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Florida, Indian Summer 2000
It's
called the Spanish Veil.
You're either lifted up from the ground holding onto it,
or you start at the top after stepping off a platform
into mid-air, holding onto the long banner of cloth that
is the Veil itself. It's like doing acrobatics on a
cable or heavy rope, only the fabric floats more and you
can wrap it around yourself and do a lot more
spectacular tricks with it. You can roll up in it and
let go, unrolling as you get nearer to the ground until
it looks like you're going to crash, only you grab it at
the last minute, stopping yourself just short of
disaster. No doubt you've seen it done by the acrobats
of Cirque du Soleil - they're real artists at it.
It's
easy to get foolhardy in the learning process and think
you know what you're doing, try something that's way
beyond your physical limitations. It's not necessarily
that you're not strong or athletic or limber, but
sometimes muscles are overstressed, or you've not warmed
up enough, you try something and suddenly realize you've
fucked up.
I was
learning to do tricks on the Veil for a film, working
every day with experienced acrobats, doing weight
training to keep my shoulders and arms strong, doing
limbering exercises to be as supple as possible, and
completely ignoring the signals my body was sending my
brain. A jab of pain from my left shoulder was a signal
that all was not well. I ignored it. A muscle cramp in
my upper arm was another signal - I worked through it. I
didn't tell the trainer that I had done something to the
ligaments in both shoulders some months back and that I
had just finished a film where I had spent several days
hanging onto the struts of a flying helicopter, dangling
in mid-air. I didn't tell him that, frankly, because I
already hurt, and I was determined to beat the pain into
submission and overcome it. Sometimes I can be bloody
stupid.
That
day, I warmed up, did a few loops and swoops, then I
rolled up in the Veil and suddenly let go to fall
dangerously fast toward the ground. I was out of control
right away. I heard the trainer shouting at me to grab
hold, and when I did, it was like a bolt of lightning
through my shoulder straight down my whole body. I
didn't hit the ground, but it felt like I'd hit a brick
wall. Lowering myself down the last few feet to the
ground was almost more than I could handle. I wasn't
sure if I wanted to pass out, scream or vomit. I settled
for standing, bent over like a pretzel, cussin' a blue
streak.
"I
told you not to try that!" the trainer yelled.
I
muttered something, actually, I think I called him a
bloomin' asshole, but it's kind of hazy.
"Let's have a look," he said.
"Uh-uh," I managed. "Hospital"
"What?"
He
touched my shoulder and I recoiled, knocking him back.
"Don't! Fucking! Touch! Me!" I barked. "Hospital, now!"
I was beginning to think throwing up wasn't such a bad
idea.
"It's
probably just a cramp," the guy tried.
I
straightened up enough to look him in the eye. He backed
up a step. "Hospital," he agreed, and drove me there
himself. I walked in under my own steam, cradling my
left arm against me so as not to jostle it. I marched up
to the admitting desk - okay, I practically crawled up
to it, I was hurtin' so bad. "Help," I said.
The
lady behind the desk looked me over. I was dirty,
sweaty, wearin' a ripped tee shirt, old running shorts
and jogging shoes. I looked either drunk, drugged or
both. Oh, and she couldn't understand me because she'd
probably never heard an Aussie accent before.
"What?" she asked. She was nice, though, she smiled when
she asked.
I
took a breath, got control of my tongue, stifled the
urge to just spew out a lot of words she'd never
understand, along with my breakfast, and repeated
myself. "Help. I'm getting ready for a film and I've
injured my shoulder."
"A
film."
I
nodded, "Yes. With the circus." That was a mistake.
She
got this look on her face like sour pickles, and leaned
towards me over the counter, "Sir, we can't treat you
here. You have to go to the county hospital."
The
trainer, who was taking all this in, started to say
something, but I shot him a look, turned back to the
lady and said in my sweetest, most cultivated, posh
voice, "Ma'am, I think we have a lack of communication
here. I'm not from here. I'm not a gypsy or whatever you
think I am, and I'm not going to the county hospital. I
want a doctor to look at my shoulder and I want him in
the next five minutes or I am bloody well going to stand
in the middle of this nice, clean waiting room and
scream the place down."
She
blinked. I smiled, looking as charming as possible under
the circumstances, my arm feeling like it was just going
to drop off onto the floor. I almost wished it would. It
might've hurt less.
"Well," she said, "if you want to be that way - do you
have insurance?"
"No."
"Money?"
"Twenty bucks American, two quarters and a dime," I
answered, pretty sure of my facts.
She
was looking negative again. Then I said the magic words,
"American Express?" Instant change of attitude.
"Of
course," she smiled warmly, obviously deciding that I
wasn't a gypsy, a bum, a drunk, a druggie or other
undesirable person. She slid a clipboard full of papers
towards me, "Fill these out, then bring them back to me
and I'll give you a number."
I
handed the clipboard to Steve, the trainer. I leaned
towards the lady. "You'll give me the number now," I
said in a low voice.
"I'll
give you the number now," she echoed, and gave me a
number.
Steve, to his credit, filled out the papers and took
them back to the desk. The lady called out my number a
minute later. "Mr. Crowe," she whispered when I inched
my way back there, "you're a foreign national."
"No
bloody kidding," I snarled. "What of it?"
"I
need to see some I.D."
I dug
in my pockets. Luckily I had my wallet, and I flipped it
open. "International Driving License," I pointed out to
her. "American Express Card." (I was pleased it was a
platinum one.) "Work permit. What else do you need?"
She
examined the driver's license, squinting at my picture.
"You don't have a beard in this picture, and your hair
is short." She peered at me. "A film, you say?" She
glanced at the work permit. It read, "Actor" in the
occupation box. "Do I know your films?"
"Probably not," I allowed, wondering if she would give
me an aspirin if I fell to my knees and begged.
"What
are some of them?" She asked.
Was
she fuckin' blind? Could she not see that I was in
desperate straits? "L.A. Confidential," I tried. No
recognition. "The Insider?" Still nothing. I sighed. I
knew it was going to come to this. "Gladiator?"
She
practically leaped over the counter, "YES!" she shouted.
Everybody turned to look. She beamed at me. "Which one
were you in that?"
I
groaned. "General Maximus," I said, thinking the truth
would work.
"No,
you weren't," she informed me. "He's much bigger and
darker. Which one were you, really?"
I
noticed a youngish woman, maybe late twenties, sitting a
few steps away, takin' in this whole farce. She looked
about to burst, staring from me to the harpy behind the
desk and back. I nodded to her. She held up a magazine.
Bloody damn, my picture was on the cover. I rolled my
eyes at her and she got up, came over to the desk,
slapped the magazine down on the counter and said,
"Ma'am, you see this guy on the cover?" She pointed to
me in costume as Maximus.
"Yes," the woman said, studyin' the picture, then me,
the picture, then me. "Who is that?"
The
young woman, I think of her as my rescue angel, tapped
the picture. "Are you blind? That's him, Russell Crowe,
the star of the movie."
The
lady stared at her, stared at me, stared at the picture
and finally, reluctantly, nodded. "It could be him."
"It
IS him, er, me," I insisted, "and lady? If you don't let
me see a doctor pretty soon, we're all gonna be really
sorry."
"Well, there's no need to get ugly," she huffed. She
picked up a phone and talked into it for a minute. I
heard "troublemaker" and "scene" and "security" and
"right now". Behind me, Steve was cracking up, unable to
believe the whole bloody mess. The lady shot me a
triumphant look. "Sit down, sir. Someone will be with
you in a minute."
"I
don't want to sit down," was all I got out before some
geek in a blue uniform grabbed my arms and gave me a
shove. Everything after that is kind of hazy except the
floor coming up to meet me. I don't remember hitting it,
but I must have because I had a bruise on the side of my
face later.
The
next thing I remember is waking up feeling like one of
the circus elephants had stepped on my shoulder. Some
bloke in green scrubs was taking my pulse, and when I
tried to sit up, he pressed me back down onto the table.
"Not a good idea," he warned me.
Too
late. I rolled onto my side and threw up. I'm not sure
which was worse, the pain in my shoulder, or the nausea.
I'll give the bloke credit, though, he just stepped out
of range, and when I was done retching, he wiped my face
with a towel. "Sorry, mate," I choked out.
He
eased me down onto my back. "No problem, hurts like
hell, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," I admitted.
"You
allergic to Demerol?" he asked, making some notes on a
clipboard. Meantime, he gestured to one of the other
guys, "Get someone to clean this up." I wanted to
suggest the lady at the front desk but thought that
might be rude.
"No,"
I told him, "could you hurry it up?"
"Right now soon enough?" he asked me, holding up a
syringe. The needle looked about a foot long. To my
great relief, he injected it into the IV I hadn't even
realized was running into the back of my right hand.
"Thanks, mate," was all I got out before I sort of
floated away on a really nice cloud.
I
don't know how long I was out. I had these dreams where
I was back hanging off the helicopter, only it was real
ammunition being fired at me, and I only had one good
arm to hold on with, so I kept falling off the bloody
thing and cart wheeling through the sky like a fuckin'
boomerang. I dreamed that over and over until I was
almost glad to wake up, even though my shoulder was
throbbing like the hammers of Hell.
I
opened my eyes to find Mick, my personal assistant,
leaning over me, lookin' real worried. I took that as a
sign that I had really done it this time. "Hey," I
croaked at him. I wondered if I could have another jab
of that Demerol, like, right then.
"You
need surgery, mate," he told me. "You want to have it
here or back home?" Trust Mick to get straight to the
point. I guess he'd learned not to beat around the bush
with me; a couple years' followin' me around, sortin'
out the tangle of press interviews, film bookings,
travel arrangements, hotels, and every other kind of
bullshit you could think of had toughened him up.
"Home," I answered, "they might do the wrong shoulder
here."
Mick
grinned, "Yeah, I heard you had a bit of difficulty,
mate. I'll make the arrangements - here's the sawbones
with a big ol' needle for ya."
It
was the same doc. He repeated the needle in the IV trick
and I was outa there on my cloud before I had a chance
to say thanks.
At
least this time I dreamed something different. No more
helicopters. This time I was wrestling with the tigers
from Gladiator. This time, they were winning. I kept
dreaming that Tara, the big female declawed one was
licking me all over. It wasn't really unpleasant, but
she was jarring my whole body, and that hurt. I groaned
and opened my eyes. "Stop licking me," I said.
I
heard Mick laugh and realized it was a dream. "Bloody
hell," I mumbled. "Don't give me any more of that shit,
I've had the stupidest dreams."
"Getting licked?" Mick asked, "I'd think you'd enjoy
that, mate."
"Remember the big female tiger in Malta?" I asked him,
being careful not to move around much.
He
held a cup of water with one of those flexible straws so
I could get a drink. "Oh, yeah. I remember her."
He
should. He'd about split a gut laughing because she had
this antipathy towards me and would carry on somethin'
fierce every time I walked within ten feet of her,
which, thankfully, wasn't very often. I had finally
turned and growled right back at her after her bitchin'
had ruined a couple of takes of the tiger fight scene.
She had sat down and blinked at me like a big dog. After
that, she wouldn't look at me. I think she couldn't suss
out what I was, so she decided to pretend I wasn't
there. Tigers. Go figure.
Anyhow, they put my left arm in a sling and let me go
with a big bottle of some kind of super painkillers and
the warning that they weren't responsible because I left
without getting surgery they recommended. I did get to
thank the doctor who'd been nice, and I did get to scowl
at the admitting desk lady, but the whole trip to the
airport and onto a plane was so uncomfortable, that
wasn't much satisfaction. Once we took off, headed for
LAX and a Qantas jet home, I popped two of the pills and
reclined my seat. I vaguely remember the flight
attendant draping a blanket over me, then I was out of
it the whole flight. One nice thing about flyin' first
class is that the seats are bigger and you get more leg
room. Since I had two seats to myself, it was like bein'
in a big comfy bed.
LAX
was a mad house. The Summer Olympics were starting in
Sydney - a fact I'd conveniently forgotten in the heat
of learning to be an acrobat - and we were lucky to get
two seats out of Los Angeles. Thank God, most folks on
their way to Sydney weren't going first class. Mick took
the aisle seat and I crashed in the window seat with my
feet shoved under the seat in front of him so I had more
room. He was used to this, bless him, and just grumbled
something about hazardous duty pay before I took two
more tablets and blanked out.
I
woke up a couple hours later, feeling stoned. A little
kid about eight or nine was staring solemnly at me.
"Hey, mate," I croaked at him, rubbing my face.
"Hello," he said in a respectful voice. He held out a
small book and pen. "Mr. Crowe, would you sign my book?"
He
was so polite, I couldn't refuse. Mick helped me balance
the book while I wrote in it since I was basically
one-handed. "What's your name?" I asked him.
"Theodore Jervis Archer II," he said.
"Crikey, that's a mouth full, isn't it?" I asked,
dutifully writing it all out. I added, "Nice to meet
you!" and handed him back his pen and book. "What are
you going to do in Australia?"
"I'm
going to the Olympics," he said, smiling for the first
time. "My mom is riding in them."
"Oh,
riding, is she? A tractor?" I teased.
"No,"
he said, extreme patience on his face. "A horse. She
rides over jumps."
I
nodded, "Oh, I see. Well, wish her good luck, mate, but
I'm barracking for the Aussie team."
"Barracking?" he echoed me.
I
exchanged glances with Mick, who was highly amused by
the kid, as I was. "Um, I guess you yanks would call it
'rooting' - I'm for the Aussie team." I didn't bother
telling him that "rooting" was Oz slang for something
else entirely. He'd probably find that out soon enough
once he got to Sydney.
"Oh,"
he said, nodding. "Well, that's fair, isn't it?" Then he
waved good-bye and went back to his seat. I turned to
see where he was sitting and saw him showing his book to
a young brunette about three rows back. She looked up
and I gave her a brief wave. She nodded, and turned back
to listen to her son enthuse about our conversation.
Nice kid. Nice lady. I sighed. Maybe someday.
Mick
held out the pill bottle. "Is it that obvious?" I asked.
"Yup.
You look about as good as a billy full of shit."
"Oh,
thanks mate, that really inspires confidence."
I
took two more pills and a nice attendant brought me some
ice water, and I was shortly back in dreamland. This
time, I was riding my horse across the Outback. It was
nothing like the territory near my farm, but more like
the desert around Ayers Rock, Uluru, with red
dust and goanas everywhere. I had toured all over that
part of Oz, but on my Harley, not on a horse. I suppose
I had it all mixed up in my mind with the kid's mum and
my own foggy brain. When we landed at Sydney I was more
whipped than when we left LA hours before.
I had
thought LAX was a zoo. Sydney's international arrivals
terminal was like a zoo mixed up with a foot race and
dozens of reporters thrown in. I walked off the plane
with Mick runnin' interference for me, took one look at
the crowds surging through the place and almost got
right back on board. Mick, bein' the resourceful fellow
he is, commandeered one of those carts and drivers and
ensconced me and our portable bags on it, and we were
shortly whizzing through the place. I put on my shades,
tryin' to be inconspicuous, feelin' like an idiot riding
instead of walking, but there was no way I could've
gotten through that place with my shoulder the way it
was and not killed somebody for bumping into me.
I was
mobbed by reporters despite my sunglasses. I felt like
climbing onto the top of the cart and yelling for the
cops, but Mick drove them away by telling them fiercely
to go find an athlete to bother, that I wasn't in the
mood for the press. It actually worked, at least, long
enough for us to get out of the terminal and into a cab.
Of course, that day and the next the papers carried
stories about how I had arrived back in Australia
unannounced, and been miffed that the Olympic athletes
got all the attention. I had been, according to various
reporters, surly, profane, smoking like a chimney,
scowling and ungracious. It was interesting to me that I
didn't remember speaking to any of these reporter folks,
and I had really been glad they were mobbing the
athletes and not me for a change. Some bloke had gotten
a few pictures of me getting into the cab lookin' like
death warmed over, and just about every paper ran that
with its article. Sometimes I wonder that they don't
blame me for bad weather.
We
spent the night at Mick's place in Sydney, then flew
down to Melbourne the next morning for me to see a
sports medicine doctor. I thought that term was funny,
sports medicine. I never thought of the stuff I did - or
rather, attempted to do - as a sport, but I supposed
nearly ripping one's arm out of the socket qualified as
that whether it was from playin' footy or just doin'
something bloody stupid like I had.
The
doctor was a real rugged lookin' fella, a rugby player
in his youth he said, and he examined me without hurtin'
me too much. I guess he knew I was about at the end of
my rope. When he was done and I was dressed and sittin'
back in his office, he told me I had something called a
post-traumatic SLAP injury. I thought that was a bit
off, but he explained it stood for Subacromial Labral
Anterior-Posterior injury, which meant I had ripped the
biceps tendon loose from the bone in my shoulder. This
meant my arm was just sort of dangling by the muscle and
nerves alone without the ligament that tied everything
together. "This," he explained to me with a straight
face, "is somewhat painful."
"Too
right," I agreed. "So what's next?"
"What's next, is we go in via the arthroscope - that's a
tiny camera-like thing - and I scrape any ragged edges
off the bone, then put the ligament back where it's
supposed to be and use these plugs to hammer the ends
back in place. Some folk only need one, but you've
ripped it loose on both sides, so you'll need two
plugs."
"Hammer?" I echoed. Of course, that was the one word in
what he'd said that I really understood.
"Don't worry, you'll be out. We'll give you some really
nice meds, put you out like a light, and do the repair
double quick."
I
asked what was bothering me most, "How long?"
"Oh,
about an hour, I'd say." He was busily writing orders in
my file.
"No,
I mean after - how long until I can get back to what I
was doin'?"
He
looked up. "Oh, sorry. Well - I'm not sure you will."
I let
that sink in for a couple of minutes. "Let's say I do.
How long?"
"Eight to ten weeks, and a lot of physical therapy."
"Eight to ten. . .! Bloody oath, man! I have a film to
make - I've just left a whole production team twisting
in the wind back in the States. What are they gonna do
without me for eight to ten weeks?"
"Ah,
a film," he said, rubbing his face. "Well, Mr. Crowe -
Russell - you're not just going to have surgery, you're
going to need physical therapy and rest. And you're
going to have to take it easy on yourself. If you
reinjure this same shoulder, you could be permanently
crippled."
"Wonderful!" I barked. "Just fuckin' great!" It wasn't
his fault though. If it was anybody's fault, it was mine
for trying to do a big stunt when I wasn't ready for it.
"Okay, where do I sign? I need this fixed and over
with."
The
next morning, they went in and fixed my shoulder. I
spent the night in hospital, gettin' pumped full of
muscle relaxants and pain meds, so by the time they
wheeled me down to the operatin' room I was pretty
mellow. Hell, I was ready to sing "Waltzing Matilda" at
the top of my lungs if I could've talked anyone into
singin' with me. None of them would, though.
Before that, though, I got into a barney with an orderly
who wanted me to put on these ridiculous paper pajama
pants. I saw no reason to do that, there was nothing
wrong with my boxers. Besides, as I told the bloke,
"It's my fuckin' arm they're workin' on, mate, not my
ass." He didn't argue, just went and fetched the head
nurse, who finally agreed that I could leave on my
underpants and leave off the stupid paper ones. One
round for our side.
Then
there was the business about shaving me. The doc hadn't
warned me about that.
"Y'what?" I said, sitting up and almost falling off the
bleedin' gurney. "Nothin' wrong with me armpit, mate -
I'm clean!" I would've lifted my arm to show the bloke
with the razor, only it was my bad arm.
"Now,
Mr. Crowe," the guy began. Everything in my adult life
that I haven't wanted to do has started out with those
three words, "Now, Mr. Crowe." It's like a magical
spell, only it doesn't paralyze me, it pisses me off.
"NO!"
I yelled, and actually had my feet on the floor, which
was ice cold. I couldn't stand up straight, so I settled
for leaning against the side of the cart with my left
arm clamped to my side. It didn't work, of course.
Another big bloke came out of the operatin' room to see
why I wasn't in there, and between the two of them, I
was shortly back on the cart, rollin' into the surgery
suite. "Y'don't need to shave me!" I was still
insisting.
Dr.
Seaforth walked over and gave me one of those, "And just
why are we not bein' a good boy?" looks, then he just
nodded to some other bloke and said, "Start the Versed
and then do it." I wasn't sure what Versed was, but
found out a minute later when it felt like I just
floated up off the table, totally relaxed. I very dimly
remember him saying, "Now, shave him. I don't think he's
going to fight you."
Talk
about takin' advantage of a bloke! Hell, they even moved
my arm - which nobody could've done before they gave me
that Versed stuff - shaved my armpit clean as a whistle,
and walked off, leavin' me to the mercy of Dr. Seaforth.
He just leaned down, winked at me over his mask, and
said, "Nighty-night, Russell." Quick as that, they put
something else in the IV and I was outa there.
I
woke up what seemed like a minute later, but from the
way my whole left shoulder and arm were numb, and my
throat was dry and scratchy, it must've been a long time
later. Mick leaned down and told me they were through
and it looked fine, then I floated out again. The next
time I woke up, the numbness was gone and I thought I
was gonna die. "Christ almighty," I said, and I rarely
use the Lord's name in vain, so that should tell ya the
level of discomfort.
A
really nice lady who looked a lot like my mum came over
and brushed my hair out of my eyes, feeling my forehead.
"Soon be better, luv," she promised, and she was right.
They must've put that Demerol stuff in my IV line
because I was shortly feeling no pain at all. The lady -
who was actually Doc Seaforth's nurse I found out later
- smiled and patted my hand. "Sleep now, you need it."
She
was right. They started me doin' some therapy exercises
the very next day, and believe me, I did not want to do
that yet. I went back to Sydney with Mick and spent a
couple of days restin' at his place, gradually doin'
some of the exercises, and even workin' with a physical
therapist who came to his apartment, and a week after
the surgery went back to Melbourne to see the doc again.
He
had me move and grip things, and checked me all out. I
had a couple of tiny little incisions, a stubbly armpit
that was driving me crazy, and some lingering achiness
that got worse after I did the exercises. But, he said,
by and large I just had to heal and would be back to
pretty good shape in a few months. There was that term
again, "pretty good shape" and "months". He saw my face
and said, "Russell, there is no way you can do those
acrobatics again. Your right shoulder isn't much better
than your left one was before you ripped that tendon
loose, and if you try that Spanish Veil stuff or
anything similar, you're going to cripple yourself."
Well,
isn't that just peachy? I thought. I would show HIM!
I
drove from Sydney to the farm, a bit over 300 miles,
shifting gears with my left arm all the way, knowing Dr.
Seaforth would have had a fit if he'd known about it,
but I looked on it as more therapy. Once I got home, I
had my mum's disapproval to deal with, though I know she
was secretly pleased I had come home to heal. She
immediately started feedin' me all my favorite foods,
tryin' to get me fat - which I didn't need - but the
thought was nice.
By
the time Christmas came around, I had done a lot of
exercising and could almost use my arm normally again,
but I couldn't do one-armed push-ups any more and that
really bothered me. I decided, though, to be prudent for
once and not force my body to do something it just
wasn't going to cooperate in. Besides, I didn't want to
go through the same thing on my right shoulder any time
soon.
I
started out 2001 in relatively good shape physically,
which was good, because things started goin' downhill
emotionally and romance-wise right about then. I won't
bore you with all the bloody details, everything that
could be published about my private life (except the
truth) has been printed ad nauseam in every rag,
tabloid and magazine all over the world. The negative
events in my life then were overcome somewhat by a
surprise - another Best Actor nomination for an Academy
Award, this time for Gladiator. I never thought that
performance would get a nomination because the film was
so successful commercially, and usually those big block
buster films aren't considered "deep" enough to merit
anything more than some cinematography, sound and
costume nominations. I gathered my cavalry and headed
off on a three month round of awards shows, publicity
tours, special film screenings, press conferences, more
awards shows, conferences with the producers and
director of my next film, and more awards shows. In
between all that, I managed to have a fairly good time.
The
night of March 24th, 2001 everything really got crazy. I
was off on what was gonna be a really crazy year, and I
wished I had someone to cuddle up to and talk about
things with. Not to sound like a whiner, but I felt
really alone in the crowds that whole year. Maybe that's
why, when the following year I got a second Academy
Award for "A Beautiful Mind", I chucked the whole crazy
round and went home to Australia.
I
told everybody to fuck off and leave me alone, and those
were the blokes I liked. I won't even go into what I
said to some of the others. I barricaded myself in,
added a lot of acreage around the perimeter of the farm,
and spent the next two years just hibernating, wondering
if they'd all just forget about me. I hoped they would.
Well, for the first year and a half or so, I hoped they
would. After that, I wasn't so sure I wanted to be a
farmer the whole rest of my life. Then I started hearing
about my new agent in the States wantin' to talk to me
about some projects.
I
guess you know the rest. Oh, and I never did get to do
that film where I did my acrobatics. Too bad, I looked
real good up on that Net thing, until I fell off it.
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