’s time to educate you if I can, but then again.
“You’re probably too shallow to think about the meaning.
“You’re probably too unfeeling to respond to sound.”
He gave me a tip of his hat, as if it was to tell me.
I’d figured out what he was and there wasn’t any ground.

they asked how do expect to be heard by someone
someone, he expects, wouldn’t take the time but
“I just want to express, it’s not for the masses,
“but if they want to I’m just glad to get what I get.”

He nodded as he walked, and he smirked.
“You don’t get that you aren’t worth the time.
No one wants to listen and no one will try, to.”
I just want them to sing along. Sing that along to me.

Billions of people have been and yet to come here
Billions of songs are written, words invented, and
We only hear about the ones who’ve made some money
In my life I’d like to hear all the rest instead.
In my life I’d like to hear what’s heard inside your head.
I’d like to make some music that’s heard inside your head.

(dedicated to 8 year old Gina Gavachucci, or some name close to that.. she rox)

(Mumble:)Taylor Swift and all of the pretty girls
Can’t hold a note, and it’s not an exception neither
Can Mick Jagger, and many more others.
so fuck it, I’m trying. I’m trying.

On Being A Rock Star

I got asked, "do you want to be on stage again?" and the question was about becoming a "rock star". I had just watched Anthony "The Swan" Kiedis with Michael- aka Flea, at just about 50 years of age, topless in a concert taped in Ireland. Chad still sat back there hat on head, and the guitarist of the day, (ala Spinal Tap, but in a good way), had a great sound both on strings and vox. The New "Twan the Swan" seemed to be contented, not so crappy and drugged out, and wow, actually coherent. He always is coherent, but even more so- his eyes said, "Clarified".

One of my songs, "Debbie Harry", which should be live on the Ratmando Site eventually, is about all the women who inspired me from the super goddess of voice Gladys Knight, to Souixie Soux, to Chrissie Hynde, to of course, Ms. Bad Ass her own self, Debbie Harry. I used to hear 'You sound like Rita Coolidge"or, "Hey, did you record that like Karen Carpenter?" which made me nuts. I wanted to be Wendy O'Williams. It would anger me that I wasn't able to make Freddie Mercury's voice come out of my mouth when I was 10. And, if I couldn't play drums like John Bonham, how would ANYONE listen to me do rock music?

I never did become the next Wendy O. I did get a tattoo and piercings, but I never learned to play drumkits, just talking drums, and percussion toys. My voice still sounds like I'm part Rita Coolidge, part Karen Carpenter. The bands I was in tended to be part punk-pop, part pre-grunge. My body was small, my hair was big, and my eyes were bigger- and that usually added to the fact people would think I was a member of L7. Comedy ended up taking over my night life, when my body stopped being that of a 20 something. But there I have to thank Shirley Manson, Chrissie Hynde, Tina Turner, Madogga, er.. you know her real name, I can't really stomach her much... but I appreciate her role in women in music history. Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart- they are the pair that REALLY tell it. Hot rock chicks over 40 are great- but Hot ROCK chicks over 50? THAT is my next goal.

I last saw Ann and Nancy at a Pearl Jam concert in Vegas, where I live. Vedder, by the way, is touring starting this April, here in town. And the tickets are stupid expensive. Oh, wait, a hot guy with a ukelele, that makes more sense for pricing. That and his show is now sold out. Meanwhile I missed Chris Cornell, as apparently 2/3rds of the Pearl did, because the place was hollow according to friends. THAT is a singer I want to be like, on stage anyhow. Yet, not off stage. His life was hell for years. I'm drug stupid. I even wrote about how stupid I am regarding them. I can't possibly get into them- I'm on too many real meds for real issues. I hate being out of the loop on things, too. This is another story for another time, and involves Ambien, and Indian Medicine. Nevermind. Ann and Nancy-  Voices blended smoothly, Robert Plantesque, as usual. Guitar wasn't a chick version- Juliana Hatfield, what were you thinking with that line anyway? If you get the June 2003 bootleg, (bootleg??boondogle- they make cash, it's not a boot.), if you get that one, though, they Rock in the Free World at the end of the show, and it's slamming.

I never appreciated Heart. I mean, Dog and Butterfly- couldn't get that out of my head for years. Dreamboat Annie was in my collection because a "born again" friend gave me all her secular music once she discovered that Satan was in charge of it all. I tried to convince her it was SANTA but it didn't matter. I never bought a Heart album. It was only for the reason- I wasn't sure how pretty voices worked in hard rock, punk, or the folky rock I was into- and white chicks wailing when I was into Motown? Couldn't fathom it. But they did worm their magic into me somehow. By the time Singles came out, I had met the women a few times, and even met Cameron Crowe at SXSW.

Ann spoke at a conference once- could have been something other than a conference- I didn't do drugs, but Ambien really messed me up- and I heard her really wake up a lot of people on their opinions of women and body image in the media. She also had a stutter as a kid, and I battle aphasia, so it was very cool to hear her words. People look at image, before they meet the humanity. I got to see her humanity and suddenly I paid attention to Heart. I learned about how the women started the band, how they wrote, and how they battled the public when Ann started to gain weight. As a child I wasn't fat, but I THOUGHT I was, and because I was never told otherwise, I thought I looked manly, ugly, and by all means, the least attractive girl in school. Public image reflects our faults in a magification worthy of the Hubble. Here was the most beautiful woman in rock, and she was having that same issue. In-sane!

If image is what matters when you do touring, then what's the point of being a woman on stage? Well, that's bullshit, is all. Pink will be doing her thing when she's in her 70's just like the Rolling Stones are doing now. (yeah, I know they're pensioners) Sharon Jones- MAN I want to be her sometimes. That is a joyful playful stage songstress. There are way too many GREAT women on stage. and of course- Debbie Harry is one of the best. Her "BITE ME"attitude is just so her. Patti Smith. And the younger gals who rip it up like Ting-Tings, and Spinnerette. Love it. LOVE it. They'll be moms, they'll be broads, they'll be kick-ass, they'll be musicians, they'll be the people I see live.  See that's the difference.

Back to the point. I am in my 40's. I am not perfect, perky, and to my own opinion, as pretty as Gwen Stefani- or other gals who make over 40 something glamorous when they work. I have physical disabilities. I write songs. I write a LOTof songs. Melodies and Lyrics are my strength and according to my perfect jazz master husband, I am a hooker. Ahem. I can write Hooks really well. But, I think the days of having me in a band that plays live are gone for those reasons, and because I see how the road affects people. I see how playing by paying clubs affects music. I see how egos become a plague when you're around other people on stage. It's just not my idea of a great time. I will happily be studio bound. And that's where I head RIGHT now! I stay home with my furry family, my loving wonderful husband, and in my HOME, something I truly wanted from the time I was a very small girl. A home is so much to me- the road isn't worth losing that.

Hermit By Nature, Music By Gimp

One of my biggest issues in working with others is that I'm a hermit by nature, and really don't work with others. Maybe it's a character flaw, but really, I think it's just that I get the big picture of my own creativity- it is my responsibility good or bad. Of the bands I've worked with, one was with a bass player who wanted to be the next Gedde Lee, and he tried to re-arrange all my music to reflect that. Sadly, he didn't undertand progressive rock, and everything he played tended to be rather highy pitched, and not really smart. He was a fair player, but an unfair band mate.

A second band, earlier in my music-mission, was not even a band. It was a really cool ginger fellow who went to school with me. He wrote amazing music, and I was granted the permission to sing one of his tracks. Sadly, it was just a one time thing, and I had hoped that he would put out more so I could sing more of his poetry. That was great fun, and I still remember every note.

The two other bands I ran myself. One was in Santa Fe, and had three drummers, none who played a standard kit- all who were from countries whose names are distant memories to anyone from Africa. The rhythm is everything next to the lyrics in my book, and the guitarist I had wasn't up for it. The poor guy- to this day I'll remember him trying to figure out what chords he could possibly do for a solo that would match a talking drum, a dumbek and whatever the other guy played that week. The other was in Boston, back when I was still in high school, but as most people could surmise, a high school band doesn't go for without some support from some adults, and none of us could count our parents in on any help of any kind, creatively. When I graduated a year early, the rest of the gang went on without me, and so it goes, they went into other bands in college, some doing okay.

That's not to say I hadn't TRIED to work with others. The second to last husband met me when I was studying jazz vocals, and he was playing trumpet. We could have worked together a lot- but as much as I had him in MY gigs, he never seemed to want me in his. He joined a huge band, and there wasn't room for me in it. My last husband, the one I have now, and the one I will NOT trade in, is a pianist of world class renown. He is working with me on a recording project, but it's been YEARS in the making.

When I work with others, I'm learning, I have to take into account their visions may not be what I have, and vice versa. My goals are to record as many songs as I've written, hopefully sell them to the token Piece of Arse du jour who is singing on some stage to lots of people, and make money that way. Others suggest I become part of the fogies tours and get on stage myself. Not going to happen- too gimpy, and again, hermit.

The other issue seems to be my political and nonreligious leanings. I am squarely middle of the road if the road is on the left, and certainly as godless as any heathen should, would, could, and can be. (godlessgrief.com) I find religion and anything that's 'god'-ish just barbaric and archaic. If man had meant us to have gods he would have made them more manageable. Or something. When it turns into control, it's not a doctrine of theology, it's a dogma of beaurocracy.  Blunderful at best. Generally I start talking to people about working on some music together, and next thing I know I'm being asked to talk about a relationship with a story book character. Don't play that well. At all. It's not my nature.

Music involves learning and listening. The band of the hour for me is Them Crooked Vultures, because of the perfect song writing, great rhythm section, and I only have ONE album, as that's all they've done so far, but can't wait for the rest. Because I can't, I'm listening and getting inspired to become THAT good. The pile of MP3's is growing. Hugely. I'm also working to reach out to people I listened to 20-30 years ago who have changed me. (I can't believe I'm SAYING 30 years ago...) It's been fun reaching out finding Willie "Loco" Alexander, Robin Lane, and looking up Human Sexual Response. And, it's sad to hear of the passing of friends and music monsters from Boston, Norfolk, and half the world I was in touch with years back.

Keeping on the keeping on here, and it seems like I'll have some sort of music recorded this year after all. It may be just demo material, but it will be mine and I'm okay with that.

The CIrcle of Influences

I spent the last couple of nights looking for bands that were around in the late 70's early 80's (er 1900, not 1800), in Boston, Virginia, Florida and Chicago-- I lived there then- pick a town- and spent a lot of time getting amped about new music, and older stuff. In Los Angeles, I was known as "the drumstick girl" because inevetiably you could find me wasting a LOT of time driving in my hand painted Chevy Cavalier drumming on a pad in the drivers dashboard. I used to think I'd play drums for ever, but since I never bought anything other than a Dumbek, a talking drum, and a bongo- not likely.

So the Circle of Influences- the chain of who has taken my ears through the years started with Gilbert O'Sullivan when I was just a wee pizza eating juke box user, at the Pleasant Cafe in Roslindale, a township just south of the city. The very first concert I ever went to of the Rock variety was The Bay City Rollers, I admit it. But, I wanted to see Queen, and finally did two years later. I was 13, but my friend Mary was 17, so my dad let me go with her. That was the start of a very long love affair with live music.

The worst part of being me is that I have a tendency towards stress related illnesses. Or, at least I did back in the late 70's and early 80's. I was forced into slavery by Colitis. (Yep, you look that up and see if I was very social as a kid.) Short version, I'd get places an hour or two early, if I went at all, and I ended up doing a LOT of things alone as not to embarass people I knew. But, I did get to hear the Del Fuegos, Girls Night Out, The Fools, and I was NOT at Boston Common when the tree branch fell during Anita Baker's show.. don't blame me.

Three of my favorite Boston bands were Scruffy the Cat, 3 Colors, and Mission of Burma. I was heavy into Human Sexual Response, Jon Butcher, and Robin Lane, too. I used to visit Landsdown Street for music, and TT Bears in Cambridge for music experiences. I'm now trying to contact the old bands to see if I can send them a Thank YOU cd of music based on their influences. Heart already said yes. Hope they dig it.

Why I Don't Drink and Blog....

Last night, my loving, kind, amazingly talented Jazz pianist husband came home to his very wiped out wife. But the real story is that I have insomnia. It isn't a mere occasional sort of rough night. Nope,there are full week long sessions of yours truly not nodding as one should. Last night was the opposite of that as I not only had a Temazepam, but I was dosed with 6mg of Melatonin.

I don't really drink because I am full of medication, and that would make great news but ruin life. I like the whole living thing. Some of my meds make me a bit loopy and others just help in pain management. Drinking doesn't do much for me other than make me cranky or bored.

Since I have so many meds, one thing that started about a year ago - I started having conversations in my sleep. I mean full on conversations and not just sort of words. The words are heard and understood by my husband, who then responded" waiting to see how I would possibly construct a new sentence with "shoes", "Lithiunia", and "oriole" thinking that I sound logical. A lot of the time I am completely asleep but in that phase where I could, if I want, hear TV with my eyes closed. Mike enjoys it.

The newest addition to the insomnia shuffle is that I now walk into different parts of the house, and perform the odd task or two. One time I decided that the milk need to be taken from the fridge and put by the trash cans. Another time I decided the toaster would work perfectly fine if only it were nearer to the television. These are all important decisions, and NEED to be done as I stumble in my sleep. If you see my husband ask him about Indian Medicine, as it will make him laugh, and embarrass me to no end. I am asleep, and doing something. This is all part of the need to be needed, doing important things, making life a series of wise choices rather than foolish moments. And yet, I put the bubble wrap in the bathtub for this is what bubbles do. 

The word combinations aside, what seems to be more important to lyrics to me is that comprehension be evident to people other than myself. It annoys me that some folks are so into the idea that they need to be in the upper echelon of cool, that they forget the people listening to them want to be a part of the emotions, get the meanings, feel the words, and own the music inside as well as on the MP3 players. For this reason, I spend a lot of time reworking songs and making sure they don't sound as uppity as my education would make it. I don't want to have someone hear what I'm saying and think " I don't get it". It would be much cooler to have someone say, "you got me". So that's how I work it. I'm sure I'll be awake the next time. What rhymes with Oriole?

I did it again- and no Whitney talk here...

First getting the big thing out of the way. The other day Whitney Houston died, and this isn't going to be about her. It can't be. I am not her, and I don't know her life experiences. I don't have any feeling of being influenced by her, and although it hurts that someone so young- or even when anyone goes ground- it wasn't my life to live, and I can't expect to know her mind, or her family. I feel sorry that her daughter will be in pain for a long time. I also feel this way for ANYONE who loses a closeness from their lives. Maybe that's you right now. No pity from me, just know I've been there too, and get it. It sucks. Get tears flowing, and life going- it's going to be bumpy, but you'll get through.

Now to the poorly worded Britney Spears line-- I didn't plan to, but I ended up taking care of someone else before myself again. I have a lovely side job that allows me the opportunity to work with some special people, who have done a lot in entertainment. I spent the last week helping one of these folks out, and then left my own projects sitting. That's not the point of living in the NOW. That's living in the idea that my life is about taking care of everyone else in the world but myself. I can't keep doing that. I need to finish what I'm working on for him, but then I have to let it go for awhile. He is a dear friend, and will understand, but I hope I will.

That's the problem I think many of us have. We're so wrapped up in the idea that we need some sort of approval, or some sort of acknowledgment for NOT letting someone down, we let ourselves down. This week I'm holding myself to a task. I'm going to approve of myself, and not let me down. Sounds hokey, huh? Maybe.

I signed up for Kickstarter, and I got a project approved from the New Yorkers who be the Kickstarter folks. It is about the music I do, the comics, the videos- it's all of who I am in my art work, and it's all of who I am in my music. The project is called Finding RatManDO- and it's going public in the next few days. I'll post a link, and feel free to share it. If I raise the money to fund it, I'll have a video, album, and comic book to share later this year.

This also helps me figure out what I'll be doing this year- Comic-Con SD or Long Beach, for a way to sell the project to others. I've been to San Diego for surfing, art, comedy- and Comic-Con, but not all at the same time. I can't surf anymore. I want to try, sometime, but so far, fear of harming the few working joints I have left is a bit too great. Comic-Con- wow what an adventure- but it's turned into TV/Movie con, and way too many people there. That, and have you tried to get a hotel room for under $200 within walking distance? Yeah, even Motel 6 is over priced that week. The drive there also damages me for a few weeks after, as well. We'll see.

Meanwhile, I'm finishing up the last bits of helping out my fellow artist. I have my MIDI device sitting nearby. I have my lyrics ready to go. I have some melody lines saved on my smartphone. I've been reading up on my music theory- I wish I had finished courses in San Francisco on this- I would have loved to have that second MA this week. It was fun watching Adele on 60 Minutes because she's just the musician I love this month. Tomorrow night as my husband is working, and performing in front of a thousand or so of his favorite Valentine dates- I'll be here practicing on the electric guitar.

Here's my promise to me this week. This week, I will post some more lyrics on my Ratmando.net site, and update it so I can post a link to it for anyone interested. I'm still in the process of updating my own site, which I hadn't done in a few years. BUT this time, it's for me.