I’m thinking Gordon-Levitt as Doc

I’m a fantastically pampered introvert so I have the luxury of spending quite a bit of time in my imagination. Time travel scenarios are a favorite mental diversion of mine. Usually this is something along the lines of – if I could bring forward [insert person from history] what would they think about [topic that made me think of her in the first place]. So it isn’t surprising that I was thinking the other day about that esteemed work of American cinema, Back To The Future.

Back to the future got me thinking more personally. Specifically, what event in my family’s history would make me most vulnerable, existence wise? Marty McFly just had to make sure his parents hooked up. So if there were a time traveling assassin, when would he most likely be able to make sure Daniel Hero never draws his first breath?

It was a no brainer. And if I had to play the role of Marty, I’d rather attempt this rescue than make sure my parents hooked up. One shudders.

I introduce to you, ladies and gentlemen, the hero of our story: My maternal grandfather, Jones “Doc” Savage. His nickname was taken from the pulp fiction character, not the other way around.

The scene: Inside the cockpit of a Japanese scout plane on May 7th, 1942, over the Coral Sea.

It is morning. The pilot of the plane is an outlier for a strike force led by Admiral Takagi. Below him, their wakes forming a distinctive V pattern, the pilot sees two American ships. He radios back to the strike force that he has spotted a carrier and a cruiser. He is mistaken.

Admiral Takagi promptly orders all of his planes to attack what is actually the USS Neosho, a refueling tanker and its escort, the destroyer USS Sims.

The attack consists of three waves. The first two are largely ineffectual, due to skillfull anti-aircraft fire and maneuvering of the destroyer, led by Lieutenant Commander William Arthur Griswold.

But I’m not going to tell the whole story, we have senior petty officer Bob Dicken for that:

From: Dicken, R.J., C.S.M., U.S. N.
To: The C.O. U.S.S. Neosho.
Subject: Personal observations of SIMS #409 disaster.

On May 7 at 0930 I was in the Chief’s quarters and heard a man in #1 handling room exclaim that a bomb had lit right alongside. General Quarters sounded immediately and duty gun opened fire. Upon reaching bridge the other guns had commenced firing on horizontal bombers. Recognition signals were attempted but no reply.

There were a large number of our shells which failed to burst at the beginning of the attack but after several rounds, number unknown, the fuse settings seemed to be operating satisfactory as bursts were observed near the enemy planes.

At beginning of attack Sims went to full speed and patrolled on either bow of tanker. Our gunfire seemed very effective in keeping the planes high and on the move.

Observed one bomb score near miss, port side, amidships. No damage reported. One casualty, slight shoulder wound, on #2 gun. Man treated during lull and returned to gun.

High level attack lasted ten to fifteen minutes.

For next two hours several Radar contacts made, distance fifteen to twenty miles, but no planes appeared.

#1 gun appeared to be blistered.

About 1155 planes approached, identification attempted and upon no response the order to commence fire was given. Enemy planes began dive bombing attack on tanker. A steady rate of fire was maintained from all 5″ guns.

About 1215 Sims received direct hit on or near after set torpedo tubes. Bomb apparently pierced deck and exploded in after engine room. Deck buckled forward of after deck house. Radar fell across gig. Received two more hits, one on after deck house, port side forward, which appeared to have caused only local damage. Another hit on #4 gun caused local damage. #1 and #2 guns were continuing to fire by local control.

Personnel was ordered off bridge and reported to Assistant Chief Engineer Ensign Tachna who ordered us to take off our shoes and put motor whale boat in water.

Numerous fireroom personnel seemed uninjured by first hit in engine room. This force assisted in lowering boat. Two men in boat when lowered. Boat began drifting clear of side. I went over the side, swam to boat, took tiller and began picking up personnel in water.

The Captain, still on bridge, ordered me aft to try to get aboard to flood after magazines and extinguish fire on after deck house. This was necessary due to fact that main deck between after deck house and machine shop was awash.

An attempt was made to get aboard. Ship began settling from aft, whale boat pulled clear and immediately afterwards the boilers blew up followed by another but smaller explosion. The ship broke in two parts, and sank.

All men that were not apparently dead were taken aboard, search made for two life rafts with from ten to twenty (total) men aboard. We then proceeded to tanker and placed ourselves under that command. There were fifteen Sims survivors in boat.

I have questioned Sims survivors for more data but no further information available.

Respectfully submitted                                                                                       Robert James Dicken C.S.M.

There’s more:

  1. I never saw any sign of panic. Everyone was on their stations doing their job and the whole ship worked as a well organized unit until the end. Discipline was excellent.
  2. There are a few outstanding things that I can remember in addition to the above report:The number one gun crew stood by their gun and kept up a steady rate of fire after the paint on their gun was burning and the ship was at such an angle that the decks were awash. The Chief Engineer was wounded severely but carried out several duties under extremely difficult conditions. He tried to fire the forward set of torpedo tubes to assist the Captain in lightening the ship and to remove the danger of the torpedoes exploding aboard. He also extinguished the fire on the torpedo deck house at the time. One outstanding act was done by an enlisted man named E.F. MUNCH, MM2c, just before he jumped over the side to be picked up by my boat, he secured a depth charge to the deck so it would not go over the side or accidently explode on deck.
  3. The last I saw of the Commanding Officer he was standing on the bridge when the ship was blown up by the explosion. He showed an example of courage throughout the entire engagement.
  4. To the best of my knowledge and belief all muster rolls, log books and valuable papers went down with the Sims. We did not have any books or papers in my boat at all. My boat was not loaded with a view to permanently abandon ship. The Captain believed that he could save the ship and was doing everything in his power to do so right up until the ship blew up and sank.
  5. During the entire four days of hard work in the boat, part of which time we were alongside the Neosho, and part clear of the Neosho, the conduct of the men was very good. We did the best we could to provision the boat and prepare it for sea. For the first three days we were repairing the 18 inch hole in the boat.
  6. Our small boat was left tied up alongside the Neosho when we were taken aboard the Henley. When the Neosho was fired on and purposely sunk, this boat went down with her. No property of any kind remains of the Sims.
  7. To the best of my knowledge and belief the following are the only survivors of the U.S.S. Sims:
    NAME

    		 RATE

    		 SERVICE NO.
    VESSIA, V.J. F2c Unknown
    LAWES, J. Jr. Sea2c Unknown
    TEVEBAUGH, J.W. RM3c Unknown
    GOBER, A.C. Sea2c Unknown
    CHMIELEWSKI, J. F1c Unknown
    SCOTT, M.W. F3c Unknown
    VERTON, J.C. Sea2c Unknown
    ERNST, G.E. FC3c Unknown
    SAVAGE, J. FC3c Unknown
    MUNCH, E.F. MM2c Unknown
    CANOLE, V.F. MM2c Unknown
    REILLY, T.F. WT1c Unknown
    CLARK, (unknown) CY Unknown
    PELIES, E.M. Sea2c Unknown
    DICKEN, R.J. CSM Unknown

    I am the senior petty officer in this group of survivors. Of this list two men are now dead, they are: Chief Yeoman CLARK, who died the first night we were in the boat and PELIES, E.M., who died in the sick bay on board the Henley. To the best of my knowledge and belief there are no other survivors of the Sims.

    Robert James Dicken, CSM.

    http://ibiblio.org/hyperwar/USN/ships/logs/DD/dd409-Coral.html

    And there he is, ninth down on the survivors list. Of the 192 person complement, 13 survive.

    If you were a time traveling assassin, that would be my first choice. True, you’d be putting yourself in a huge amount of danger, but hey, this is my movie.

    Now suppose you screw it up. Our hero, Doc Savage, is one tough bastard and he survives the attack by the Japanese, the four days at sea in a leaking boat, and whatever nefarious scheme you failed at to make sure Daniel Hero never draws breath. Perhaps I owe a particular debt to the tenaciousness of one MUNCH, E.F. Or maybe that’s the name I make sure is on my uniform when I board the Sims.

    You’re in luck, time traveling assassin, because you’ve got a second chance.

    And this time, you have some personal knowledge, something that would never be reflected by history in the form of ship logs kept on the internet.

    Here’s the story told to his daughter, my mother:

    “Just a few days before the Sims sank, I drew my pay. I didn’t have my money on me when the ship blew up and I was tossed into the sea. So after I was rescued by the Henley, I made sure to buy a money belt and the only time I didn’t wear it was in the shower.

    The next ship I served on, the USS DeHaven, was attacked by the Japanese 9 months after the sinking of the Sims. During that attack, I forgot to pull down the hatch of my fire control station. One of the exploding bombs blew me out of the open hatch. I came to in the water wearing nothing but my shoes and my moneybelt.”

    He was wounded; among his injuries, one of his eyes was blown out of his socket. Marines fished him out of the water, stuck his eye back into the socket and bandaged him up. The DeHaven had just been commissioned 133 days before Japanese dive bombers destroyed it.

    The navy never put him on a third destroyer and my grandfather earned a second nickname, Jonah. I guess they figured he was bad luck for everyone but himself. As I said, he was a tough bastard.

    And there you have it, my stalker in time, your second chance. It wouldn’t take much, just a well timed, “Hey, make sure and button up Doc!” Do it just right and there is no Sherry Savage and by extension, no Daniel Hero.

    When I say that fighting Nazis and their allies are in my blood, I don’t mean that as metaphor.

    And you thought I was going to talk about Biff Tannen.

Sponge worthy

Have you noticed my generous use of the first person pronoun so far? During my college years, this practice was actively encouraged in many of my English classes. Reflective writing, was the pedagogical term in vogue.

Reflective writing assignments start with questions such as – how did this make you feel, do you know anyone in your life who, and when was there a time you noticed? I reflected so much if I stood in the sun too long I smelled smoke. Women would face me and apply makeup. I resented it too, mostly because I viewed it as a teaching tactic to get students to write. If I want to talk about myself, I’ll hide it in a story or a poem, thanks. Putting words down on paper for a teacher was never one of my problems. They are the perfect captive audience. Reflective writing also ran counter to how I was taught to write in the lower grades.

Academic discourse is the antithesis of reflective writing, in practice if not in spirit. The first person pronoun should not appear. Notice the word should. That’s good advice no matter where you run across it. Especially when you’re saying it to yourself. The term academic discourse beautifully encapsulates both its power and its failing. Let’s pull that term down to the first grade and you’ll see what I mean. School talk. The language of school. It is the voice of the overmind – cool, detached, impersonal.

Its strengths are mighty. Academic discourse is – highly structured, relies on argument, comparison, observation, a liberal use of evidence (in the form of quotes and page citations, for example), and at its best strives to achieve integration of previously unseen ideas into an innovative, or even unique, perspective. Educators love it because it is a great tool for assessing knowledge.

Its failings are equally mighty. It quickly descends into jargon and is used by the talented lexicographer to obfuscate a scintillating exiguity of perspicacity (those who use big words to hide their bullshit). But most know it by its mightiest failing: It’s boring. Academic discourse is only of interest to a small group of people – those who are made to write it, those who are forced to read it, and those cursed souls who are compelled to it for the same reason the moth loves the flame.

Like knowledge and wisdom, academic discourse and reflective writing are best when combined. That’s why I love literature. At least, what I call literature. Very few of my favorite books are canon. The word canon is jargon. I’m not going to define it for you, if you don’t know it, go look it up (Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary definition 3c). It’s a good word to know. Chances are excellent you have a canon in your profession as well. You sure as hell have one in your church.

I’ve often thought most people learn things like a dry sponge under the tap. Absorption isn’t immediate, especially if you’ve got the water going full blast. The water bounces off, beads, and pools. The sponge actually resists the torrent; if it is really dry you have to give it a good squeeze while soaking it from all angles so the water can penetrate.

Also, I’ve noticed most people don’t learn new things like a full sponge under the tap. No new water can get in, especially if you’ve got the tap going full blast. The water bounces off, beads, and pools. It actually resists the torrent; if the sponge is really wet you have to give it a good squeeze away from the faucet so new water can penetrate.

You’d think the best learning takes place when evaporation and intake are in harmony, a steady drip under the faucet, if you like. This way, you avoid the squeeze. But that way too often leads to a stagnant, smelly sponge.

No, in order to wring the most out of this analogy, you really need the squeeze.

This has nothing to do with politics.

This has everything to do with politics.

Bra; n. A subject to keep well abreast, as difficulty often disguises itself in the lingerie of simplicity and vice versa. ~Hero’s Dictionary

Pushing it with a coal miner’s daughter

I like music, don’t you? I like all sorts of music, which I think is more common than not. We pretty much all have a favorite genre, at least for right now. Most of us are predictable though, we ease into the sounds of our formative years, or are forcibly reminded of them if you get old enough.

If you’re anywhere in between middle school and high school, I am going to make an astounding prediction: The music you and your friends are listening to will more or less disappear for decades. It will reappear in the advertisements for whatever old people are buying in the future.

If there are old people in the future. But that’s another discussion entirely.

Right now, both Salt-N-Pepa and Dee Snyder appear in Geico commercials.

My male childhood friends were mostly into metal. I remember how excited my friend Jim was when he’d get a new album. Yeah, actual albums. He had “Kill ’em All,” everything by Motorhead, and shitty bands you’ve never heard of, like Venom. I was never a fan. There’s songs I like, just like there are country songs I like, but I don’t care for either genre, generally speaking.

I have great respect for rap music. Rappers are wordsmiths. Anyone who delights in playing with words and language is someone I have a certain amount of respect for. Same goes for metal and country. But like metal and country, I don’t listen to a lot of rap music.

So I asked myself what was the common theme that tied those three genres together. At first, I thought I disliked each of them for different reasons. Metal was too loud and I got plenty of screaming at home. Country was what my parents listened to and therefore was the soundtrack of misery. I came of age during the same time as the birthing of rap and hip-hop, but I was geographically and economically removed from the places of first adoption. Or, to be blunt, I was a white kid in Tucson and the only time I heard it was when it was on MTV. And it took David Bowie leaning on MTV to get anything that wasn’t white on MTV.

I do remember the first album that grabbed me by the bones, balls, and brain. You’re going to hear it and either feel the same way about it, maybe like a song or two, or you never liked it for the same reason I don’t have Jay-Z in my shuffle list. I think I am in good company; there’s a reason that record stayed in the billboard album chart for 741 weeks. Music trivia buffs, that one is for you.

But I don’t listen to Dark Side of the Moon much anymore. I’ve heard it too many times. Like my favorite books, I let it marinate in it’s own juices for years and then come back to it.

And then it clicked. The reason why I fell insanely in love with Dark Side of the Moon and can’t abide metal. Or most country. And a great deal of rap. It’s the same reason for my love and my distaste.

Understanding.

Wait what?

You’re going to tell me you understand “Us and Them” and can’t figure out “Push it” (push it real good)? That “The Great Gig in the Sky” is plain as day and “Coal miner’s daughter” is a fucking mystery? Is that what you’re trying to say?

Yes. And you know what I mean. There’s the obvious, “I don’t understand because I can’t single out what they’re shouting/rapping,” then there’s the cultural disconnect that I have with hip-hop/rap and country and to a lesser degree, metal. I mean c’mon, there’s not a whole lot of difference between a metal redneck and a country redneck. Hell, I’ve known people that were both. But generally there is a difference. And no, I don’t think that because you like metal you’re a redneck or because you like country you’re a redneck. I use the label redneck as a description, not an insult. If you must see it as an insult I prefer Jeff Foxworthy’s definition: “characterized by a glorious lack of sophistication.”

Music is a touchstone of culture. Culture is learned. Culture can also be unlearned, but not without great trauma, or effort and a good deal of time. In the case of Native Americans, all of the above.

Far harder is the other way culture changes, not by removal but by addition. You know, the sane way.

The American way.

It’s what we do. There would be no Pink Floyd without rock and roll. There would be no rock and roll without jazz (god I love jazz). There would be no jazz without black spiritual music. There would be no black spiritual music in America without the rhythms of Africa. Culture accumulated. Brutally at first (some argue still and I concur), as was the way of humanity for most of humanity.

But let’s not lose the tree inside the forest. Metal, country, and rap. On the one hand, I can say that I don’t enjoy them because I don’t understand the culture they represent. That’s painting with a broad brush and I understand that. On the other hand, you could say that I don’t enjoy them because I do understand them, or think that I do, which then halts any possibility at growth.

It’s why the guy who thinks there’s only two kinds of music, country and western, is a kindred soul with the guy who only listens to classical music, and that would be Schubert not Brahms, thank you very much.

Each one understands the other quite well. Or they think they do. There’s no tune either one can play that the other can stand. At least not for long. Inevitably, there’s going to be a struggle over who controls the play list. Or else silence is going to be the only thing they can agree on.

Did you see what I did there? Did you catch the false dichotomy?

Because of course there are other options. They could each listen to something neither likes. One could learn to like the other. Both could learn to appreciate the other. Or at least take turns.

But that doesn’t happen, does it? Especially if the tune is so loathsome that you simply cannot stomach it. There is bad music out there, we all know it when we hear it, jarring and discordant. I don’t mind music I don’t understand. I do very much mind music incompetently played.

Or used to march the young off to die.

I don’t know. But I do have the urge to add some Jay-Z, Garth Brooks, and Iron Maiden to my play list.

Liberty Bell Alarm

Frodo lost a finger, Luke his whole right hand,

King Arthur lost his kingdom,

and Lennon lost the band.

Nero fiddled sweetly, Neville said it’s cool,

if you can’t see what’s coming,

then brother you’re a fool.

Sound the bell with vigor, the thugs at the gate,

are shoving on their jackboots,

and shouting out their hate.

Whether you’re a farmer, wear a suit and tie,

what we want to know here,

is where your conscience lies.

It’s ok to stumble, some will even fall,

for you to be a hero,

you first must hear the call.

Slide into your armor, sharpen up your sword,

link arms with your sister,

get ready for the horde.

Frodo saved the Shire and Luke saved his dad,

Arthur saved his land entire,

and John was never sad.

Nero was an asshole, Neville even worse

if you can’t see what’s coming,

then brother you are cursed.

Alazia; The fear you are no longer able to change. The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. John Koenig

Introduction

I have a little bit of explaining to do. Context. My name is Daniel Hero. Really. I’ve had this name since I was 6. I wasn’t born a Hero, I was made one, as I used to say as a kid. I got into a lot of fights as a kid.

My first name has undergone all the permutations through the stages of my life – in chronological order, Danny, Dan, and now Daniel – but the last name overshadows. My entire life has been shaped by it. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware there are worse things than this. I once knew a guy named Orefice. Pronounced Or – uh – FEE – see.

Let me give you an example. When you’re nine years old in 1975, small, skinny, wear glasses – in the army my particular style of frames were affectionately known as RPG’s, a charming TLR (three letter acronym) that I’m not going to explain – go nowhere without your nose in a paperback or comic book, prefer a sesquipedalian approach to conversation, and have the last name Hero? You can’t make this stuff up.

I got into a lot of fights as a kid.

And hated every one of them. Most of the time I’d just run. I was a much better runner before I became a better fighter. But far before you get tired of running, you’re forced to fight. Sometimes you can’t run away. That’s just life. Needless to say, I have a particular and abiding hatred for bullies.

Let me give you another example. I mentioned the army and yes I am a veteran. It’s not something I bring up unless it’s relevant. Most of the time it isn’t. I was very young when I enlisted and it was a long time ago. Reagan was my commander in chief. I remember seeing his picture hanging on the wall quite vividly, that wrinkled old bastard. I wore a uniform with a patch that read U.S. ARMY on one side and on the other side a patch that read HERO.

In Germany, before the wall fell. Again, you can’t make this stuff up. I caught a lot of shit, more so because I was in the infantry, because of that name. Basic training. Hero was what they called all of the new recruits. Imagine the fun.

There are many other examples both fine and gross yet I’ve come to embrace my name in the only way that makes me feel alright about walking around with it. Which means I don’t think it makes me special. I had no more choice about this name than any child had about theirs. I’ve avoided trying to profit from it. Could you imagine if Donald Trump had my last name? Maybe he should have. Maybe he could have profited from learning that sometimes you can’t run away.

But Donald Trump is not Rome. Not all roads lead to him. He does have that Nero quality about him though. All I’m saying is, I can totally picture him in a toga.

So as someone with the last name of Hero, someone who has come to take that name, let’s say, personally, I can hardly not cast the most derision I can muster whenever I do happen to slip on Trump’s moist slime trail.

I’m not one of those people who say they hate all labels. I hate labels that are leashed to serve human generated evil and promote fear. I hate labels that are intentionally designed to obfuscate the truth. Labels are useful. We all carry around a host of labels, whether we want to or not.

Among other things, I have been and am: a reader, a student, a teacher, a soldier, a waiter, a cannabis user, a father, a husband (a few times), a son, a brother, a cicisbeo, a liar, a savior, a poet and a fool, a bear and a scholar. That last is for my online gaming friends.

And now, because of the circus of horrors that is the impending election of Donald Trump, I have to add another tag to the list. Crusader. He represents almost every bad quality I can think of in a human being. I’m not rushing to judgement though; I’m sure he’ll erase the “almost” sooner rather than later. That moving pile of human waste is utterly and completely absorbed with himself in a way that makes me suspect he just might be the first human never to exit infant solipsism. Perhaps solipsism isn’t the right label. That would require an acknowledgement of the outside world which I think is beyond him.

Viva la resistance.

Beginnings

I was once asked if I could picture heaven, something I could see myself doing with pleasure forever. I thought about this for a long time and I finally came up with an answer. I think eternity could be somewhat bearable if you could ensure endless beginnings, which isn’t to say there would be no endings. You’d have to have those. Think of the juggling act it would require if there wasn’t.

No, endings and beginnings validate each other. Give each other meaning. For me, heaven would be like a library whose shelves extended infinitely – each tome within it’s own experience, no two the same, yet each universal. As you read each one, you grow and change. Endless beginnings.

If you choose to see endings as a kind of payoff like in a story or a piece of poetry, than beginnings become even more important. Critical, even.

Which is why I’m tiptoeing around all this.

So first of all, manners. I’m a firm believer in them.

Those of you who may be here because of my recent excoriation of a certain portion of the electorate on Facebook may be shocked to hear me say this, but it’s true. Especially in public.

I’m the guy who holds the door open for you. I’m the guy who is hyper aware of where I’m standing with my cart when I’m grocery shopping. If I block your view, I’ll look you in the eye and say pardon me. I let people in front of me in traffic. I’m also a terrible terrible human being. In private. To myself. In dark flights of fantasy that everyone has but only the disturbed act upon. Out in public, face to face, I am a gentle person who keeps more or less to himself. I am slow to anger and easy to appease. I would much rather laugh with you than fight with you. As much as possible I avoid conflict and provocation.

Never, however, mistake my politeness for weakness. What I say here is public but control over it is not. I reserve the right to be rude. Brutally rude. I see rudeness as the blunt instrument one uses short of an actual blunt instrument. Best used sparingly if at all.

But this isn’t to say I’m unaware of the responsibility attendant to speaking my mind. Whatever I scrawl on these digital walls is for everyone to see. I’m not trying to hide my identity so this means I’m accountable for everything I say. I own it.

Perhaps because I try to be unfailingly polite in public I come across a bit strong in print. Good. Also, I like quotes. This one from Christopher Hitchens fits:

My own opinion is enough for me, and I claim the right to have it defended against any consensus, any majority, anywhere, any place, any time. And anyone who disagrees with this can pick a number, get in line and kiss my ass.

  • “Be It Resolved: Freedom of Speech Includes the Freedom to Hate,” debate at University of Toronto, (2006-11-15). 

Now that is out of the way: Welcome! Sincerely. If you like the table I set, it will thrill me beyond measure. To you, good reader, I make this vow: I will tell you the truth as best as I can discern it. I’ve come to think there isn’t a better beginning point for anything (especially morality) than a respect for the truth.

That is, of course, much easier said than accomplished. It is in fact, the very essence of… oops, sorry. We’re still getting to know each other and I don’t want to scare you off before I’ve even finished introducing myself.

Eternal beginnings. It’s a daunting prospect. Which makes starting this pack of paragraphs seem much less so in comparison. I have a sketchy vision of what I’ll be doing here – it will be part cave drawing, part message in a bottle, and part sacrificial altar. It will also be a mirror, a workbench, and a therapy couch.

You’re welcome to pull up a chair and watch the movie, shrug and leave, or just stick your head in from time to time. I’m easy.

A long lost love once asked me what it was like to write for an audience. I told her it was like swimming out to sea at night from a tropical beach into warm lapping waves lit by a low full moon. Against the vault of the sky, a dusting of stars exquisitely placed because you put them there yourself.

I also told her you can never fully enjoy it. Why’s that? She asked. Because, I said, the whole time you’ve been in the water one of your veins was mingling with the sea….

And something just brushed your foot.

Oh and because I promised to be honest with you: I also write bad poetry. Might as well be upfront about that from the beginning.

This is going to be fun.