Critical Mass Again

I rode in Critical Mass tonight and had a fine time; the ride was dry and festive; I was dressed just right in a waffle-shirt, flannel, vest, and armwarmers with wool tights and jeans; a few snorts of bourbon kept the chill off and a safety meeting at ride’s end, under the Fremont Troll, made the ride home for me that much more interesting.

I love the mood at the mass up; it’s heartwarming to see familiar faces with bikes getting ready to ride. Some people really make the scene: Haulin’ Colin was there with a kegcrow in his trailer and a friend sitting next to it dispensing en route; a couple girls in tights rode up on a tandem singing happy birthday and handing out brownies; Aaron was there on his fucking tall bike; and Derek Ito worked the crowd with flyers for the FHR on Sunday.

And I like the swarming as people begin circling before leaving Westlake Center; the first few minutes of the ride as riders pour into the streets thrills me, too.

But I think I pinpointed tonight what’s the challenging part and it’s not even the somewhat adversarial stance that some participants take towards cars; I’m used to that.

There are two things, really, one of them a drum I regularly beat.

That, the first one, is that what I like best about the bike is using it for transportation; riding to places, not just around is, for me, what cycling is all about. And Critical Mass, for all its hoopla, is really just another ride around; it’s fun to be on our bikes together, but where are we going?

The second thing is embodied in the Simpson’s quote, “No one suspects the butterfly.” My friend Moosh said that on a ride when we were breaking some traffic laws sneakily.

I support Critical Mass’ noble mission of making the bicycle more; but part of me that likes it better being invisible.

Tallbike Mass

Here’s another one I can check off on my life’s “to-do” list: riding a tallbike bedecked in Christmas lights in Critical Mass—and living to tell about it.

Yesterday, I wrapped the Deathtrap II in a couple strands of battery-operated Christmas lights that Jen had in her Burning Man box and then rode through rush hour traffic on Capitol Hill to join in November’s Critical Mass ride. About a hundred cyclists showed up at Westlake Center for a leisurely tour through downtown, celebrating bike love and flaunting traffic laws, if not common sense, as well.

I was one of two tall bikes in the parade, which had a especially festive feel to it, due, I think, in part to the season, and in part because—after last months controversial ride which saw Mass take over a piece of Highway 99 usually inaccessible to two-wheelers—people just wanted to have fun and be silly.

That was my motivation, anyway, sitting eight or so feet in the air, commanding a fantastic view of rows of blinky tail lights winking at me from scores of bicycles up ahead.

It was sorta scary maneuvering the Deathtrap II through the Mass of cyclists; oddly enough, it’s relatively easy to not notice a tallbike when it’s next to you; because there are only wheels and no rider on your shoulder as it sneaks by, you’re apt to not register it; this happened a couple of times to me, as riders would suddenly look up and say, “Whoa! Ooops! Yikes!” as I barely avoided crashing down on them.

Surprisingly, I only fell once, and that was as I tried to do a running mount of the bike on an uphill grade; a feat I now take to be essentially impossible, unless you’ve got a telephone pole or SUV to lean on.

Having done the tallbike Mass, I may or may not reprise it; I still haven’t done a trailer with the massive soundsystem; maybe that’s next.

Critical Mass

I got to Westlake Center about 5:30 yesterday. Some 300 people with bicycles, probably half or so affiliated with Critical Mass, about half friends and family of Susanne Scaringi, a young woman cyclist who was killed on Wednesday in a bike/car collision, were milling about waiting for the CM ride to take place.

Many of those who knew Susanne were wearing freshly-made t-shirts with her picture and nickname, “Nanne Girl” on them; that really choked me up. There was a slightly awkward moment when her brother, in thanking everyone for coming out, asked people to join him in prayer, but what the hell, he’d just lost his sister, so whatever he needed to do was okay.

The impressive mass of cyclists eventually flowed from the Center and around downtown. I felt like I was pedaling through molasses as we oozed forward; it was a friendly molasses, though, with lots of familiar faces and bikes.

The ride took us, at its incredibly leisurely pace, to West Seattle and the spot where Susanne was killed. There, we participated in a lovely candlelight vigil that would have been lovelier still had the giant news truck covering the event turned off its diesel engine.

Afterwards, a group of .83 riders joined me at the Beveridge Place Pub to drink up the remaining beer credit I had from the Patchkit Alleycat last weekend. We rode as a group to Alki Beach, where Susanne’s family was continuing a small memorial service for her.

My favorite part of the evening was riding in a formation from West Seattle back downtown; I got separated from the group for a while and had an adventuresome solo trek before meeting up again near Pine and Third.

The evening was capped off at midnight with a race around Greenlake, no lights for the brave.

I got home at 2:00; eight fun, funny, and poignant hours out and about on two wheels.

Surely there are bikes in Susanne’s heaven.

Critical Mass Evening

I went on the critical mass ride last night, in part because I wanted to see what the bike parade would be like against the backdrop of the busiest shopping day of the year.

The ride meet-up time overlapped with the official downtown Christmas tree-lighting ceremony, so, at 6:00, Pine Street in front of the Westlake Center was solid with pedestrians. A number of cyclists tried to inch our way through the throng; I eventually gave up, turned around, circled the block and met up with fellow riders from the south.

We milled about; the crowd of walkers thinned out, and eventually, about a hundred cyclists began a loop through Belltown, Pioneer Square, and off to Seattle Center where a handful of riders circled the so-called “Ghettodrome”—the Seattle Center fountain—while others laughed and cheered until the cops—or at least the threat of them—broke it up and everyone went their separate ways.

Traffic was heavy but not as crazy as I expected it to be; my favorite parts of the ride were when we got to weave, en masse, through gridlocked streets around Fourth and Pike. Drivers seemed to take in in stride; I only saw one shouting match between a guy in a car and a rider corking an intersection.

I spent most of the later part of the evening, just riding around—to Queen Anne, over to Fremont, on to Ballard, and then up to Greenlake for the midnight races. It was chilly but dry, relatively quiet for Friday night, but maybe people were at home recovering from turkey hangovers. I was glad to be on a bike, burning off the mashed potatoes, grits, and pecan pie.

I know I had all sorts of brilliant thoughts for saving the world and for creative things to do in my business ethics course next quarter, but here, in the morning light, all I really recall was the joy of being out on two wheels.

Critical Mass Incident Legal Fundraiser Race

Yesterday, I did an alleycat race set up to raise funds for the legal defense of the two guys who were arrested during the Seattle Critical Mass “incident” last month. A good race for a great cause, plenty of cool people and beautiful bikes, topped off with a barbecue in Woodland Park: and I even came in 8th out of about 20.

There was cosmic justice, too. One of the checkpoints required you to meet a guy named Henry and obtain from him the typed-up statement he wrote after witnessing the incident. You were then to make a copy of the statement. Trying to bend the rules a bit, I “made” my “copy” by pleading with Henry to give me two copies of his statement, which he did.

I probably saved five minutes by not having to find somewhere to make a legitimate copy. But then, on the way to the next checkpoint, I got stopped by the opening of the Fremont drawbridge—which cost me at least as much time as I had saved.

Once again, I was reminded that the bicycle gods don’t mess around, but it also made me notice something about my anti-fundamentalist attitude towards rules.

I believe that you should engage in dialogue with your foundational documents, be they the Constitution, the Bible, or the race rules. As Jen pointed out to me, this is mainly because I tend to be a self-interested cheater, but it’s also, I think, because I want there to be an ongoing, living interpretation of the principles which govern us. Times change and I think the rules should, too.

This does, though, illustrate the question that seems to be at the heart of deep divisions in the world today: should we abide by the absolute Letter of the Law? Or should we try to interpret its Spirit?

Or, to put it another way: should we follow the rules or try to get away with whatever we can?

Different (Pedal) Strokes for Different Folks

There are many things in the world I don’t understand—the ongoing appeal of country-rock music, how even 30 percent of Americans could think that Bush is doing a good job, my inability to leave my fucking keys and wallet in the same place all the time so I don’t have to dig around my house frantically trying to locate them as I’m rushing out the door—but I’m okay with that. Not having answers is a good thing; it keeps me wanting to puzzle things out and reaffirms the essential mystery of all existence.

Or something like that; at any rate, it helps prevent me from being an even more insufferable know-it-all.

Last night, for instance, I couldn’t understand why anyone on the Critical Mass ride would have passed up the opportunity to stop at Seattle Center, hang out, ride the Cyclecide peddle-powered amusement park rides, and catch another show by Vancouver’s B.C.Clettes, the bicycle-inspired dance performance troupe of which I am arguably the biggest fan around.

But many did; the Mass, some 200 strong, split up at that point as those more interested, I suppose, in riding, headed towards Mercer to continue the parade, while those, like me, unwilling to pass up the more unusual opportunity to play on clown-designed bicycle carousels and Ferris wheels and watch performances, piled up their bikes and stayed put.

The good news, I suppose, is that it made the lines for the rides shorter and the performance more intimate. But I had to fight the part of me that wants bicyclists everywhere all together all the time, we are the world, we are the people.

In the end, I take it as an affirmation of the “big tent” that cycling is; there’s certainly room in the two-wheeled world for all these many perspectives on what counts as preferable.

It probably doesn’t matter if we all love each other, the important thing is that we all love our bikes.

Greenlake Race

I partipated last night in the regularly-scheduled post-Critical Mass Greenlake Race. It’s held at midnight on final Friday of each month, the same evening that the usual parade of “Massholes” (I can use that word; I am often one myself) takes place.

Riders race a lap around the lake, generally unlit (well, their bikes are; participants themselves are often well-lit), the winner being the first cyclist who can make it all the way from start to finish, avoiding late-night joggers, dog-walkers, homeless people with shopping carts, and in the summer, lawn sprinklers and garden hoses.

The first time I raced, last summer, I was under the impression it was all good fun, and, while it is, some of those boys (and the occasional girl) are really serious about the competition. In my career, I’ve come in second to last, last, and yesterday, in a personal best ever, third to last.

And I will note that in the January 2007 race, for first time ever, I was able to see the taillights of one group in front of me for two-thirds of the way before they completely disappeared in the distance.

It was a lovely—if slightly chilly—night for a bike ride. The half full moon was bright behind a veil of fog and there was virtually no wind.

The ride over to Greenlake, slightly cannabis-enhanced, was just enough of an adventure while still allowing the reflective space to think of all sorts of fleeting ideas for teaching, writing, and making the world a better place.

As cyclists were massing for the start, another rider, Jeff, asked our organizer, Derek Ito, if there was time to get stoned before we took off. It was clear that we’d be gone before he could pack a pipe, so I whipped out a joint.

“Ah! Professor McStoney comes through again!” cried my fellow rider.

I may not be known as a fast cyclist, but at least I’ve got a reputation.

Philosophy Camp

A couple years ago, I met a guy, Stuart Smithers, who teaches South Asian studies and religion at University of Puget Sound and who has some land and a farm up in Arlington, Washington, and we got to talking about this idea to hold a philosophy camp in the summer, where we would invite people to come out and talk philosophy for a couple days in a pastoral setting.

Well, we never quite got it off the ground, but recently, this spring, we started up discussions again and so now, this weekend, about 20 people are joining us for 2 and a half days of doing meditation, a little yoga, and reading and talking about Schopenhauer, Spinoza, Emerson, and some others.

Neither Stuart nor I are quite sure how the weekend will unfold; worst comes to worse, I’ll get a nice long bike ride today—about 70 miles to the farm—people will be able to enjoy the out of doors and we’ll all share some food and conversation over the next 48 hours or so.

Best case scenario: we all have a profound experience and get re-energized about ideas and dialogue, and come home ready to change the world for the better.

I’ll be happy if my legs hold out on today’s ride.

I am a bit scared and ambivalent about what’s in store; this is one of those things that seemed like a great idea when it was months away but now that it’s here, you’d rather just hang out and drink beer at home all weekend.

Plus it’s Critical Mass tomorrow and I lent a guy my bike trailer so he could tow his 83 year-old grandmother in a chair on it; that I would really like to see.

My horoscope this week, though, said that I should put myself in unusual and uncomfortable situations so I don’t get too complacent; not to take advice from an arbitrary newspaper column, but I guess I’ll see.

Unhappy Drivers

As I ride through or near traffic, I can’t help noticing the unhappy faces of the drivers in the cars I pass.

Of course, this could be one of those cognitive bias phenomena, where I only notice examples of what I already believe, so just like the kids in my classes who think old people drive too slowly and never seem to come across senior citizens in sports cars, I might simply overlook the happy drivers, but I’m not sure; it sure seems like everyone behind the wheel is bored, impatient, worried, or otherwise halfway to all the way pissed off to be stuck in a motorized box in a long line of similarly imprisoned humans.

At any rate, I compare their state to my own which, even when I’m cold, wet, tired, or otherwise less-than-ecstatic to be on my bike, is generally positive. Sometimes I wish I were home already or didn’t have hills or headwinds to face, but I hardly ever don’t want to be riding and only very, very occasionally would I trade places with the people I see driving.

Last week on the Critical Mass ride this was especially apparent. (Admittedly, some of the frustration etched on drivers’ faces could be attributed to our blocking—or at least slowing—of their passage through ding-dong downtown.)

This isn’t, of course, an original observation. Anyone who’s ever wended their way through city (or suburban) streets has seen what I mention here. Today, I observed dozens of people in just this state of repose along Bothell Way. None of them even seemed to be enjoying the late spring snowfall we got last night.

I, on the other hand, chilly toes and all, had a big smile on my face as I rolled down the Burke-Gilman trail towards Seattle. Not that I wouldn’t have liked it better were it fifteen or twenty degrees warmer, but for sure I wasn’t wishing I were anywhere else than I was.

Not a Toy

Most people (at least in the U.S.) probably don’t realize how many of their daily errands they could do by bike.

Today, for instance, I used the bicycle to take my daughter to her summer art camp, then to carry about a hundred pounds of books to the Post Office to mail, then to haul a load of used clothing, suitcases, and other odds n’ ends to Goodwill, then to go shopping, returning with, among other things, a watermelon, a cantaloupe, and a four-pack of toilet paper.

And it’s only three in the afternoon.

Granted, most people don’t have a tandem, which allowed me to do the first errand, nor a swell trailer, which enabled me to do numbers two and three, nor a solid touring bike with racks and panniers, which provided me with the wherewithal for my shopping trip.

Still, I think the main sticking point isn’t a lack of two-wheeled options (although any excuse to buy another bike is a good one); it’s a lack of imagination—or perhaps just understanding—that leads people—even people who ride bikes a lot—to see them primarily as recreational vehicles rather than as solidly utilitarian conveyances that allow a person to travel fairly significant distances relatively quickly, while simultaneously carrying a reasonable amount of cargo, and even, in some cases, one or more passengers.

To me, the bike isn’t a toy—although it’s certainly my second-favorite plaything. To me, it’s the most important tool I own, and the one thing that will save me and my family should the Zombie War really take place.

In a faculty meeting a few years ago, I said off-handedly that the most important lesson I teach students and Cascadia isn’t philosophy, it’s riding my bike to school. The other day, at Critical Mass, I saw a former student who said I inspired him to ride his BMX bike from Bothell to the event.

He doesn’t know Descartes, but I’d give him an “A.”

Greenlake Race of Champions

I came mighty close to breaking my rule that if you can’t unlock your bike you can’t ride it and I failed according to the principle that if you’re unable to fix it, you aren’t allowed to pedal, but thanks to the ministrations of Evil Mike—twice!—I managed to keep my chain on long enough to make it home with just one spill on the black ice, but that was the only hiccup in an otherwise perfect night of cycling-related hijinks centered around the Greenlake Race of Champions, the annual end-of-season challenge bringing together most of the winners of the monthly competition held each Critical Mass Friday at midnight on the path around the big Ravenna pond.

It was a fine turnout of drinking, drunk, and sober cyclists on a clear and chilly December evening for the big race, which was won in stirring fashion by green bike jersey Patrick, whose alleged gastrointestinal difficulties did not prevent him from prevailing in the final sprint, edging out (IIRC) Andrew, resplendent in shiny black skinsuit with pink highlights, rocket scientist Denny Trimble, Captain America Matt, whose whole family, including his Dad showed up to represent, DJ Strokey in there somewhere, and Trevor Trike for fourth despite leading for most of the contest.

And woe be it to naysayers like yours truly, Henry didn’t get totally smoked either, acquitting himself as admirably in the saddle as he is known to on the karaoke stage, take that.

Much mingling and destination planning followed the competition, but no trackstand or ghost bike events as near-freezing temperatures inspired the assembled to head towards warm bars; I played the drunken holiday reveler with a group at the Nickerson, then bombed over to the CIP to finish people’s half empty glasses, before the traditional hangover-busting sprint up Interlaken and then to bed with just the aforementioned knee-skinning spill on the final turn to put the star on top of this Christmas tree of cycling joy.

Hoot

My fondest memory of the Buckaroo Tavern was on my maiden voyage to the Greenlake Midnight Race; after an evening bar-hopping following Critical Mass, me and Happy Stick Person showed up about 11:00 or so to kill some time before the witching hour competition.

There were about half a dozen regulars in the bar, and they weren’t particularly friendly; still nobody really bothered us more seriously than giving sidelong looks and snickering because I pronounced—in my relative newness at the time to Pacific Northwest drinking—my beer choice “Ra-NEER” rather than the preferred “RAIN-ear;” mainly, it was a quiet, surly watering hole, the sort of joint that Nick the bartender in Frank Capra’s classic “It’s a Wonderful Life” describes as serving “hard drinks for men who want to get drunk fast, and we don't need any characters around to give the joint "atmosphere;” so last night, as we arrived there after a bit of up and down from Westlake Center, through Queen Anne, it was pretty strange to see the place packed with hoards of fresh-faced and healthy-looking youngsters, who probably heard—via the Twitternetz or whatever—that it was closing for good one night hence.

I toasted the place with a final drink, and then got the hell outta there, riding through the heavy mist to the Pacific Inn Pub, where, after another beer and some fries, the reminder of the ride showed up for far more efficient alcohol consumption than had been possible at the previous, overcrowded spot.

So, even though vast miles were not pedaled, and in spite of the fact that you can’t go home again (if your home is a dive bar on its penultimate night), we still enjoyed some old skool pleasures, like circumnavigating the GhettoDrome, climbing through the rich part of the rich part of town, and enjoying the view from the east tip of Queen Anne, under the watchful eye of a real-live Barred Owl; what a hoot!

Importuning

I think I thought that if I just stayed out in it, if I rode my bike through sleet and snow all afternoon and evening, the weather wouldn’t dare not be better today.

Or, I’d be proof that it’s really not so bad—as long as you’ve got a warm base layer, you can put up with whatever Mother Nature throws you.

That must be why I didn’t let the elements—well, water and air, anyway—stop me from riding through Seattle’s freakish afternoon snow shower to visit each of the taco trucks on last time, letting them know that they are likely (at least if the weather’s not too scary for folks) to be descended upon by a gaggle of riders come Saturday afternoon between about 4:00 and 6:00.

And it must also explain why last night, after Critical Mass, I pedaled crosstown though shitty conditions and stayed out late enough to show up at the monthly Greenlake Race, where only three hardy souls—Brandon, Rob, and DJ Stroky—were hardy enough to compete.

I almost gave up around 11:00, when it seemed like the sleet would never stop, but after a couple glasses of coffee and a port at the Latona Pub, the air was clear and conditions were fine, if a bit chilly, for a race.

And my perseverance was rewarded, too, I believe, because who should show up at the Greenlake grandstand but the magical Daniel Featherhead out for a ride to Capitol Hill. Not only was I able to personally invite him to the Taco Truck Time Trial, but I also got to show him the nifty route to downtown across the Aurora Bridge and then that quick left across the highway down to Dexter and, in turn, have a riding partner for the worst parts of what would otherwise have been a lonely, cold slog home.

Ben was there, too, all smiles; if the weather didn’t stop a man on crutches, it shouldn’t stop anyone.

327 Words "Patchkit" Alleycat

In celebration of bikes, bikeshops, beer, coffee, the 327 word essay, and to squeeze all the remaining fun from summer before college starts again, 327Words, in conjunction with supportive bicycle retailers, drinking establishments, and coffeeshops, presents the First Annual 327Words Patchkit Alleycat, to be held on Saturday, September 23, 2006, starting precisely at 3:27 in the afternoon.

Participants will be required to visit 3 coffeeshops, 2 bars, and 7 bikeshops to complete the race. Confirmed coffee stops include Victrola and Zeitgeist, bikeshops on tap include Velo Stores, Recycled Cycles, Free Range, and TI Cycles; bars to be determined; after-party, though, is scheduled to take place at Madrona Eatery.

At each bar, riders will be provided with a malt beverage, and at each coffeeshop, a cup of joe.

At the initial bikeshop--2020 Cycle--riders will receive an empty patchkit box. Then, at their six subsequent stops, they will pick up another item for the kit—vulcanizing fluid, patches, sandpaper, etc.—completing the race when their patchkit has seven components, including the box. Prizes are expected to be awarded for Fastest Overall Times, First Lady, DFL, and Miss(ter) Congeniality.

Entry fee will be a suggested donation of 10 dollars, which will cover each rider’s patchkit, beer, and coffee. No one, however, will be turned away if he or she really wants to ride; “scholarships” are available.

All-ages riders can drink soft drinks at the scheduled beer-drinking stops.

This ride is inspired by and the organizer owes a great debt of gratitude to the organizers of other delightful alleycats he has been fortunate to participate in, including R.E.Load Baggage's’ “Cops n’ Robbers” Alleycat, Chris from .83’s “Brews, Brewed, and Bruise” race, The Critical Mass Incident Legal Fundraiser Race, and of course, the Dead Baby Downhill and Messenger Challenge.

Details of the Patchkit Alleycat will be forthcoming as the date approaches. For more information or to volunteer, email Dave at dashap327@mac.com.

This notice itself is 327 words; well, now. Now.

One of Those Days

It’s probably the emotional hangover from being all amped-up about my birthday yesterday, but today has just felt like one of those days when the center cannot hold and everything’s spinning completely out of control.

Bush and Congress are at a stalemate over Iraq; Britain and Iran seem to be ratcheting up their conflict over the capture sailors; the Saudi king is condemning the US occupation of Iraq; Sunnis and Shiites continue to blow each other up; and even the mass extinction of the dinosaurs didn’t lead as quickly to mammals as scientists have long believed.

I like that bumper sticker that reads, “Where are we going and why am I in this handbasket?” That’s what it seems like and even though the sun is out and the birds are singing (well, at least the crows are cawing), I get the feeling everything’s going to come crashing down—socially and politically—and we’ll all be foraging around in the post-apocalyptic landscape for turnips and hubcaps to cook them in.

I wish I could say that this invigorates me to redouble my paltry efforts to make the world a better place, but on the contrary, it inclines me to order up and handful of new credit cards and max them out on champagne, travel, and shoes.

I think part of my problem today was poking around on 9/11 conspiracy theory sites in preparation for talking about them in the Critical Thinking class. While it’s inconceivable to me that the Twin Towers were brought down in a controlled explosion, I can’t help feeling like a sap when I watch those impassioned paranoiacs make their crazy case.

Of course, the knock-down argument against a conspiracy is that Bush would have to be an evil genius to have masterminded the whole thing; I find it far more plausible that he’s just a doofus who let the terrorist attack happen.

But on a day like today, I’m not even sure about that.

Over

Three days later, I’m no longer mourning the Steelers’ stunning overtime loss to the Denver Broncos at the hands of the despicably holier-than-thou Tim Tebow in Sunday’s NFL Wild Card game.

In fact, looking back on it now, I scoff at why anyone would care at all about the outcome of a mass-produced “sporting event” featuring overpaid specimens of testosterone-poisoned human beings running around in spandex for a couple hours chasing an inflated pigskin up and down a field made of plastic.

With some distance on the thing, I sure don’t.

But damn, right afterwards, it sure felt like a punch in the gut.

Of course, it was all my fault.

Although I did pick up all the dog-poo in the backyard, I never took out the vacuum cleaner, preferring instead to tidy up the rugs and hardwood using my brand-new carpet cleaner. Lacking the use of electricity, it apparently doesn’t produce the same salubrious effect upon the gridiron play of the Black n’ Gold; now I know.

And even though I did lay out my dearly-departed mom and dad’s rings atop their watches on the Terrible Towel (in the second half, mind you, thereby precipitating Pittsburgh’s furious comeback from two touchdowns behind), I made a critical error at the start of overtime, when I stepped away momentarily from the game to grab one final wee dram of rye whiskey to calm the shattered nerves. Returning to the television screen, I was just in time to see Demaryius Thomas streaking for the end zone, much to my disbelief and horror.

Now, Cousin Seth tells me that championship teams will overcome missteps like mine and I wish I could fully buy that. Unfortunately, I can’t shake the feeling that if only I had waited to turn my attention away from the game that the outcome would have been different—or at least not so stunningly quick and agonizingly terrible.

Not that I care about it or anything, anyway.