Speaker 1: Al Zone Media sixteen.
Speaker 2: Sixteen. Hi, this is technically an episode of sixteenth Minute,
Speaker 2: a podcast where I would and we'll continue to analyze
Speaker 2: and interview the Internet's main characters and what their moment
Speaker 2: in the spotlight meant for you, for me, and for them.
Speaker 2: But this week, for our thirteenth episode, we are interrupted.
Speaker 2: And if there were an episode number to be interrupted at,
Speaker 2: why not this one. So if you followed me online
Speaker 2: you're possibly aware. My dad passed away two weeks ago.
Speaker 2: His name was Mike Loftis and he was sixty five
Speaker 2: years old, So if your dad's older than that, it
Speaker 2: should have been him. Fuck your dad. In fact, the
Speaker 2: entire time this series has been in production, dad was
Speaker 2: either really sick or more recently, really dead. When the
Speaker 2: show first released on May seventh, I carefully composed an
Speaker 2: Instagram post while in a hospital room, and I'm a
Speaker 2: clinically obsessive, compulsive person, so I can tell you with
Speaker 2: precision the different locations this show has been recorded. Most
Speaker 2: interviews and dialogue so far, and a few episodes that
Speaker 2: haven't come out yet, were recorded in a hospittle bathroom,
Speaker 2: a hospital breakroom, in a study room at a public
Speaker 2: library near a hospital, on my mom's sofa, in a
Speaker 2: Duncan Donuts parking lot, or in this really depressing twin
Speaker 2: sized bed I bought for my brother and I to
Speaker 2: sleep at our childhood home while dad was in the hospital.
Speaker 2: So if you ever thought there was anyone but me
Speaker 2: writing these, here's your confirmation that there's not. If I
Speaker 2: can't get an episode out, it doesn't happen. And I
Speaker 2: really appreciate my producer Sophie and producer slash editor Ian
Speaker 2: for bearing with me here. This episode isn't a memorial
Speaker 2: or an obituary. This is an episode about the last
Speaker 2: two weeks and all of the notes that I've taken
Speaker 2: during the last two weeks. And it's not because I
Speaker 2: don't want to honor my dad in a public way.
Speaker 2: I very much do and will continue to. I feel
Speaker 2: this kind of probably delusional urgency to put something down
Speaker 2: and to try and say something about these two weeks. Oh,
Speaker 2: this is an attempt at that. Pretty sure that I
Speaker 2: will not feel a lot of the things that I'm
Speaker 2: recording here in a matter of weeks or days or
Speaker 2: maybe even an hour, but I'm gonna put it here anyways.
Speaker 2: And if you want the normal show. Oh Also, if
Speaker 2: you happen to be interested in my dad's obituary, you
Speaker 2: can check out some links below. My family and I
Speaker 2: and my dad's colleagues have written a lot about him,
Speaker 2: and you'll notice the same repeated things in all of them.
Speaker 2: That he was great at his job as a hockey writer,
Speaker 2: he was really funny, and then he loved his family.
Speaker 2: And those are the three sentences that I've seen the most,
Speaker 2: and they're all true. So it's not that I don't
Speaker 2: want to say those things. I do, but I don't know.
Speaker 2: I mean, how soon after someone is gone do you
Speaker 2: start to reduce them to three or so sentences? Because
Speaker 2: those three sentences can be factual, but they don't to me,
Speaker 2: really feel adequate. They don't feel complete. Anyways, I've been grieving,
Speaker 2: which is annoying. And the only way to express that
Speaker 2: grief after a funeral is over and you've already had
Speaker 2: to explain to TSA that those are your father's ashes
Speaker 2: and not a gallon sized ziploc bag of cocaine, is
Speaker 2: by talking about it on the internet, which isn't insincere,
Speaker 2: but it can feel that way. And granted I'm super lucky,
Speaker 2: I can't imagine going through this without a job that
Speaker 2: has given me the freedom to record everything in and
Speaker 2: around hospitals instead of wondering what was happening from three
Speaker 2: thousand miles away, But the actual feelings are just so consuming.
Speaker 2: One thing I've realized is that I hate having a
Speaker 2: universal experience because every universal experience has already been done
Speaker 2: by people way hotter and smarter than you, millions of times,
Speaker 2: and so what's the point. But you have to So
Speaker 2: I'm having the universal grief experience, and I'm letting my
Speaker 2: hair turn into a solid and I'm walking around for
Speaker 2: hours at a time listening to Rainbow Connection, even though
Speaker 2: I know my dad thought that song was stupid, which
Speaker 2: it's not. In the past two weeks, I also can't
Speaker 2: seem to get anything done. Having OCD often means for
Speaker 2: me that I can hyper focus on work instead of
Speaker 2: thinking about other things. But I've lost that ability, and
Speaker 2: my brain has really latched onto what my real obsession
Speaker 2: has been in the past year or so, which is
Speaker 2: a habit of documenting everything I possibly could about the
Speaker 2: last year of my dad's life. I'm talking hundreds of notes,
Speaker 2: thousands of blurry, badly composed pictures, of depressing spaces, hundreds
Speaker 2: of hours of illegally recorded conversations with my dad and
Speaker 2: his doctors, and let's say for legal purposes, nobody else.
Speaker 2: It's just this big box full of stuff that I've
Speaker 2: compiled that isn't my dad's final year of life, but
Speaker 2: it is a version of it. And for the last
Speaker 2: two weeks, it's this stuff that has really been kind
Speaker 2: of eating my brain alive. The notes habit is nothing
Speaker 2: new for me or for you. I've always taken a
Speaker 2: lot of notes, and it's a pretty catching habit when
Speaker 2: you're the kid of a newspaper reporter. Even if I
Speaker 2: didn't have really any interest in what my dad was
Speaker 2: reporting on, could have really taken or left hockey. But
Speaker 2: I loved watching writers. My dad's career spanned from when
Speaker 2: he was in college in the late seventies until a
Speaker 2: couple of years ago, and he worked at the same
Speaker 2: local newspaper that whole time. So much of my childhood
Speaker 2: was consumed by his industries collapsing entirely. But when I
Speaker 2: was little, the newspaper still existed in a very real way,
Speaker 2: and I remember going to the sports department and getting
Speaker 2: a reporter's notebook which is a small white and blue
Speaker 2: spiral notebook identical to the ones that my dad would
Speaker 2: write in at the hockey games. He'd bring us to
Speaker 2: the press box in once a year, and I didn't
Speaker 2: understand what he was writing in the notebooks, really, but
Speaker 2: he wrote down everything it seemed, whether that was about
Speaker 2: hockey or notes on just the daily beats of his
Speaker 2: own life. And he kept a lot of these notes
Speaker 2: all the way up until he died, in these boxes
Speaker 2: that are now in our house. He kind of had
Speaker 2: a hard time parting with things that he saw as
Speaker 2: meaningful or even saw potential meaning in, and these could
Speaker 2: be his own notes or they could be mine. For
Speaker 2: the last few years of his life, Dad sorted this
Speaker 2: stuff in boxes in the house we'd grown up in.
Speaker 2: I know that because he wrote down how he had
Speaker 2: done it, where in our house he'd been organizing things
Speaker 2: on a certain date, how far he got, how he
Speaker 2: felt about the process, and like any parent, he'd remind
Speaker 2: us to come home and check it out. And even
Speaker 2: when I actually did, the work never seemed to be
Speaker 2: fully done. Around the time he retired in late twenty twenty,
Speaker 2: the same time as the pandemic and his cans her diagnosis.
Speaker 2: He asked my permission to sort through stacks of my
Speaker 2: old notebooks and art projects from when I was a kid,
Speaker 2: and I said yes because I knew it would drive
Speaker 2: him up a wall if they were just sitting there,
Speaker 2: And honestly, I didn't think he'd find anything that would
Speaker 2: really surprise him. We were friends. It was stuff I
Speaker 2: felt he probably knew he composed these boxes of old
Speaker 2: compulsive writing. I'd done, fuzzy notebooks full of chicken scratch
Speaker 2: describing what everyone in the room I was sitting in
Speaker 2: was wearing and what was hanging on the walls, because
Speaker 2: in the early two thousands, no one clocked this behavior
Speaker 2: as a child with severe OCD. It was that Jamie
Speaker 2: wanted to be a writer, and that's why she was
Speaker 2: getting bullied by the children who took the notebooks and
Speaker 2: looked at the terrifying shorthand she'd developed about their clothes.
Speaker 2: But also the idea that I wanted to be a
Speaker 2: writer was true. Writing things down released the anxiety. It
Speaker 2: gave me something to do, and I was afraid to
Speaker 2: talk to people. It produced something that I hoped might
Speaker 2: turn into something else. The way that I'd watched my
Speaker 2: dad's notes and interview cassettes and handwritten transcripts turn into
Speaker 2: something in the newspaper all the time, So we didn't
Speaker 2: know that there was an unhealthy element to this obsessive documentation,
Speaker 2: and in the case of me and my dad, it
Speaker 2: could often be tremendously helpful in our work. Here's one
Speaker 2: of my dad's colleagues talking about how carefully he would
Speaker 2: observe things and how it was sometimes frustrating to him
Speaker 2: to realize that other people weren't paying as close attention.
Speaker 3: Mike was one of those guys more than anybody else
Speaker 3: that like, he would ask a question of the coach
Speaker 3: and you'd be like, shit, I didn't notice. I wish
Speaker 3: I had noticed that, Like you wouldn't you know? You
Speaker 3: would always you would learn stuff or be like damn,
Speaker 3: how did I miss that? Based on the questions that
Speaker 3: Mike asked consistently, this would happen a lot where you'd
Speaker 3: be like, wow, he really noticed that. That's he's really
Speaker 3: studied what he's watching. He just has a knack for
Speaker 3: it too, where he just picks up on things really
Speaker 3: quickly like that, like all those things with the Bruins,
Speaker 3: you would learn very quickly that he would ask questions
Speaker 3: that nobody else was sort of thinking or going in
Speaker 3: a whole different direction than other people were thinking, and
Speaker 3: he was kind of watching on a different level a
Speaker 3: lot of times, and like oftentimes too, like other people
Speaker 3: would would jump on and like, you know, take something
Speaker 3: from him or share it with him, where I think
Speaker 3: he would get a little aggravated because it'd be like
Speaker 3: I did all the work, I came up with this,
Speaker 3: and now all of a sudden it started into everybody's
Speaker 3: notebook lead like yeah, yeah, he was like so good
Speaker 3: and so brilliant, like that he had a brilliant hockey mind.
Speaker 3: He really did.
Speaker 2: It is really weird and cool to listen to the
Speaker 2: hockey community talk about my dad like this, because everything
Speaker 2: they're saying is true. And you did apply the same
Speaker 2: approach to how he did just about anything that was
Speaker 2: important to him, whether that was as a parent or
Speaker 2: a friend, or in my case, quite often an unpaid editor.
Speaker 2: He noticed as much as it was in his capacity
Speaker 2: to notice, and I learned how to process the world
Speaker 2: by watching how he did it. And weirdly, it seemed
Speaker 2: that one of his regrets was that he hadn't documented
Speaker 2: even more. My dad lost his dad to the same
Speaker 2: illness at about the same age, something I'm sure didn't
Speaker 2: bother him at all. But anytime we talk about my grandfather,
Speaker 2: who I don't have any memories of, he expressed his
Speaker 2: regret at not asking more questions and not writing more
Speaker 2: things down, his feeling that he was missing something. And
Speaker 2: I thought about that, and so when in the same position,
Speaker 2: I did what I often do, which is overcorrect to
Speaker 2: the point of excess and in some cases breaking the law.
Speaker 2: So I started writing notes within about ten minutes of
Speaker 2: kissing my dad on the forehead one last time. The
Speaker 2: first note says this dad died at about five in
Speaker 2: the morning, not that he'd know, but dying on day
Speaker 2: two of my period is really fucked up. Tim Greg
Speaker 2: Murder on the Orient Express slash the Wizard of Oz.
Speaker 2: I can untangle this note. The first part is obvious,
Speaker 2: the second part is an excellent joke under duress. I think.
Speaker 2: The third part are names of a crematorium guy and
Speaker 2: a funeral home guy. And the fourth part is the
Speaker 2: last book and movie I consumed while my dad was alive.
Speaker 2: And this was an obsessive thought pattern I'd been having
Speaker 2: for months the idea that at some point you have
Speaker 2: a library loan that will outlive your father and you
Speaker 2: don't know it yet, or at some point your entire
Speaker 2: life will change in the space of a bottle of
Speaker 2: gummy vitamins, but you have to keep taking them. Stuff
Speaker 2: like that. My notes from the next couple of days
Speaker 2: were pretty lean. They were notes from the last episode
Speaker 2: of sixteenth Minute on Naomi h which I insisted on
Speaker 2: releasing the day after my dad died like a fucking weirdo.
Speaker 2: There's a note from the day before dad funeral that
Speaker 2: says car clothes, ben babies, dinner, upload pictures, finished, playlist,
Speaker 2: USB drive. There's the note I made for his eulogy
Speaker 2: that says, hat yes not using Twitter, bio, Hallmark movie
Speaker 2: effortlessness versus effort. Come on, Eileen, dream about walking down
Speaker 2: the stairs. I feel that all this stuff is important,
Speaker 2: but there's no real reason to keep staring at it
Speaker 2: or anything from the last year, because there's nothing I
Speaker 2: can really do with it. You know, a lot of
Speaker 2: it is illegally recorded conversations with a dead guy, and
Speaker 2: even if I could use them, I wouldn't want to.
Speaker 2: So as I've been going through these boxes, of stuff
Speaker 2: that Dad left behind because he thought they might mean
Speaker 2: something to someone. I'm realizing that I've accidentally spent a
Speaker 2: year creating another box for someone else. Two weeks ago
Speaker 2: from when I'm writing this, I am exactly three thousand
Speaker 2: and one miles away and asleep on that twin bed
Speaker 2: I was telling you about two weeks ago minus an
Speaker 2: hour and a half. My mom and brother are at
Speaker 2: the side of that twin bed telling me that Dad
Speaker 2: has gone two weeks ago plus an hour and a half.
Speaker 2: I'm giving my dad syringes of all these things and
Speaker 2: keeping a careful record and kissing him on the forehead
Speaker 2: for what I don't realize is the last time. I
Speaker 2: can't keep thinking about all these numbers. They're true as
Speaker 2: I'm writing this, but they'll be different by the time
Speaker 2: I record it, and different by the time you hear it,
Speaker 2: and on and on, and it'll only just get further away.
Speaker 2: The day where Dad tells us his cancer is back
Speaker 2: is further away. The night before we go to the
Speaker 2: hospital and watch Pewe's big adventure is further away. The
Speaker 2: days I don't remember but have been obsessively documented by
Speaker 2: him and me grow further away. In these two weeks,
Speaker 2: I've found myself kind of chafing at every googleable element
Speaker 2: of grief, all of the aphorisms and step and what
Speaker 2: seems to be a multi million dollar industry around people
Speaker 2: telling you you're doing great and that your loved one
Speaker 2: is joined the rest of the faceless souls in the
Speaker 2: great mayonnaise jar of bygone humanity. I understand why it works,
Speaker 2: and I don't begrudge anyone who gets anything out of it,
Speaker 2: but it doesn't work for me. It lacks specificity. It
Speaker 2: feels like the goal is to arrive at a place
Speaker 2: where someone you love who taught you to look at
Speaker 2: everything you possibly could, is better suited in three sentences
Speaker 2: because it might make you feel better. Last week, I
Speaker 2: went to the beach, which I don't usually do, but
Speaker 2: while I was there, I kind of deluted myself into
Speaker 2: thinking that I was convening with his spirit. My dad
Speaker 2: hated the beach on a conceptual level, I kind of
Speaker 2: hate the beach. It just felt like a place to
Speaker 2: manufacture this kind of moment, and I tried to do
Speaker 2: that a lot in the first week. Last week, my
Speaker 2: brother and I convinced ourselves he was a rabbit the
Speaker 2: morning that dad died, because I don't know. He liked
Speaker 2: a rabbit and there was a rabbit nearby. But something
Speaker 2: that worries me about losing someone this important is that
Speaker 2: it's so tempting to turn them into someone in your
Speaker 2: mind who tells you that everything is fine, and on
Speaker 2: a long enough timeline, they turn into a framed photo
Speaker 2: in your apartment and three sentences and a voice in
Speaker 2: your head that occasionally tells you you're doing great. And
Speaker 2: I keep worrying that in a year, will I even
Speaker 2: be carefully considering what my dad might actually think, or
Speaker 2: will I just be talking to somebody who I've made up.
Speaker 2: Here's a part of a note I wrote on the
Speaker 2: beach whatever stupid Etsy jar or credit card bill and
Speaker 2: paying off so we could be with you. I have
Speaker 2: the real pieces, and someday I'll look at them again
Speaker 2: and you'll be right there. I tell you what stage
Speaker 2: of grief this is. But Google doesn't work here, just
Speaker 2: the word to be borrowed, cash to get over easy eggs.
Speaker 2: I have it all for some day when I need
Speaker 2: to have it straight, I promise. So when I go
Speaker 2: over these notes, I want to know what my dad
Speaker 2: would think. Because he's an interesting person. And I guess
Speaker 2: I've always thought that because when I was in middle school,
Speaker 2: I made this convoluted chart of things that I thought
Speaker 2: were interesting, revealing that I have been either remarkably consistent
Speaker 2: or deeply incurious. In the almost twenty years that have
Speaker 2: passed since I made it, I still regularly talk about
Speaker 2: Lemony Snicket books, the book Lolita, and as I dedicated
Speaker 2: an entire category of my interests the life in times
Speaker 2: of Mike Loftus. And the reason that I know I
Speaker 2: said this is because my dad put it in a
Speaker 2: box for me to see, and that means he knew
Speaker 2: I wrote that down too. We would text about this
Speaker 2: stuff intermittently. He'd send me something he thought was funny,
Speaker 2: or occasionally something that made him sad, because he didn't
Speaker 2: always realize the points when I was a kid where
Speaker 2: I was lonely or obsessive in a way that was
Speaker 2: more harmful than we thought. He really looked through all
Speaker 2: of these boxes, and now his boxes are back with me,
Speaker 2: what he'd left us of his own obsessive observations of
Speaker 2: his life, and the boxes that he'd made of my own.
Speaker 2: I don't know if this is healthy I suspect it
Speaker 2: isn't because in terms of raw material, it's too much.
Speaker 2: A lot of it is useless. You know, if you've
Speaker 2: ever lost someone and had to go through your house,
Speaker 2: you can relate this like sinking, feeling that no matter
Speaker 2: how careful you look, you're going to miss something, and
Speaker 2: of course you are. I mean, it's really painful to
Speaker 2: see boxes full of someone who isn't there, and it's exhausting.
Speaker 2: And I know my dad felt the same way, because
Speaker 2: the boxes his mom left behind when she died had
Speaker 2: started to mildo in our basement. But I have this
Speaker 2: fear that if I let myself reach the bottom of
Speaker 2: these boxes, a part of him disappears. I'm voluntarily tossing
Speaker 2: him into the man astar and somehow surrendering to the
Speaker 2: idea that three sentences could be good enough. I don't
Speaker 2: think my dad would want me to be cycling on
Speaker 2: these thoughts this much. He probably knew I would do it,
Speaker 2: but I don't think it's what he would really want
Speaker 2: for me. And now there are his boxes and my boxes,
Speaker 2: and I have to decide what's important to me. And
Speaker 2: I'll give money to mediums and buy crystal bracelets until
Speaker 2: I die. That's how I was raised. But I can't
Speaker 2: see my dad in a rabbit or a sunset right now,
Speaker 2: not in these two weeks. I can't see him in
Speaker 2: three sentences. The closest I've gotten are two things that
Speaker 2: I've found in a thousand boxes. The first it is
Speaker 2: a letter written inside of a Valentine's Stake card from
Speaker 2: my dad to me from who knows when. Part of
Speaker 2: it says, I know you'll be a good girl and
Speaker 2: we'll take care of mom, Ben, Reese and Bug, but
Speaker 2: please don't forget to take care of yourself too. Get
Speaker 2: enough sleep and make sure you have some breakfast before school.
Speaker 2: I'll call you before you go to sleep tonight. Don't worry.
Speaker 2: I won't be gone too long. I love you, Love Dad.
Speaker 2: And even though this was probably written when I was ten,
Speaker 2: I think that this is a little closer to what
Speaker 2: he would want for me. But I don't know if
Speaker 2: it's something I can give to myself. I think I'm
Speaker 2: always going to wonder if I had asked another question
Speaker 2: or arranged another box, if things would not feel this bad.
Speaker 2: The second thing is a cassette tape I don't remember
Speaker 2: ever having existed. It's almost exactly twenty five years old,
Speaker 2: and it was recorded on a road trip that my
Speaker 2: dad and I took together, the only one we ever
Speaker 2: took alone, Brackton, Massachusetts to a family reunion in South Carolina.
Speaker 2: At the time, I'm almost six, and I remember this
Speaker 2: trip in my memory. We listened to a mixtape we'd
Speaker 2: made that had one of Dad's songs and the one
Speaker 2: of mine. There was a time we heard the song
Speaker 2: Somewhere out There from an American Tale, and I started
Speaker 2: crying because I'd never been that far away from my
Speaker 2: mom before. I remember him teaching me how to swim
Speaker 2: in a motel pool and drinking the most amazing hot
Speaker 2: chocolate I'd ever had at a diner in Maryland. I
Speaker 2: remember almost nothing of the actual reunion. It was the
Speaker 2: trip and these little memories of being excited that I
Speaker 2: was spending time with just my dad and he wasn't
Speaker 2: at work and we could be silly and listen to
Speaker 2: music and see new things. And the tape Okay, it's.
Speaker 4: Still in line. July twenty ninth, we have driven forty
Speaker 4: two point six miles and it's eleven forty one.
Speaker 2: It's my dad making a document for I don't know
Speaker 2: if he knows who me someday maybe, But there's so
Speaker 2: much random stuff on it that you almost get the
Speaker 2: idea that it's also for him.
Speaker 4: Were eleven o'clock this evening, And the interesting thing is
Speaker 4: is that here, at eleven forty two point six miles
Speaker 4: into the trip and nineteen minutes before midnight, we're stuck
Speaker 4: in construction traffic on Route ninety five, getting a little bored,
Speaker 4: a little hot. But I don't want to turn the
Speaker 4: air conditioning on. I just don't know what I want.
Speaker 4: By a few rain drops, does it mean more? Does
Speaker 4: it mean less? You know? Are we driving into a storm?
Speaker 4: Or is it just that just a few rain drops?
Speaker 4: I don't know, And then there's no way to know
Speaker 4: unless we keep going.
Speaker 2: I almost didn't find this tape. It wasn't really organized
Speaker 2: into anything but a shallow box of otherwise empty tapes,
Speaker 2: But everything I remembered was there, crying about my mom,
Speaker 2: and we.
Speaker 4: Both just got a little bit sad because we heard
Speaker 4: a song that reminded us of home. But we think
Speaker 4: that maybe after Jamie gets a little sleep in a
Speaker 4: few hours, when we stop and grab something to eat,
Speaker 4: that we'll start to have a little bit more fun.
Speaker 4: Then it's tough for my little daughter. Let's see if
Speaker 4: she wants to say anything.
Speaker 2: Hey, Main Marney the hot chocolate in Maryland.
Speaker 4: It's nine thirty in the morning now, and Jamie and
Speaker 4: I just went and had our breakfast. It was called
Speaker 4: the Barnside Diner and it's in Temple Hills, Maryland, and
Speaker 4: we took our time and Jamie had like two awesome
Speaker 4: hot chocolates, even though it's going to be ninety degrees today,
Speaker 4: and all.
Speaker 2: Of these things that I didn't know that my dad
Speaker 2: thought or worried about. It was all there.
Speaker 4: And then we'll see how it goes from there. But
Speaker 4: it's gone great now. She just my Jamie Loftus just
Speaker 4: went back to sleep after listening to her Backstreet Boys.
Speaker 4: She slept two hours and I think she was up
Speaker 4: another two. I'll have to go back and check. But
Speaker 4: she just she's just a little wonder. I love this
Speaker 4: girl to death, you know, not really to death. I
Speaker 4: just love her so much. She's very peaceful, and I
Speaker 4: hope she gets a good sleep.
Speaker 2: And there's no person I can make up in my
Speaker 2: head or seeing a rabbit or whose memory could be
Speaker 2: a blessing or three sentences that captures the feeling of
Speaker 2: finding this and putting it in a boombox and knowing
Speaker 2: that all that time ago he was taking notes and
Speaker 2: hoping someone would find them at some point. But down
Speaker 2: the line with my kids asked me what was special
Speaker 2: about my dad. I'm lucky that I will be able
Speaker 2: to open a box and show them.
Speaker 4: Let's see. I just wanted to say. Now, I've been
Speaker 4: turning this on every now and then so we can
Speaker 4: keep a record, right, Yes, well, anyway, I just want
Speaker 4: to say before I forget that.
Speaker 2: Sixteenth minute is a production of Pool Zone Media and iHeartRadio.
Speaker 2: It is written, posted, and produced by me Jamie Loftus.
Speaker 2: Our executive producers are Sophie Lichtman and Robert Evans. Lea
Speaker 2: nasy Ian Johnson is our supervising producer and our editor.
Speaker 2: Our theme song is by Sad thirteen and Pet. Shout
Speaker 2: outs to our dog producer Anderson, my Kat's Flee and
Speaker 2: Casper and by Pet Rockbert who will outlive us all Bye.