Obama: “I’m Sorry”

The Hank Harwood Reality Show will not be seen today. We bring you instead, a special message from President Barack Obama.

Here he is now, looking quite calm, as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Shhh. He’s starting.

Camera pans in on the podium.

Folks, I want to apologize. Usually, I know, I’m apologizing on your behalf, to other countries. You’ve heard me do it. But today, I want to apologize to you. I know it’s been hard on you, what I’ve been trying to do. I know a lot of you don’t like what I’m trying to do anyway. But now even the ones of you who do, are suffering because of it. That’s why I want to apologize.

I hope you’ll stick with me, because I’ve got a lot to apologize for. Take Obamacare. Good name for it. I didn’t pick that name. I called it The Affordable Care Act. Well (chuckle) it turns out The Affordable Care Act is not affordable. I’m sorry about that. I know how much it costs, because Congress got into such a snit about it, I have to pay their Obamacare bills. And their aides’ and everybody else’s who works for them. Well... it’s not exactly me who’s paying. It’s you. So I apologize there, too.

But that is not the worst thing about Obamacare, a more appropriate name (it is my fault). The worst thing... there are so many; where to start... First, I apologize to all you old people who are going to die because we can’t afford to treat you, if we’re going to pay for things like sex-change operations for convicts, and birth control for everybody, and abortions, and oh yeah, mental health – could eat up the whole health care budget. I mean really, who among us is sane? Who among us does not need shrinking? Thinking you’re sane is about as crazy as thinking you’re Napoleon.

It’s no news that you can’t keep your old policy. Even now that I’ve given you permission to, your old policy doesn’t exist anymore. Obamacare made it illegal. Now you’re finding out you can’t keep your doctor. For some of you, your doctor doesn’t exist anymore. He’s quit his practice because of all the paperwork, and over-sight, and interference. Can you blame him? If I have my way, he’s going to get less money, and have practically no autonomy. His professional life is going to be hell. He’s not going to be able to give his patients the treatment they need. Well, there are plenty of other people, who aren’t so sensitive, who want to be doctors. All we have to do is lower the standards, and they’ll flock. Just like they do to teaching.

Something else I want to apologize for: Some of my policies may be choking out capitalism. You know, making it impossible for the free market to work. Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t like those words – “capitalism”, “free market”. I like words such as, “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.” But folks, let’s face it, capitalism works. Everybody’s trying it now. We’re becoming a backwater nation because I’ve been trying to make Marx work, and... well... once again, I’m sorry. It just doesn’t. Never has. But it sounds so good, you gotta try it when you get your chance.

It’s like this. If you leave people free to offer things to others, and you leave the others free to buy those things, or not, as they choose, well, the folks doing the offering will have to give the others, the buyers, what they want, or the buyers won’t buy their product. They’ll buy some other product.

What you don’t understand is, money has to keep moving. If money moves, it reproduces. It makes more of itself. Every time a dollar bill is spent, that’s like a new dollar bill being born. Somebody got something for it. Somebody’s life is better. And somebody else got a dollar he didn’t have before. Each dollar bill can buy hundreds of dollars worth of goods. What you’ve been thinking is that there’s only a certain amount of wealth to go around. But folks, that’s not true. The more things we create for people to buy, the more the money is moving and the more wealth we have.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking all the money goes to the people who create the product, and they take that money and hide it away and nobody ever sees it again. Well we see people putting their profits back into their business, because that’s how they stay alive. And if there’s any left over, they spend it. On what? On seeing your daughter in a Broadway show. On buying a yacht that was built by your son. On a vacation at a hotel where your niece is at the front desk. On sending their kid to the private school your wife teaches in. On eating out at the restaurant you own. You see what I mean? If the rich do well, everybody profits. It doesn’t “trickle down”. It flows down like a flood. It swirls and churns, touching everything and everybody, bringing huge fortunes, to the most unlikely, down in the valley of the many, where most of you-all live. 

So I want to apologize, because we who are running the government have stemmed this flood by diverting these fortunes to us, so we can give them out the way we want to, mostly to ourselves, in one way or another. I’m sorry to say we even did this with a bunch of taxes in the Obamacare bill. Oh, yeah (the president runs a hand over his forehead), plenty of taxes in that bill. Some people say the taxes were the purpose of it. Don’t you believe it. We just wanted to run things. Part of Marx, you know. We’ve got the banks, the big businesses, education. Moving well on food and shelter. Gotta get control of health care. Get them by the... (the president looks back over his shoulder for who’s to blame for what his teleprompter almost made him say – a head is going to roll – and does not finish the sentence.)

All right, now it gets personal. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bully. (Raises hand to ward off objections). No, no, don’t deny it; I’m not denying it; why should you? I’ve been a bully. I’ve been too impatient. I want to make the world the way I think it should be, and I don’t care what anybody else thinks or wants. Well, I’ve always been like that. From the time I was this high. (Raises his hand above his head and purses lips as if inhaling) No, no, I’m kidding (puts his hand at knee level and waits for laughter to subside.) I’ve been acting like a dictator, and I know it. But it’s so much easier than trying to convince the Republicans, not to mention those Democrats who spend too much time listening to their constituents. (laughs) That’s you.

No, seriously. I should not have forced Obamacare down your throats. I know that now. Look. You were right. It isn’t working. There are more people uninsured now that when I started the whole thing. Nobody’s happy. Every day I have to excuse more and more groups from more and more parts of it, so now it’s nothing like what it was when it started. Now it’s nothing. Nobody can get insurance, doctors don’t know what to do, hospitals don’t know what to do... You’d think all these young healthy people who voted for me would be happy to support the old sick guys. That’s what it takes to make it work. And I gave them a free ride with their parents until they turned 26. But no-o-o. I called it wrong and I’m sorry.

People are getting scared now. They see what’s coming. Soon your doctor won’t be able to write prescriptions for anything. You’ll have to go to a specialist to get whatever meds you take. More tests, more appointments... and you know, maybe you won’t get them, because a lot of them are expensive and we can’t afford them under the system. But I do keep changing it. By myself, of course. Anyone who complains loud enough gets a change. Made by me. Personally, for them.

You know, (snicker) it really isn’t right that I’m going around making all these rules and regulations by myself. Congress is supposed to do that. But hey. Nobody stops me. I’m free to do anything I want. Never saw anything like it. Nobody has. We never thought it would be this easy. We thought you’d put up a fight.

But it’s all my fault. I know that. I made you love me. And now you can’t doubt anything I say or do. It’s like I’m omnipotent. Believe me, sometimes I’m shocked that I’m getting away with it. I’m not going to stop, because I do have a mission. My mission is to equalize things. America has too much. Too much money, too much power, and way too many rich folks. I want America to be more humble, and more fair, like Cuba and Venezuela, where the government makes sure that nobody has too much. And I have another mission, a sort of side mission, and that is to take care of my people. (Uncertain, but building applause) No, not those people. Not blacks. Muslims. Don’t you get it guys? I apologize if I’ve pulled the wool over your eyes. But it was so easy. You should really look out, you know? You’re suckers.

Don’t you know that I was taught in Muslim schools? I was brought up over there. Under Allah. You know how it is, what you’re taught when you’re young, that’s you. Even if you want to fight it, you can’t. Ask a Catholic. Okay, you’re going to bring up Reverend Wright, and his church. Yes, I belonged to that church. Yes, I heard Reverend Wright say, “God damn America.” Yes, I know he meant it. Yes, my daughters went to that church. But here’s what you don’t know. I didn’t want to join that church. I was afraid to. I was afraid it would interfere with my Muslim beliefs. But Reverend Wright assured me that it wouldn’t. And Reverend Wright turned out to be right. It did not interfere at all. Muslims, too, can say, God damn America. (murmuring in the audience, which is becoming uneasy. The President addresses it.) Go ahead, get out your phone and Google it. The Reverend told you all about it when he was mad at me. I heard it myself. Rush Limbaugh played a clip. Yeah, I listen to Rush; gotta know the enemy. And also, gotta know what’s going on – The New York Times doesn’t tell me. Flattering, just like my staff, but hey, in my position I gotta know.

Somebody out there is holding up a sign “Ben Ghazi.” Okay, okay, I knew someone would bring it up. Of course I’m sorry. You think I wanted that good looking ambassador to be raped and murdered? Does that look good for me? Of course not. I’m sorry about blaming the video. It was a cheap trick, and except for the elite liberals on the east coast, nobody believed it. Everybody wants to know where I was when it was going on. Well, I’m going to tell you. I had sneaked out for a Big Mac, and things got all confused, and I couldn’t get back to the White House without Michelle finding out where I was, so I went to a movie, and then all hell was breaking loose, and all my 3AM phone calls were routed to Hillary anyway, so... I don’t want to think about it. I really and truly am sorry.

And also, the IRS business. I am not sorry they did it, but I am sorry they got caught. Doesn’t look good, but it doesn’t matter. I won the election. Remember how mad the Tea Party was? Remember how bad things were going for me? Everything was against me. So they didn’t give the Tea Party a tax-exemption for their donors, and guess what! They had no donors. (Slaps his thigh). If they’d had the money they should have had, I wouldn’t be standing here apologizing. Mitt Romney would be standing here. And none of the above would have happened.

Now that’s something to contemplate, isn’t it?

Oh. I almost forgot. This business of collecting every word you ever said to anybody in your whole entire life so I can use it against you if I ever have to.... come on now... you don’t really think I’d do that, do you? You don’t have anything to hide, do you? Because if you do, you know, maybe you’d better stop using your phone. And your computer. Start sending letters through the US Mail. Like Jimmy Carter’s started doing. Because even though a committee that I myself appointed, told me to stop doing it, I’m not going to. Once again, sorry.

And for all you guys who liked your incandescent light bulbs because they worked, and you didn’t have to call HazMat if one broke, and they gave off heat in the winter when you need it, and who cares about the summer when you don’t even have to turn on your lights, sorry, all you guys. I know a lot of you stocked up and have a closet full. I did too. Hate those damn little twisty things that take forever to warm up. Don’t work with my dimmers either. And some farmer wrote me that all his baby chicks died when he replaced his old 100-watt brooder bulb with a pigtail one. Sorry to him and them too. I love Buffalo wings.

What else. Let’s see. What else do I want to get off my chest? Oh, yeah. My vacations. Look. I’ve got to do it. Michelle is pissed at all the gardening she’s got to do in the organic plot out back, she’s pissed that she had to fire the White House pastry chef because she’s always talking about fatties. (He looks both ways and leans into the camera). Woo! She’d put on quite a bit on her own back forty, but it’s gone now. Wasn’t easy. Michelle, well, you can imagine. What she wants she wants, and if she wants a mile-high stack of pancakes, that’s what she’s going to have. So anyway, she hates Americans because they’re making her do all this, so for spite, she spends as much of their money on vacations and clothes as she can. That five thousand dollar dress... didn’t even like it. But listen. Leave it alone. That’s not my fault.

And it’s not my fault that the businesses of all these friends I give money to, fail. I do not know what is the matter with them. They’re perfectly good people, with good brains. They just don’t have a lot of experience. Hmmm.

Well, let’s leave that alone, too.

I’m sorry I ruined higher education. I had no idea when I took over the student loan business that colleges would just up their tuition because the feds are paying the bills. Because that’s what happens, you know, when the students default. How can they pay off the loans – they can’t get jobs. Yeah, I’m sorry about that too.

And I’m even thinking maybe it’s not such a great idea for everybody to go to college. I needed a lot of help, so I know that everybody isn’t suited for an academic career. Some people prefer doing things. Even working. Now that everybody’s going, I hear it just isn’t the same, that people go there to drink and have sex, and most of them don’t know how to read or write when they get there.

The public schools are no good. Okay, that one’s not my fault. We’re trying to fix that. But please accept my most humble apology for this thing they call the Core Curriculum. I had nothing to do with it. If I thought they were going to spend all this money messing with math, I would have put my foot down and stopped them. I don’t see any use for math. I was never good at it. Can’t tell a billion from a gazillion, and never could. And I’m the President of the United States. So where does that leave math?

And I’m going to take care of reading and writing by starting it earlier. We’re going to have universal Pre-K, and that will become compulsory Pre-K, like the rest of school. (He leans confidingly in at the camera.) Do you know, when education was first made compulsory, a lot of parents didn’t want to hand their kids over? So they fined them, and if that didn’t work, they took the kids away. (He shudders.) But now everyone wants to hand their kids over – especially those little tykes who are becoming such a pain at home.

I know some of the old-fashioned experts say that if you try to teach a kid to read before he’s ready, you will ruin him forever; he’ll learn to fake it and never be able to do it right. In fact, they say that’s already happened to the kids who are in college now.

But I’ll take my chances on that, because it’s important to get all the kids together as young as possible, and teach them to be loyal to their school, to their government, and not so hung up on their families – all of whom are different. And some of whom are even hostile to the government. We have to teach them what’s right – which is, left. (He laughs.)

I’m doing okay internationally – no apologies needed on the overseas front. Iran’s coming along just fine; they’ll get their bomb. I’m squeezing Israel every which way I can, and... you know, I don’t get it... why don’t American Jews complain? Weird. Jews are weird. But I guess everybody knows that.

Not doing too well with the Western powers, but who wants to? Remember, I gave back that bust of Churchill when I moved into the White House. Some people think it wasn’t mine to give back, but I don’t care. I hate the Brits. Don’t much care for the French either. Not crazy about anybody over there, really. Bunch of old white guys living off the old white culture. Luckily they’ve all turned socialist, so they’re going downhill fast. As is the USA. And that’s all to the good, because the only way to get equality, the only way to have complete fairness, the only place everything can be equal, is at zero, and that’s what we’re aiming for. Nobody should have it any better than anybody else.

Except, of course, for those running the show. I’m sure you’ll agree that those of us who are responsible for all of you, should be well recompensed for taking the trouble.

But finally, I want to apologize for transforming America. I transformed her into a dung-heap. (holds up an admonishing hand) No, no, it’s true. I forced the auto industry out of existence by making them meet standards nobody could meet – I didn’t even understand them myself. I’m doing the same thing to the clean coal industry, where a lot of you folks got cheap heat. (laughs.) No, really. You know what I made them do? Well, not “me”, exactly – my EPA. Environmental Protection. That’s a laugh, isn’t it? How many of you know that line from the King and I. “… might they not protect me out of all I own?” That’s what I did for autos, and I’m doing it for coal. I’m telling them they have to install things that haven’t been invented yet. So what are they going to do? Go to jail, or get out of the business... that’s their choice.

I’m sorry to say I caused more inequality that I cured. Have you seen how my buddies on Wall Street are doing, while you’re on food stamps? Well, I didn’t intend that, but that’s what happened. I didn’t intend a lot of things. Well, some things I did intend. I did intend to break down the economy, because, well, if you’re going to make an omelet, you have to break some eggs. What I want is to transform America into something more like the Soviet Union, or Cuba – states that are for the people, you know? Well, you didn’t know that’s what I meant by Hope and Change. I told you, folks, you’re suckers. It’s not all my fault. You fell for a pretty face. (By the way, you should see me when I’m not botoxed. You wouldn’t recognize me. Michelle screamed the first time she saw it.)

But listen folks, it’s not all my fault. You should have known better. I can’t help it, but you can. My mother turned me over to Frank Davis to tutor. Ever hear of him? Google our images together. Some people think he’s my father. Quite possible, quite possible. I have no objection. Frank treated me like a son. Frank was a Communist – by the way, a colleague of Valerie Jarrett’s father-in-law. Yes, yes, we’ve got quite a tight little family going here. Bill Ayres? You know him? Started my political career in his living room. Worked for the cause. Blew up some buildings and said he’s sorry he didn’t blow up more. Well, we don’t have to do things like that anymore Bill. Now I just sign executive orders. Gets the job done cleaner.

But where was I? I was apologizing, not bragging. Apologizing to you, not to Bill Ayres. I have nothing to apologize to Bill for. But to you, folks? Well, I just couldn’t help myself. I had this great opportunity to make the world right, and I did. I had to give a lot of your money away to foreign countries without asking you – that’s true. But you had more than they did, and it just wasn’t fair. They needed it, and you... you really don’t.

My final act of transformation will be to take down the border between us and Mexico, flood you with foreigners who will go right onto the welfare rolls, so you’ll be paying for them. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But listen. These folks are going to vote Democratic. There will be more of them than there will be old, fat, white, males, all of whom are Republicans. The Republicans will be outnumbered forever, and we’ll be able to take our place among the rest of the socialist countries, and be proud of it.

So, not so good for you, individually, maybe, but fair.

Well. It’s been nice talking to you, but I see my golf cart coming to get me. Gotta go. (Waves). Now don’t you take any wooden nickels!

As he leaves, we pan to Michelle, planting peas in the organic garden. She’s wearing jeans and an old jacket, and cursing, cursing, cursing, almost loud enough for the cameras to pick up.

If I told a lie, if I made you cry

… I'm sorry

From the bottom of my heart, dear

I apologize

The Drinking of the Green

Missed you guys last night. Not one of you showed up at the Winery, in spite of all their advertising. Well, your loss; there were plenty of other people there. And there should have been. Posters all over the county, radio spots the day before and on St. Paddy’s day itself. Green wine. Nice play on words. Got the Irish, and Environmentalists, which means most of the people we know.

Natalie and Billy the Kid, a regular item now, worked up the green wine after a little experimentation for themselves, and a few select customers. They soaked some leaf brought down from the Connecticut hot house in clear alcohol, and added a splash to each glass of Winter White, which happens to be on sale because its name-value is coming to an end. Though the ground is still covered with snow, bare spots have been appearing, and they’ve now come together to expose whole hillsides of brown, spotted here and there with green. Spring is coming. The word “winter” will disappear from the vocabulary.

The customers out on the floor get tincture of mint, instead of tincture of Mary Jane, which adds a fresh taste, and goes well with the bonus chocolates. The drinks are called Greenleaves, covering both versions. A few drops of the mint added to the MJ disguised its aroma, so the “special” guests could fearlessly mingle. Yes, it’s a blessing when family interests coincide and the generations work side by side.

Nat and Bill are tending bar, which makes everything convenient. Their new names suit them. Nat has cut her hair to a Twenties bob with bangs and swing. Very Gatsby. She’s wearing a shimmering green shift and iridescent green tights and looks more feminine than she ever did in long hair and jeans. Emerald beads drape in lengthening loops on her flattened chest, the effect achieved by tightly wrapping it in a few yards of cheesecloth.  On her feet are high-heeled silver slippers. A pity she’s stuck behind the bar and no one sees them.

No one except Bill, who is letting his hair grow long, and whose upper lip is developing a soft and sketchy but attractively diabolical mustache. These two are going places together. They have worked together on their appearances, part of a bigger plan. They are also working together on Caesar’s marijuana plank on the party platform. And they’ve come up with a suggestion: “Legalize!” which is also their suggestion for the name of the party, because Legalize refers not only to marijuana, but to illegal immigrants. “Two birds with one stone” is their party slogan. No more drug-running from Mexico, plenty of work for immigrants, especially if they can take their heads out of the sand, no more drug-wars, no more gun-runs, work permits for anyone who wants one. New respect for gardeners, who can teach these Gringos a thing or two about growing.

And Nat? She’d be moving out of “distribution” and into “management” somewhere, somehow. Her new look isn’t just for tonight. She wants to be the first CEO of Cannabis. Bill is hooked. He wants to be wherever Nat is. He’s a good right-hand man and is already at work enlarging on his previous pamphlets, of which, by the way, the local police have copies.

The joint is jumping (the Winery that is; no need for joints). The band is at the bottom of the hall beyond the big table which is across from the bar, and as populated as the bar itself, all seats taken by a large Irish contingent from forty miles farther north, who saw an announcement in the local paper, got up a party of twenty, and called ahead for reservations. The table was set for them, with a big green RESERVED sign, plastic plates with shamrocks sandwiched between their two layers, and a hefty supply of refreshments, also laid out on the bar. These consist of: Irish Soda Bread from “Baked by Bryan” (a bakery even further up north), miniature corned beef sandwiches (also being served tonight at the all-green expensivery in his town), and corned-beef cabbage wraps. (These will also be appearing, along with Bryan the Baker singing up the Irish, at a pub farther up the block.) Also on the table and bar are halved, boiled potatoes, like scoops of ice cream. The topping selection is an assortment of spices and herbs instead of syrups and nuts.

Are we having fun yet? Yes, we are. The band has just struck up an Irish classic, and the table-of-twenty are stamping their feet, clapping their hands, and looking fondly into the smiling Irish eyes of their relatives, among whom all feuds have been suspended for the day. The bandleader is slim, silver-haired Rick Zapata, leading from behind his drums, a trio he has put together for the occasion. He canvassed his classes for kids who were brought up in the tradition, and has been rehearsing with a guitarist, bass and keyboard for a week. They know all the rollicking Irish tunes about murdered babies, boys poisoned with rotten fish, and legless, armless, and blind young men returning from the wars. The entire room is laughing its collective head off at the lyrics, clapping, stomping, and singing away.

Melissa, lawful wedded wife of Wayne, is hanging out on the edge of the band like a groupie, a glass of Greenleaves in one hand, the other hand dancing to the music. It’s been a long winter, and Nat isn’t the only one who’s feeling the need to get on with life. Melissa cut her hair before Nat, the young emulating the old, but now it’s time for reversies. Melissa is impressed with Nat’s shortening and de-feminizing her name. She never liked her own name. So prissy. She fought off being called “Missy”, but never realized there was someplace else to go besides those sissified esses. She has begun signing and introducing herself as “Mel.” What is most amazing to her is that with the name-change came a change in who she feels she is. She’s Mel now... quick, genderless... she feels like Peter Pan. And she’s got a perfect right to hang out with the band. They’re her classmates. And the white wolf, as she likes to think of the silver fox, is her teacher. Her professor. She is, likewise, entitled to him.

Where’s Wayne? He’s here, all right, forming a triangle with his son Steve, and their girlfriend Brittany Brown. This triangle is composed of two puzzled lines and a third. Father and son each blame the other for their own seeming inability to get anywhere with the third line, even though they are both connected.

She’s been out to dinner with each of them, given each a chaste kiss at the door – yes, Wayne knows where she lives now, but a lot of good it does him; he can’t get in the door. They’ve had some good talks. They agree on just about everything. She gets passionate, excited, when they talk politics, but when he gets her home, she splits, like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight.

Steve can’t figure it out. He thought when she turned down his offer of a Valentine date because her girlfriend was coming over, that she had, at the same time, insinuated that she would be his Valentine. But whenever he comes to claim her, he finds himself with fewer of her favors than he had before he asked. (Often the case.)

Donny is having a fine time. He’s drunk. He’s also been dosed. He never takes a toke of the rival substance; he sticks to wine on principle. His daughter thinks this is narrowing, and would like to improve her father, expand his point of view, expand, in fact, his very consciousness. She has given him the “special” Greenleaves, the two-in-one. Mint and marijuana. He has noted the intriguing splintered light coming from green candles on the bar. He has never heard such penetrating, meaningful music in his life. Right now, he is watching the tiny dots of green, which appear to be crawling in rhythmic patterns over the white potatoes he has taken from the bar.

His wife, Ann, is at a little table at the other end of the long room, not far from the main entrance, but as far away from the music as possible. She is sitting at a table with her new shrink, her old friend, Dr. Wise. They have had their first appointment, and he now knows more about her than does Donny. Also at this table, is Doreen. This is the new sister team. They go everywhere together – shopping, wine tasting (it’s important to know what the competition has uncorked), over to the college for a lecture or concert. They are drawn to the same two men, which is why they have barged in on a meeting of the minds of Dr. Wise and Caesar King.

Two more dapper gentlemen you could not hope to find. Dr. Wise, with his sharp Nivenesque features and debonair twist of the wrist, Caesar King, beautifully brown with sparkling eyes, and graceful carriage. They nodded to the ladies, and made room for their minty glasses at the table, but they did not stop their conversation.

Dr. Wise, a bit red in his normally pale face, is earnestly saying, “You don’t understand. I don’t want to get involved. Dealing with individuals who come to me with their problems is a nice diversion from my own life. I’m trained in helping other people deal with their problems and sometimes I make a real difference. But dealing with the issues of the whole country and all the complications that come from trying to address the needs of 300 million people is stressful and confusing. And there’s no upside. You spend all this time sorting through different ideas, proposals, rhetoric. You stake out your position and then all the sudden everyone’s got their knives out. That kind of strife is not good for the business, not good for friendships, not good for me. But I will listen. That’s what I do.”

“We need you man, we need you because you believe in the individual. That’s who we want to take care of. The individual. Not groups.”

“No, no,” says the good doctor. “I never do group therapy. What’s good for the group is not always what’s good for the person.”

“Exactly. That’s what we have to get back to. Thinking about what’s good for the person. For people.”

“But people is all I know about,” says the good doctor. “For instance, I don’t want to do something like climate science myself, anymore than I want to do my own colonoscopy or build my own toothbrush. We have people who have dedicated themselves to that field, have trained their whole lives, and focus all their energies on the subject. In other words, experts. I don’t want to dismiss the collected intelligence of our society.”

“Neither do I, man, neither do I,” says Caesar, leaning in a little closer. “But the experts have been bought. We can’t trust them anymore. The scientists have not been left in peace to do their science, they have been told what their findings have to be, in order for them to continue getting grants. Grants are their life-blood. They have succumbed, essentially, to the threat of professional death. You did hear about the fraudulent data, didn’t you?”

Dr. Wise is ready to respond, when Caesar waves his hand, and says, “Look. Let’s stop talking about what we don’t agree on, and talk about what we do agree on. We have a good start. The individual. If I want to know about the individual, I should turn to the expert on the individual. That’s you. I need you. Will you sign up to be the expert on the individual, if I tell you that in this new party, we will have nothing that we, its founding fathers, can not agree upon. That means that you, an individual, will have a veto over anything and everything you do not support.”

Caesar has made him an offer he cannot refuse. He’d like to, but he feels it would be unprofessional. And besides, if he doesn’t do it, Caesar will get someone else, and he doesn’t want to contemplate who that might be. He’s not wild about all his colleagues.

Caesar says, “I’m not even going to ask you what you think about all the mayors, de Blasio included, who wouldn’t go to their parades today because gays weren’t allowed to promote their lifestyle.”

“Once again,” says the good doctor, “rights belong to individuals, not groups.”

Caesar reaches his hand across the table. Dr. Wise takes it with a wry smile. They shake. Then simultaneously, they turn to the ladies, and give themselves up to be done with as those ladies please.

The keyboardist has left the band and is giving lessons in Irish dance. Doreen takes Dr. Wise, and Ann takes Caesar, and up the four individuals go, to join in the group endeavor. Half the Irish table is on the floor demonstrating how it’s done, Brittany, finally soused enough to join them, has entered the fray and has brought her father and son team with her.

Behind the bar, Nat and Bill are stashing away some of their infusion for later.

May the luck of the Irish be with them all. 

VD

Happy V.D. to one and all. Did you get it all together, guys? Get the flowers or chocolates, or whatever turns your lady on? Did you remember to make your reservation at that restaurant she keeps mentioning? Or is this the year of the great rebellion and you said, “Enough is enough” when you were invited by your local restaurant to a cupcake wine-tasting a whole week before the date, thereby instituting Valentine Week: cupcakes on Friday, dinner out on Saturday, breakfast in bed on Sunday, roses on Monday, a teddy bear on Tuesday, lingerie on Wednesday, bonbons on Thursday, a singing Valentine at her workplace on the day itself, so everyone can see how much you love her.

Among the single, Valentine’s day is a day of possibility. A day on which you are entitled to take your chances and declare your love.

Let’s begin our Valentine voyeurism with Steve, son of Wayne, who has been hanging around Brittany Brown for months now, and aside from an occasional kiss, nothing happens. Each time they see each other, the relationship begins anew.

So, what’s wrong with him? Didn’t we just say? How would you like to be Wayne’s son? He can’t find himself, doesn’t know who he is. Who he is has always been determined by who he isn’t. He’s whatever the person he’s talking to is not. It’s the way he grew up, always taking the other side.

Since Wayne was arrested looking for love in all the wrong places, he has been coming down to the student lounge with Melissa. Actually, he’s been going everywhere with Melissa who was appointed his watchdog by a friendly judge. He’s on a short leash when he’s there, but Brittany, who is touched and flattered, knowing she was the cause of his incarceration, albeit temporary, usually idles over and stops for a few minutes of conversation. Like yesterday.

But yesterday was different. A lot of people had braved the blizzard and a lot of profs didn’t show, so the lounge was full of people not yet ready to take to the roads, exhilarated by their freedom and their conquest of the elements.

Brittany left the little circle she was sitting in with Steve, as soon as she saw snowy, wet, Wayne walk in the door, and beat him to his usual seat. Melissa was accosted by a fellow classmate with a question about, of all things, their recording class. Wayne and Brittany stopped in front of two club chairs, but didn’t sit down. She grabbed his arm. “I’ve been listening to Rush Limbaugh,” she said.

Uh-oh, no good can come of that, right? Limbaugh fills your head with terrible, undeniable facts you wish you hadn’t heard.

“Did you hear about that grocery, Trader Joe’s? They were all set to open a store in Portland, built by an African-American construction company in an African-American neighborhood. The locals wanted it. Why not? Isn’t Michelle Obama always on their case for eating bad food, and on the stores’ case for not providing good food in black neighborhoods?”

Wayne nods. He can’t see what she’s so worked up about. And she’s worked up, all right. She’s squeezing his arm, and he likes it. She continues, “Well, it was blocked. The mayor and some outside organization said – no, they can’t bring that store there because it will improve the neighborhood, the rents will rise and the poor people who live there will be displaced.”

She grabbed the other arm. “You live in a ghetto, they keep you in a ghetto. They don’t care that you and your kids could get jobs, eat better food, and save some money. They can’t let their Blacks move up the ladder; these community-interest parasites sound a lot like plantation owners. It makes me so mad! I Googled Trader Joe’s while I was listening. If ever there was a store of the people, this is it. A fun place that sells quality, healthy food at regular prices. And the clerks all wear Hawaiian shirts,” she trailed off.

Then Melissa joined them, and they talked about the slippery roads, the huge snow piles in the parking lot, and the wind, but at least it’s warmer the terrible cold we’ve been having.

That was yesterday. Steve had been watching Wayne and Brittany. He couldn’t hear them, but he saw the intensity, and suddenly, today felt like taking the other side from Wayne. His own side. He felt his chest expand, and his shoulders broaden.

Today, the day itself, he is going to do something about it. There is no gov class today. He is going to present himself at her house (He knows where she lives.) and essentially, persuade her in person to be his valentine. He’s nervous but confident on the ride down – clear roads and four-foot snow banks. There’s no place to park so his car is halfway into the street. The sidewalk isn’t shoveled but after he wades to the door and sees the happy surprise on her face when she opens it, he knows he’s in.

She shows him to a seat at the breakfast bar. She’s in jeans and a sweatshirt and doesn’t look like she’s going anyplace, but when he says, “Are you doing anything tonight? Would you like to go out to dinner?” all at once, so as to give her a way out, she takes it! And says, “Oh, sorry, I can’t. I’m having dinner with my girlfriend.”

Ow. That hurts. “Dinner with your girlfriend? On Valentine’s Day? Can’t you put her off to some other day?”

She gives him a pained smile. “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that to my girlfriend,” she says.

He’s feeling sick. He thought he had this in the bag. He was already turning over restaurants in his mind. Poor guy doesn’t know he couldn’t get a reservation if he wanted one. He thinks of Wayne. He wonders if she’d cancel the girlfriend for his father.

Wayne wouldn’t give up. Wayne would bull his way through. He gets an idea.

“I’ll take you both out,” he says, “wherever you want to go.” Steve! There are some pretty pricey places in this county.

Brittany blushes. “Oh, no,” she says sadly. “That wouldn’t be the same.”

He brightens at this. She wants to be alone with him. He feels better. Relieved. This isn’t the end; it’s only the beginning. “You’re right,” he says, standing up from his stool, going over to hers, and pulling her out of it. He puts his arms around her and kisses her. She lets him, but that’s all she does; she lets him.

“My girlfriend will be here any minute. We’re spending the day together,” she says. He backs off. The girlfriend again. Okay, she’s got other things besides love on her mind. He kisses her  on the cheek and says, “See you soon.” He intends to be there the next day to put things on a proper footing.

And where is Wayne, anyway? Wayne is having Valentine’s Day dinner at a big table, in a large kitchen with a big, old, wood/coal/gas stove, a big, heavy, porcelain sink atop a crude wooden base, and a painted bread cupboard with flour sifter, board, shelves, and drawers. There’s a daybed under two windows against a wall, and a floor to ceiling built-in dish closet, two feet deep, against another.

The table is full of black-haired, bright-eyed people. Wayne is seated between a beautiful smiling woman, and her husband. He’s Wayne’s former cell-mate, the stonemason.

Poor Wayne. He’s having the time of his life with this big family in this old farmhouse, where everything is woody and worn except the bright shawls draped over the old couches, and the clothes of the girls, all made by their mother Maria, who wears only black. Juan – we met him briefly, in jail – is that horror-of-horrors to Wayne – an illegal alien.

While they both waited for their wives to bail them out, Wayne found out all about Juan and can’t help but be glad that the industrious fellow managed to get his girlfriend out of their gang-infested town fifteen years ago. He’d made enemies fighting corrupt police, and wanted to get as far away as possible. They worked their way across the country, got married in a little church in Las Vegas where no one asked for their ID. Their kids were all born here; they’re citizens. Only Mom and Dad are criminals. And Wayne wants to ship them back to Mexico?

Juan and Wayne get along famously. Juan and Maria are, if anything, more right than Wayne. Obviously, they don’t believe in abortion or birth control; there are seven little heads at the table. Juan has never taken welfare of any kind. No food stamps, never been “employed” so no unemployment when he’s out of work. He does anything that’s called for. Roofs, walls, sidewalks… Maria makes clothing and sells it to boutiques.

They don’t follow politics. They mind their own business and wish everyone else would do the same. So it comes as a surprise to him when Juan, at the end of the meal, leans over to him and says, “I’m worried. The government is buying up all the guns, and the ammunition. All departments. Homeland Security I can understand. But the EPA is buying guns. And even the Department of Education. What do they need them for? I thought they wanted to get rid of guns.”

Maria hears him from the other side, and whispers, so the kids won’t hear, “They expect trouble. Nobody likes them anymore.”

It is a soothing place for Wayne to be. But he has disappointed Doreen, who thought that on this day of all days, he would belong to her. She’s been taking turns baby-sitting him with Melissa, but sometimes he manages to sneak off – they don’t know where – and that’s what he has done today.

Melissa, thinking Wayne will be safely with Doreen, is, with several other people in the class, at a restaurant where Rick Zapata, and a band he put together for the occasion, is playing old-fashioned love songs from the thirties, forties and fifties. Pre-rock.

Rick is not political either, but he is worried about things Americans don’t worry about. He knows a lot of history. His family is history. He knows that dictators always give the people something to win them over to their side. He sees the government spending and spending, giving and giving. Nobody has to work anymore. The government will take care of them. But who’s going to provide the money if nobody works? Work makes wealth. Who’s going to pay the gigantic bills we’re running up? He’s been talking to Caesar, who has been talking to everybody.

Caesar says we need a new party, that the Democrats and Republicans are merging, are grabbing all the money, and there is nobody to stop them. He’s looking for a name for the party, and candidates to run under its banner. Rick is considering.

So is Natalie, who is spending the evening with Billy the Kid. Caesar, still living at the Winery, has been talking to Natalie about the platform of his new party. She’s recruited Billy to write the marijuana manifesto for the platform.

Her parents, Donny and Ann, the only really normal couple among our acquaintances, are at the local expensivery, where they will be dining on pink and red food. Strawberry soup, crabs with roe, a salad of beets, red onion, and red cabbage, for dessert cherry pie and black cherry ice cream. They’re drinking their own wine, Radiant Rose. The restaurant ordered 40 bottles and is charging twice as much as the winery. Ann is happy. She’s the only person she knows who has successfully navigated the Obamacare website, and she is looking forward to her already scheduled appointment with Dr. Wise.

Dr. Wise learned long ago not to schedule patients on Valentine’s Day. He leaves it open for emergencies. He was on call all day, and is now up in his study in a David Nivenesque smoking jacket, with all the sophistication and elegance that he has when he is at work, wearing his simple, slim, suit. Dr. Wise never lets up, never has an unwise moment. Would never be caught in a sloppy sweatshirt and a dirty pair of pants.

The doorbell rings just as he is taking a cup of coffee from his new-fangled single-brew contraption. He puts it back down and answers the door. He’s puzzled. This is not supposed to happen.

He opens the door, and standing before him is the girl of his dreams, a dark-haired goddess in ripe, rosy pink. She’s fed up with and furious at Wayne. She’s been storming around her house, looking within to discover what would restore her happiness, her peace of mind, her self-esteem. And she found there, the good doctor, who, she realized, is always there for her when Wayne isn’t.

Dr. Wise has received a Valentine. Totally unexpected. And not out of pity, either. Oh, no. Not out of pity, out of spite. But David Niven has always had a way with women, and by the time they finish coffee and he has put champagne on ice, Wayne the catalyst has been forgotten, and the debonair doctor is operating under his own steam.

As is another single gentleman of our acquaintance, Professor Monroe. Dr. Monroe, not of the Monroe Doctrine. Good looks will get you everywhere, and we find our friend being taken to dinner by a cadre of little-girl gov enthusiasts. They’re at a pub, talking shop; “Of course he’s not a Marxist,” says our savant. “If he were, he’d be trying to destroy the existing institutions from within. He’d be dismantling the economy. He’d be taking over the banks, the financial structure. He’d be nationalizing health care, and leaving people with no recourse but the government, he’d be turning groups against each other – blacks against whites, women against men. And mostly, poor against the rich. He’s not doing any of those things.”

Don’t laugh, guys, he really said that.

State of the Union

Don’t ask where Wayne is… Okay, ask.

Wayne’s in the county jail. Yep. Wayne watched the State of the Union. He saw Obama up there, a tan Frank Sinatra, weaving his skinny frame down the aisle, winsome, buoyant, lithe as a little lad.

And then, when he began to speak, when all the women in the western world were no doubt swooning, Wayne lost all heart. The little lad did not go away. He only grew into a visionary adolescent – a smart adolescent, an energetic, enthusiastic, sexy, class-president adolescent putting on a show for you. Because he wants to bring you along on his happy tour of your country. He wants you to see what he sees, and you want to see it too, because then you can smile like him, and relax, because everything is okay. Better than okay.

Jobs are going up (in smoke), everybody’s going to be going to college (so they won’t be counted as unemployed, and the teachers’ union gets more dues), people are getting health insurance (but not as many as are losing theirs), and the stock market’s on a roll (the “Occupy” president loves Wall Street.)

One lie after another. All styles of lying. Half-truths, exaggerations, faulty reasoning, misleading statements, disguising of evil intents, prejudiced information, compliant statistics, winks, nods, tones of voice, false data, elbows in the rib… all just so you’ll understand what he wants you to understand. And no more.

He tosses a bone to Boner, poor guy, sitting there in back of him, with his green tie. Not red, oh no. Red’s for Republicans. Not even purple. That’s for bi-partisanship. No. Green. Green for co-operation with the environment, green for embracing new technology, green for just plain nice. You want to know what it really stands for, what Boner is really saying? He’s green with envy. Biden and Barack… they’re both wearing bright blue ties. Uplifting blue. No-two-ways-about-it blue. Boner’s is sickroom green.

Barack tells us that women are only getting 77 cents to the men’s dollar for the same job. Wayne is explaining loudly to the TV that it’s old data they’re using. And even back then it wasn’t true; it’s not the same job if you take time off to have a baby, take time off when a kid is sick.

But Wayne, wait! Obama’s going to take care of that. He’s going to give not only women time off, but men time off to take care of their kids. That way nobody loses. “Except you,” Wayne yells to the walls, “you in the audience out there, because you are the ones who pay for the maternity leave. You’re the ones who are going to pay for everything!”

He has to talk to somebody, and there’s only one person. He calls and gets a message. “Brit Brown is not here.” Simple and to the point. Like her. He hasn’t tried to even talk to her since Steve materialized next to her on that disastrous day. How can he get involved with his son’s girlfriend? But is she his girlfriend? He’s never seen him with his arm around her; they sure as hell don’t act like love birds, but he always seems to be with her.

Really? How does Wayne know? Well, he’s taken to frequenting the student lounge with Melissa – before her class, or when he’s waiting to pick her up. By the way, he’s back in the house now, but with his own bedroom – Steve’s. Steve has moved down to the basement to get away from the action upstairs. And Caesar is living at the winery, where he is wined and dined by Ann of the Caftan.

The phone has been no help to Wayne. The television is still on. He goes back to it. Obama suddenly turns dark and furious. No more Mr. Nice Guy… more like the devil, and you’d better watch out. He’s talking about opposition in the House. The people who won’t let anything good happen in America. Republicans – the Enemy!

When the big O gets on to all the things he’s going to do even if Congress doesn’t want it, Wayne stands up and yells, “What happened to the voice of the people? They’re called our representatives because they’re elected to represent our views.” But, he thinks, they don’t anymore; the Democrats might, but the Republicans are in bed with them. They’re planning to build a new house together – a big mansion that will hold all of them. And they won’t argue about money; they can plunder enough for all.

I notice you’re looking around. Melissa is not here. She’s watching with the women. Our three wanted to see their prince on the big screen. Word got around, and a coven has convened at the winery. Forty ladies are at the Obama orgy, sitting on bar stools, at little tables, at the big board, sipping Winter White, enjoying a night out with the girls, and their guy. Except… who’s that bending over one of the little tables? It looks like a waiter. Yes, that’s what it is. They hired a waiter for the State of the Union? Not exactly. He’s a volunteer. It’s Caesar. Quite a coup. Their own handsome Obamakin.

Pre-K for everybody! Hooray! The ladies are all clapping. What they’re thinking is, let’s whip those minorities into shape. Our kids are going to live with them.

One of the women, a teacher, whispers to her neighbor, “You know, they did a study, and it turns out it didn’t make any difference… kids were no better off if they went to Pre-K. It damps out if you don’t keep it up.” She nods vigorously. Her neighbor turns back to the screen, and her momentary frown returns to its beatific smile.

Obama says he wants all kids to have the same chance that he and Michelle had. Caesar is pouring wine for four of his charges, and says, in a low voice, for them, but speaking to Obama, “Yeah, man, how about giving them all the chance that your kids have – how about letting the kids in D.C. have vouchers?” And he’s off to the next table, as though he was just muttering to himself.

Back in his living room, Wayne is yelling, “He doesn’t care about the kids. The money won’t go for them. It’s just a scam to get more union members and more union dues.” And to himself, “to indoctrinate the tykes – less family, more government brainwashing.”

When the president says his two paragraphs on immigration, he never mentions illegals. It sounds like he’s talking about the old-fashioned kind of legal immigrants, not people who broke the law to get here.

He doesn’t say the word “fracking”, either, and this time it’s because he doesn’t want the environmentally religious left to know that when he says we’re switching our cars and trucks over from foreign oil to American natural gas, that means FRACKING.

And global warming? Our scientist-in-chief has declared climate change a fact. Of course – the ice age has been winding down for 10,000 years – but our miniscule tinkerings with CO₂ emissions from power plants is a joke. When are the Liberals, freezing all up and down the east coast, covered with snow in Georgia, where they never saw a snowplow… when are they going to wake up and realize there’s a global warming hoax. He answers himself… “When hell freezes over!” And doubles up laughing. He has now become hysterical. Tears are falling from his eyes.

And he’s out the door. And into his car. He puts on the radio, so Obama can goad him on, lying once again, this time about Iran, who is going to give up the first stages of building a bomb… And why? Because they’re already at the last stage! And he promises to veto any bill that gets in Iran’s way – no more sanctions on his new friends.

He’s driving faster than he should, but he’s racing Obama, who is going to kill him, trying to make himself sound like an American. Like a Republican. Hard work. Opportunity. All the things he’s made disappear.

So folks, here’s what happened. He didn’t have Brittany Brown’s address. He had the address where he’d once dropped Steve off to see her. Brittany lives… well, you’ll find out later. The point is, she doesn’t live in this split-level house in the middle of a development, in front of which Wayne is standing, pressing on the doorbell.

Who does live here? A friend of Brittany’s who is steering clear of an abusive husband. In fact, there’s a court order out on the husband. He is not supposed to go within 100 yards of his wife, who is upstairs now, besotted by Obama, and hears the ringing, which has turned to pounding on the door. She’s used to this. It happens all the time. She calls 911 to come and remove her husband.

They come. And they take away Wayne, who has left his house without his wallet, has no ID, and who, if he doesn’t go quietly is going to be booked for resisting arrest and grand theft auto, as well as defying the court order.

They aren’t listening to Obama in the police car, so he misses the end of the speech where the injured war hero receives the first honest applause of the night.

But we’re not going to stick with Wayne. That’s above and beyond the call.

Not everybody is so excitable. Not everybody feels it necessary to stand up for what he believes in. For some people, it’s enough to analyze. So let’s check in with our analyst, Dr. Wise.

The doctor is TIVOing the speech. He’s not in the mood. He’s depressed. He can’t understand why the women are falling all over Wayne. He’s got no savoir-faire. No polish. Not bad looking, but he’s getting a little worn, hair’s a bit thin on top… still, he’s got two women, and Wise has got none.

Actually, he likes Wayne, just because of his excitability. He thinks it’s sad that he’s so obsessed with how Obama is secretly ruining America, that he’s completely blind to how he alone is the source of all the ruin in his own life.

So funny that he shut up, gathered his self-control, and his life immediately got objectively better in every conceivable way. For one thing, the women came crawling. For another, he could stop straining his brain and his vocal cords.

So now, he’s jumped ship, run away from bliss in order to wreak havoc on more lives. (And the good doctor doesn’t even know that at this moment Wayne is in custody.)

Dr. Wise goes on, to his imaginary patient: “Wayne your problem is not with your stars, or the current occupant of the White House, it is with you.”

Meanwhile, he thinks, am I going to get any? Wayne is catnip to these foxy cats or catty foxes (Wise’s brain is always burning) and they’re just bored with an analytical, wise, doctor.

He starts to get down on himself, and he wonders if maybe, now that Wayne has snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, he, the good doctor, can swoop in for a pity fuck. Swallow your pride, and act fast, he says to himself. Maybe once they let him into their beds, one of these women will figure out that he’s really not so different from Wayne. Not crazy, obviously. And not political. He’s got a real job. He’s definitely going to be more appreciative than Wayne has been lately.

Let’s take up Dr. Wise’s cause and consider Caftan Ann. Nobody notices Ann because she’s married to a faithful man, she’s always working, she’s nice to everybody… in other words, she’s boring. And she knows it, and is beginning to not like it. As we saw New Year’s Eve, when she appeared in lobster red, with hair to match.

Ann is a worrier. Her most recent worry had been health care, but she worked diligently, and has come up with a policy, way more expensive than the one she had before, but a bit different. Her shrink is not on the plan – he told her she could continue for cash – but Dr. Wise is. She can, if she chooses and he accepts her, become his patient. Dr. Wise does not yet know it, but she so chooses.

Let’s see who’s not watching, or listening, or caring about Obama and what he claims to be the state of the Union.

Billy the Kid came to the winery with Doreen, but only to get a ride to see Natalie. The two of them are getting cozy over a bong. Big difference in their ages, five years, but what the hell, she’s going to do it. He’s cute; he can hold his smoke; they see eye to eye about the important things in life. And he? What the hell… you think he’s nuts? He’ll take it, and be damn glad of it, and give thanks to Obama who has brought them both to this place. It’s an ill wind indeed that blows nobody any good.

Rick Zappata’s listening in headphones and playing drums to Obama’s rhythms. There are some things he likes, like the ten-ten minimum wage. And that My-R-A retirement savings plan might be a good thing.

But he doesn’t like throwing blame around when you’re the guy in charge. The rosy representation is not the way Rick sees the state of the union. Isn’t there a famous Marx brothers line: “Who you gonna believe, me or your own eyes?”

Professor Monroe is following the speech at home, alone, with a glass of wine, and he is angry as hell. What’s this talk about? Obama sounds like a goddam Republican. Jobs, jobs, jobs… Trying to squeeze them out of the private sector. To hell with the private sector. Let the government give out the jobs. It worked with Roosevelt; it would work now.

Put the illegals to work on roads. They use them, they got here on them, let them build them. Pay them a decent wage and keep them out of the hands of rich Republicans, who want to treat them like slaves on their plantations.

And all this talk about equal opportunity. Everybody knows you won’t have equal opportunity until the government makes it so. The government could run the whole show more fairly than these greedy wealthy corporate bigwigs. Obama is nothing but Bush Lite. If only we had a real progressive who delivered on his promises.

Steve and Brittany – the only ones unaccounted for tonight. There they are, watching in the student lounge, drinking coffee, and playing with their phones. Brittany picks up her message from Wayne. She calls him back. Too late, Brit, they’ve taken his phone. And his belt, and his shoes. He’s in a holding cell. But don’t worry; he’s got company. An illegal who was on his way home from hard work that Americans won’t do. He’s been building a stone wall for some rich guy and was picked up for hitch-hiking. He, too, has no ID.

And with that, we will turn off the lights, and let everybody go to their sweet dreams or nightmares.