How do some people make it into graduate school? I mean, really. For that matter, how do some people get the green light to teach graduate level classes? I thought Skidmore College was the ultimate example of Darwin’s Waiting Room, but I’m beginning to wonder if the University of New Haven’s current cast of characters is coming up fast on the inner track to try and knock the bookie’s favorite out of the running.

I’ve already gone into great detail about Prof. Kotter, Jar Jar and Tony Lemons. Well gear up, here’s another batch of cerebrally challenged “special cases” that I have encountered in my first year of graduate school.

Let’s start with the minor offenders. First on the hit list is “Prof. Fudd.” Fudd is so codenamed because he is not only follicly challenged, but also possesses a mild speech impediment that is frighteningly similar to his Warner Bros. namesake. Now Fudd teaches Finance, and knows his stuff. However, he doesn’t really know how to teach it. I had a similar case with a Statistics professor codenamed “Foreyample” (see, because of his thick Chinese accent, whenever he said “for example,” it came out as “foreyample.” That’s not to make light of the language barrier or his ethnicity, but merely to acknowledge the fact that he uttered this maligned expression so damned much, it became emblazoned in my mind for all eternity). Smart enough guy, just not a great teacher.

The proof is in the proverbial pudding when you take into account that on the mid-term, the class average was a whopping 79 (which, according to some students who claim to have approached Fudd personally, may be overstated. It might actually be a 72. Either way, that sucks). I, myself, pulled a 76. Considering I know nothing of finance, didn’t study a lick, and the fact that numbers hurt my head, I can rest easy with that. With an almost guaranteed A-/A in my only other class this term, I can assume I will pull at least a 3.0 this term. But you know, for a 601 course (which, it should be so stated, at the graduate level is the equivalent of a 101 undergrad course), that just says something about his teaching. What is says is, “I don’t know how to teach a cwass” (that is not a typo, remember the Fudd connection).

Speaking of my other class, that brings me to “Prof. Costanza,” so codenamed for his striking resemblance to the Seinfeld character of the same name. Now I like Costanza. He’s a great guy, funny as hell, makes class engaging, and doesn’t expect too much of us. In fact, dare I say he is the ideal graduate professor for the students who work fulltime. My one and only gripe with him is the way he grades. More accurately, the way he writes the grades. Let’s say you pull an A-minus on an exam. Normal professor would write “A-,” right? Well, Costanza writes “-A.” Now, color me curious, but doesn’t that read an awful lot like “Negative A?” I sure thought so. You can understand my mild confusion when I got back two papers and one read “-A” while the other read “A.” I remember thinking, “Is this bad? I mean, if that’s a negative A, then these two papers cancel out to make a big fat zero. That means I need to pull a total of 180 on my next paper just to break even, a 270 if I wanna maintain the ‘A’ average. I don’t know if this is possible!” All kidding aside, Costanza is still a cool cat, and he ranks rock bottom on the list of offenders.

Let’s move onto “The Brazilian,” so codenamed for his homeland. This guy differs from the previous entries in that he is a student. The Brazilian is quite simply the Biff Loman of UNH’s MBA program. Lazy, contradictory, hypocritical, maybe a little dense, and undeniably useless. I’ve had the Brazilian in a few classes so far, the first of which being a Management 601 class (remember, that 601 means it’s a “for starters” course). Now this class was taught by “Prof. Anti-Rudy.” I call him this because he had the designation of being a former member of Notre Dame’s football team. During the course of the class, Anti-Rudy used Notre Dame’s stratified hierarchy of the team to explain certain breakdowns in a company or firm. It was actually a pretty sound analogy. Whilst explaining the locker/jersey designation system (which, if you know anyone who played for the Fighting Irish, ask them about it. It’s pretty trippy and very cool coffee table knowledge), he went off on a tangent and completely deflated the myth of the film Rudy. Though crushing those treasured images of Sam Gamgee getting carried off the football field on everyone’s shoulders, I felt better in knowing the truth of the matter.

Now Anti-Rudy’s class was pretty durn easy. Dirt simple, if I may say so. We had two exams, and on the first one, I didn’t study a lick (notice a trend here? Please folks, don’t send this link to my momma), and managed to pull an 84. Not bad, not bad. Most folks pulled in the high 90’s (for the record, I pulled an A in the course overall. My momma already knows that, so save your strength). The Brazilian failed. I’m sorry, but you have to be blind, deaf, dumb, mute, retarded, crippled, drooling and pooping yourself to fail this exam. Why? Because Prof. Anti-Rudy gave us the questions two bloody weeks in advance. It was impossible to fail. So what does the Brazilian do to cover his ass? Well, he essentially sets up camp outside Anti-Rudy’s office and bugs him following every frickin’ lesson, hoping his class participation grade will make up the difference. Overcompensating much? You bet. The frosting on this cake of shame is the fact that he stated, and I quote, “I don’t think [Anti-Rudy] is that smart.”

Y’know, I’d be hard-pressed to label anyone as brilliant. But after three full months of Management with Anti-Rudy, I can wholeheartedly state that he is, in a business and socially aware sense, one of the most brilliant men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. To that end, I think the Brazilian ought to be ashamed of himself for concocting such a ludicrous excuse. And all just to cover for his own incompetence/laziness.

Oh, did I mention the Brazilian got a 65 on that aforementioned Finance exam? Now I didn’t study and I got a bleeding 76. That’s not to say I’m any sort of standard that other students should be compared to, but still. My friend forgot his calculator and pulled a 77. Yet the Brazilian just can’t manage to reach the level that everyone else around him is already at. And believe me, he ain’t exactly in a rush to reach that point, either. This guy speaks perfect English, doesn’t work, has all the time in the world on his hands, and still blows it every single time. I mean, this guy took a week off from class because an acquaintance flew to New York City. Now I understand and appreciate the value of friendship, but unless that person is terminally ill, there’s no reason the Brazilian had to take himself out of the picture for a week, thereby allowing himself to stumble back a few rungs. It’s called “priorities,” Pele. Get some.

But to me, the most absurd moment came in the Marketing Management class that we co-attend. After studying a case on McDonald’s, the Brazilian went off on a sedated tirade regarding the evils of McDonald’s and junk food. Once again, I must quote verbatim: “I’m from Brazil, I don’t eat junk food. I eat salads and stuff, I hate junk food.” It should be duly noted that this statement was uttered while he was munching on a handful of M&M’s. It should also be noted that in this particular class, he is only now handing in assignments that were due upwards of a month ago. Y’know, I’m glad that there are other more diligent students in the MBA program from his home country, because if it were only him, that entire ‘berg would develop a pretty lousy rep.

But friends, this is just the tip of the MBA iceberg. Fudd, Foreyample and the Brazilian aren’t major headaches. They’re pesky annoyances who won’t go away. However, much greater evils lie within. For those of you considering continuing your education, I must warn you that the following two cases are ugly, frightening, brutal, and completely true. I suggest you read at your own risk. You may want to consider going to another website or completely closing your browser. But as for me, I am compelled to press on unwaveringly.

In terms of instructors, this next subject is sitting pretty atop the Everest of academic offenders, people. I call him “Prof. Bridgework.” I’ve codenamed as such for the dental procedures that he so desperately needs. Actually, bridgework is on the low end of things. This guy needs a complete top-to-bottom renovation of his chompers that I don’t think even the greatest Michelangelo of dentistry could pull off. And even though his teeth leave much to be desired, that’s the least of his shortcomings.

Prof. Bridgework is by far the worst professor I have ever encountered. Ever. In my 22 years of life on this pebble, 18 of which have involved some form of educational institution, he is the bottom of the barrel. If that doesn’t say something, I don’t know what does. I can say this with a clear conscience because no matter how you dissect it, this guy has no frickin’ clue what he’s doing. Lemme set the stage for you: Prof. Bridgework’s Product Management class did not require a book. Come again? How is such a thing possible at the graduate level? Instead of reading chapters, we “learned” through selected articles and class presentations by fellow students (who were clustered in groups of four or five people). OK, now don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against my MBA brethren, but they’re here to learn through example, not teach the class for the professor. If Big Daddy doesn’t know how to tie his own shoes, and he teaches me how he learned, I’m gonna go through life wearing shoes that aren’t properly tied. Silly example, but I think it serves this case well.

And believe me, that’s just scratching the surface. This cat’s got a list of offenses as long as your arm. How about the fact that this guy couldn’t even come up with a competent grading policy? Or the fact that he actually lost attendance sheets and incorrectly recorded many people as missing classes for which they were present? Or the fact that in lieu of the evaluation sheets we all filled out, he went into the current trimester telling his present class that at the end of the term, he wanted them to give him a glowing review at the end of the term? Need I go on any further? I think I’ve made my point. I could go on, believe me. Hell, I could probably write a doctoral thesis on this craptacular guy if I were so inclined. But the bottom line will never change, not one iota. They broke the mold with this guy, and I thank God in my nightly prayers for that fact.

Our final genetic defective on our yellow brick road of madness is “Dolly.” I chose this codename because “Illegally Blonde” takes much longer to type. Dolly was in our group for Bridgework’s class, and she wasn’t a bad gal. In fact, from the get-go, she seemed just fine to me. Before I go any further, it should be so stated that Bridgework’s class required a term-long project which would be presented on the last day of class. So it goes without saying that we worked on this bastard all term long, and then, two days, two fraggin’ days before the due date, with two fraggin’ hours before we were to meet and bring the paper/presentation together, Dolly sent an e-mail to myself, our teammates and Bridgework stating that she had been sick since Tuesday (this was on a Sunday, mind you), which is why she missed class. She went on to state that she was taking an Incomplete in the course and transferring back to her alma mater to continue her graduate studies.

Come again?

I literally could not believe what I was reading. How does a person just drop everything two days before the end of it all, leaving three other people hanging in limbo like that? Why, why, why, why, why? Granted, her job probably paid for her education at UNH, so she didn’t have to worry about quitting the course and essentially wasting $1,500. Furthermore, I can make an educated guess that the credit may have been nontransferable. But you know, there’s something to be said for common courtesy and this blonde tart was severely lacking that in her “resignation.” She didn’t even bother doing her portion of the work and sending it to us. Instead, we had to compensate for her departure. Thankfully, we rocked the final project, but it was not without an immense load of undue stress courtesy of Dolly. I liked Dolly from the start, even though I knew she was a little left of center, but I never in my wildest dreams thought she’d pull a stunt like this. In comparison to the others listed in this entry, she erred less on a quantitative scale. But qualitatively, she quite simply “Hulk-Smashed” the competition.

Folks, we all know what school was like. From elementary through high school right on up to college (for those of you who attend/have completed college, that is). With each progression, we, as sensible, reasonable humanoids seem to encounter the most bizarre mix of characters we could possibly imagine. And it seems that with each step forward, this collective gets stranger and stranger. Well I’ve got news for you, if UNH is to be used as any sort of accurate sample, grad school definitely holds the twisted crown for possessing the most bizarre, imbecilic, socially challenged group of amoebas than any other level of academia.

And if that statement is true, it gives me the jibblies to think of the anomalies out there in the real world.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Y’know, it would figure that just as I put up a post regarding reality shows, a new travesty emerges.

I’ll admit, I’m slightly perturbed since, in my recent post regarding said reality programming, I elaborated that I didn’t mind these talent shows (again, for reference/posterity, I’m talking American Idol and Star Search). To summarize my reasoning for this tolerance, I do believe that there are some people with genuine talent on these shows, and furthermore, they do not go to the ridiculously embarrassing lengths of these other more extreme programs.

To put it simply, they’re innocent fun for the most part.

However, the producers of Idol recently dealt a severe black eye to television and a major thumb of the nose to the intelligence of television audiences.

I’m talking American Juniors.

Folks, what are we doing? Why are we watching this and making these substandard excuses for human beings richer? Why? When will this nation cumulatively wake up and make a breakaway from the “cult of reality?”

Now granted, I haven’t watched any of these shows, so you’re liable to label me a hypocrite for lambasting the program without having actually viewed it. I’ll address my reasons for boycotting in a moment. Let’s get to my justifiable disdain first.

I’m sure some of these kids are talented. Hell, I’m sure many of them could, in the future, land major recording deals and become the next ubiquitous R&B diva. Good for them. They’ve been blessed with impressive talents and I say the parents should nurture those talents, not exploit them.

How many E! True Hollywood Stories will we have to endure before we realize that kids and show business just do not mix. C’mon people, you’ve seen the trend time and time again and yet you keep buying into it like hungry lambs. What is your major malfunction? Do you enjoy watching children being scarred for life, traumatized and doomed to an abnormal existence? Hell, why don’t you just buy a weekend package to the Neverland Valley Ranch and bring a digital video camera while you’re at it? Why don’t you hold a private viewing audience with Gary Glitter and Phil Giordano if you’re that anxious to watch children’s lives being systematically destroyed?

How many child actors actually come out of the business unscathed? For every Ron Howard or Kurt Russell, there’s dozens of Macauly Culkin’s, Jay North’s, Corey Haim’s, Danny Bonaduce’s, Leif Garrett’s, Corey Feldman’s, and the collective casts of Our Gang and Dif’rent Strokes. It’s far from a balanced scale, and you’re not helping matters. Ten’ll get you one that the Olsen Twins revert to porn when they hit the big 1-8. There’s even a website on the ‘Net counting down the days until said birthday. Cute li’l Haley Joel Osment is likely to develop a major heroin addiction and a penchant for transsexual hookers. And Frankie Muniz and Hillary Duff? Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen for the new millennium. Oh, you know it’s true. And that’s why you watch like a pack of insatiable jackals, just waiting for the next li’l kid to bottom out.

Shame on you.

Shame on you for only adding to the pain these kids already have thanks to their overbearing parents. We’ve all seen the commercial for Juniors with the maniacal Stage Mother. Guess what? That poor kid has to deal with that everyday of her life until she makes it big or dies trying. Meanwhile everyone else her age is playing Yu-Gi-Oh! and going on bike rides. Missing out on much?

Parents, if you even consider tossing your kid headfirst into show business, you oughta lose your parental privileges. As far as I’m concerned, being a Hollywood Mom or Dad is the equivalent to beating your kid on a nightly basis or engaging in some disgusting form of molestation. If you wanna nurture your kid’s talents, encourage him or her to practice daily. Praise them when they do well, support them when they struggle. Push them to go above and beyond, but don’t pull them into the 24K Cesspool we call Hollywood. Don’t live vicariously through them, just be proud of them for what they are, and a little proud of yourself knowing that you had just a small role in creating that talented little human. You give your children a great life and they will return it to you in spades.

Need proof that Hollywood Parents breed messed up kids? Go ahead and set your VCR the next time VH1’s Driven tackles either Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Just look at how emphatic their mothers were about their daughters’ careers, and then look at the end result. Then listen to the moms talk about how “proud” they are of their little girls. They’re not proud, they’re happy that they’re not gonna have to work for a few years and can live off of royalties since the clause in their daughters’ contracts names them as sole beneficiaries of all profits. I watch this and then wonder how people can ask me why I think some people deserve to die. Still not convinced? Then I got two words for ya, Jack:

Michael Jackson.

Look at how being a major child celebrity benefited that guy and made him a better person. Then look at your little seven-year-old playing the piano, or your eleven-year-old singing prodigy. Ask yourself if you want that same future for them. If you’ve got any morals whatsoever, you’ll make the right decision.

So that’s the root of my American Juniors abstinence. It’s a matter of principle. Out of morality and common decency, I cannot bring myself to watch this show knowing that it’s liable to ruin some very young lives. When you get older, you make your bed, you sleep in it. If you make the dumb-ass decision to go on a reality program and broadcast your personal life to the masses, then it’s your own damn fault, and you should be a big enough person to deal with the consequences. If you can’t, too bad. You should’ve brought a cup before you ran out to the gridiron. But when you’re a kid, decision-making isn’t a major concern, and you don’t always know what’s best for you. That’s one of the reasons we have parents, but alas, parents are human like the rest of us, and henceforth can be deemed imperfect. Some are more imperfect than others, and might be liable to make severely flawed decisions that affect them and their loved ones, and I do believe that encouraging their kids to go into show business is one of those ill-fated decisions.

If you’ve ever seen VH1’s special Bubblegum Babylon, you’d be familiar with the story of The Partridge Family’s David Cassidy and his daughter Katie. If you’re not, allow me to summarize: Katie, at the age of 15 or 16, signed a recording contract much to the dismay of her quasi-estranged father. David, who it should be noted did not live with his daughter and wasn’t always around to care for her, had wanted her to hold off on any decisions of a show business-related nature until she was at least 18. While Keith Partridge might not be the best dad on the whole, I applaud David for his stance. He knows what it’s like firsthand, and you’d think that Katie’s mom would take that to heart. Of course, her reasons for pushing Katie are probably connected to her reasons for sleeping with David in the first place. She feels she leads a hollow, empty life and thirsts to get just a lick from the sugar cube called “Fame.” It’s funny to know that after all the shit David Cassidy’s done, he still turned out to be the more moral of the two.

Folks, I’d like to invite you in a mass boycott of American Juniors. If human life and morals mean anything to you, you’ll join our side. That way, when our Judgment Day comes and we gotta get rated, we can take solace in knowing that we’ll be riding the escalator going up while the creators, producers, and parents hop on board the one-way express elevator to the underworld. At the end of it all, we can smile, breathe a sigh of relief and say, “that’s one more for the good guys.”

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Metallica.

The mere mention of the name evokes a variety of responses. Barring “Yee-yah!” “Metal!” and “Fuckin’ A!” odds are you’d be hard-pressed to get a strong consensus regarding the troupe. And screw the Behind The Music fodder, this band has clawed to get by, stood on top of the world, and been relegated to the greedy dogs of the music industry. Whether you think they are the gods of metal or the murderers of Napster, one thing is for certain. They are back in action. And I for one couldn’t be happier.

St. Anger is every bit as aggressive, powerful, and musical as any of their previous work. Personally, I think it’s their best effort since The Black Album, maybe even since …And Justice For All (only difference is this album actually has bass). But man, if your blood doesn’t pump just a little quicker when you hear “Frantic,” you are something less than human, case closed. My friend and I had been joking for months that unless it lived up to its expectations, the alum would forever be known to us as “Stanger.”

Thankfully, the Bay area’s favorite sons have proven us wrong. And sometimes that’s a good thing.

Y’know, lets forget everything about Metallica. Lets forget about Napster, S&M, Jason Newsted’s departure, the Load albums, the MI: 2 soundtrack, hell, lets even forget about the early albums that blew us away in the first place. Why do we have to keep such a close watch on these guys? Why is it that every time they do something that remotely strays from those early years we have to attack them?

Is it really that hard to call a spade a spade? St. Anger is good. In fact, it’s great. Screw the purists who scoff at the band. Those people who were so quick to jump on the Metalli-bandwagon were equally as quick to leap off the second Metalli-bashing became cool.

Liking or disliking a band shouldn’t be a trend. You either appreciate the music, or you do not. Period.

Now I admit. I was more than a little disappointed in how they handled the whole Napster thing. I do think they had a point in being upset, but I consider myself an advocate for both artists’ rights and freedom of information and art. Having said that, I will simply put the topic to rest by thinking a happy medium can exist if the two sides just give an inch or two. Going back even further, I’ll also admit that I was extremely disappointed with Load and Re-Load. But no band is perfect. For every Toys In The Attic there’s a Night In The Ruts. For every Appetite For Destruction there’s a Spaghetti Incident? And for every Master Of Puppets… well, you get the picture.

Nevertheless, I never lost hope that Metallica would rise to the occasion when the odds were most against them. Even when Newsted left, I remained confident that they would be able to replace him fairly easily.

While we’re on the topic, let me just say that I can’t stand Jason Newsted. I’m glad that James Hetfield railed on him all those years, because now that he’s getting vocal, I wish he’d shut the fuck up. Seriously, this guy changes his story bi-weekly as to why he left Metallica. “It was my bad back,” “I had issues with James,” “I wanted to play the blues and get away from metal.” That, by far, had to be the lamest one of all. He does the blues with EchoBrain, who stink it up royally, and then goes on to join Voivod. A full-on metal band. Well pardon me if I think you’re just a little more hypocritical than anyone ever thought you could be, “Jasonic.” It wasn’t until you left the band that your ego was revealed to be light years beyond Lars’s.

To me, the heaviest straw to grace the camel’s back was the fact that Metallica picks up Robert Trujillo from Ozzy Osbourne’s band, and who steps in for the Blizzard of Ozz? Jason Newsted. Now Sharon Osbourne can say he had to audition, he was their first pick, whatever. It seems a little more than a coincidence to me that essentially, Metallica and Ozzy just traded bass players. There are plenty of perfectly capable bassists out there. Mike Inez, Dave Ellefson, Pepper Keenan, etc., etc., ad infinitum. Why Newsted?

In my opinion, he stepped up and offered his services. Oh, he might not admit it, but that’s my personal take on the situation. He wanted to one-up his old bandmates and say, “Look at me! I’m still in demand! I’m still metal!” Newsted is officially the new Dave Mustaine. Only difference is that Mustaine was kicked outta Metallica. Newsted chose to leave, and now he’s kicking himself because the boys are back better than ever. At the time, Jasonic felt he was getting out of a sinking ship. Just so happens that a crack team of repairmen fixed the leaks with blistering riffs and intensity. Now he’s jealous because he’s not invited to the victory party.

Need evidence? Why is it that he slams Metallica when it’s quiet, yet is so quick to get on his knees and open wide when they get positive press? Think about it. The guy is such a hypocrite, it’s absolutely disgusting.

Besides, Trujillo is a far more capable bassist than Newsted ever was. Look at his credentials. Suicidal Tendencies, Infectious Grooves, Jerry Cantrell, Black Label Society, Ozzy Osbourne, the guy’s been around the block. He’s played with the best in the business. He’s the perfect fit for Metallica. In fact, I can honestly say he’s the second best bassist in the band’s history, topped only by Cliff Burton. Newsted falls a distant third. Trujillo’s got some great skills (or “skillz,” if you will), and has a much more magnetic stage presence than Newsted.

And even though he had little to do with St. Anger itself, I’m willing to bet that he will bring a different element to the table when its time to record the next album. Already the band seems to have recaptured its passion for live performances. Once again, the evidence speaks for itself. Look at the band’s first televised appearance as a restructured unit at its MTV Icon special, and compare it to their last televised performance with Newsted at the 2000 My VH1 Awards. Their rendition of “Fade To Black” was by far the best performance of the evening, but it lacked that traditional Metallica spark. They were just sort of going through the motions. But at Icon, man, they lit it up big time. I mean, they just tore the house down from start to finish.

It was at that moment I new the boys were back, and my feelings were only reinforced with St. Anger.

Let’s talk about the album itself. Yes, it’s raw. Yes, it’s under-produced. Yes, it sounds ugly. And yes, all the songs sound alike. That last point is a staple of a classic Metallica album. I mean, what’s the big difference between “Whiplash” and “Hit The Lights?” Not much. Doesn’t mean they’re bad. In fact, that’s what these so-called “purists” used to crave about Metallica. Granted, I’m a little upset that there are no solos on the album, but the full-on aggression of the riffs and beats themselves is just pure ‘Tallica. It sounds like they’re really blending old with new, even throwing in shades of Korn and Meshuggah in some areas. It’s an interesting mix that’s visceral, volatile and at times melodic.

And granted, the album sounds very different than what we’ve come to expect. Then again, what have we come to expect from Metallica? Really? After Justice, all the rules went out the window. In fact, you could actually chart Metallica’s sound by the albums. Just cluster the albums two by two by one by two. Kill ‘Em All and Ride The Lightning cut through you like a fuel-injected hyper-aggressive buzzsaw. Master and Justice tried to mow over you like a sadistic mechanized panzer. Black Album wailed and swooned its way into the mainstream with heavy, yet accessible riffs, sharp hooks and infectious melodies. The Load twins simply tried to beat you to death with Styrofoam boxing gloves.

Here is how St. Anger lives up to it’s name. It will crawl under your skin slowly and spread through your blood like a disease. It will infect you, like an incurable rage. It will slowly work its hooks and sadism into your consciousness.

It’s just what the doctor ordered. Sure, it’s different than Master. Then again it’s also much different than Load. And to be honest, given the choice to either listen to “Purify” or “Hero Of The Day” for one straight 24-hour session, “Purify” will do just that.

At the end of the experience, you'll know what it's like to be madly in anger with someone. This is one strictly for full-on, pent up aggression that needs to be displaced in the gym before it is unleashed on some unsuspecting bystander. Oh, yes, dear readers. You'll be madly in anger with someone soon enough.

Goodnight and have a Metalli-riffic tomorrow.

*Breaking News!*

St. Anger by Metallica drops in three flippin' days. Go here for the full story.

Expect some commentary to follow the accelerated release.