Donald Trump and the Shameless Vilification of Immigrants

The politics of fear and hate is nothing new. Politicians and propagandists have long understood the most effective way to rile up the masses is to appeal to the angels of our worse nature. It’s not a new trick, scapegoating society’s easiest targets, blaming them for any number of problems. Jews, Christians, Irish Catholics, African Americans, Yankee Imperialists, Red Communists, and so on. Those strange people with different customs and different clothes, who speak in strange-sounding tongues. They want to take away your way of life, run away with your daughter, force you to do things you don’t want to. In politics the blame game is old hat, here and around the world.

But in the case of Donald Trump, we may have seen a new American low when it comes to the vilification of undocumented immigrants.

In my state of Texas, about two-thirds of all undocumented immigrants are from Mexico. Most come from circumstances most white Americans can’t begin to understand. When I lived in Mexico City and made many trips around the country, the relentless suffering of that country’s poorest made a huge impression on me. The living nightmare of the poor in underdeveloped nations is something, once you see it, you simply can’t forget. It’s cruel, ugly, and it breaks your heart. To make things worse, corruption and graft pervade every level of Mexican society, making social mobility through hard work, a concept many Americans take for granted, a practical impossibility (with the possible exception of the drug trade). When you’re down, you stay down.

Faced with such hardships, many make the risky, expensive decision to come to the U.S. illegally. Sure, they won’t be legal, but this is a small tradeoff for the chance to live in a place where they can work and raise a family in relative security. So they come here and work their asses off in the most backbreaking jobs imaginable, the vast majority simply hardworking, modest people, who just want to take care of their families.

And how do we welcome them? With intolerance and bigotry, with ugly looks and poisonous language. And if you’re Donald Trump, you vilify them, dehumanize them, paint them as little more than rats carrying bubonic plague.

I’m sick to my stomach of this kind of thing, whether I hear it from Donald Trump or the white collar redneck at work. And I won’t shut up about it any longer. If you utter this kind of nonsense, don’t think I’ll let you get away with it. No more shaking my head, lamenting the ignorance of others. From now on I’m going to call out the bullshit where I see it.

With that in mind, here are a few thoughts:

  • The overwhelming majority of undocumented immigrants fill an economic need that’s actually complementary and additive to the overall economy. The facts and figures around undocumented workers stealing jobs and draining public resources are either exaggerated, taken out of context, or completely false. You can do what I did–fact check and do a lot of research–or you can do a simple gut-check. Have you felt threatened by an undocumented worker’s ability to steal your job lately? No? Me, either. Here’s another one. Have any major American health care providers or insurance companies blamed their poor quarterly results on the unbearably heavy load of unprofitable, deadbeat immigrant customers? I don’t think so. Look all you want, I doubt you’ll find anything like that in a 10K filing.
  • They don’t come here to freeload off the system (that’s a myth), contrary to what conspiracy theorists and fear mongers would have you believe. Here’s a gut-check for you: ever see a Mexican begging for money in the U.S.? Ever see a homeless Mexican in the U.S.? No? Me, either. Why is that? I think it’s because those who choose to come here are made from tougher, more resilient material than most of the rest of us, and they simply won’t let themselves fall to the bottom of society. I’m not saying they don’t exist, but it’s a damned rare thing.
  • How many of you have had friends or lovers or in-laws with a last name like Martinez or Sanchez or Gonzalez? Sure, you might say, they may have had brown eyes and hair, but they spoke perfect English and they didn’t like soccer and they were my frat bros at Texas A&M. Those aren’t the kind of Mexicans who are the problem. Oh, really? The odds are pretty high your frat bro’s mom and dad came over illegally. Deal with them apples.
  • Undocumented workers fill a need, whether you want to admit it or not. That nice lady from Guadalajara that took care of your kids? You didn’t ask for her social security number, did you now? All you cared about was a good reference and a good rate. After that you didn’t ask questions. And that remarkably inexpensive home you live in? It certainly wasn’t built with union labor now, was it? And the clink-clink-clink of dishes and silverware somewhere in the background of your five-star dining experience? Let me clue you in: there’s a slight possibility those workers aren’t formally on the payroll. Undocumented workers, uninsured and unprotected and living in the shadows, are the grease that keeps the economic wheels turning in many industries.

Don’t agree? Have an issue? Well then roll your eyes, call me a bleeding heart, and take me off your Facebook friend list, white bread. Because I’m not going to shut up about it. These decent people deserve more than the hate and vitriol they’re getting. Much more.

B.B. King and the Great Eternal Nothingness

B.B. King is gone. This was the news I woke up to this morning. Shock followed by sadness. I first saw B.B. King on The Tonight Show in my early teens, and I loved his music immediately. That impossibly gravelly voice paired with an unmistakable vibrato guitar technique. Even as I grew into my older teens and my tastes migrated to Sex Pistols and Dead Kennedys, a B.B. King cassette or album was always at the center of my music collection.

Most of my childhood heroes are gone now. The writers: Kurt Vonnegut, Hunter Thompson, Charles Bukowski, and so many more. The sports figures: Alexis Arguello, Robert Newhouse, Walter Payton. Add to these countless film actors, artists, musicians, and political figures, far too many to name. Fate took some too early, some took themselves out, others just slowly withered away, somewhere in the murky background of public life, where the no-longer-media-relevant go to die.

So now there’s another hero gone, another name to cross off the list. I feel far more old and tired this morning than my forty-six years. On days like today, I find myself looking backward more than forward. Regretting the might-have-beens, the roads not taken, avoiding mirrors and cursing the wrinkling, graying present overtaking me and my loved ones, some faster than others. The sound of a clock ticking, winding down. The ominous thought of my own name getting crossed off a list.

I’m not a mystic, so the idea of a post-mortem paradise is an empty promise, a story made up for children who fear the dark. For me there’s no silver lining, just a black hole we’re all getting sucked into. The great eternal nothingness.

What to do, what to do? But what else is there to do, of course, but keep walking, keep breathing. Smile and laugh and fake it and hope your kids don’t notice the darkness lurking behind your eyes. Distract yourself with love, beer, work, hobbies, perversions. Bowling leagues, romance novels, macramé, cross fit, cross dressing, ecotourism, telling stories, reading stories, baking cakes, eating cakes, and so on. Whatever works for you, whatever takes your mind off the looming darkness, whatever distracts you (and doesn’t hurt others) from that big black hole that grows bigger every day, go do it.

Go do it right fucking now.

Introduction from Juarez Square and Other Stories

The following is the introduction excerpted from my new book, Juarez Square and Other Stories

Juarez Square - Web Cover RevealThe forces shaping contemporary life often feel like they’re moving our world in ominous directions. Technological innovations celebrated as progress frequently seem to bring as many curses as blessings. Fossil fuel-powered industrialization, for example, has ushered in an era of unprecedented prosperity in much of the developed world, but at the expense of environmental disasters, petty oil dictatorships, and global climate change. And advances in information technology have been both a source of inspiration and a sad illuminator of our inner selves. As amazed as I am at the wonder of supercomputers pondering the origins of the cosmos, I’m equally as crestfallen by the mind-sucking banality of social media.

The stories in this collection revolve around people whose lives become entangled in the unintended consequences—and sometimes the intentional abuse—of advanced technologies like robotics, genetic engineering, artificial intelligence, and drone warfare. Many of the tales take place in the US-Mexico frontier region, where the future is borderless, savage, and Anglo and Latin cultures have, after generations of commingling, evolved into something which is neither Anglo nor Latin, but something in between.

I freely admit it’s possible that I’m overly sensitive to my environment, that my concerns may be exaggerated. And since I can’t really be objective here, I’ll leave it to you, dear reader, to decide whether this collection is a harbinger of potential dangers we face, the proverbial canary in a coalmine, or whether it’s simply a literary diversion (hopefully an entertaining one) into an imagined future.

And to be sure, it’s not all near-future craziness in Ciudad Juarez. You’ll also find stories about a high-stakes political war on a manmade island-nation floating in the Atlantic, an unconventional woman running a robot brothel in Madrid, and a charismatic AI that takes the fashion world by storm.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the book. And feel free to send me a note and tell me which stories you liked (or didn’t) at dlyoungwriter@gmail.com.

D.L. Young

Houston, March 2015

Millennials: My Love-Hate Relationship

It was the longest half hour of my life, waiting in line behind a gaggle of millennials at the local Barnes & Noble. I was there with my six-year-old for the Harry Potter birthday event, where they’d set up Hogwarts-related games and activities all over the store. My son was a Harry Potter fan, so you know, quality time and all that.

We were waiting our turn for ‘pin the beard on Hagrid’ or some such game, and from the length of the line I’d estimated a five-minute wait, tops. Turned out I was painfully wrong. You see, we had the bad luck to queue up behind a group outing of half a dozen twenty-somethings with three young kids between them.

As they watched their toddlers play the game and wander the store blindfolded, joking and taking pics they posted online, my son and I waited…and waited…and waited. This herd of millennials, like Hindu cows blocking a Mumbai roadway, seemed oblivious to the wider world around them. After fifteen minutes of torture (while I’m folding my arms, glaring, and wondering why anyone would bring and eighteen-month-old to a Harry Potter event), the three toddlers finally finished their turns. I exhaled in relief.

But my wait was far from over. Next the adults started taking turns (the adults!). I watched, my jaw hanging open, as each of them played this CHILDREN’S game for another fifteen minutes while an impatient, fidgety line of actual children grew longer and longer, snaking its way through the store. At one point I almost spoke up, but decided against making a scene that might traumatize my child (I would have been labeled a ‘hater’ anyway). Instead, like I fool I held onto the hope that surely not all of them would take a turn. Wrong again.

Whenever I reflect on the generation gap I have with millennials (I self-identify as a Gen Xer, if you haven’t already guessed), I always recall that Barnes & Noble moment. I remember those twenty-year-olds, not just the ones in line but all the others like them, whose bodies seemed far too soft and fat for their young age, who laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny, who couldn’t comprehend satire, who’d been raised during an era of unprecedented US military intervention but had remarkably little interest in foreign wars (or foreign anything, except maybe Harry Potter and Japanese anime cartoons).

Who were these people, born just a decade or two after me? How was it possible, in just a handful of years, the skeptical glass-half-full pessimism of my generation evolved into a coddled, doe-eyed Disney-branded view of the world? Where did this unearned sense of entitlement come from? These questions I asked myself, finding no answers.

On the drive back home from Barnes & Noble that day, my frustration abating, I reflected on the news programs and articles I’d read about Americans born in the early to mid-nineties (good one here, if you’re interested).

How bad was it, really, that the workplace had to adapt to younger workers who expected (deservedly or not) more vacation and more flexible working hours? We’d worked ourselves to death in this country and the vast majority didn’t seem better off for it; the middle class dream had never been such a tenuous proposition.

And it certainly was no small thing that the scourge of racism, openly tolerated by baby boomers, shamefully acknowledged by Gen Xers, might become something millennials, with their genuine sense of fairness, help this country finally get past. No small thing, indeed.

So maybe they weren’t so bad after all. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was jealous of them, how free they were of the cynicism the eighties and Reagan and looming nuclear obliteration hardwired into much of my generation. Envious of how unworried they seemed about the crumbling world around them. What did they know that I didn’t?

Maybe I worried too much. Maybe I was simply getting old and cranky.

Road to hell or redemption? I wasn’t sure where they were taking us, but I knew one thing for sure:  next time I’d arrive to Barnes & Noble earlier to avoid the lines.

Millennials can never get anywhere on time.

Ice Bucket Challenge, A Cynic’s View

If you know me even a little bit, you know where I fall on the spectrum of cynicism. If you don’t know me, let’s just say I’m a Skeptic (capital S intentional). So when the ice bucket challenge, which ostensibly raises awareness and money for the Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) Association, exploded across social media in recent months, I was more than a bit suspicious. There’s a tangible ‘LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!’ vibe in many of the videos and an I-don’t-want-to-be-left-out element that smells to my nose more like herd mentality than authentic generosity of spirit.

You see I have a charity budget, and every year I plan which charities I’ll give to, my support level, and then each month I send an auto-directed donation. I also take advantage of a great matching funds program with my employer. And I manage to do this (with the exception of this blog entry) without telling anyone about it or performing complementary water stunts. Maybe it’s my personality or maybe it’s the WASPy Southerner in me, but for me good deeds feel more genuine and heartfelt if they’re performed with quiet dignity.

And then I looked at the money. According to the BBC, “…from 29 July to 28 August this year ALS received $98.2m – compared with $2.7m donated during the same period last year.”

Wow. The equivalent of several years’ of donations in a single month. The numbers blew me away.

Suddenly the motivations behind the ice bucket challenge phenomenon interested me less than the technology enabling it all. The past few months have given us perhaps the most compelling example so far of the power of technology to connect and focus the collective effort of millions to drive massive, high-velocity change.

Without a doubt social media has brought us lots of negatives: loss of privacy, social isolation, widespread disinformation, censorship, cyber-bullying, and so on. But the flood of money pouring into the ALS Association never could have happened without it. And that’s a good thing, period.

For a cynic like me, on most days the awesome power and pervasiveness of social media, its potential for abuse, its vapid content, its vanity-driven nature, fill me with techno-skeptic fear and loathing. Just not today. Today my ice bucket is half full.

The Wannabe Industry

Want to be a writer? How about an actor? A singer? Maybe a professional soccer player? Sign up NOW and learn secrets from the insiders on how you can ditch your day job and live your dream!

Unless you live in a wifi-less cave, you’ve probably seen ads like this, where organizations or individuals market their (ahem) industry expertise to the aspiring masses. It’s the kind of thing I like to call the wannabe industry.

As a shallow, celebrity-worshiping culture, we tend to glorify certain professions: writer, filmmaker, musician, pro (insert sport here) player, and many other creative professions. At a holy-shit-how-cool emotional level, it’s understandable. After all, who wouldn’t want to be a famous actor, walking the red carpet?  Or a best-selling author? Or a multimillionaire sports star? If you’re stuck in a dead-end career or struggling financially, it’s tempting to daydream about an if-only life in a highly compensated, so-called glamorous career.

Still, it never fails to surprise me how otherwise intelligent, ostensibly rational people get taken in by the wannabe industry, ready to believe wildest claims from (let’s face it) people who often aren’t any closer to the center of an industry than Pluto’s orbit is to the sun.

CAVEAT EMPTOR – Here are my biggest red flags for the wannabe industry. Feel free to add more of your own.

Questionable credentials. ‘Industry insiders’ often don’t have any more experience within their specialty than the folks they’re selling their expertise to. If this sounds circular, that’s because it is. So before signing up and handing over your hard-earned money, do a background check. If your expert’s resume is chocked full of awards you’ve never heard (or can find anywhere) or his / her lists of accomplishments look iffy, move on. Sadly, this wannabe-teaching-other-wannabes dynamic is prevalent in an industry near and dear to my heart: fiction writing.

Style over substance.  Your spider-sense should tingle if you come across an organization that relies a bit too heavily on slick promotional materials and paid endorsements. And if they offer financing, don’t walk, RUN for the nearest exit. Creative arts academies are a classic example. While there are hundreds of imitators with glossy takeaway brochures, there’s only one Actor’s Studio.

Small Business with a Famous Name Wrapper. Private sports leagues for kids come to mind here. Think your local Chelsea or Manchester United soccer academy will teach your child the secrets of the Premier League pros? Think again. These organizations are small businesses that pay a fee to license a famous name. A logo on your kid’s overpriced jersey (and socks and shorts and don’t forget the personalized backpack and team-approved shoes!) doesn’t guarantee a meaningful learning experience. Don’t believe the marketing copy, these clubs have about as much contact with their professional namesake as your local priest does with Pope Francis. And they certainly don’t have a monopoly on good teachers and role models for your children.

Outrageous claims. Success (however you define it) in any creative endeavor is a combination of innate talent, hard work, and serendipity. And oftentimes these elements work together in strange ways. There are penniless, unknown artists with incredible gifts who simply never get a lucky break, and there are talentless hacks whose relentless work ethic earns them a seven-figure income. There is no secret sauce recipe, no right or wrong way to the top of the mountain, and what works for one person may not work for someone else. The only guarantee creative professionals can count on is there are no guarantees. And to quote a favorite movie line, “anyone who tells you otherwise is selling something.”

Question everything. Be skeptical and do your homework before shelling out the big bucks. And beware of the wannabe industry, it preys upon your deepest hopes and aspirations, and it counts on your willingness to ignore that little voice telling you, “you might want to step around this, it smells like bullshit.”

Help Me BBC, You’re My Only Hope

Last night I saw something that frightened me, a BBC News program hosted by a woman wearing pancake makeup and tight-fitting clothes emphasizing (gulp) ample cleavage. After doing a double take, I started to worry, wondering if she represented a kind of turning point, the BBC’s concession to the ever-lowering bar of mass media standards where image has long since triumphed over content.

I didn’t lose my faith in US news programs overnight. It was more a gradual slide into disappointment that started in the nineties, when if you watched any national US news program (except maybe the MacNeil / Lehrer NewsHour on PBS), you might not have seen any coverage of mass atrocities and genocide in Eastern Europe and Africa. Newscasts were dominated by, or more precisely obsessed with, an intern and her relationship to a politician and his cigar collection.

Time passed and I noticed other changes. 60 Minutes seemed to throw in the towel at some point, pivoting more to celebrity profiles and less to investigative journalism. And then Frontline started using slow camera pushes on teary-eyed victims, ominous music scores, and every Hollywood trick short of a Hitchcock zoom to maximize the dramatic punch of their programming.

So I turned to the BBC. There was a content-over-style approach to the news I found refreshing. And I loved the journalists’ intolerance for PR-crafted talking points and dogmatic answers, the way they tenaciously pushed for the truth behind the bullshit. And there was a delightful absence of tabloid fodder. No Paris Hilton, no Kardashians.

But then last night I saw this woman, her chest nearly bursting from the top of her blouse, telling me something about some place (for whatever reason I can’t remember). And I began to worry. I don’t want a BBC News program without frumpy journalists, their unfortunate hair, wrinkled shirts, and bad tie choices.

Please don’t follow us to the bottom, BBC News. It’s cold and dark down here. Sure, everyone looks great, but we don’t know who’s lying to us.  And worse, a lot of us don’t seem to care anymore.

The Time I Accidentally Wrote Feminist Fiction

I once wrote a story that unintentionally ended up being a kind of a feminist litmus test. Now you might be thinking, wait, I thought you wrote dystopic science fiction?

Let me explain.

The story featured a bold, determined female protagonist with an assertive, unconventional sexuality (and in case you’re wondering what that noise is, it’s the sound of a can of worms opening). She was a tribute of sorts to women I’ve known personally and admired for their strong character and proud, defiant individualism. I had no idea her story would be a literary poke in the eye to many readers, but that’s exactly what it turned out to be.

In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have been surprised that, for the most part, a certain demographic (white, male, over 50) HATED her. And now that I think about it, maybe I was more surprised by the strength of the reaction than the reaction itself. When I ran early drafts across beta readers, the visceral, red-faced animosity from that certain demographic was not a pleasant thing to be on the receiving end of (I wouldn’t last two hours in Gloria Steinem’s shoes). The words “whore” and “slut” were never used, but the value judgements were unmistakably there, the subtext of their angry feedback, like a shark lurking just below the surface of the water.

Women beta readers, for the most part, liked the character. Imagine that. I eventually sold the story (to a woman editor, respect), and to this day it remains one of my favorites.

The whole situation reminded me of a discussion in an undergraduate literature course, when my professor brought up the topic of the “unintended narrative.” The thinking is that the writer, in addition to the intentional story and its related themes, also imbues his or her work with unintentional meanings and messages. In other words, the artist communicates more than he’s aware of.

Did I write the character intentionally provocative? Yes. Did I think some folks would have a problem with her? Undoubtedly.

But did I deliberately want to take a jab at chauvinists whose laughably archaic views on gender roles have no place in modern, civilized society?

Not really. But you know, that kind of sounds like something I’d do.  😉

 

 

 

Photoshop, Creative Cross Training, and the Art of Writing

When I was three, a preschool teacher showed my mom a crayon drawing I’d made of a dinosaur. My mom shrugged and said, “Yeah, he draws dinosaurs all the time at home.” To this the teacher replied incredulously, “Three-year-olds don’t draw dinosaurs.”

As a kid, drawing was my first creative love. I’d draw my own comics, sketch cartoony portraits of my family, and (as I approached adolescence) create disproportionately-endowed females with come-hither eyes. At some point in my teen years, though, I lost interest in drawing, but even as my attention began to bend toward literature in my college years, I’ve always maintained a keen interest in the visual arts. I make movie selections based on director / cinematographer pairings, I’m fascinated by 20th century Spanish and American painters, and I consider British street artist Banksy a modern genius.

Recently, on a whim that felt similar to the one that brought me back to writing a few years ago, I bought a drawing tablet and Photoshop. Over the past few weeks, I’ve slogged through online tutorials on figure drawing, perspective, and other ‘art 101’ primers. Really, really fun, but really, really challenging as well.

And unexpectedly, this new creative outlet has improved my ability to write. After sketching for a few hours, when I come back to writing it seems relatively easy. Not objectively easy, mind you, just by comparison. While my skills as a writer undoubtedly have lots of room to improve, they’re certainly well past the stick figure stage, and this is a comforting thought.

A similar thing happened when I suffered a knee injury that forced me to stop training for a marathon. For several months, instead of running, I cross trained with weightlifting, swimming, and riding a stationary bike. When I finally came back to running months later, I found my performance was higher and running just seemed, somehow, easier.

Maybe creative muscles are like the physical ones in the sense that a bit of cross training helps develop your core strength, whatever that happens to be. Maybe painters can improve their landscapes by writing stories. Maybe actors can improve their monologues by taking up knitting. Actually, the knitting example may be a bit of a stretch, but in my case a bit of creative cross training seems to have helped.

I’m interested in learning if any of my writer friends have had similar experiences with creative cross training. Let me hear from you!

Choosing Teams: Science Fiction vs. Literature

I can’t tell you how many times this has happened to me.

“Oh,” someone says, “so you’re a writer?” His or her eyes light up with admiration.  “What kind of things do you write?”

When I answer, “science fiction,” the person’s face goes blank, they nod slowly, and then they say something politely dismissive along the lines of “Oh, that’s nice.”  With just two words, my position on the cultural totem pole goes from somewhere near Hemingway down to somewhere near the person who corners you at a party to talk about UFO conspiracies.

When you type up a story, you’re just a writer, just a person with an idea in their head, with some story to tell. But when you get around to the business of selling a finished piece, you have to choose a team. And while there’s a wide array of divisions and sub-divisions in the publishing marketplace for fiction (for non-writers out there, think the sections you see in a Barnes & Noble), when you get right down to it there are only two buckets: genre fiction and literature. And for someone like me, this really stinks, because I’m what you call a tweener.

I’m the guy in high school who enjoyed sports but also hung out with the odd-dressing, screw-everything crowd, who loved B.B. King as much as the Sex Pistols, who had friends in nearly every social circle. As an adult, I’m the English Composition major who loves science fiction, equal parts literary snob and genre nerd. A walking contradiction, welcome to my world.

As a writer, being a tweener sucks. It’s like straddling a kind of literary Chinese Wall where a fair amount of people on both sides have little interest in — and often contempt for — the territory beyond their homeland. For too many of the folks on one side the wall, it’s a waste of time to read (much less love) the snooty, more-style-than-story literary works of Joyce Carol Oates or Zadie Smith or Tobias Wolff. And for the other side, science fiction is a literary ghetto, a dumping ground for sub-standard fiction, a file drawer that Kurt Vonnegut once famously said serious critics regularly mistake for a urinal.

For reasons that are as much commercial as cultural, you can’t straddle the wall indefinitely. At some point you have to choose which side is yours, and the home I chose was science fiction. Why? Because Isaac Asimov’s idea of psychohistory turned my teenage brain upside-down. Because Ray Bradbury fired my imagination. Because 1984 blew me away. Because William Gibson, Paolo Bacigalupi, and Ian McDonald. Simply put, science fiction is the literature (yes, I said it) that’s closest to my heart.

It’s a funny thing, though. When I jumped off the wall and landed on the SF side, I noticed something. The wall wasn’t solid.  There were large holes that had been created by people on both sides, chiseling away little by little. And there were people crossing back and forth through the gaps, distributing subversive literature like the SF issue of The New Yorker, short stories by George Saunders, novels by Philip K. Dick, and other works that refused to play the zero-sum SF-versus-literature game.

The wall still doesn’t have enough holes, though, and there aren’t nearly enough people passing through the existing ones. But I just heard a woman on the literary side discussing Heinlein without sarcasm, and I noticed a man on my side talking about Salman Rushdie without rolling his eyes. And for a tweener like me, that made my day.