J
a. Here’s the thing. The creators don’t really know what they’re doing, but they went
ahead and started an online magazine anyway. A platform for handmade, computer-tweaked, arts and crafts, and all things creative. With short stories, poetry, photography, graffiti, politics, every day conversations, and whatever else amuses the modern malaise. We aim to share some cool (and even not so cool) South African findings. It’s for anyone, really. Well, maybe not your ma and your pa, but they’re invited to the party too. Creators and contributors: Dave Mann, Niamh Walsh-Vorster, Werner Goss-Ross, Lumumba Mthembu, Sloo Phaho, Chris Bompas, Amy Slatem, Codi Nkulu, Isabelle Rawlins and Victor. Everyone counts.
1. Ja. what ? 3. Taxis & Tattoos 7. Glorious g u t t e r s 9. Short Story: I Fix SA 13. ARTiculation 15. Thebookbookclub 17. Nobody writes D I Y - g u i d e s for Rappers 19. Illustration by Amy Slatem
Cape Town’s taxi rank tattoo artist By Dave Mann The Mother City is crawling with all sorts of tattooed characters. Most of them are either suburban dwelling, die hard tattoo enthusiasts who are more ink than skin, or they’re reformed city bowl hipsters, saving up their pocket money to get that overpriced, but ‘timeless’ deer tattoo. Hop on the nearest train or taxi and you’ll eye a few great pieces on the arms of your fellow commuters too. These tattoos probably weren’t done in one of Cape Town’s many overpriced parlours, but rather in a small starter shop you’ve unknowingly walked past a few times. Ja Magazine went out to speak to one of these artists to get his story. Photographs by Niamh Walsh-Vorster
I
t’s an unforgivingly hot day in the CBD as we climb the stairs to the overcrowded, and far too noisy expanse of metal and concrete that is the Cape Town central taxi rank. We’re darting in and out of rows upon rows of repurposed shipping containers housing vendors of all kinds as we search for the one containing our first subject for Ja Magazine- Chris Bompas, the taxi rank tattoo artist.
Down the row with the garish Rastafarian paraphernalia and a sharp turn at the impromptu hair salon sporting a poster of
a white girl with braids and we arrive at the container marked ‘Be True Tattoo’. A few metallic knocks on the side grab Chris’ attention and he emerges from behind his partition. “Howzit guys. Hey sick tats man.”
the outside cacophony of gospel music, and a half concealed bottle of Southern Comfort topped with a plastic cup takes care of the evenings which follow long, hot days like this. “I started thinking of a location that was affordable, but still nicely situated and the taxi rank came to mind. I saw how many young black girls and guys were getting into the tattoo scene when I was in Durban and I had been through Cape Town many times, but nobody was doing affordable, decent tattoos for a lower income bracket” says Chris, “I wasn’t really ready to go and work in a parlour that charged like R950 an hour so I thought why not give people affordable tattoos and let my skills grow at the same time?”
The container has been Chris’ place of work and his second home for just over a year now, having decided at the age of 23 to get his own equipment and move down from Durban to start up a tattoo parlour of his own. Laminated tattoo designs and small canvases line the doors of the container. Inside hangs all of the standard tattoo equipment- Inks, needles, a spare tattoo gun, cotton swabs, paper towels, razors, just like you’d expect a tattoo parlour to look like, complete with a nervously excited client. A small fan takes care of the heat, some Some haphazardly distributed well-placed speakers take care of flyers and a number of pleased
customers later and Be True’s marketing was all being done by word of mouth. Any tattoo artist knows that their clients are walking, talking galleries with free advertising, but Chris’ work was hopping onto a few hundred different taxis, becoming the topic of cramped minibus travellers and proudly showing itself off on the streets of Cape Town from Delft to Simonstown. The women in the chair next to Chris however, heard about him through a mutual friend. A freshly applied design of three small, neat mandalas arch along her right shoulder, linking up with what looks like a patterned feather. Chris likes his customers to be comfortable so he lets them bring their own music. A chillwave remix of a Katy Perry song plays through his shop. In his baggy blue jeans, skater shoes, a white shirt, and a panel cap with a pattern similar to the one he’s applying, he sits back
down and resumes his work with he arrives at the shop there will the familiar buzz of his tattoo usually be about four people lined gun. up, waiting to discuss prices, placement, and designs. A day “You’re not seeing my usual of tattooing clients and listening clientele today” he says to the to their stories sees him closing half of us with the camera, “I up shop at eight or nine at night. normally tattoo black skin you Chris is no stranger to long days see” he says turning back to me. spent in a tattoo parlour however. “I also get a lot of ex- gangsters At age 12, long before he picked come to me looking to cover up up his first tattoo machine, he was their numbers for work reasons learning the tricks of the trade by or because they’ve fallen out of watching his older brother tattoo. that way of thinking and want This is probably why he has so to start fresh. In the beginning I much patience for the hordes of was keen on helping guys out and kids that frequent his corner of covering up gang related tattoos the taxi rank. for free, but the first guy I did that with ended up in prison again so “All the kids here have parents I thought fuck it, that’s out the associated with the different window. But otherwise I just get shops and they all sort of band a lot of those guys telling me their together and mess around, stories.” normally coming to harass me for my skateboard or something like An average day for Chris sees him that” he explains with a smile. starting work at 11am, but being “At times it’s fun, I mean I know woken up far earlier by calls from all of them now, but sometimes it clients demanding tattoos on gets in the way of work and just their way through the rank. When gets annoying. But it’s all part
of the job and I mean I get along with the little shits.” By now you’re probably wondering about the type of environment Be True is situated in. Chris explains with a familiar grin that he’s had to answer the ‘safety question’ many times over. “I’ll get a lot of questions like is it safe there? Is the area safe? But I just tell them to come through and check it out for themselves, because it’s really how you look at it” he says whilst pausing to towel off his brow. “I’ve worked nights here until 2am before, locked up and gone home and had no trouble, but I’ve nearly been mugged walking home in Rondebosch in the afternoon. A lot of it has to do with how you carry yourself and what you put out. If you’re walking around looking skittish, people are gonna pick up on that, but really, this place is just full of hard working people getting through their day.”
hopes to hand Be True over to new management, but under his watch. He hopes to one day provide customers with joint jewellery and tattoo designs that will allow for interchangeable sets of jewellery that compliment a customer’s new body art. The year he spent at Cape Tech studying jewellery design will allow him to pursue this goal.
that’s why this shop’s called Be True. It’s based on the idea of being true to yourself and your nature and that whatever you want to do to your body has fuckall to do with anyone else or what they think, as long as you’re happy.”
Be True is the type of little shop that you can easily spend your entire day in, whether you’re being tattooed or not. But tattoos must still be done and taxis must be caught so we pack up and head back out onto the baking concrete with the insistent vendors and the relentless gospel music. We hadn’t even turned the corner and there were already two new tattooed visitors at Chris’ door. Chris finishes up the section he’s By the look of the grins on their working on and lets his customer faces, they were regulars. check her progress in the mirror. “I’d like to give people some Get your ink at Shop T6 freedom and adaptability with at the Taxi rank kiosks. their tattoos so they can change Contact Chris 078 910 4244 up their look and be happy with or bompas.christopherlee@ Looking to the future, Chris it” he says before adding, “I mean gmail.com
Glorious Gutters By Dave Mann Many people like to spend holidays at home with their family, catching up with old friends, or bonding with their couch in front of the tv. Me, I like finding all the urban trash and treasures at the heart of the city, connected by the various veins and capillaries that are its sewers, canals, and railway lines. The people you meet along the way only add to the experience. Like Victor, the guy who’s trying to contact his wife through crudely scrawled, urban love letters all over town.
“My wife walked out on me a few years back. I keep trying to find her, but she was nowhere. I started writing on the walls and now I have my art all over town. I leave her messages that tell her I love her and I draw pretty flowers and hearts so hopefully she’ll see it. You see here this one says ‘Marie Love Me’.” Whether it’s dodging drowned moles, wading barefoot and ankle deep in human shit, or being threatened with a Savannah Dry bottleneck by a charmingly energetic tik kop, I always feel right at home in the gutter. Now I’m choosing not to read into that, but you’re most welcome to. Here are a few photos to look at while you do. Photos by Dave Mann & Niamh Walsh-Vorster
I Fix SA By Lumumba Mthembu
R
emember the conference you attended at Redhill? You left your black band hanging from the armrest of a vacant seat in the darkened auditorium. The shiny wood, varnished by anonymous elbows, wore the rubber ornament like an emaciated wrist. It was as if somebody had left it there but Gladstone couldn’t tell you for sure. He was an uneducated man and because of this he avoided making assumptions. His job was to restore the sheen to surfaces that had been used, misused and abused, and Gladstone knew that this was always easier to do when one asked no questions. He studied the band as it hung like a hoola-hoop around its horizontal host’s waist. It had three thin white stripes and one thick red one. In confident capitals it told Gladstone, “I FIX SA.” “It can’t be denied that Justin Bieber is a force to be reckoned with.” Gladstone had the wrong station. “Mashego steps up to the spot. If the young man can keep his composure he can put Pirates in the lead here.” That was more like it. He could listen to the game while he performed his duties but he could not tell you what the black band meant. He put it in the black refuse bag along with scrunched up pie wrappers, dented Valpre bottles and discarded programme notes. “Welcome All Delegates!” they screamed to a departed audience. “Regional Conference – Final Programme. 7.308.30: Registration, tea and book displays. Venue: Outside the auditorium. Book displays: Lower Block. 8.30-8.40: Housekeeping. Welcome. Venue: Auditorium. 8.40-9.30: Keynote address – Alex Jay. Venue: Auditorium.” Gladstone hadn’t seen the keynote speaker. At the time, he was locating an additional urn. White middle-aged women needed
more tea and coffee to wet throats made dry by laughter. Had he stood a little closer to the door, he may have heard them say how little Alex Jay was: “TV definitely makes him look taller.” “Apparently his kids are really quiet.” “I swear he was high.” “He kept losing his place.” But Gladstone heard none of these informed comments. He was an uninformed man and his ignorance bothered no one, least of all himself. Gladstone stood no chance when Hilary Janks took the stage. The professor’s diatribe on critical literacy fell on semi-literate ears out in the foyer. In between the sounds of Mdu that accompanied the percussive strokes of his broom, Gladstone’s ears would snatch at, “Whose interests are served by this particular discourse?” and, “Not even the phone book is an unbiased piece of literature,” but Gladstone’s attention would wander back to Mdu: “Bab’u-Government ses’khathele ukshizila/Now is the time ‘kuthi s’yekele le-crime/S’thole isinkwa es’clean sangemihla nemihla/Njengabany’abantu/ He Bab’u-Government ngithi asthandi ukuba la/Behind the bars/Yas’biza u-baas/Six o’clock ses’yolala/Ngoba s’thand’ukulwa/I-life eso inzima.” The floor shimmered like the sea when Gladstone was through, in double-time too thanks to his sea-chantey. High-heeled soles walked on water amidst giggles and yawns but were soon stationary outside the foyer’s busiest port. “Why is there never a queue outside the gents?” joked a frumpy delegate but Gladstone simply smiled at her dumpy face dumbly. More delegates swept into the foyer like waves, some jingling keys to station wagons and sport hatches, others clutching environmentally-friendly gift bags. They all chirped
and squeaked like porpoises as they floated past differences, but they are necessary in this country. Gladstone on the lightness of their lives. It was then Fatima and Saleem were brought gether by their belief in Islam. Fatima’s white brothers were army that Gladstone decided to go outside. conscripts during the apartheid dispensation. He smoked his Stuyve Red behind the auditorium, Initially they disapproved of the young couple’s leaning against a branch in the shade of a tree. A union but soon found Saleem, a Zulu boy from KZN, murmur wafted over from the other side of the thoroughly unobjectionable. Saleem’s family was building where biscuit-flavoured banter, muffins more accepting, citing the private education of the sprinkled with anecdotes, and coffee sweetened kids as the reason for their exposure to divergent with gossip were consumed with gusto. Gladstone cultures from an early age. As South African could not tell you that those delicacies tasted of listeners, let us take heed of Fatima’s parting ten-month-old babies that could already walk, and words: ‘Love is not easy but it is essential.’ Thanks colleagues that had been having affairs for ten years. everyone.” Talk radio bored Gladstone but the They tasted of disgruntled employees that wanted auto-search function of his phone would sometimes incentives, and children that needed to be driven feed him indigestible tid-bits from 702 and SAfm. to IEB entrance exams. All of this was too rich for He switched off the radio and took a well-deserved Gladstone’s uneducated palate. His stomach had bathroom break. grown used to simple, solid pap, just as his soul After he’d performed his ablutions, he noticed had stoically shouldered the unbearable burden of being. He stubbed his Stuyvesant, saving half for that the auditorium door that usually scared later, as he was beckoned by the call of silence from off latecomers with “Performance in Progress” had been irresponsibly left ajar. He hesitated, the courtyard. stumbling over the thought that it may have been Indeed it was deserted though stained with left open for ventilation. He hovered, halted, and being: half-lit Marlboro Lights and Camel Super heard: “I’m Sonia Labuschagne, founder of FixSA. Lights floundered between the cracks in the paving, There are only three of us and lately we’ve been lying on their sides like beached marine life. asked why we’ve been doing so much to combat Gladstone dutifully administered mouth-to-mouth rhino poaching when ordinary people are suffering resuscitation, more for his sake though than for in this beautiful country of ours. We go where we theirs. In the end they all died but not before they are needed which obviously means we can’t be gave up their last lungful of lead-breath. Gladstone’s everywhere but I’d like to urge you as fellow South black bag was the final destination as he restored Africans to take responsibility for leading your the pristine sheen to yet another surface tainted by country.” Gladstone noticed that the slim white the flow of human traffic. The work always went woman said “laak” instead of “like” but Gladstone didn’t go to a private school so he couldn’t tell you faster when the radio was on: “Interracial couples obviously have it tough. that Saffers said “whaat” instead of “white” and They have to combat social stigma, family “naan” instead of “nine”. He was heartened by this disapproval and not least of all, their own personal observation because in his own way he regarded
it as astute, and it encouraged him to push the forbidding door open a few more inches: “Aa’d laak to share a story with you today. It is an example of an ordinary Sarth African who decaaded that enough is enough. He followed a taxi that sped past him in the shoulder lane. He noticed the taxi was fleeing from Metro Police vehicles so he phoned us at FixSA but we couldn’t help so we patched him through to the SAPS. He gave them his location raaght up until the taxi driver pulled into Noord Taxi Rank having noticed that he had a tail. Aa don’t know if any of you have been to Noord lately but it’s a pretty scary place.” Sympathetic nods rippled through the crowd as compassion was extended to the brave motorist who would not enter Noord. Gladstone went there every day and he certainly wasn’t fearful when he connected with the 4-2-1 taxi that dropped him off in Diepkloof. “So if you don’t stand up and fix Sarth Africa, nobody else will,” concluded the woman. Gladstone could not understand what these whites were so afraid of but he wasn’t going to stand there and try to figure it out. His half-smoked Stuyve offered more solace so out he went, but first he closed the door, leaving the performance in progress.
with a heavy frown on your face: “Personally Bra Mike, I’m tired of insulated white South Africans who assume that their socio-economic position is the generic point of reference for everyone in the room.” You could see that Gladstone was impressed with your command of the English language. You spoke it with disdain, flicking your tongue frequently as if your lips would catch a rash if you didn’t switch back to vernac. “Oh, you’re referring to what Sonia said about Noord being a scary place?” Bra Mike replied and Gladstone noted that he too spoke the Queen’s English. You came alive as if there wouldn’t be another opportunity to respond: “Scary maybe if you’re a middle-aged white woman who brags at dinner parties about the last time Tannie Thea fired wheat-filled shotgun pellets at a common chicken thief. Scary maybe if you’re a middle-aged white man who boasts at every braai about your wife, the heroine, because she set a hijacker alight with gas-filled pepperspray. Do you know that is what these people do Bra Mike? Trade war stories about their conquests over crime.” Had Gladstone been interested in improving himself then perhaps he might’ve stayed on a tad longer but duty called and Gladstone always answered. With his eyes to the ground he could not tell you that Bra Mike wore a black band with three white stripes and a single red one, or that every delegate wore one, all except you.
It seemed, as Gladstone smoked, that the blacks came out first. Two in particular wore angrily educated expressions. “I need a cigarette,” is what Gladstone heard as the younger one bore down on him. “Hoyi Uncle. Ngicela ung’size ngomuntu ongang’thengisela i-loose?” Gladstone pointed to a member of the kitchen staff who was lying in the grassy shade overlooking the courtyard. “Cela loya mama. Umbize ngo Mam’Diks,” added Gladstone with a smile. He liked you because you wore the Lumumba Mthembu is in his final year of pink shirt that is emblazoned with the legend English Masters and a Mandela Rhodes “Soweto: My Land”. Scholar for 2015. The Soweto born wordsmith received an honorary mention for his short
You hurried over to your mate having acquired your “loose” and sat within earshot of Gladstone. You thanked him with a polite wave before you focused fully on your friend. You spoke furiously
story ‘I Fix SA’ in SAWC 2011 Short Story Competition.
He’s into SA fiction, making
mixes and all things Based God related. Photo by Niamh Walsh-Vorster
by Codi Nkulu Last night I wet my bed again, but you can’t tell no one because he’ll know. I can’t imagine what he’ll do to me this time, probably beat me till I can’t cry no more. My body is still aching from the last beating I got, I still have the cuts and bruises. I try running away but I can’t, my heart refuses. I try pushing him away but that just makes the punishment go on for longer. One day I’ll have the muscle to put him down because what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I’m not shaken by the scars on ma face, I really don’t care. What cut me deep though is as I cried for help, she just stood there... Can’t you see that I’m crying mom, aren’t you gonna do something? Don’t they say that mothers’ hearts are filled with compassion and loving? Are you the exception? Am I just a failed abortion? Do I cause complications or is this just one of those messed up situations with no explanations? Sigh, maybe I’m just exaggerating, maybe I should take it like a man. Maybe this is all part of God’s master plan. I wish my real father were still alive though, then everything would be alright. He would tuck me in and make sure I slept peacefully at night. Tonight though I’ll sleep on the couch because...last night I wet the bed again but you can’t tell no one since he’ll know, he’ll see that I wet my bed with my tear and blood and tried to hide it with my pillow.
Leave a light on by Isabelle Rawlins Lights in the Ongoye hills are spills of human settlement a paintbrush dips to drop each light but the jar of paint, knocked over. One hand moves to trace the road pauses form the streetlights the cars play dot to dot with lines that can’t keep still. It’s taken years to see the hills stop disappearing into sunsets the quiet vestiges of stove smoke extinguished by the dark. One bulb and then another cluster into company the hills all lit with people who leave a light on.
The book book club By Niamh Walsh-Vorster
Most real book clubs just end up in everyone slurring in hysterics over a probably not so funny weekend tale after a few too many glasses of Porcupine Ridge. This however, might provide a more sober account of some of the recent books I’ve drunk up. Some I sipped and some I downed. SA sure has some quality novelists and non-fiction authors.
L
auren Beukes: woman of the hour (probably a bit longer than 60 minutes, though). I may have developed a slight lady crush for her and her work. She is pretty damn awesome at what she does. Moxyland is a sci-fi with a local storyline and cool characters that you wish you were chomas with. She has written comics too, with her latest being picked up by DC comics. Wonder Woman with an African edge. Immerse yourself in her stuff, not a second wasted. The Last Rhinos, published 3 years ago but still a book worth reading. You’d think Lawrence Anthony was a pathological liar just by the elaborate life he lived and the insane political situations he found himself caught up in; all in the name of conservation. From sleeping in a Lords Resistance Army (LRA) camp to mingling with the late Vincent Otti, and conversing telephonically with way back when internet celeb Joseph Kony. His mission to save the Northern white rhino is unbelievable. Maybe it’s the romantic way all game rangers and bush dwellers imagine the world around them that makes them such great story tellers,
but what a tale, with an ending that can only reinforce the truth of it all. In the back of my mind I can just hear the comments by friends who studied Politics or Anthropology, saying, “Wow, that book is problematic, dude.” Which, in all fairness they would be on the mark saying so. Steven Otter states the obvious in his book Khayelitsha: uMlungu in a Township. He reflects on his whiteness and position as a privileged individual who is pushing himself to break his own personal barriers of racism, but once again pretty much falls into the trap of creating narratives that are all from his perceptive, and as my friends would say, “problematic” and one dimensional. I could write a whole blog about this book saying why it works and why it doesn’t. I’d say take it out the library though if you’re interested to read more. Other SA books you should read: Broken Monsters, Young Blood, We are Going to Kill Each Other Today, White Paper White Ink and Eat, Drink & Blame the Ancestors.
Nobody writes DIY-Guides for Rappers By Sloo All avid music lovers will tell you that the musical environment is changing. Musicians are rapidly moving towards independence in the face of major label flops and the growing influence of the internet. While the big picture is becoming clearer in the States, where digital sales have recently overtaken physical sales and streaming is now considered equally important to physical distribution, the same can’t be said of South Africa. Digital sales still account for less than 10% of our overall sales, and while access to internet is steadily increasing, the choice between chasing record deals and staying indie is tough enough. I started taking rap seriously when I was at Rhodes University. I’d put out a few songs already, but nobody really has any taste when they’re in fucking high school. Back at Rhodes, a few equally-ambitious rappers and I started putting out songs in 2011, remixing popular American rappers as inexperienced local rappers do. I had a romantic view of the music industry back then I thought I’d record a rough demo, put it online and become Young Money’s newest artist on a $1 Million deal. By 2012, I had become disenchanted with the world around me. How could 2 Chainz be able to charge $100K
per 16 rap lines, when I had stacks of rhyme books but was still eating Maggi Noodles? I was comparing myself to an Atlantabtased rapper who had already been making music for north of a decade. If only someone had told me that there’s nothin g special about recreating generic American music in Grahamstown. The mistake I had made was undermining South African music for so long.
After growing up on Kanye West & Eminem, I’d only ever wanted to be like those guys. Looking back, I see that I’ve been missing out on HHP, Skwatta Kamp, Teargas, AKA and the like. These are rappers who translated their local experiences into lyrical form, layering them over a pure South African sound. I did try listening to them in the past, but I was listening with a childish, Westernised ear. Nobody tells you to ignore the imported hype. Until very recently, I thought that
all the all of the best producers and rappers were in New York, Los Angeles and Atlanta. Recently, my view has shifted rapidly. There are sounds developing here that can entertain every festival crowd from Rocking The Daisies all the way to Coachella. In the words of a good friend of mine, “South Africa’s got next”. The internet has the power to narrow your view of the world to 50 states in a country that’s 12000 km away, and it’s tragic how much you’ll miss in the process. It’s 2015 now, and I’m more hopeful of seeing an e-mail from an indie label than I am of seeing an offer from Universal, I’d take an Okmalumkoolkat feature over 2 Chainz any day of the week, and I’d happily choose a Christian Tiger School beat over DJ Mustard’s next banger. I’m not saying that Universal or DJ Mustard aren’t worth my time, but now I have a chance to tell my own SA story over distinctly local beats and have complete independence and artistic freedom while doing it. I’m currently working with a sound that’s miles (sorry, kilometres) more interesting than anything I’ve put out in the past. The one thing I’ve learnt over the past 5 years is that nobody writes DIY Guides for rappers, they have to write it themselves.
Ja Magazine loves local music. More than that, we love the people who are putting their time, money, and effort into creating it. Since we’re a magazine that deals with a little bit of everything, we thought it rather fitting to have the young, multitalented rapper, actor, and film student, Sloo as our first local artist. Photos by Niamh Walsh-Vorster Where does Sloo come from? Sloo is born in Durban, but from there I’ve lived in 9 other cities so it’s easier to just say South Africa. You study film, you come from a background of acting and performing arts, and you rap. How much of that actively intersects or is it all a natural sort of touch and go? I’ve always had an interest in performing arts, rapping was my first love, acting was my second, but I grew up watching a bunch of gangster 80s/90s films and recently I’ve been trying my hand at screenwriting. I would say that they’re equal but seperate passions and I’ve always felt like the inspiration comes randomly. Where do you draw most of your musical inspiration from? I draw my musical inspiration from everyday random things, for example when “SABC Sloo” drops, you’ll hear lyrics about gatsbys, bar ones and my drunk uncle. The lyrics kinda just pop into my head. My main lyrical influences are Rakim, Kanye West and Kendrick Lamar. What’s your opinion of our local music scene? The local music scene is interesting, there’s a lot of great guys in hip hop working with the throwback kwaito sound which is really awesome. I think our music industry is in its “almost famous” stage. Any day now we’re gonna have a huge international star, you can almost feel it coming. Local rappers you’re listening to right now? I’m listening to guys like Okmalumkoolkat, Cassper Nyovest, AKA and Kwesta. What do you think about being Ja Magazine’s first subject? I’m so stoked to be your first interview, I feel like it came together so naturally. Plus, I’m about to start building a fan base which is kinda where you guys are at as well. So it’s awesome.