‘Round Midnight (27. I Eat, therefore I am Meat.)


Photo by Iamngakan eka from Pexels

Three nights with CST+, and White Chocolate should be a let-down.


It’s the hottest funk band I’ve ever heard. The best part is that it’s low stress for me. I play. I boogie. I have some fun. The three A’s bop at my feet.

Hot cubed.

Although I’m a founding member, I’ve always let Benita run the group. Now my days in it are numbered. Two months on tour. Two weeks each at Newport and Montreux with another month in Europe. One week on The Late Show. Six in DeRon’s band, not to mention two weeks recording CST in NYC, another two with DeRon, and two with Gus, back in Chicago.

That’s seven months on the road.

Five months left over for Jimmy (and my sanity). Stacey’s good, but she doesn’t draw like me. Vic and Pete are really her band – they’re hot, and then there’s O’Leary. It doesn’t matter who is behind him. People will want to hear him. He’s not a leader, but he is freakin’ magic, as long as the drinking stays under control.

Jimmy says I’m welcome forever. Whenever I’m in town.

Akira will travel with me part of the time. Asami may follow outside of the opera and symphony seasons. Aoki plays less, but they have a string quartet tour, too. Not the best way to nurture relationships.

What relationships?

The love quartet.

Oh, that. Yes.

As devoted to Asami as I am, and the other two, I’m not “in love.” Asami knows it, and that’s all that matters. She and Akira and take out their pent up sexuality on each other. That leaves Aoki and me to figure something out and commiserate. For what it’s worth, I think Aoki might be crushing on Etienne, who no longer crushes on me.

I think he’s afraid of me.

Besides, I don’t do relationships with band members. Tease, yes, but nothing romantic. That was the secret that kept our group together with O’Leary. The Zip episode was long before CST, and Yorick never happened.

I miss him.

Yorick phoned after masses this morning. He’s busy and hasn’t touched his bass. Asami phoned Gino’s East for after the gig, feeding my addiction to pepperoni pizza – trying to keep me from drifting away in a light breeze. She’s sleeping on my couch now. I’m staring at the ceiling again. Too much floating around in my head right now.

I will miss the red catsuit and the wig. I will miss Asami’s warm body next to me, just being there, not doing anything. I wish she would come in, but she won’t, and I won’t get her hopes up. Is it hers that I will miss or just anyone’s?


Yes. Hers. She inspires me. I’m feeling suddenly raw now. Uncooked.

Raw meat.

‘Round Midnight (25. Purple)

Purple, durple, doop.

I’m in a weird repressed mood tonight.

I could have been a contender!

Half the day trying out new material for the tour with Etienne and Jamar, then a quintet, adding the star-crossed lovers, Stacey and O’Leary. I say star-crossed, but they haven’t been dating for 15 years. Neither has moved on, and neither have I. They have a connection, that golden thread that connects all lovers.


I’m standing next to O’Leary, minding my own business, demurely dressed (for me) in cut-offs, open men’s dress shirt (maybe Zip’s – I’ve had it for ages), and lace cammy. Enough skin for the regulars, but I feel exposed next to Stacey’s Finn – that’s what she calls him. His Christian name is Finnegan, although he isn’t particularly Christian, but he’s laced with Irish Catholic blood.

I feel like a fish.

It doesn’t help that we’re playing Green Dolphin Street. I’m a green fish, and I’m sucking on my trumpet. I’m too fucking repressed. I don’t touch O’Leary. I can’t. She’s watching.

She doesn’t care.

I know. I do. Akira’s hot tonight in the front row at my feet in an LBD. Cleavage down to her ankles. My brain is lodged in her short and curlies, and I need to escape. She’s wearing less than I am. The AA’s are busy playing gigs.

The band is hot and I’m a passenger.

Everyone in the band, at least, knows it. Everyone is looking at me. Hundreds of brown eyes staring, thinking I’m an idiot. The other six eyes are thinking the same (Etienne, green, Stacey and O’Leary, blue).

My blue eyes are listless.

I need to find the purple place. I need to let go, take my metaphorical clothes off. I’d start with the dress shirt, but the air is a little cool tonight, Jimmy’s letting too many people in the back. His personal VIPs, sports stars, friends from school.

There are no empty seats, and the place is bursting at the seams, even the balcony. I’m the dog in the pony show, the pig in the dog show. The ca-ca waiting at the bottom of the carriage step. I’m the Cassandra whose prophesies nobody believes, the empty prophet, the empty pitcher, the pitcher who’s lost his fastball.

Everyone has an off night once in a while.

Not me. I’m not making mistakes. I’m just not the Goddess that everyone has learned to expect. I’m so fucking human. The break can’t come soon enough.

Akira hands me a pitcher of Bud. Sticks a hand down my shorts. Penetrates. Fuck. A whole pitcher of beer down my front.

She planned that.

What can I do? She cops a long sensuous feel before letting me off the hook. Damn! Dress shirt off. Soaked cammy and shorts, not to mention panties.


Back to the restroom to sponge-bathe, rinse out my clothes. Akira hands me a beige tank, a little too large. I’m still too wet to put it on, but it is time to go back out. I’ve got a black mini in my bag. (Not sure why.) Commando? Surely not on Thursday, center-stage. No. Wet whities. No bra.

Shit. Beige. Almost the same color as my skin, and soon it will be damp enough to see through. A tiny mini. That’s all anyone will see, punctuated by frequent glimpses of my cotton whities. About as much cleavage as I can muster.

I might as well be naked.

Time to let my hair down. Akira’s brief violation has also started the juices flowing downstairs. I’m wet, virtually naked, and extremely horny. We start with a new chart, Bullseye, one of mine. Lightning fast solo unison to start. We’re flying and I’m dangerously close to Etienne. He may be interested, but he might be getting more of me than expected. (He may not be able to sleep tonight.) I give him a little twerk. O’Leary gets an ass-bump.

Now that’s more like it, you Vixen.

I’m the cunning little vixen, and I’m on the prowl. Solo time, and I’m sitting on the edge of the stage, feet on Akira’s table. Yes, have a look up my skirt, you pervs, or maybe you are more interested in the flames coming out of my trumpet. I’m a dragon. I lie back and belt out a stratospheric inferno. I’m blowing a giant silver erection.

This is definitely an adult club.

Just sayin’. Flamethrower. I’ve just renamed the chart. I hand over to O’Leary. I’m soaked. This tank is hiding nothing. I sit next to Stacey on the piano bench. She makes room for me. I reprise the end of my solo at the top of the keyboard in counterpoint to O’Leary’s pyrotechnics.


Fucking exhibitionist! And I don’t fucking care. Fuck me. You can fucking leave if it bothers you.

Nobody’s going near the doors. Cassie’s giving you the hard on that you came for. Back to the unison avalanche of notes.

I’m taking you out!

I’m featured in a new ballad next. How do I follow that? I give them introspective dreamy Cassie. Cassie fantasizing about sex. Not Pagan. I want pure loving sex, not experimental.

Playing purple.

Just sitting on a stool, masturbating in my brain for the crowd. Ooh, yes, that little twitch meant something. Akira would notice it. I’m a little wetter now, and dripping with sweat. Jimmy hasn’t opened the back door since the set began. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

Stacey gets her spot next, leading into O’Leary’s feature.


Just Etienne and me next, one of his new ones – a chance for me to play some trumpet on the tour. I play it for him. Close. No Miles’ wandering around the stage now. I’m giving it all for Etienne. I love this chart. We close the set with Billy Cobham’s Spectrum, giving everyone a chance to air it out.

Akira says I can’t keep the tank on for the last set. We swap clothes. We’ll she puts on my dress shirt, which is now reasonably (but tantalizingly still a little damp – she looks so hot). I’m a little smaller on top than she is, so I’m showing a little more – OK, a lot more, but not illegal. If I bend over, you could probably see my toes.

The last set is electric, starting with a cool version of ‘Round Midnight, an electric Straight No Chaser, and extended Eye of the Hurricane, and finishing with a lightning Some Skunk Fuck, with Herbie’s Chameleon and Actual Proof as encores.

I’m a wet dish rag. It’s time to go home. Akira drives, but keeps her distance. I’m out of control, and she wouldn’t want to get in the way.

‘Round Midnight (24. Mindbending mindlessness)

A night off (sort of).

I’m covering for Stacey on improv night tonight. That means playing a few standards, a lot of 12-bar blues, some jamming, and three hours of mindless playing. I don’t mind. She’s doing me a big favor, covering the keys this weekend while I play some trumpet with O’Leary, and loaning me Vic and Pete for the interim. She’ll also cover for me at Jimmy’s for March and April while I tour with Etienne and Jamar.


I’m a mind less, or less of a mind. Not thinking too much, or at all. Doing my job on automatic, but not mailing it in. Stacey wouldn’t appreciate that, and you never know who might be listening or even in the house with their axe, itching to jump up and play a few choruses.

Mostly kids tonight. Familiar faces, too. People who come to play every week to learn their craft. Some learn more slowly than others. At least I get to spend time playing with my interim CST (i.e. Vic and Pete), and I can dress down: 501’s and a black tank. Barefoot as usual, but it’s a little cold in here. Might put some socks on.

I’m in love.

A college student, tenor player, lean and mean like Michael Brecker, an improvisation machine. He reminds me of O’Leary at that age. I so worshipped him, but he was with Stacey then. He plays too many notes, but he has a nice ass, and I like how he moves. Too young for me, though, barely shaves.

None of the three A’s tonight. The pressure is off. A couple of friends, Benita (with her horn), and Helen, her partner, without her bass. Benita usually plays funk, so she sits in for a standard, Freddie Freeloader. Amy Church (one of my few non-musician friends), who lives nearby, is here, since she knew I was playing. She’s knocking back Manhattans.

She drinks a little too much.

And I can understand why. She just split with her husband for the third time. For good, she says. I don’t believe her. I have a beer with her at the first break. She’s depressed. So am I, a little. Less than she is. More now, I think.

It’s contagious.

Things are going so well for me right now. I should be overjoyed, but I just keep thinking about Asami, and to a lesser extent Akira. The latter is amazing as an agent, but off the clock, she is so sexually charged that I find her distracting. Asami does, too, and occasionally succumbs to temptation, especially since I am (in theory) a no go area. When she lets her hair down, she takes after Akira, too, and I find that just as distracting. She’s even more beautiful, which is a rather difficult feat.

Why am I thinking of her now? I should be empathizing with the young guitarist struggling with the changes, or the nervous young black trumpet player waiting in the wings. A first timer, he’s practically shaking with fear. At least his corn rows look cool. Harmon mute – he wants to be Miles.

It’s very easy to hide wrong notes playing with a Harmon.

Actually, he’s not bad. A few tasty licks, but not too complicated. He clearly knows that I’m also a trumpeter. He wanted to make sure I clocked him. Does he want lessons or something? But now he’s off and is replaced by a repulsive alto player who comes every week and still hasn’t found the key.

Am I being too harsh?

Am I a shrew to be tamed? Ophelia would say I was. She’s been incommunicado lately. Things must be going well with her latest man. She knows I slept with Asami. I told her in an email. That should keep her quiet for a while. She keeps accusing me of being butch, but several have told me I look more feminine than she does. It’s my minuscule waist that does it, inflating the perceived size of my breasts. O’Leary also says I have an ass to die for. He’s touched it. I offered, he accepted. I sometimes rub it up against him when I play, just to distract him.

Why did we never hook up?

In a word, Stacey. I would never do that to her. Besides O’Leary lives and breathes saxophone, and I would just never fit into his world. He’s a complete non-entity in social situations, and probably drinks too much for my liking.

The night’s over. Just another gig, and an el ride home.

‘Round Midnight (23. I left it at home)


Photo by Louis from Pexels

I’m a different person now.

I’ve come through the other side. The juggernaut. The experience was different than with Akira, as it was with my bestie, someone I love. Akira enchanted me when I was weak. No fleeing to Pagan. Never again.

Asami was out the door for a 9 am rehearsal, but I couldn’t get back to sleep.

I feel very alone.

It’s the new CST tonight, as Etienne and Jamar are in town for rehearsals. It’s Skintight Tuesday Night, but I’ve taken a different direction: black tights, bikini top, and a net tank. DeRon’s is sitting in for the second set, before he heads back to New York.

I’m officially on board.

Skintight means high energy, fast tempos, but I’m in unearthly mood, a flugelhorn mood, laid back and pure, while the world flies by. Like I’m high and on queludes at the same time. I’m Eric Clapton’s slow hand.

We’re starting off with some free improvisation, a riff jam, and Etienne got a funky thing going on his electric. I’ve got a bevy of electrics, loop boxes, and echo. I’m a four-handed monster, and still have a hand to play some smooth flugel, and a choruser on my trumpet for when it gets turbulent, and without a break we segue into Billy Cobham’s Stratus, so we can feature Jamar.

But first some naked trumpet, with just some bass and drums, no keyboard. I’ve got to make the chords happen in my playing, and the boys have a tasty groove goin’ down. We get out of the way for Jamar to let it rip.

Oops my tank caught on … well something … anyway, there is less of it than at the start. It flaps about as I boogie, and the tear is running up to my armpit. No reason to be there anymore. Gone. Just a bikini top and tights.

Now that is skintight, just in time for Aftershock, and we fry it.

Akira offers me her jacket during the break, but I decline. This is just what my audience expects on a Tuesday. I’m showing a bit too much up top, but fuck it. I have no shame on stage.

I left it at home.

The second set heats up with my solo spot leading into DeRon’s burner. It really is too hot, not just the music. I have some gold hot-pants in the back. Too bad I don’t have the other half of the bikini. This could be almost naked night.

We start the final set with Serious Skin, that’s Etienne’s original. It’s a sexy number, electric, so I’m on my feet bopping my ass while I play. No, we didn’t plan this. The capacity crowd is lapping it up. They know I’m always a bit reckless and even more high energy after midnight. Jimmy loves it as it keeps the bar busy.

Doba doba didlyboot dee-dat.

I’m scatting through a seething electric version of Airegin, and I hit the zone. An extended vocal solo and my hands seem to working on autopilot at the keys. The band’s on fire. The crowd won’t let us stop. They’re on their feet, a quick encore, and then we slow the mood with ‘Round Midnight.

I’m physically done, soaked with sweat. I look like I just climbed out of the pool. This is why I’m losing weight. There’s a foot of snow on the ground, but I’m driving tonight, since I have all my gear. Aoki comes with. She thinks I’m self-destructing.

Is there anything left to destroy?


‘Round Midnight (19. Road tripped)


Photo by Ali Pazani from Pexels

I should have stayed in Urbana. I’m overnight in St Louis with Akira. Separate rooms to prove a point. Akira is my agent, not my lover. She’s very good at both.

Tonight I’m channeling Yorick.

Akira was a chatterbox on the way down. She’s a little like Pagan, but not as philosophical, having never understood the magic of sex magic. She was just in it for the sex, and she wasn’t as lucky as me. She fell pregnant twice. Her daughter is 14 now and lives with her mother. The second pregnancy was terminated.

Motherhood never suited her.

She didn’t stick with a single partner, eventually settling on a preference for women. She can only guess who her daughter’s father was. There are three possibilities, but she looks so much like her mother that there is no trace of any of the possible fathers in her appearance.

Akira loves talking about sex.

She loves everything about sex. She was dressed down, but everything about her was on display. Her coat was off in the car, and her blouse was unbuttoned two more than propriety defined. Sexy satin bra meant to be shown off. Tight jeans, heels. At the wheel, I wore a maroon parka, black tights, and Uggs.


Akira sat twisted in her seat, preferring a view of me to the boredom of I-55. Where was I on Monday? She’d been trying to phone me all day. I was in bed with Pagan from noon Monday to noon on Tuesday, breaking only for pizza. I don’t remember sleeping, but I must have. I felt rejuvenated when I left. I had confirmed my sexuality.

I didn’t tell her that. I would rather she guessed.

I’m guesting on trumpet with Gus’ regular quartet for a concert, rather than my usual bar gigs. I’m in shiny black tights with a loose satin blouse, white with a grape hyacinth print, unbuttoned to reveal the top of a lacy blue camisole. At least, that’s how the concert started. The blouse didn’t make it into the second set, nor did my flats. I just can’t play with shoes on.

Pagan is in the audience, aisle seat, row eight. I mentioned the gig to him yesterday, and he hasn’t heard me play in 8 or 9 years. He catches my eye with an overtly sexual gesture related to my breasts, one that only I would recognize. Like Jimmy, he is obsessed by them. He wants to suck on my nipples. Call me, he signals.

I call him as soon as I finish.

Come to my room.

Even in professional mode Akira oozes sensuality. I resolve to introduce them, so he understands what I’m up against. Our rooms are adjacent, and she will linger as long as I let her. At my door, she’s dressed down again, one more button seems to have popped. Metallic lippy. Barefoot. Arms around me and on fire. Pagan knocks.

Any friend of mine is a friend of Akira’s. They hug. She whispers something in his ear. Another button pops, only one left. Did she do that herself? He has champagne. He knows it goes right to my head.

He pours three glasses. We drink. We laugh. We laugh a lot. Akira’s last button has gone. She whispers something to him.

I’m tired, I think I’ll turn in, she says. Hugs all around. He’s unhooked her bra, and it only loosely covers her breasts. Well! She doubles over laughing. It isn’t covering much anymore. Nipples. More laughs. He’d won a dare. She leaves.

He undresses me, sucks on my nipples. We roll. He likes me on top. He likes it noisy. I oblige.

That’s all. He has to go.

I crawl back into the still warm bed. Heavy breathing. Moaning. Akira, next door. Yes, oh, yes, she pants. Yes. She’s not alone. Pagan gasps. Oh fuck. Akira squeals in ecstasy. Pagan growls. He’s never done that with me. It passes. I close my eyes. Cry a little.

A rhythmic noise wakens me. Not again. Headboard banging. Akira must know that her headboard is up against the wall by mine. I think she orgasmed twice this time, the second time with him. I cry a little harder. They talk, not quite loud enough for me to hear. They must have been inches away from me through the wall. They are talking about me, about fucking me, I think.

Are they comparing notes?

I stop trying to listen. It’s late and I need to drive home in the morning. I dose off.

They wake me again. She’s on top. I recognize Pagan’s familiar purring, but he’s lit her fire. Her deep alto groans bleed with ecstasy, enough even to arouse me. She climaxes. I don’t. Then Pagan. They talk more, something about her breasts, her legs. Me. They aren’t just talking. She’s sitting against the headboard. It shudders. I know what he’s doing. He’s done that to me.

She wants him to stay. I hear her door click shut around 5 am. I cry until my alarm goes off. Breakfast at 8 and then drive. She reeks of Pagan, even after a shower. In the car, she seems uninterested in me, wearing a short skirt, tight T, no bra. Quiet, but not asleep. She glows.

He’s entered her.

I’m alone again. Pagan has left the building.

‘Round Midnight (18. Escape, acceptance)


Photo by andres chaparro from Pexels

Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Commando Night, comfort crew, and I need comfort now.

Akira left yesterday morning around 6 am. I was on the road by 7. Where to? I didn’t know until I arrived.


Pagan (AKA Danny Keane) was my antidote to Yorick. My fuck-buddy throughout college, we collided early in my freshman year, and kept bumping into each other whenever we were needy. We were never in love, and never even pretended.

We talked. A lot. We fucked even more. We took chances, but luckily I never fell pregnant. That wouldn’t have worked for either of us. He was Wiccan. I thought I was, too. We dabbled in sex magic. Sex with him was magic, but little else was. I left for grad school. He never left. He teaches there now.

He taught me to accept my skin.

Will the three A’s accept it? This is their first Commando Night. Mini, cammy and me. Flashes of freedom.


Loosey goosey, heavily used in the past 24 hours. I accept my vulnerability. I accept my acceptance.

I accept.

I regret that I accepted Akira first. That won’t happen again, not if I can help it. Pagan believes we are all a little pansexual. He doesn’t dominate me, but I’m a sub at heart. I let things happen, and if the person that I’m with doesn’t initiate, it doesn’t happen. I’m happy to give my partner what they want.

Take me. I’m an easy lay.

Akira sees that and pounces. Asami sees it and respects me. They are fundamentally different. I’m the charmed pot that weaves the magic. That’s what Pagan used to call me.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

I’ve been there. Done that. I’m finished.

What was Pagan’s advice? Take what you need from them. If you need to fuck, and they want to, go ahead. Be greedy, but be honest. Don’t lead them on.

If you are going to tease, be prepared to please.

Tonight, I tease everyone, and please them with my music. Only Jimmy’s hand gets to sample the merchandise, and only for a second. I would play for him nude, and he would listen (staring at my nipples).

It’s a quiet drive home with Asami. She knows they overstepped. My phone was off all day yesterday and today. The weather is cold, and so is my heart, right now. Asami will have to earn my trust again before I let her have her way with me, if I ever do. Good night. A peck on the cheek. That told her everything.

I still smell like Pagan. His sex permeates me.

‘Round Midnight (17. Collision Course)


Newport Jazz Festival, three nights with Etienne and Jamar on the first, trumpet with Bob Becker’s Cloud Nine on the second, and in the Festival All-Stars on the third. Mitch was quiet and unassuming. He had the ear of the festival organizer, and was a big financial backer. If he wanted someone, he got them, and he wanted me.

He wanted Cassie being Cassie.

At least on the first night. Tonight’s Cat-Suit Cassie might be a better fit on the other nights. No Yorick or Zip. Yorick wouldn’t travel anyway, but they thought that Jamar would be a bigger draw.

The new Cassandra Sommer Trio.

CST – Central Standard Time. I groove with Etienne and Jamar, and I think Etienne might like to get to know me better. (Taps nose.) Sleeping with band mates is rarely a good thing. I’d be better off sleeping with Asami.

Did I say that?

I have slept with her, of course, but not had sex. Her sex was with Akira in my bed. She admitted it. They have an understanding with Aoki. Asami confessed it this morning when we met for brunch before Akira joined us. No Aoki. I haven’t seen her since Wednesday morning.

Akira oozed sensuality in her leather pants and white spaghetti-strap halter, a white bra visible through it, a crystal pendant dangled precariously above the mounds of her breasts. She wore her hair down, as was usual when she wasn’t working, metallic scarlet lip gloss with her nails painted to match. Everything about her said fuck me.

I’ve landed you a great gig, so you owe me.

I don’t usually wear lippy, but had painted my (very short) nails to match tonight’s outfit. Tonight, Asami and Akira are at the front of my side of the stage. Asami has donned black leather, tight and sexy, with a scarlet bustier. She and Akira dance very close, inches apart, or closer at times. Akira looks up at me to make sure I’m noticing, her hands on Asami’s shoulders, Asami’s on her hips, eyes closed.

I bop around and flash her my shiny red ass.

I hang with them at the first break, both sweaty and horny. Asami lays on a kiss, tongues, laden with need. Soon, I’m the filling of an Akirasami sandwich, clenched with Akira, grooving to the recording they play during our break. Someone’s hand finds my sex. I’m helpless.

I’m not sure whose.

Someone (Asami?) has unzipped my zipper, and her hand is inside, inside me. I’m trapped between them, doomed. Oof!

Who did that?

I’m a bystander trapped between two people having sex.

Ugh! Akira squeeks. The dance floor is packed. No one notices. I can’t control myself. Asami is already unzipped whem my hand finds her, slips in the open door. I come hard and deep, just as Asami releases. Akira, a second time, maybe.

I was ambushed.

I enjoyed every second of it, but I am not that person, and I am slow to release myself from the clench. Very slow. I don’t want to let go. I need to wash my hands. The next set is about to start.

Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah. Cassie’s a lesbian.

Fucking Johnny Evans used shout that at me full voice in middle school. He didn’t even know what it meant. With my dry hand, I zip myself up. I so could have gone another round.

Alas, no, I am not a lesbian. Borderline pansexual maybe. I just love a lesbian, and another lusts after me. I am so the murky corner of a love triangle. I need to get out of here, but I’ve got two more sets to play. Wash my hands. Tidy up down below. Regain composure. Akira’s bold knee-grope on Thursday may have relaxed me, but tonight I’m unsettled.

I’m lost.

I don’t understand myself anymore. Now I really know Aoki. A love quartet? And I stand opposite of Aoki?

Hello, I’m loco Loki.

Zip it up kid! Keep that cat-suit on. No prizes for commando here. Hell, commando? I want it all off. Must wait until I’m home. They just fed the fire. Asami leaves before the final set ends. Why?

Akira is driving me home tonight. Parks, follows me up to my apartment without my invitation. God help me. I don’t desire her, but I can’t resist her. I can’t, and I probably won’t.

I don’t.