Sometimes the internet is a really amazing thing. Yes. I said it. Here's why...in the past ten minutes I've read a beautiful poem by Gary Young called "In the Heat of Late Afternoon". I would never have known about it if it weren't for the daily email I receive from The Writer's Almanac. Also in the last ten minutes I've read a wonderful piece from the Chicago Tribune which recalled a eulogy for a journalist who recently died in a car crash - a reprint of a letter written to him when he was an advice columnist. And I've watched (twice) an incredibly moving YouTube video uploaded by a Japanese comedian referred to as "Tekken" (though his stop animation short film is hardly funny.) I actually have a lot I would like to write. So much to 'blog' about. But I think I'll save my words for another time in lieu of offering up these moving pictures. Here are the link to the column (in red) and the film. (below) In honor of the wisdom of Jeff Zaslow
March 22, 2012
March 17, 2012
Feel Free to Smile
Today is my birthday. As a child, I thought that being born on St. Patrick's Day made me Irish. My mother's maiden name is O'Donnell, which has more to do with it, I suppose, but I've always loved the fact that every year there is a parade on my birthday. It is 75 degrees in Pittsburgh. The sun is shining, and I'll be having spaghetti for dinner. How much better could it get? Today and always, I wish you the luck of the Irish, and to set the mood, here are the muppets with a rousing rendition of "Danny Boy". As they say at the DMV - Feel Free to Smile!
Happy St. Patrick's Day...
Happy St. Patrick's Day...
March 6, 2012
For Mature Audiences Only
Much space has been devoted in this blog to the discussion of technology. How rapidly the times they are a changin' and not necessarily in the way that Bob Dylan intended. Indeed, technology seems to advance at such warp speeds that it's nearly impossible to monitor. Still, even with my limited knowledge (and interest) of this kind of advancement, I am willing to risk that modern medicine has not yet progressed to the point that women can now impregnate themselves. Sure, a woman with financial means can visit a doctor and pay to be artifically inseminated. But obviously, this woman is hoping to become pregnant and therefore not simultaneously seeking a prescription for birth control.
Understanding how babies are made does not escape even the youngest among us. Entire television programs are devoted to demonstrating the reproductive prowess of children. So why in the year 2012 do we still view birth control as a women's health issue? Shouldn't men be as concerned about their progeny? About their ability to assume responsibility for a life beyond their own? About the women they love whose health depends upon a little blue pill the way others depend upon injections of insulin or epinephrine? If birth control is a women's health issue - one that, as Rush Limbaugh suggests, is the business of the bedroom and not the federal government, then diabetes is an issue best discussed in the kitchen. People who would die from a bee sting should simply stay indoors.
During a press conference today, President Obama addressed Rush Limbaugh's comments about Sandra Fluke - sort of. He told reporters that he wouldn't comment on the advertisers who've pulled their dollars from Limbaugh's radio program. He wouldn't comment on the sincerity of Limbaugh's 'apology' to Sandra Fluke. He would say that the words used by the right-wing pundit had no place in the public discourse. For those of you who haven't heard, Sandra Fluke is a law student at Georgetown, who tried to testify before a congressional panel on behalf of the bill to include contraceptives in employer-provided health care. Limbaugh, as a point of reference, demonstrated his respect for the power of broadcasting, for the privilege of free speech and called this activist a slut. A prostitute. A woman whose agenda is to have as much sex as possible without consequence, seemingly for profit.
It just so happens that the focus of the classes I'm teaching this semester is argument. One of the first lessons about argument and its art, rhetoric, is that human tendency is to have the strongest opinions about the things we know least. Inflexibility and ignorance make smug bedfellows. And I suppose if the logic follows, then Rush Limbaugh is the least informed man in America. Here is what else Mr. Obama said during his press conference: "being part of a democracy involves argument and disagreements and debate. And we want you to be engaged, and there's a way to do it in a way that doesn't involve you being demeaned and insulted." The definition of argument - in my classroom - is mature reasoning. Defending not the first opinion that you have on a subject but the best opinion - arrived at through active listening, inquiry, and thoughtful consideration. What part of Rush Limbaugh's tirade involved thought? He's made a name for himself by spewing venom for public spectacle. Brandishing hate for entertainment. For years. And he's hardly the only one.
Sandra Fluke is a private citizen. She isn't running for President. She didn't deserve to be singled out, defamed for her bravery. In the end, she didn't even get to testify. The panel changed its mind and told her she would not be permitted to speak. She wanted to exercise her right to voice her opinion - calmly, intelligently, and with nary an expletive or personal attack on the character of the members of the panel. What she got instead was a phone call from Barack Obama. An appearance on The View. Over 280 million Google results. And hopefully, enough public outrage to call attention to the flagrant misuse of so many microphones. To reject the notion that the loudest voice is the most powerful.
Teddy Roosevelt was famous for saying "Speak softly and carry a big stick". It was something he'd heard in West Africa and though he wielded it as most politicians wield catch phrases: to advance his political agenda, I think it bears consideration. Speak softly, meaning be a mature reasoner. Be willing to listen - to change when presented with good cause. But carry a big stick - just in case you encounter a snake - earless and forktongued.
Understanding how babies are made does not escape even the youngest among us. Entire television programs are devoted to demonstrating the reproductive prowess of children. So why in the year 2012 do we still view birth control as a women's health issue? Shouldn't men be as concerned about their progeny? About their ability to assume responsibility for a life beyond their own? About the women they love whose health depends upon a little blue pill the way others depend upon injections of insulin or epinephrine? If birth control is a women's health issue - one that, as Rush Limbaugh suggests, is the business of the bedroom and not the federal government, then diabetes is an issue best discussed in the kitchen. People who would die from a bee sting should simply stay indoors.
During a press conference today, President Obama addressed Rush Limbaugh's comments about Sandra Fluke - sort of. He told reporters that he wouldn't comment on the advertisers who've pulled their dollars from Limbaugh's radio program. He wouldn't comment on the sincerity of Limbaugh's 'apology' to Sandra Fluke. He would say that the words used by the right-wing pundit had no place in the public discourse. For those of you who haven't heard, Sandra Fluke is a law student at Georgetown, who tried to testify before a congressional panel on behalf of the bill to include contraceptives in employer-provided health care. Limbaugh, as a point of reference, demonstrated his respect for the power of broadcasting, for the privilege of free speech and called this activist a slut. A prostitute. A woman whose agenda is to have as much sex as possible without consequence, seemingly for profit.
It just so happens that the focus of the classes I'm teaching this semester is argument. One of the first lessons about argument and its art, rhetoric, is that human tendency is to have the strongest opinions about the things we know least. Inflexibility and ignorance make smug bedfellows. And I suppose if the logic follows, then Rush Limbaugh is the least informed man in America. Here is what else Mr. Obama said during his press conference: "being part of a democracy involves argument and disagreements and debate. And we want you to be engaged, and there's a way to do it in a way that doesn't involve you being demeaned and insulted." The definition of argument - in my classroom - is mature reasoning. Defending not the first opinion that you have on a subject but the best opinion - arrived at through active listening, inquiry, and thoughtful consideration. What part of Rush Limbaugh's tirade involved thought? He's made a name for himself by spewing venom for public spectacle. Brandishing hate for entertainment. For years. And he's hardly the only one.
Sandra Fluke is a private citizen. She isn't running for President. She didn't deserve to be singled out, defamed for her bravery. In the end, she didn't even get to testify. The panel changed its mind and told her she would not be permitted to speak. She wanted to exercise her right to voice her opinion - calmly, intelligently, and with nary an expletive or personal attack on the character of the members of the panel. What she got instead was a phone call from Barack Obama. An appearance on The View. Over 280 million Google results. And hopefully, enough public outrage to call attention to the flagrant misuse of so many microphones. To reject the notion that the loudest voice is the most powerful.
Teddy Roosevelt was famous for saying "Speak softly and carry a big stick". It was something he'd heard in West Africa and though he wielded it as most politicians wield catch phrases: to advance his political agenda, I think it bears consideration. Speak softly, meaning be a mature reasoner. Be willing to listen - to change when presented with good cause. But carry a big stick - just in case you encounter a snake - earless and forktongued.
February 14, 2012
Love me like a rock
I love a theme. Gifts I buy often have a theme - right down to the wrapping paper. As a result, I spend a lot of time developing lesson plans around a central idea. Recently, I've discovered the wonders of PowerPoint, so I log even more time trying to meld my theme into a slide show. I have yet to figure out how to get a song to play throughout the show, and I realize I am (as usual) late to the game when it comes to technology, but if anyone out there knows how to make that happen, I'd sure enjoy a comment about it.
The theme for today's post, of course, is love. Ahh, love. I think the best love songs are about break-ups or heartbreak of some sort. In fact, I would say the best songs of any category are about heartbreak or any guttoral emotion conveyed through voice-cracking, soul-bareing singing. One of the truly greats is "The Story" by Brandi Carlile. There is a moment in this song that makes me cry every time I hear it. Actual tears streaming. I won't tell you which part, but please, do, find this song and listen for the life-changing lyric.
The best movies about love are the ones that remind us of a time when we first discovered the meaning of the word, so they're different for everyone. I imagine there are folks who get misty-eyed by Night of the Living Dead. For me, the first movie that taught me about love was Funny Girl. A few years later, I found John Cusack and Ione Skye and everyone my age who loves Say Anything loves it because it came into their lives at the right time. For example, if the first time I saw this movie was yesterday rather than when I was 14, watching John Cusack balance a boombox over his head in the rain probably wouldn't move me the way that it does, still.
When it comes to novels, I would recommend The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri. This is a beautiful book about love - love of country and spouse. Love of tradition and change. And overall, love between a father and son. It's a slow start, but be patient. It's very much worth your time.
Yesterday I played two stories for my students - both of them about love, both featuring anthropromorphized animals. The first, by David Sedaris, is about a chipmunk and a squirrel and the nebulous meaning of jazz. As expected, it's funny, but not for funny's sake. The last line is one of the best I've read when it comes to love and truth and what it means to be human - even if you're a chipmunk.
The second story is called "The Duck" by Ben Lorry. His collection Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day is one of new favorites. In this piece, a duck falls in love with a rock. All of his duck friends laugh at him - except for one girl duck, who follows him into the woods and watches as he woos the rock. He tells the girl duck that this is not just a rock. It's something special, and the girl duck believes him. They embark on a mission to discover the rock's true purpose and indeed, when hurled off the side of a cliff, the rock becomes something quite remarkable.
It got me thinking: What if we are all rocks - until we are loved? Until someone takes the time to see something beyond the lumpy exterior. This someone might be you. Love isn't limited to romance. Love is a kind word. A grocery cart returned for someone with small children and a trunk full of popsicles. Love is seeing the possibility in people. So for this Valentine's Day, I offer you the same challenge I offered to my students: Be on the look out for rocks. Love them like a mother loves a child.
And now a song - originally by Paul Simon - but rendered nicely here by the O'Jays. Happy Valentine's Day.
The theme for today's post, of course, is love. Ahh, love. I think the best love songs are about break-ups or heartbreak of some sort. In fact, I would say the best songs of any category are about heartbreak or any guttoral emotion conveyed through voice-cracking, soul-bareing singing. One of the truly greats is "The Story" by Brandi Carlile. There is a moment in this song that makes me cry every time I hear it. Actual tears streaming. I won't tell you which part, but please, do, find this song and listen for the life-changing lyric.
The best movies about love are the ones that remind us of a time when we first discovered the meaning of the word, so they're different for everyone. I imagine there are folks who get misty-eyed by Night of the Living Dead. For me, the first movie that taught me about love was Funny Girl. A few years later, I found John Cusack and Ione Skye and everyone my age who loves Say Anything loves it because it came into their lives at the right time. For example, if the first time I saw this movie was yesterday rather than when I was 14, watching John Cusack balance a boombox over his head in the rain probably wouldn't move me the way that it does, still.
When it comes to novels, I would recommend The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri. This is a beautiful book about love - love of country and spouse. Love of tradition and change. And overall, love between a father and son. It's a slow start, but be patient. It's very much worth your time.
Yesterday I played two stories for my students - both of them about love, both featuring anthropromorphized animals. The first, by David Sedaris, is about a chipmunk and a squirrel and the nebulous meaning of jazz. As expected, it's funny, but not for funny's sake. The last line is one of the best I've read when it comes to love and truth and what it means to be human - even if you're a chipmunk.
The second story is called "The Duck" by Ben Lorry. His collection Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day is one of new favorites. In this piece, a duck falls in love with a rock. All of his duck friends laugh at him - except for one girl duck, who follows him into the woods and watches as he woos the rock. He tells the girl duck that this is not just a rock. It's something special, and the girl duck believes him. They embark on a mission to discover the rock's true purpose and indeed, when hurled off the side of a cliff, the rock becomes something quite remarkable.
It got me thinking: What if we are all rocks - until we are loved? Until someone takes the time to see something beyond the lumpy exterior. This someone might be you. Love isn't limited to romance. Love is a kind word. A grocery cart returned for someone with small children and a trunk full of popsicles. Love is seeing the possibility in people. So for this Valentine's Day, I offer you the same challenge I offered to my students: Be on the look out for rocks. Love them like a mother loves a child.
And now a song - originally by Paul Simon - but rendered nicely here by the O'Jays. Happy Valentine's Day.
February 7, 2012
Speaking of books...
Here is an amazing short film called The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore. It has been nominated for an Academy Award, and besides its breath-taking imagery, the message beautifully coincides with my last post. Please enjoy.
January 30, 2012
Smell This?
It was Helen Keller who said, "History has taught you nothing if you think you can kill ideas." This was in response to the infamous book burning of 1933. The fires were started by students - Nazi children. It's not difficult to imagine a similar scenario in 2012. Students hurling their textbooks onto a swelling pyre. Not because they necessarily have a problem with literature - an indifference, perhaps. (I nearly had to distribute toothpicks to prevent my students' eyelids from snapping shut while listening to a reading of Percival Everett's "Appropriation of Cultures" - one of the most stimulating pieces of short fiction I have had the privilege to read.) But rather they might be inclined to feed their pages to the flame because books in the flesh have become superfluous. Antiquated. Dangerous, even, when one compares the blood-thirsty, finger-slicing corners of pulp to the cool, smooth edges of an electronic reader.
But indulge me for a moment: Lean forward. Place your nose on the computer screen (or smartphone or ipad or yes, even the Kindle Fire). Really get in there and breathe deeply. What do you smell? Honestly. Nothing, right? Now find the nearest book. Even a phone book will do, although, who has one of those? Run your thumb from spine to spine, shuffle the pages and let the breeze fill your nostrils. See? Books are living things. They breathe out as you breathe in. They have dog-ears for pity's sake. And old books, like people, harbor the most interesting odors. A mixture of leather and Shalimar. Of sweat and dirt and everything and everyone they've ever touched or been touched by. They are the keepers of our collective memory - memory which doesn't require batteries or bytes.
In the business section of yesterday's NY Times, Julie Bosman writes about the future of the bookstore as we know it. In other words - Barnes & Noble. Now that they are the only game in town - publishers have no choice but to ask: "What if all those store shelves vanished, and Barnes & Noble became little more than a cafe and a digital connection point?" Apparently, this is exactly what Jeffery P. Bezos, top executive at Amazon would like to see happen. Mr. Bezos, as the Times refers to him, looks exactly like Dr. Evil. Look him up. In yesterday's paper, he is holding some machination of the Kindle at eye level and staring into the camera with empty eyes. It is his vision to 'eliminate the middle-man' (even when someone is being eliminated, it's a man) and create his own publishing "unit" - isn't that a nice word. If it's too much trouble to heave a book to and fro, when will it be too taxing to visit a restaurant? Why not just take a delicious dinner pill?
And it's not just a dream. The Times reports Bezos has already 'snagged' some guy named Timothy Ferriss and hold onto your hat - James Franco, the spoiled brat best friend of Spider Man turned fiction writer. Holy crap, Batman! The bookshelves are already a bit too polluted with 'novels' supposedly written by the puppets of reality television. Dr. Evil + the son of the Green Goblin = the metaphorical murder of print via 'books' which can only live on a 5x7 screen. And even if you could stomach that - accept it as progress - and You Can't Stop Progress - there's the fact that we'd be stuck with whatever Mr. Evil deems as publishable. Again - say it ain't so, Batman.
So here's what I propose: Stop ordering cheap books from Amazon. Books which are not on display for you to sniff or caress in a well-lit store (albeit B&N which has squeezed out other big-box stores as well as who knows how many independent booksellers and now they're all we've got). Books which are probably treated much like factory livestock - crammed up against one another in dark and dank warehouses down by the river. I implicate myself in this too. I love a good bargain as much as the next gal, but after reading this article, I have vowed to save my cash and buy my books in person - which of course, I do anyway, but in the past, I have also ordered from Amazon and now I will not.
While you are in the bookstore - a.k.a. Barnes & Noble - please check out Jane McCafferty's new novel First You Try Everything. A generous writer and human being, reading her latest effort (which is set in our fair, shared city) is like being transported to Pittsburgh when the Three Rivers Arts Festival is in full swing and the inclines are scaling Mt. Washington on a day when the sun is shining and the humidity is low and the cityscape is in perfect view as you travel west - unimpeded by tunnel traffic on I-279 (or 376) depending on how long you've lived here. It is a story of an unconventional love (aren't all the best books about love? isn't it the common denominator?)yet it's classified as 'women's fiction' if you look it up on Amazon. But you won't do that. You'll find it on the shelf of new fiction - right next to books by Julian Barnes and Stewart O'Nan - (I haven't researched this, but certainly these authors' titles would have to be classified as men's fiction, right?)You'll find this book on foot. Your fingers have done enough walking for today.
Like Helen Keller, I don't believe you can kill ideas, but let's not get so smart that we stop paying attention to the ideas - ideas that could lead to the death of so many old friends - books.
But indulge me for a moment: Lean forward. Place your nose on the computer screen (or smartphone or ipad or yes, even the Kindle Fire). Really get in there and breathe deeply. What do you smell? Honestly. Nothing, right? Now find the nearest book. Even a phone book will do, although, who has one of those? Run your thumb from spine to spine, shuffle the pages and let the breeze fill your nostrils. See? Books are living things. They breathe out as you breathe in. They have dog-ears for pity's sake. And old books, like people, harbor the most interesting odors. A mixture of leather and Shalimar. Of sweat and dirt and everything and everyone they've ever touched or been touched by. They are the keepers of our collective memory - memory which doesn't require batteries or bytes.
In the business section of yesterday's NY Times, Julie Bosman writes about the future of the bookstore as we know it. In other words - Barnes & Noble. Now that they are the only game in town - publishers have no choice but to ask: "What if all those store shelves vanished, and Barnes & Noble became little more than a cafe and a digital connection point?" Apparently, this is exactly what Jeffery P. Bezos, top executive at Amazon would like to see happen. Mr. Bezos, as the Times refers to him, looks exactly like Dr. Evil. Look him up. In yesterday's paper, he is holding some machination of the Kindle at eye level and staring into the camera with empty eyes. It is his vision to 'eliminate the middle-man' (even when someone is being eliminated, it's a man) and create his own publishing "unit" - isn't that a nice word. If it's too much trouble to heave a book to and fro, when will it be too taxing to visit a restaurant? Why not just take a delicious dinner pill?
And it's not just a dream. The Times reports Bezos has already 'snagged' some guy named Timothy Ferriss and hold onto your hat - James Franco, the spoiled brat best friend of Spider Man turned fiction writer. Holy crap, Batman! The bookshelves are already a bit too polluted with 'novels' supposedly written by the puppets of reality television. Dr. Evil + the son of the Green Goblin = the metaphorical murder of print via 'books' which can only live on a 5x7 screen. And even if you could stomach that - accept it as progress - and You Can't Stop Progress - there's the fact that we'd be stuck with whatever Mr. Evil deems as publishable. Again - say it ain't so, Batman.
So here's what I propose: Stop ordering cheap books from Amazon. Books which are not on display for you to sniff or caress in a well-lit store (albeit B&N which has squeezed out other big-box stores as well as who knows how many independent booksellers and now they're all we've got). Books which are probably treated much like factory livestock - crammed up against one another in dark and dank warehouses down by the river. I implicate myself in this too. I love a good bargain as much as the next gal, but after reading this article, I have vowed to save my cash and buy my books in person - which of course, I do anyway, but in the past, I have also ordered from Amazon and now I will not.
While you are in the bookstore - a.k.a. Barnes & Noble - please check out Jane McCafferty's new novel First You Try Everything. A generous writer and human being, reading her latest effort (which is set in our fair, shared city) is like being transported to Pittsburgh when the Three Rivers Arts Festival is in full swing and the inclines are scaling Mt. Washington on a day when the sun is shining and the humidity is low and the cityscape is in perfect view as you travel west - unimpeded by tunnel traffic on I-279 (or 376) depending on how long you've lived here. It is a story of an unconventional love (aren't all the best books about love? isn't it the common denominator?)yet it's classified as 'women's fiction' if you look it up on Amazon. But you won't do that. You'll find it on the shelf of new fiction - right next to books by Julian Barnes and Stewart O'Nan - (I haven't researched this, but certainly these authors' titles would have to be classified as men's fiction, right?)You'll find this book on foot. Your fingers have done enough walking for today.
Like Helen Keller, I don't believe you can kill ideas, but let's not get so smart that we stop paying attention to the ideas - ideas that could lead to the death of so many old friends - books.
January 1, 2012
Let's Begin Again
Have you ever seen Finnegan Begin Again? It's been years since I watched this film starring Mary Tyler Moore, Robert Preston, and Sam Waterson. Robert Preston's character is often singing an old Scottish song about a man named Michael Finnegan, whose whiskers are blown back in-again. But mostly, what I remember is the line: "Well, Finnegan. Let's begin again." I was probably 10 or 11 when I saw it, but that bit of dialogue stuck with me. Goes to show how effective rhyme can be when it comes to memory, and in my case, it was around that age that images from movies became part of my longterm schtick.
And it always feels relevant in January. To gaze wistfully into the middle distance and say, "Let's Begin Again." The people around me - those who know me well, anyway - ignore the obscure theatrical reference, not wanting to invest the time in asking, "How's that?" chalking it up to the aforementioned schtick. But I like living simultaneously in 1985 and 2012. Everything that I am is a result of who I was, which is a product of what I watched and read; how I spoke and listened.
Apparently my New Year will not be much different from my old year, in the sense that what I should be doing is planning a syllabus for next semester (which begins in a week) and what I am doing is procrastinating via philosophical blogging. Good grief.
But here's what I'm hoping: To keep a journal everyday. To write 1,000 words of a new book everyday. To read the 1,000 books waiting for me on crammed shelves of every room in the house. To exaggerate less. To exercise more. Etc.
Last year certainly had its rocky moments. One of which involved the critique of a story. One that meant a lot to me but had not yet found a published home. The very accomplished woman who read it, hated it. Hated me, it seemed, and everything I'd thought to be true to that point went Poof! A few weeks ago, I found out that it had won second place in Clapboard House's Best of the House short story contest. It is called "A Case for Annie" and you can read it by visiting:
Clapboardhouse.wordpress.com
Difficult as it was, I began again with that story. I sent it out. I sent it out and I sent it out. Nine months after the nightmare began, I received the good news. First place would have been sweeter, of course, but that's the great thing about living through a disappointing year. Every piece of news that isn't awful, feels like first place.
Happy New Year!
And it always feels relevant in January. To gaze wistfully into the middle distance and say, "Let's Begin Again." The people around me - those who know me well, anyway - ignore the obscure theatrical reference, not wanting to invest the time in asking, "How's that?" chalking it up to the aforementioned schtick. But I like living simultaneously in 1985 and 2012. Everything that I am is a result of who I was, which is a product of what I watched and read; how I spoke and listened.
Apparently my New Year will not be much different from my old year, in the sense that what I should be doing is planning a syllabus for next semester (which begins in a week) and what I am doing is procrastinating via philosophical blogging. Good grief.
But here's what I'm hoping: To keep a journal everyday. To write 1,000 words of a new book everyday. To read the 1,000 books waiting for me on crammed shelves of every room in the house. To exaggerate less. To exercise more. Etc.
Last year certainly had its rocky moments. One of which involved the critique of a story. One that meant a lot to me but had not yet found a published home. The very accomplished woman who read it, hated it. Hated me, it seemed, and everything I'd thought to be true to that point went Poof! A few weeks ago, I found out that it had won second place in Clapboard House's Best of the House short story contest. It is called "A Case for Annie" and you can read it by visiting:
Clapboardhouse.wordpress.com
Difficult as it was, I began again with that story. I sent it out. I sent it out and I sent it out. Nine months after the nightmare began, I received the good news. First place would have been sweeter, of course, but that's the great thing about living through a disappointing year. Every piece of news that isn't awful, feels like first place.
Happy New Year!
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