Test Subject

It’s been quite some time since I’ve contributed writing to this page. There’s an easy explanation for that: for five weeks I was a test subject for a new psychoactive drug at a university that shall go unnamed. Both friends and relatives begged me to reconsider, but what can I say, I embarked on this adventure solely for the advantage of extra money to buy rare 78s. It paid $5,000. It’s not as if I’m hard up; I have a fine job, almost zero debt, and can easily afford all the necessities. But the promise of extra cash was too good to be true.

Doctor Z didn’t even mention the name of the drug until the third or fourth day I had been coming in for doses and observation. He called it Orchestrex. I started on a low dose of 50 milligrams per day. To be truthful, I felt slightly different the moment I had my first taste, but I didn’t let on. The Doctor just stood there waiting for a reaction, grinning peculiarly, after he first injected me. But I was determined not to let this little side gig interfere with my normal life, and strolled out of there as fast as I could to get to work.

Day 7: So far, so good. Several days ago, Doctor Z told me the story behind the drug. He was looking for types particularly attuned to music and harmonics, and said the drug would stimulate that sensitivity further, eventually allowing the subject’s brain to create symphonies out of everyday sound – all in one’s head. At least, he hoped. Or a drug company hoped. Doctor Z expressed a desire to create an alternate world of sound that would balance out noise pollution. An interior ambience, of sorts. I’m skeptical, but what can I do? Hey, I love music, what the hell – if it actually works it’ll be like someone else in my head humming for me. All I’ve felt so far is a slight numbing. A little disappointing, I’m afraid.

The Doctor upped the dosage considerably during the third week – 500 milligrams, twice a day. It was kind of miffed about this, as it meant I had to travel back to the office two times a day – an irksome commute and difficult to explain to my boss. However, the thoughts of rare, fascinating old records kept dancing in my head. Finally I might be able to afford a mint disc of music from Malta, or Madagascar! I’d settle for just one of each!

Day 21: Three weeks on this drug and the only result I can describe to Doctor Z is that my body feels a little numb. That’s it. He’s pretty crestfallen, but I’m the one pumping myself full of narcotics. I suppose it could be worse – there are a myriad of other side effects I could be burdened with: blurry vision, loose bowels… I have a feeling Z is going to make me come in for doses three times a day next week, which seems dangerous.

I was correct in my thoughts. Doctor Z, in a fit of what, to me, seemed like brazen malpractice, upped my dosage to 1000 milligrams of Orchestrex, thrice daily. I started on a Monday, and by the time I had left his office and gotten on the freeway to head back to work, I knew the drug’s supposed effects were beginning to show. I pulled up to the corner of Sepulveda and Wilshire and felt nauseous with all the noise – it seemed every car horn, idling engine and acceleration was tuned precisely to “Let ‘Em In” by Wings. I pulled over to a payphone and called the Doctor. “You didn’t say anything about fuckin’ Paul McCartney!” “Relax. It’s starting to work – think of the music you love! Just focus on something and your subconscious, coupled with the drug, should take over.”

I exhaled, imagining Paul McCartney floating away with my breath, then concentrated on something simple – a twenties dance band number by Ben Pollack and His Park Central Orchestra. It worked. Soon, I was floating back to work on the freeway with a dopey smirk, the entire world around me in one of my favorite cartoonish, jumpy 1920s songs: “Futuristic Rhythm.” Instead of the dank hum of highway white noise, it was a small pickup band in Victor Studios in New York, playing away. My brain was indeed replacing extraneous sound, sound that wasn’t directed at me, with music. Although I hadn’t thought I had memorized this Ben Pollack tune, the Doc said that it, along with almost anything I had listened to more than once, lay dormant in my brain until stimulated by the Orchestrex. My fellow drivers – the men in tuxedos, the women in classy nightclub attire, all driving to Roseland in 1929 in their Nissan SUVs.

Day 30: I’m riddled with needle marks, but ecstatic in most other ways. Each morning I get up, I turn on the water to wash my face and instead of the noise of water, I hear a string quartet. A little typical I have to admit, but not, on the whole, unwelcome. Maybe I can change it to something more unique as time goes by. But how the hell is this happening? I turn on the television, exude a modicum of concentration, and instead of the crass Trident commercial, one of my favorite Ethiopian jazz pieces plays – with no voice over! Work has been a bit of problem – I sit like a chimp in my cubicle sweating and laughing. It’s a good thing I didn’t have any meetings next week, but if the Doctor wants to crank up the dosage, I’ve gotta take a couple of personal days. There’s no way one can function in a musical euphoria – I’d never hear the end of it from Lucille or Hanrahan. I can’t even hear the alarm clock, for God’s sake.

And up the dosage, he did. The courts later called it a “profound lapse in judgement” but I always stood up for the man. He and I were definitely on the same wavelength by the end of this experiment, despite the bumps in the road. At the start of my fifth week on Orchestrex, Doctor Z simply had me hooked up to a portable IV-unit which I would administer seven periodic doses of 3000 milligrams, per day. That’s 21,000 milligrams of Orchestrex in a 24-hour period. Okay, so he had no idea what he was doing. He did remember to tell me to be sure and eat square meals. Beyond that though, he wasn’t prepared. I showed up at his office, dripping sweat, after about 4 hours with the IV, and I could barely stand on my feet. My skin was visible through my wet clothes – tracks raced up and down my arms and legs. He propped me up on a chair and spoke. I couldn’t understand a word. It was shrieking feedback. A plume of projectile vomit came out of my mouth – but along with the vomit came the shriek of “Movin’ Out” by Billy Joel.

Doctor Z instantly clamped my mouth shut and looked around skittishly. “Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute…Okay, slowly…open…your mouth one more time.” I had no idea what he was trying to say, and winced back at him. He grabbed my jaw and forced it open, blaring a few thunderous, vomit-reeking bars of “More Than a Feeling” by Boston. The Orchestrex overdose had finally been reached. Overjoyed, he admitted me to the hospital, wheeled me to an abandoned room in the basement, set up an 8-track tape recorder and simply ordered me to open my mouth. For the remaining six days of my drug trial, Doctor Z kept me on the Orchestrex IV, recording dozens of tapes. His hands jittered as he opened each package of Ampex tape and threaded the reels. I don’t know what the hell he was hoping to capture – my constitution was so weak at that stage, the only songs I could think of were the easiest, the most banal. Extended dance mixes. Disco vamps. The sound that tumbled out of my open mouth was corroded. If all I could muster was something like “I’m Your Boogie Man”, with it’s repetitive beat and phrasings, the noise that came out of me was like KC and the Sunshine Band Live In a Ukrainian Septic System. Ancient, belched, and crude roarings.

I woke up in a moving taxi with five grand in my pocket. I asked the driver who put me here, but all he could muster was “the people.” Jesus! I called work and said I was going to be a little late and, typically, they barely expressed concern. I went home, showered and ate a bowl of some kind of fiber-laden cereal and basically got my life back to normal within hours. Doctor Z called me that night saying that he couldn’t tell me where he was, but he thanked me, and said not to pay attention to the bad things that would inevitably be said about him in the newspapers. He said he hoped I would be able to track down some of the tougher 78s in order to spend the extra money. I told him I was already on it, and had some connections in Europe who have access to some seriously rare African sides. The connection got fuzzy, and we said goodbye. Orchestrex went on the market as a mild stimulant, in 50 milligram pills.

Sketch for Children's Show

Darren! WONDERFUL to see you. Come here quickly – I want you to meet this simply marvelous little man. Darren Phelps, this is the gentleman who’s been entertaining us with such eloquent aplomb this evening. His name is V.H. Chesterton Coggs, and he’s been regaling us with stories from his latest book: Polo at Crown Manor. Have you read it?

The host’s eye sockets engorged and flexed into grossly exaggerated proportions as a thick fog crowded its way into the ornately decorated sitting room. The words to this conversation, which had actually taken place some seventy-five years ago in Bristol, England, materialized in mid-air and left the room, sucked up through a time-space continuum and within moments, inexplicably crept out of the mouths of a middle-aged couple who were shopping for ball gags.

“Is it possible to ever have enough ball gags?” one asked the other, in a whisper.
“No, sweetheart. It never is. It never is.”

Overcome with emotion, the store clerk wept.

Bless the Beasts and the Children, Reprise

I was late for the Prom, and it was cold on Baffin Bay. Probably about twenty-five below zero, but the wind kicked it up a notch. She said she was going to pick me up in the Land Rover, but she was late, as usual. I didn’t want to go to this thing...I sat at the table, watching the light snow drift into shapeless bundles, and decided it was probably time to lumber into my bedroom and, in perfect adolescent hangdog manner, dress into the old tuxedo that Dad had loaned me.

Although the pants, shirt, and vest fit snugly, I was missing something. A cummerbund. I remember this irked me so viciously I began pacing, worrying that if I was actually going to attend this event, I at least wanted to be in the proper outfit. Dad was on tour with the band again and couldn’t be reached. I peeked out the window. No sign of headlights.

The phone rang. It was her – she was on her way and would be there in five minutes. I said okay – and looked around the house for anything that would act as a cummerbund double. And then it hit me. I grabbed a machete and a thick log from the workroom, threw on a coat and raced outside into the snow. At the edge of the bay was a walrus, curled next to a rock. I hammered its head as hard as I could over and over again, until I was sure it was at least unconscious. It let out a snotty moan, then I proceeded to hack off its rear third. Once I had removed the flesh chunk, I sliced it horizontally, revealing its lower digestive tract. As carefully as I could in the wind, I carved out the walrus’ rectum.

The animal hadn’t eaten recently so the rectum wasn’t too messy as I washed it in the workroom sink. There was a beep outside, and I knew that this situation, and perhaps most hardships I'd be confronted with in life would work out just fine. Beautifully, in fact. I stretched the clean walrus rectum around my waist, and was so confident I didn’t even bother to look in the mirror before I went back outside in the snow.

Dawn Breaks

Dennis looked around the kitchen aimlessly – an unnerving quiet had settled into the morning.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” said Marie.
“Why?”
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“Why “because”?”
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“Because it’s over.”
“Why?”
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“People are starting to talk, that’s why.”
“What people?”

Marie looked around the kitchen aimlessly – the psychedelics had started to kick in.

“Yolanda, Phyllis, Bitsy, Myrtle, Gladys, Hope, Yvette—“
“Okay! Fine, I get it.”
“Bess, Lucille, Taylor, Midge, Hope, Mildred, Eunice, A…..a………”

Marie stared off. The corners of the room suddenly had acquired what seemed like a radical change in depth.

Please.

Hello. My name is Kevin. Me llamo Kevin. I would like to star in your musical. I would like to be given the lead role in your musical production. Many years ago I was struck by a UPS truck and spent months in a sanitarium on the outskirts of Alberta. After the accident I found I had gained a newfound ability to sing gaily in front of New York’s elite. Doctors couldn’t explain it. I began a tour across the country, which drew sell-out crowds. Offers poured in. I found myself with untold riches at my disposal. Corporations, eager to have me as their spokesperson, paid for my homes and automobiles. Then, suddenly, just as I was peaking, I was struck by a DHL van outside of Athens. And just as this ability to sing so beautifully had appeared in such a freak manner, it instantly disappeared in precisely the same way. Which brings me to Guatemala and your little theatre. You see, I am desperate for work. I would like to star in your musical. I am extremely talented. My name is Kevin.

RSVP Soon!

National Slap-A-Stand-Up-Comedian Day is sponsored by KB Toys and Zildjian, makers of the finest cymbals. Tickets for this weekend’s event are nonrefundable. This year’s inaugural speaker: Carl Yastrzemski.

Dare Not Speak His Name

Jeff is angry. When Jeff angry, he do bad things to bad men. He staple tibia to lunchpail. He eviscerate gopher in front of gopher family. He demolish untold amount of Toyota Selica. He beat person with own leg, then vomit in thermos, then dip leg in thermos, then make person eat leg. He replace bone marrow with toothpaste. He grill intestine of storeowner. He make damaging mockumentary on shady arms deal. He thrust one pound of brine shrimp into rectum of enemy. He shellac his porch with blood of city councilmen. He keelhaul sailboat full of Montessori school children. He emblazon van with airbrushed tableau of Jeff eating hide of neighbor family. He smack old lady with shotput. He shave with cheese grater. He coerce you into paying to have Jeff remove ones lungs from chest cavity. He play aimlessly on balalaika until it drive you mad, I tell you, mad!

A New Manner of Speaking

I’m developing an effective new manner of speaking whereupon I only respond to other humans if they engage me in a manner that admits my obvious, yet vast, personal talent. There’s no time for other follies. Some call it passive-aggression, although that sounds negative. It’s self-preservation. Partners have called it “moodiness”, but they’ve just been couching its true meaning.

For instance, over the past few months a number of family members, co-workers and friends have, almost inexplicably, approached me casually and said “Hi”. But that shit is painfully dated. My mind is reeling with pertinent and timely ideas that must remain unencumbered by unannounced friendliness. No longer will I suffer through how’s-it-goings and how-was-your-weekends – from now on, I will greet these harmless niceties with a vacant stare. However, if such dialogue includes a reference to my daring, unconventional interests and projects – then, and only then, will I potentially utter a dismissive sentence.

Night Fever

Sigh. Another dream about Phylicia Rashad. Why does she haunt me? This is beyond my control.

I was walking south on Figueroa, when she approached me dressed as a bagel. I dodged her at first, but she whipped out a scythe, and stabbed me in the back with the sharp end. As it usually occurs in my dreams, I see an overhead shot of my body on the sidewalk, traffic whirring past in faded streaks, with the scythe sticking upright out of my back, no doubt deeply embedded in a kidney. Phylicia dances around me, gyrating and thrusting her body in my direction. The bagel costume melts to reveal that her naked body is shaped exactly like a bagel, and horribly distorted.

Within minutes, the streets appear as if they hadn’t been used in years; all car and pedestrian traffic vanishes. I stand up, and the scythe falls out of my back, landing on the asphalt with a deep clang. Across the street is an abandoned nightclub with a sign reading “REECE & FACE COMEDY”. I open the door slowly, the wind picking up down Figueroa making it leaden.

It’s pitch black inside, although in the distance I can hear what sounds suspiciously like the soundtrack to a cabaret scene from a movie – perhaps Gilda. I push aside what feels like a velvet curtain, and a voice says “Welcome back, Sonny. Your guests are waiting.” Dimmer lights turn on to reveal a massive nighttime flea market in a stadium, the seats filled to capacity. Sellers hawk vintage gear in endless rows. I’m led to a smiling salesman with crates and crates of records in mint condition.

“Buck a piece, friend. Have at ‘em!”

With each record I pull from the stack and add to my pile, the seller smiles, and the crowd roars on cue. Firemen spray them violently with foam, as if they were rioters. The seller evacuates his bowels in front of me, in a trance. That’s all I can remember.

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The Lazy Days of Deep Summer

A crowd had gathered.

Henry Winkler and Penny Marshall were beating each other senseless over the second half of a bologna sandwich. Winkler’s face was scratched considerably, and Marshall’s clothing was torn in at least three places. Both had bloodshot eyes, and a bloodstain was beginning to spread inside Winkler’s left pant leg. The sandwich lay in the dirt; dust from the canyon winds now swirling around it, coating it with fine, brown silt.

“It’s mine!”
“Fuck you!”

This went on for days. Nearby roads were paved, elections came and went, a mini-mall had been erected. Local authorities had expected the two to simmer down on their own, shake hands, and walk away from it all like the old friends they were. Sheriff Clemson, desperate to placate the townsfolk, consulted the authorities and once an agreement had been made, dumped both Winkler and Marshall into the shark tank at Sea World, during feeding time. The Sheriff looked skyward and mopped his tense, wet brow.

About the Author

Born and raised in Ware, Massachusetts, Harris Tanner has quietly become one of the most revered crime novelists of the 21st century. His first novel, A Wince Before Bedtime, was an electrifying international bestseller, introducing the world to Runce Pepsi, Tanner’s hero detective. Tanner’s success was firmly cemented with his following effort, Trash Mouth, and the now classic Pissterine, which won the Booker Prize of 2002. Never one to let up, Tanner has written more than twelve riveting Runce Pepsi novels since, including Mop-Up, I'll Give You a Concussion, Sump Hole, and Shit For Brains. In 2003, he was awarded the prestigious National Book Award for his powerful memoir of childhood, Up Yours. He divides his time between Paris and New York.

Hear what the critics are saying about Harris Tanner:
“...a sea of floating garbage...idiotic...” – New York Times
“Tanner successfully pukes into the face of American letters.” – Publisher’s Weekly
“Runce Pepsi is a miserable, stupid son-of-a-bitch.” – Kirkus Review

The Shriek of the Damned

What if Holly Near married Jamie Farr?

Yes, let's!

A well-dressed man given to excessive preening – let’s call him Wexley – lumbered across the avenue to meet his leggy, halter-top-wearing girlfriend – let’s call her Schuyler – for brunch, at a café – let’s call it Stoned Sundays.

A speeding, slate grey convertible – let’s call it a Lexus Sport Coupe – driven by a tan, middle-aged, entertainment lawyer – let’s call him Palmer – careened around a corner at precisely the same moment – let’s call it synchronous.

The noise – let’s call it a crunch – of Wexley’s spinal column being snapped – let’s call it splintered – cascaded through the morning air like a church bell. A smattering – let’s call it a shower – of ground intestines drenched the median, creating a shimmering – let’s call it a twinkling – viscous chunk pond.

The rising murmur from the crowd at Stoned Sundays gradually turned into excitable noise – let’s call it riotous laughter.

Previous Responsibilities

I’m a product manager for a securities firm.
I’m an executive assistant in the Patterns and Practices Group at a software company.
I’m a mid-level assistant office manager at a global marketing firm.
I’m the first assistant corporate counsel for a major biotech corporation.
I’m a middle manager at a large international manufacturing company.
I’m a second assistant at an intermediate technology development group.
I’m the secretary to the project manager in the Design Group of an outsource development firm.
I’m the assistant to the assistant superintendent of curriculum and instruction at a mid-western vocational institution.
I’m the Trustbase Transaction Supervisor of the Group Credit Risk Analytics Team.
I’m the senior custody account manager in an international trade risk team at a global financial institution.
I’m the information manager for a series of product managers at a chain of major mid-level development teams in a legion of international development and marketing groups.
I’m a torrent of international groups.
I’m a succession of management teams.
I’m a volume of development assistants.
I’m developing, managing, assisting, constantly, always, forever.

Timeless Recollections of the Golden Era

Girl working at perfume stand in mall:

“God, you are SO tan! I’m so jealous! My God, I can’t believe how good you look. Oh GOD! Oh SHEORRRLGHHGH! JEESSSSUUUS! HELLLLLLPPPP!”

Possessed, she masturbates furiously on top of the glass counter, sending intermittent firehose jets of ejaculate spraying in plumed arcs across the aisle into Menswear. Within seconds, the store is a flood zone. From an angle near the cargo pants, you could make out a rainbow. Families and couples scatter, knocking over metal racks of colorful rayon, sounding alarms. Some kid slips in an ankle-deep puddle and starts whimpering. A suburban dad, confused, runs straight through a plate-glass window.

Doctor's Orders

“Hello Mr. Ward, I’m Jeff Gheurylla, the doctor on duty.”

“Gorilla?”

“Yeah, G-H-E-U-R-Y-L-L-A. Gheurylla.”

“Good Christ,” I said, and then paused. “That’s ridiculous!”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. What’s the problem?”

“Well-”

“Sharp pains in the keester?”

“Huh?”

“There are three steps to fixing this problem. First, a rectal exam, immediately followed by another rectal exam. And lastly, a colonoscopy.”

“What?”

“Buck up, chum! Seriously. Nurse!”

“Hold it, hold it, Gheurylla. This has gone far enough! I’ve had it with your GODDAMN orders. This place – this wretched hellhole with the peeling Dutch Boy yellow – it makes a sensitive patient like myself blanch, buckle over and fall onto the linoleum...if the linoleum weren't covered with six inches of reeking chum. I’ve had it! The cheap waiting room magazines, the undergarments, the sickly visage of Joan Armatrading...stand up and fight, punk! Make me regret every waking minute, why don’t ya! I collapse daily! I collapse daily into a giant mound of tube socks and sob until my tear ducts inflame to the size of limes. Try me, you phony!”

Towards a New Form of Encapsulated Album Review

The Eagles: Their Complete Works

The Eagles (self-titled, 1972) This reminds us of plaintive, medium-length drives through canyon country around sunset with a mild alcohol buzz perhaps. Maybe a drifter is picked up hitchhiking, and he rolls one for the road. Or maybe a waitress serves us an extra cup of coffee because she can see the lines on our faces; she can smell the miles ahead. An armadillo hides under his shell as another eighteen-wheeler passes, stirring dust devils. Neil Young glides up in an El Camino hawking stolen goods – we refuse, as the evening hue is distracting, fractured rays pirouetting about the thicket.

Desperado (1973) Soothing and yet, relentless. After being trapped and subsequently scalped by vicious elephant poachers then left bleeding under a rubber tree, we can find solace in this quintet’s soft, fireside harmony. Grammys are doled out like they’re hot potatoes. The lead singer is sick tonight; the lead singer refuses to sign the Asylum Records contract waiver. We watch, silently, admitting nothing as serum is injected, provoking an obviously forced response that will eventually be used against him in a court of law. When appeals are made, new evidence is discovered which prompts a mistrial. Several lawyers are laid off. The trial starts again, somewhere around track eight, titled “Outlaw Man”. Jurors complain that their employers do not pay compensation beyond Side One.

On the Border (1974) Is a pragmatist preferable over a risk-taker when it comes to choosing a mate? Or is it an immeasurable combination of the two? A variety of hot, in-shape singles were questioned on this matter and the answer was irrefutable: there will be a period of intense distress, followed by a respite that will calm even the most degenerate. A musty odor will embrace the landscape, and cultures that have heretofore been at odds will join hands in a stirring tribute to Bob Geldof. This too, will pass, and once again the question will be presented to all and sundry: whom – and this means you – whom would you choose?

One of These Nights (1975) Dear Laura, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I cannot fathom how you’d be willing to let Jeremy, a man you freely admit you barely know, stay at the house “until he gets it back together again.” You know how much I need privacy – I mean, you know how much I love the Night. You know how much I love to Get Down in the nighttime. You know it. That’s the way. Oh yeah, that’s the way I prefer it. Let me put it to you like this: when I’m unable to get the privacy I need to Get Down, within hours my nervous system evolves into a full six-megawatt generator. My interior is crushed into a fine gravy, or glue. The fillings in my teeth crumble and with each grotesque exhalation, my mouth blares the shrieking yowls of a thousand dead radio stations. Cable cars derail and mania grips the country. Only those currently at sea will be safe. My dialogue will be the broken logic of the cheapest vaudeville comedians. I will plunge my face into boiling garlic butter again, and again, and again. I beg of you to reconsider this horrible error in judgment.

Hotel California (1976) Announcer: With Joe Walsh now in the band, the Eagles’ fifth album “Hotel California” has streaked to the top of the charts for the 15th week in a row! Let’s hear that title track again. Let’s hear it again and again. Let’s press hard to make each note of the guitar solo emblazon the crannies of the brains of each and every one of you out there, so that it will trigger a sense-memorial response so violent that it will hypnotize you to purchase the album between one and three thousand times between the first listen and death. Eagles producer Bill Szymczyk, also one of the country’s most renowned neuroscientists, developed the mind-control technique in conjunction with financial backing from an anonymous donor.

The Long Run (1979)
“Who was that who called?”
“I don’t know. They hung up.”
“Could you hear anyone on the other end of the line? I mean, maybe it was a telemarketer.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“We’ve been getting a lot of those lately.”
“Yeah.”

Eagles Live (1980) Members of the family began popping by when they found out I had contracted the rash, although you could tell they were keeping their distance in person, whether subconsciously or not. It’s not contagious though. Like blood poisoning, the rash starts around an open wound, then moves toward the heart. But unlike any other rash, it affects the vessels that carry blood, so the outside tissues of the arteries become covered with acne. It’s an “indoors rash,” the doctors call it. Itching becomes intolerable within a week or so. Doctors open the skin in various spots, insert a pair of tweezers and pop the most offending of the zits. My doctor insists that this is treatable, and that the others that have contracted this rash have gone on to lead normal lives. In the meantime I greet the family, who jitter and make nervous conversation while they wait for me to tell them that it’s okay for them to go home.

Hell Freezes Over (1994) “A triumphant return”; “fourteen years in the making”; “stunning guitars”; “like they’ve never left the stage”; “brilliant”; “showmen”, “four exclusive new songs”, “in rare form”, “long-awaited”, “much-anticipated”, “legendary "sound”; “bonafide classic”; “fifteen tracks”; “freeway intersection”; “potable water”; “ergonomics”; “steak”; “the”.