ZZ Packer
Author
of Drinking
Coffee Elsewhere talks with Robert Birnbaum
The well-traveled ZZ Packer was born in Chicago
and raised in Atlanta and Louisville. She attended Yale University
and the Writing Seminar at Johns Hopkins University, The Writers'
Workshop at Iowa University and was a Stegner Fellow at Stanford
University. The title story of her recently published short-story
collection, Drinking Coffee Elsewhere, was included in
The New Yorker's Debut Fiction issue in 2000,
and her work has also appeared in Seventeen, Harper's, The Best
American Short Stories (2000), Ploughshares and has been anthologized
in 25 and Under: Fiction. ZZ Packer lives in San Francisco,
and she is diligently at work on a novel.
The eight stories in Drinking Coffee Elsewhere range from
the antics of a troop of black Girl Scouts who encounter some mentally
handicapped white Girl Scouts ["Brownies"] to a loser
father taking his bright son to the Million Man March to sell exotic
birds ["The Ant of the Self"] to the title story's examination
of the protagonist Dina's ability and tendency to pretend in various
difficult situations she encounters. In Packer's stories one meets
an array of characters, from African American church ladies, white
intellectuals, to inner-city dwellers, buppies and an odd group
of expatriated internationals stuck in Japan, all rendered deftly
with humor and poignancy.
Robert Birnbaum: Where does the name ZZ come from?
It's not an abbreviation, right?
ZZ Packer: Exactly. ZZ is just this nickname that
I've had ever since I can remember. My actual name is Zuwena. It’s
Swahili and means "good." My friends and family would
just call me ZZ, but then after a while of teachers mispronouncing
my name and everyone else in the world I began introducing myself
as ZZ. So it just kind of stuck.
RB: And if you introduced yourself as Zuwena,
they would probably augment it in some way, anyway.
ZZ: Yeah, yeah, probably. Someone else commented
ZZ isn't exactly a diminutive of Zuwena.
RB: What would be?
ZZ: Zena is sort of an elided form. It's Arabic
and closely related to Zuwena.
RB: Is this frequent topic of conversation?
ZZ: Yeah, it's the one I can…
RB: It's kind of an ice breaker.
ZZ: I don't even know when I started. One of my
friends from the UK said "But if your book comes out in England,
you'll be called "Zed. Zed." I said, "Can't they
just say ZZ?" And he said, "No, it's not Z it's zed."
RB: I was reading an introduction to Percival
Everett's book, God's Country by Madison Smartt Bell, and
he was commenting on Everett's novel Cutting Lisa saying he had
read the book and then saw the author's portrait and asked himself
if the character's in the novel were black. So he reread the book
to confirm that they weren't black. All of which is my way of asking
you, what is a black writer? You are identified as a black writer,
right?
ZZ: Yeah, I almost got into my punching mode with
the last interview. They asked, "Would you consider yourself
a black writer?" And I said, "Of course, because I'm black.
And I am a writer." (laughs) There is no other way to say that.
But what he meant to say was, did I consider myself a writer who
writes solely for black people? Or, who is my audience? To that
I would just say, "No, I am writing for black people, but I
am also writing for whites, for Chinese, for Americans." So,
it's one of those things that, yeah, the stories are definitely
going to be influenced by the fact that I am black. I mean those
stories wouldn't have been written if I had been white. Also, one
of the things I want to do with the stories I don't even know how
conscious I was—it's very much this felt thing with me—they
are human beings and often times in America, people will try to
say this is a black story or this a white story (that's sort of
the default mode)…
RB: (Both laugh)
ZZ: There's this wonderful white story that I
read.
RB: A Caucasian story.
ZZ: So, I think people tend to racialize and in
some contexts that is necessary. In the context of just being human
and falling in love and all of the things that human beings do,
I don't necessarily think it should erupt. It's a horrible thing
when it does because it means that the racists have won and have
convinced people that it should erupt in everyday. When I am writing
these stories, I am really concentrating on the characters and what
are their circumstances and motivations and what do they want.
RB: The emotional content is very vivid in your
stories. I brought up the issue of race because it is troublesome
and unresolved. We use these stereotypes and code words especially
in an area where you would think people were smarter. On the other
hand, I guess it's a sign of progress that Scott Spencer can write
a novel about a bi-racial relationship and not catch grief because
he is white. Is he a black writer now?
ZZ: (laughs)
RB: George
Pelecanos' main character in his last three books is a black
man. But as he says, that's what writers do, they write outside
themselves. Anyway, getting back to you and your brilliant career.
I was a little troubled in acknowledgment that you thanked The
New Yorker editors for taking a chance on an unknown—namely
you. I wonder why you are thanking them instead of them thanking
you …
So,
I think people tend to racialize, and in some contexts that
is necessary. In the context of just being human and falling
in love and all of the things that human beings do, I don't
necessarily think it should erupt. It's a horrible thing when
it does because it means that the racists have won.
|
ZZ: (laughs)
RB: For giving them something worthwhile to publish?
ZZ: I never thought of it that way. It's great
to hear you say that.
RB: What august people are they that…
ZZ: I guess one of the things that happens—probably
one of the ways that writing programs can get into your head in
a way that probably they shouldn't is— that you are sitting
around with all these people who also want to write and so it [The
New Yorker] becomes a sort of Holy Grail. Of course, you feel
this incredible gratitude. I still, I must say, feel this incredible
gratitude.
RB: Frankly, I can't figure out the sense of publishing
John Updike six or seven times a year.
ZZ: (laughs) They do publish him a lot. He is
good.
RB: He doesn't need the New Yorker.
ZZ: Exactly.
RB: And I don't know that New Yorker
readers need him in large doses. But the small controversies that
occasionally arise from their choices are indicative of how much
people care about that magazine.
ZZ: It is good, you don't suspect that as many
people read it as…
RB: Read Maxim?
ZZ: Laughs. It''s funny that one of my friends
got her husband a subscription [to Maxim]. I said, "What
are you doing?" But it is great that people who do read the
New Yorker pay such attention to the magazine.
RB: Let's see, you grew up in Atlanta and…
ZZ: I was born in Chicago. And then we moved to
Atlanta, Georgia, and so I partially grew up there, and then we
moved to Louisville, Kentucky. And a lot of other places, I have
lived after having graduated.
RB: Did you go from Louisville to Yale?
ZZ: Yeah. I haven't lived at home since then.
RB: Why did you go to Yale?
ZZ: As opposed to? (laughs)
RB: I don't know.
ZZ: The other school? (laughs)
RB: Or a school that has a freer sensibility.
My impression of Yale is that it seems tight sphinctered.
ZZ: I was in this math and science program in
the summers and one of the things they did, which was amazing, was
show us all these different colleges. There is no way in Louisville,
Kentucky that I would have been able to see these colleges. People
wouldn't even have been pointing me to these colleges. So we went
on these trips and they were trying to get us to these Ivy League
colleges and we went around to these places. Harvard to me, when
I went and visited, I just didn't like the vibe. It seems as though
people were completely conscious of some sort of…
RB: Entitlement?
ZZ: Yeah, entitlement. And whereas, sure there
is a big segment of the population at Yale that is that way as well,
that wasn't the tenor of the people there.
RB: Did you go to college thinking that you were
going to be a writer?
ZZ: Not really thinking I was going to write.
There was a back and forth between whether I was going to do something
in the humanities, as opposed to doing something in the sciences.
Which is one of the reasons that I ended up going to Yale as opposed
to a place like MIT. I wasn't thinking that writing was something
that you could actually do. I kept thinking, "I'm going to
be an engineer." That's what I was striving for.
RB: Did you have a look at Brown University?
 ZZ:
To me—and I really loved it—I had the prescience to
know that this could be great but might actually be too great. (laughs)
If I didn't have some structure, that I could see myself…in
some way I could see myself thriving in a place like that but—
also and yet this might be to do with a certain immigrant syndrome—the
parents that want their kids to do well—this is not just,
"Oh this is an enlightening time for you because you are going
to learn and meet people." I was in college to get a job. I
knew that going to a place like Brown, I was already not pleasing
the parents, so going to Brown would have been the last straw.
RB: You went to Johns Hopkins after Yale.
ZZ: I did, immediately after.
RB: What did your parents think then?
ZZ: They were really afraid. And they probably
actually should have been. If I knew what I know now, it was scary.
I was living off of eight thousand dollars a year. And trying to
supplement it with tutoring, but I was so determined at that point
I did know that I wanted to write. And even when I began teaching
high school, I said that I was going to teach and write. I was really
going to make this work.
RB: Were you able to?
ZZ: I still wrote, but it was incredibly difficult.
Teaching, the students really need you. You can't just say, "No,
I am going to do this really selfish thing, scribble." (laughs)
So it was incredibly hard to write and teach public high school.
I actually thought I was going to do it for a lot longer than I
did. It really does take a long time to become a good master teacher.
It wasn't working out, though I tried.
RB: Who was at Johns Hopkins?
ZZ: Stephen Dixon and John Barth. It was actually
Barth's last year.
RB: Was Julian Barnes there?
ZZ: He came after me. But we got a chance to meet
him before he came in. It was sort of weird, the outgoing class
met him at a nearby restaurant and we were sort of quizzing him—who
is this really erudite Englishman here in the heart of Baltimore
(laughs)? He was telling us he hadn't even written a story before.
He was a little apprehensive about teaching or rather leading a
workshop in which the short story form predominated. He said that
and then the next day practically, I saw this story in the New
Yorker. I said what is he talking about, if that was his first
one. But I never had him as a workshop leader. We had Francine Prose
and that was great. It was really great because what happened was
that they take everyone(everyone has been selected)—the visiting
faculty don't really know what our writing was like—so to
familiarize herself she asked us to submit a sample of our writing.
So there were ten of us there and there was this silence and then
she said, "I'm going to read some things I like." She
obviously hated what we all had put forth. And it was this incredibly—not
even humiliating—imagine you have been selected to this program
and this person who you have never met just basically says en masse
she doesn't like our stuff. After she read what she liked and said
why, I thought it was really great, this is the ultimate education.
I went back and looked at my stuff in this completely different
way. About a third—that would be about three people—looked
at their writing but the others just rebelled and it was sad because
she was right. That was one of the times that I realized to be a
writer you have to have a certain humility, otherwise you are not
going to improve.
RB: Prose is certainly known and respected in
the writer culture. But I wonder if there was a rebellion because
she didn't represent a certain masculine authority?
ZZ: That definitely occurred to us. There was
an element of that.
RB: Okay. Louisville, Yale, Baltimore and from
there to Iowa City?
ZZ: After Johns Hopkins I did teach public high
school for two years and did all sorts of odd things to make money
in the summer.
RB: Odd things? I won't ask.
ZZ: They were all decent things (laughs). And
then I went to Iowa.
RB: You were out in the so-called real world for
a while. When did you decide you wanted to go to Iowa?
ZZ: Kind of under complicated circumstances. I
would have probably continued teaching, but I thought if I am going
to move somewhere I want to also apply to a writing program and
see if I can get in. I hadn't been writing as much. Then I applied
to Iowa, and I got in, and the person I was with and I tried to
keep things together. It didn't really work. But at that point I
was at Iowa and getting used to being in Iowa.
RB: Did it take a lot to get used to being in
Iowa?
ZZ: It did just because…it's the Midwest.
It's predominantly white. And it's homogenous in this way that goes
beyond race. That did take a little bit of getting used to. But
then after a while I began to have friends there. Actually not just
friends that were in the workshop but in town. And that was good.
RB: You strike me as a gregarious person. Could
I be right?
ZZ: Yeah, yeah. It's sort of weird because I am
but then I'm not. That sounds odd but when I am around people, when
I choose to be with people then I am really with them. Talking to
people and meeting them, picking their brain and stuff like that.
Sometimes there is this switch that goes on and I just have to be
alone.
RB: Is that when you write?
I
realized to be a writer you have to have a certain humility,
otherwise you are not going to improve. |
ZZ: Yeah, yeah. It's part of what enables me to
write (laughs) instead of just going out all the time—there
would be no way I could write. So that does enable me to write.
And it's really weird for anyone I have been close to. It’s
been this really strange thing because I will be around and talking
whatever, whatever and then I just shut down. (laughs)
RB: So no one has ever seen you write?
ZZ: (laughs) I just disappear— just this
Francis Bacon, modern day—
RB: Could you have stayed at Iowa?
ZZ: Could I have? I am actually going to go back
for one semester, to do a teaching segment there. So I will be back
for one semester. But could I live there? (long pause) Probably
not. That's a qualified no. There are things that are great aspects
of it, a university town, you have this small town atmosphere, you
can walk everywhere and people can know each other and yet you have
some of the advantages of a big city, cultural stuff and a reading
population. So that is a great combination. Iowa, in particular
is on writers' tours —NY, Boston, DC, San Francisco and in
between there Iowa City. (laughs)
RB: Prairie Lights is the bookstore there?
ZZ: Yeah. So you get all these people and you
could go to a reading twice, three times a week. And these would
be big-name people. So that was really great.
RB: I remember Margot Livesey mentioning at a
reading that on one walk around Iowa City she found a part of a
Rilke poem on a railroad viaduct.
ZZ: There is an anthology called The Workshop
[edited by Tom Grimes, 1999]. There are stories from writers and
also short memoirish kind of pieces about what it was like being
there.
RB: Oh yeah, I have that book.
ZZ: Don't read my story ["Speaking in Tongues"].
It's greatly changed in Drinking Coffee Elsewhere.
RB: Really.
ZZ: Which is good. It's not that I didn't like
it at the time when it came out, but I knew that I wanted to go
and revise that story, so I did. But in the book someone wrote that
Iowa City was the one place in which you could go into a party and
people could be arguing over a comma.
RB: (laughs)
ZZ: And actually I wondered if that really happened
to them or they were relayed this thing that happened to me. I remember
there was this [party] and then the next day someone said, "Do
you remember you were yelling at Jeremy about sentence structure?"
That kind of thing does happen there and that's great, but you have
to realize that the rest of the world isn't like that.
RB: So realizing that you move on to Stanford
for a Stegner Fellowship.
ZZ: Yeah, this is all—talk about credentializing—this
is trying to patch together funding from year to year. (laughs)
It sounds awful to say, but it was just this way of trying to avoid
getting a job. That's what it is. (laughs)
RB: What does the Stegner Fellowship involve?
ZZ: Actually it is a lot less structured than
someplace like Iowa. Even Iowa isn't that structured. At Stanford
you just had the workshop that met twice a week—now it only
meets once a week. (laughs) You read other people's stories. That's
pretty much it.
RB: And now you are a Jones Lecturer?
ZZ: Depending how many spaces there are, they
will ask people who are about to be departing Stegner Fellows to
apply for that lectureship and that means that you are like adjunct
faculty. You teach undergraduates.
RB: So for a good period of time, you have been
deeply involved in the world of writing, and you have avoided getting
a job.
 ZZ:
I couldn't avoid it because moving to San Francisco by myself, the
Bay Area is so expensive. So I actually did end up having a job.
When I first got there it was the height of the [dot-com] boom.
So I said, "I am going to get some money out of this."
And at that time if you were a writer and you wanted to take advantage
of that situation you wrote content for a web site. That's what
I did for a while. Knowing that the place I worked at was utterly
doomed.
RB: You took cash, not stock options?
ZZ: Yeah I did not take stock options. So I worked
at that for a while.
RB: Did you do anything good?
ZZ: We really tried our best. We really tried.
But basically the people who ran the company did not have enough
of a vision. So whenever we would do any kind of writing we would
have try to make a vision, "Here's what we think." If
that could be called good, it wasn't helping anybody. It wasn't
all that gratifying.
RB: So here you are on your trail of glory with
a pack of high-powered superlatives following you around. Are you
feeling any pressure?
ZZ: Um, I'm beginning to think that I should feel
some pressure. I don't know. Right now I've just been writing this
novel for a long time, and so I guess the pressure I feel comes
more from that.
RB: Is that novel part of your book deal?
ZZ: No.
RB: So this novel is not a contractual obligation.
ZZ: No, no. It's a self obligation. I want to
do it for myself. I have been working on it for such a long time
I really want it to be something. And so I have been working on
that for so long that I am not coming into it everyday thinking,
"I'm the greatest writer in the world." Or, "People
are saying good things about me." I come to it with, "Okay
I have to try to make this work. And I will prepare for this to
be a day on which it doesn't work." When you are doing that
it is really hard for you to get caught up in any kind of …
RB: That sounds good and healthy. How is it that
writers have become like models and rock stars in that they are
known but not necessarily for their work?
ZZ: It's an odd thing that is happening more and
more. I don't know if it is just purely American culture or writers
becoming more and more a part of American culture, but there is
a need to think one knows about the other person. Which is why people
will ask, "Is this autobiographical? Is this true?" At
least those people are actually reading the stories. Even with writers
I know, they are not immune to following that part of pop culture
morass. I'm going to admit that sometimes I have felt myself falling
for that.
RB: Me too.
ZZ: I just think it's one of those things like
the workshops although there are many, many healthy things they
do—where you get this critical mass of people who are concerned
about one thing there tends to be this tendency pick out and separate
and form these hierarchies. So it happens on that level of the writers
themselves. And then I think the public also—this has to do
with what Jaques Barzun wrote about in Five Hundred Years Of
Decadence—he talks about one of the aspects of modernity
that sort of came along, art, which used to be always on the fringe
at some point became almost, not engulfed but there came a point
at which this bourgeoisie who were philistines in regards to art
began to appropriate some aspects of art. So that it was like, "You
don't understand this but you can get something out of it."
You can see this in Starbucks, where if you look closely in every
Starbucks store there is something that looks kind of like abstract
art because it's sort of cool, but yet it's figurative enough it's
not going to make people go nuts. So that's a little bit of what
has happened to writing. You have the writing world moving closer
to the pop world of its own volition and then you have the rest
of America trying to appropriate that once-forbidden and seemingly
avante-garde writing world, closer to them. I don't know what is
going to be the outcome of it. On one hand there are good things
that come about because of it, book clubs and such. It's really
a good thing to have more Americans reading and it can only be good
for American culture. But then you have the thinking that I am the
consumer and it should be palatable for me. So there is that weird
thing happening.
RB: I continue to be puzzled about why seemingly
smart people feel obliged to trash Don DeLillo, Toni Morrison and
Salman Rushdie.
…in
the book someone wrote that Iowa City was the one place in
which you could go into a party and people could be arguing
over a comma. |
ZZ: One of the things that is happening—I
talked to one woman and was telling her how much I like Toni Morrison's
work. And she said, "I don't understand her." One of the
reasons the general public who tries to read those authors gets
so upset is that these writers are billed as "Here's the talent."
And not just billed as, they are incredibly great talented people.
So they hear that from all these different sources, so they know
that these writers are well thought of and are supposed to be good
and they try to read them and then they realize that they really
have to be thinking about them. [And] They are not as accessible
as they want them to be. Then they get really upset because it means
that this thing that was "good" for them, supposed to
enrich their lives, hasn't. They feel as though it hasn't. So I
think that's where a lot of the anger and rancor come from. It's
sad but it’s inevitable because if everyone were to be able
to understand, then there might be something wrong with the writing.
RB: I was struck by your saying you went back
and reworked a story. Was that all of them or some?
ZZ: All of them, to varying degrees. The ones
that are closer to having been written recently I reworked less.
I really wanted to revise the ones I hadn't read in awhile. I felt
I was a different person and a different writer, more importantly.
I revised them myself before even turning them into an editor. That
shows you how ashamed I was of some of them. I feel like before
you show it to someone it should be as complete as possible, not
to say as polished but in terms of what the story is trying to do
it should be complete so other people can't misconstrue what you
are trying to say or get across. Actually I took a long, long time
before I even turned them in. After that it was a matter of going
back and forth, back and forth and fine-tuning.
RB: How do you know when you are done with a story?
If in the future there is a Collected Stories of ZZ Packer
will you go back again?
ZZ: I was expressing this fear to Elizabeth Talent,
who is one of the workshop leaders at the Stegner Program, just
as I went to this collection again I fear that that what's going
to happen with this novel. If it does get published then I'll think,
"Oh, ten years after I will think I have to do something with
it." She said— and it was helpful and I believe because
it makes me feel a lot better (laughs), "One of the aspects
of being a writer is going through those stages and even if you
are at a different stage ten years down the road then that is still
a part of who you were as a writer then. One of the joys of going
back over writers that one admired is comparing the earlier period
to the later periods." And she said, "You'll have the
impulse to revise but you have to think of it as 'That's part of
the earlier period.'"
RB: In other words, let it go.
ZZ: (laughs) In other words, "Let it go."
Thanks for saying it way more succinctly than I would put it.
RB: How long have you been working on this novel?
ZZ: Oh God. I would say about five years. Also,
I was doing stories and research and failed, not even drafts, but
failed pages.
RB: So you don't feel inclined to write start
to finish?
ZZ: No, I kind of would like to (both laugh) write
from start to finish.
RB: It hasn't worked out that way.
 ZZ:
Actually in the past year I have been working fairly chronologically
as far as the book is concerned. So I think I have what is going
to remain the beginning of it. And I am going through and I have
about 450 pages (laughs) and it's really long and I know it's going
to be a lot longer before I gather all the pieces and make sure
it’s more compact and revise it and stuff like that. So this
year has been good for the novel. Probably because I have been less,
since they are literally out of my hands, with the short stories.
But previous years I hoped that I could go start to finish and get
out a quick draft, but I kept failing and the reason was that I
did not know who the characters were. I knew what I wanted to write
about, and I had done all this research on the time period, place
and flora and fauna and whatever. When I say I didn't have the characters
It wasn't as if I didn't think I knew who they were, but when I
was writing it became evident that they weren't clear in my head.
And that was really disappointing, to just be working on it for
so long —and I am not a patient person. But I have to be patient
for it.
RB: It’s a horse of a different color or
some such cliche.
ZZ: People say your first novel is autobiographical,
in this case the short stories actually have autobiographical elements,
details and settings and that sort of thing.
RB: How did you select the stories?
ZZ: For a long time, ten sounded like this nice
round number. I wanted to have ten stories in the collection I have
on my hard drive, I have fifty stories that I have started and abandoned.
Then I decided I want every story to be what I think is going to
be good. And not just filler.
RB: How do you know?
ZZ: Yeah, as I am saying this I realize that someone
could say, "Well, I thought story number two and story number
five of your collection were filler."
RB: These were stories you believed in?
ZZ: Yeah, that was pretty much the selection process
for me.
RB: Do you ever throw anything away?
ZZ: Yeah, but I keep them on the hard drive and
I keep long hand drafts and file them away. Every once in a while
when I am procrastinating while I am supposed to be writing, I will
look through this very long list of the abandoned ones. I just keep
them there to see.
RB: Because they tell you something about where
you were at?
ZZ: Yeah, or what I was thinking about, and another
thing is I will sometimes cannibalize an old story, "Nothing
in here was good except this one line I could actually use."
RB: So, here's where we are. You have a recently
published collection of short stories. You were highly anticipated
and now highly celebrated. You are working on, with greater diligence
these days, a novel and you are living in San Francisco. And you
are going to teach at Iowa for a semester.
ZZ: Once this tour is over—from the end
of April to the middle of August I won't have anything to do but
write. I am scared because it always scary for me not to have some
sort of steady income (laughs) you know.
RB: I know story collections are iffy, but do
you expect to make any money from Drinking Coffee Elsewhere?
Teaching,
the students really need you. You can't just say, "No,
I am going to do this really selfish thing, scribble."
(laughs) So it was incredibly hard to write and teach public
high school. |
ZZ: I did get a nice advance, but it occurred
to me what if…it would be nice if it happens, but I am not
really going to count on it.
RB: When you look forward in your life, what do
you see?
ZZ: I have been prepared to do it for so long
that anything that happens that is good, like an advance, seems
like a bonus. For the most part all I have been seeking out is to
have a chance to write, to become a better writer, to get —before
it wasn't even about being published, but then you do want someone
to read it, so getting published and that's what it has been for
so long that having a job and trying to get money was a necessity
only to keep me alive to do those things that I mentioned before.
So yeah I do want to just continue to write. It's scary. The big
fear I have is that you can get to a certain point, like yes you
have a book and a lot of people wish they could achieve that, but
then there is still this (sighs) that you want to be good not just
in a publishing a book kind of way, but I'll never be as good as
…
RB: That sounds self-defeating. Look at he impressive
group of people that have blurbed your book [George Saunders, John
Barth, Stuart Dybek, Stephen Dixon, Margot Livesey]. You are setting
up a tough standard.
ZZ: You are right. (laughs) But I do think about
it. I think about Jonathan Franzen's thing about the social novel
(I have to stop using the word 'thing'). You can tell by his inner
exchange and by his essays there is this need—I can see that
in him, the desire to be a genius. I think that's what so many writers
want to be. Obviously. it's elusive.
RB: Well, it's easy for me to say what I said.
(both laugh)
ZZ: Yeah, "Don't think about that…."
RB: Okay, well thank you.
____
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Posted:
April 29, 2003
