Dec 10, 2006
Change the tax, change the land-use
Here's a thought: Let's change our Washington State tax system. The way it is now, we pay 8.8 or 8.9 percent sales tax. That's much too regressive a tax. Better: A state income tax. You know, Bill Gates' father thinks we need a state income tax. Aside from the fact that it's way regressive, a sales tax leads to many other unintended consequences. Did you know that for many cities, the sales tax is a good 50 percent or more of their operating income? So, this encourages cities to create elaborate ecomonic development departments whose main goal is to attract business. What's wrong with that, you ask? Here's what: the largest businesses bring in the most sales tax. But not just any type of business. The classifcation that brings in the most sales tax to cities? Auto dealerships and big box retail. So what happens? Cities encourage auto dealers to come to their towns, creating these huge parking-lot businesses that sprawl forever. And they bring in these huge warehouse-sized block buildings that house the Depot businesses like Costco, Home Depot, Office Depot, etc. So how does the customer get to these businesses? By car or SUV, of course! That creates more CONGESTION. And where do the employees of those businesses live? Close by? Usually, they're commuting 'cause they can't afford to live close by since they're only making $8.50/hour. Instead, what we should be doing is encouraging better paying jobs, cleaner industries, and live-work arrangements with a higher density focus in urban areas. This way, changing the taxing structure encourages better land-use planning decision-making, which leads to cleaner, less congested cities.
Nov 27, 2006
How come nobody's sampled 'My Sweet Lord?'
Let me see if I understand how this works. You're a famous rock musician who launches a solo career. You write a song called 'My Sweet Lord' and you get your butt sued for copyright infringement. Yet, today, a guy (or gal) can mix and sample the heck out of any number of past hits without any threat of legal action? Hmmm.
I just heard a song that sampled Yaz's "Move up" from about 1980. The entire song used Yaz's song as a backing, and the producers simply laid down new vocal tracks around that backing. Now, please tell me, how is that different from writing a song that sounds a little bit like a former hit song?
I just heard a song that sampled Yaz's "Move up" from about 1980. The entire song used Yaz's song as a backing, and the producers simply laid down new vocal tracks around that backing. Now, please tell me, how is that different from writing a song that sounds a little bit like a former hit song?
Nov 25, 2006
Second Coming of Charlie Chaplin
Technorati Profile
Sasha Baron Cohen was a big star before "Borat."
Now he's a mega-star.
It's easy to see why. The guy's funny and bold. In an era when satire's been reduced to TV sketch comedy — and rarely at that — Cohen's in-your-face approach offers a wake up call as to what real satire can be.
Yet what Cohen has done, first with his "Da Ali G Show" and now with a feature film, is reveal himself as the true heir to Chaplin.
Sure, Borat's 90-minutes may be a stretch, even for Cohen fans. And its focus on toilet humor likely puts off a large segment of refined cinemaphiles. But at a deeper level, Cohen's pulled off what I believe is the boldest, most audacious satire since Chaplin's "The Great Dictator" hit the screens.
Is it fair to compare the two?
I struggled with that at first. Chaplin's always been a hero for me. Here was a guy who, as a Jew in post WWI Britain, created one of the most endearing, memorable characters in film history: the tramp. In the tramp, Chaplin gifted the world with a vehicle through which mankind's foibles could be revealed. Through the tramp, Chaplin showed us the alienating effects of Modern Times. Chaplin was that special being, the high-level, old-soul trickster (note to reader: see Robin Williams, Stan Laurel and Jim Carrey.)
Is Cohen such a special being?
I'm not sure. But where Chaplin's Tramp was a sublime creation, a subtly self-effacing open book, Cohen's Ali G and, especially, Borat, are in-your-face. Such is the reality of modern times, that satire requires noise to be effective.
Chaplin's brilliance was his ability to create art that could be interpreted on multiple levels. Children could appreciate his movies without getting the satire. Of course, slapstick allows for that.
It takes great intelligence to create great art. It takes brilliance to create great satire. Cohen, who immerses himself in his characters to such a degree it may be dangerous to his heath, is not yet a filmaker and his work isn't as sublime as Chaplin's was. He does, however, share one trait: the brilliance of great satirists.
Sasha Baron Cohen was a big star before "Borat."
Now he's a mega-star.
It's easy to see why. The guy's funny and bold. In an era when satire's been reduced to TV sketch comedy — and rarely at that — Cohen's in-your-face approach offers a wake up call as to what real satire can be.
Yet what Cohen has done, first with his "Da Ali G Show" and now with a feature film, is reveal himself as the true heir to Chaplin.
Sure, Borat's 90-minutes may be a stretch, even for Cohen fans. And its focus on toilet humor likely puts off a large segment of refined cinemaphiles. But at a deeper level, Cohen's pulled off what I believe is the boldest, most audacious satire since Chaplin's "The Great Dictator" hit the screens.
Is it fair to compare the two?
I struggled with that at first. Chaplin's always been a hero for me. Here was a guy who, as a Jew in post WWI Britain, created one of the most endearing, memorable characters in film history: the tramp. In the tramp, Chaplin gifted the world with a vehicle through which mankind's foibles could be revealed. Through the tramp, Chaplin showed us the alienating effects of Modern Times. Chaplin was that special being, the high-level, old-soul trickster (note to reader: see Robin Williams, Stan Laurel and Jim Carrey.)
Is Cohen such a special being?
I'm not sure. But where Chaplin's Tramp was a sublime creation, a subtly self-effacing open book, Cohen's Ali G and, especially, Borat, are in-your-face. Such is the reality of modern times, that satire requires noise to be effective.
Chaplin's brilliance was his ability to create art that could be interpreted on multiple levels. Children could appreciate his movies without getting the satire. Of course, slapstick allows for that.
It takes great intelligence to create great art. It takes brilliance to create great satire. Cohen, who immerses himself in his characters to such a degree it may be dangerous to his heath, is not yet a filmaker and his work isn't as sublime as Chaplin's was. He does, however, share one trait: the brilliance of great satirists.
Nov 18, 2006
Of Beatles and man
Back in college, I read an interview with Paul McCartney. In it, he was asked to reminisce on the early years with the Fab Four. He told the interviewer that going back to those days was like "remembering your childhood summers," and not very easy, at that.
I've been thinking about The Beatles lately, about how much of an impact they've had on my life and the world. And I realize that what McCartney said to that interviewer back in 1981 resonated with me, perhaps with most of my generation, because it wasn't just true for Paul, it was true for many of us.
I believe the Beatles were part of a phenomenon that came about as a direct result of the times and cosmic timing that I often think has the signature of spirit overlaying it.
That Paul, John Lennon, George Harrison and Ringo Starr were talented is clear. Each of the lads went on to more or less stellar solo music careers, leaving us with even longer playlists to enjoy. Yet, there was a synergy to the Beatles, to Beatleness. If each Beatle was part of a larger organism, then that organism was less complete with parts missing.
In my life, Beatles music has been a touchstone of sorts. It has been a salve during rough times and a window to my childhood, when I often dreamed, fancifully, about my future life. I can't hear the number "I Saw Her Standing There" without being transported back to the summer of 1968, to a small hotel in Cuautla, Mexico and the outdoor swimming pool where a jukebox blared that song I'd first heard two years prior.
I took to the Beatles at age 6. It was September, 1966. We were a young family. Dad and mom (and I) had moved to Portland, Oregon from Mexico City five years earlier. But mom wasn't well, so a Mexican girl moved in to take care of the kids while dad worked. She had a Beatles 45 with "I Saw Her Standing There" on the "A" side. There was something revelatory about the music, even to me, a sub-sized 6-year-old. I'd seen the boys on Ed Sullivan and thought they were cool but I also thought the same thing about The Beach Boys when I saw them on TV. Was it just the music or was there something else going on?
When I was 7, dad came home with a copy of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" and that act connected me more deeply with my father, who always seemed to be a little ahead of his time.
From that point on, I began collecting Beatles albums. I hunted for 45s. I watched Beatles cartoons. From 1971 to 1975, my friend Lennox Hannan and I must have spent countless hours playing Beatles songs over and over again, examining all the production details and marveling at how lucky the band had been to encounter a guy like producer George Martin. Why'd they do this? How'd they do that?
I remember staring at the cover and backside of Pepper, imagining the Fabs as members of a royal court, as The Knights of the Round Table, as the Three Muskateers—plus D'Artagnon. I'd ponder the "Paul is dead" scenario over and over, staring at Pepper for clues, listening to John singing "I am the Walrus" for the umpteenth time to hear the "I bury Paul."
I'd leaf through the Magical Mystery Tour album's glossy insert imagining—being transported to—another world, a sort of alternate universe of magic buses, incense, and brightly colored, indigo worlds populated by fools on hills, lonely hearts and befuddled submarine commanders.
Was it just marketing? Was I simply an early sucker in what has become mass marketed musical muscle? Perhaps, but I seriously doubt it.
With the Beatles, I always had the sense they, like me, were unique. They, as was I, were bolder, more original, more creative, better looking and less pretentious than, say, The Monkees. As I moved through adolescence, my memories of those early years were potent forces as a touchstone. No pain was too great, no sorrow so severe, that a good dose of Revolver or Rubber Soul would not solve (or, as the case may be, a good dose of Pink Floyd.) And let's not forget Abbey Road or The White Album. I can remember a trip to Spain with dad in 1974. It was, perhaps, my darkest childhood hour, coming on the heels of a nasty divorce. But I'll never forget Revolution #9 playing over and over again in my head as I watched the rainy plains pass by from my seat aboard those Talgo trains: "Numba nine, numba nine, numba nine."
I've always loved The Rolling Stones, The Who, Kinks, etc., the landmark 60s and 70s-era bands. It's hard to argue with the Stones' informal coronation as Greatest Rock Band in the World, a title they seem to live up to, even after 46 years. When a family friend in 1972 gave me the Stones' Sticky Fingers, I was ecstatic. And I have no quarrel with anyone who proclaims U-2 to be the Biggest Band in the world today, or as the English say, the most massive. Bono's earned his nuts.
Yet, it's difficult for me to compare The Beatles to anything else because they were unique. No other popular band had achieved the depth and breadth, the eclectic mix of musical styles The Beatles had in their decade-long run. If the 60s represented the greatest social transformation in my memory, then The Beatles matched that transformation individually and as organism.
Each part of that organism had a significant role to play in the spirit of the times, the zeitgeist, that made the 60s the 60s.
Though it's probably an over-simplification as metaphor, it is, to a certain degree, apt to say that Paul expressed the heart, John the mind, George the soul, Ringo the body. The whole represented far more than the sum of its parts.
I was a 21-year-old college junior in December 1980 when Lennon was killed and I remember the day as if it were yesterday. At the time, I was a staff writer for the Oregon Daily Emerald, the University of Oregon's daily student paper. Passing through the newsroom that day, I overheard a female production staffer remark, "that's the last nail in the coffin of the '60s," likely a reference to Lennon and the Reagan revolution that was imminent. For me, it was a reminder that it was time to move on from those childhood summers.
I've been thinking about The Beatles lately, about how much of an impact they've had on my life and the world. And I realize that what McCartney said to that interviewer back in 1981 resonated with me, perhaps with most of my generation, because it wasn't just true for Paul, it was true for many of us.
I believe the Beatles were part of a phenomenon that came about as a direct result of the times and cosmic timing that I often think has the signature of spirit overlaying it.
That Paul, John Lennon, George Harrison and Ringo Starr were talented is clear. Each of the lads went on to more or less stellar solo music careers, leaving us with even longer playlists to enjoy. Yet, there was a synergy to the Beatles, to Beatleness. If each Beatle was part of a larger organism, then that organism was less complete with parts missing.
In my life, Beatles music has been a touchstone of sorts. It has been a salve during rough times and a window to my childhood, when I often dreamed, fancifully, about my future life. I can't hear the number "I Saw Her Standing There" without being transported back to the summer of 1968, to a small hotel in Cuautla, Mexico and the outdoor swimming pool where a jukebox blared that song I'd first heard two years prior.
I took to the Beatles at age 6. It was September, 1966. We were a young family. Dad and mom (and I) had moved to Portland, Oregon from Mexico City five years earlier. But mom wasn't well, so a Mexican girl moved in to take care of the kids while dad worked. She had a Beatles 45 with "I Saw Her Standing There" on the "A" side. There was something revelatory about the music, even to me, a sub-sized 6-year-old. I'd seen the boys on Ed Sullivan and thought they were cool but I also thought the same thing about The Beach Boys when I saw them on TV. Was it just the music or was there something else going on?
When I was 7, dad came home with a copy of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" and that act connected me more deeply with my father, who always seemed to be a little ahead of his time.
From that point on, I began collecting Beatles albums. I hunted for 45s. I watched Beatles cartoons. From 1971 to 1975, my friend Lennox Hannan and I must have spent countless hours playing Beatles songs over and over again, examining all the production details and marveling at how lucky the band had been to encounter a guy like producer George Martin. Why'd they do this? How'd they do that?
I remember staring at the cover and backside of Pepper, imagining the Fabs as members of a royal court, as The Knights of the Round Table, as the Three Muskateers—plus D'Artagnon. I'd ponder the "Paul is dead" scenario over and over, staring at Pepper for clues, listening to John singing "I am the Walrus" for the umpteenth time to hear the "I bury Paul."
I'd leaf through the Magical Mystery Tour album's glossy insert imagining—being transported to—another world, a sort of alternate universe of magic buses, incense, and brightly colored, indigo worlds populated by fools on hills, lonely hearts and befuddled submarine commanders.
Was it just marketing? Was I simply an early sucker in what has become mass marketed musical muscle? Perhaps, but I seriously doubt it.
With the Beatles, I always had the sense they, like me, were unique. They, as was I, were bolder, more original, more creative, better looking and less pretentious than, say, The Monkees. As I moved through adolescence, my memories of those early years were potent forces as a touchstone. No pain was too great, no sorrow so severe, that a good dose of Revolver or Rubber Soul would not solve (or, as the case may be, a good dose of Pink Floyd.) And let's not forget Abbey Road or The White Album. I can remember a trip to Spain with dad in 1974. It was, perhaps, my darkest childhood hour, coming on the heels of a nasty divorce. But I'll never forget Revolution #9 playing over and over again in my head as I watched the rainy plains pass by from my seat aboard those Talgo trains: "Numba nine, numba nine, numba nine."
I've always loved The Rolling Stones, The Who, Kinks, etc., the landmark 60s and 70s-era bands. It's hard to argue with the Stones' informal coronation as Greatest Rock Band in the World, a title they seem to live up to, even after 46 years. When a family friend in 1972 gave me the Stones' Sticky Fingers, I was ecstatic. And I have no quarrel with anyone who proclaims U-2 to be the Biggest Band in the world today, or as the English say, the most massive. Bono's earned his nuts.
Yet, it's difficult for me to compare The Beatles to anything else because they were unique. No other popular band had achieved the depth and breadth, the eclectic mix of musical styles The Beatles had in their decade-long run. If the 60s represented the greatest social transformation in my memory, then The Beatles matched that transformation individually and as organism.
Each part of that organism had a significant role to play in the spirit of the times, the zeitgeist, that made the 60s the 60s.
Though it's probably an over-simplification as metaphor, it is, to a certain degree, apt to say that Paul expressed the heart, John the mind, George the soul, Ringo the body. The whole represented far more than the sum of its parts.
I was a 21-year-old college junior in December 1980 when Lennon was killed and I remember the day as if it were yesterday. At the time, I was a staff writer for the Oregon Daily Emerald, the University of Oregon's daily student paper. Passing through the newsroom that day, I overheard a female production staffer remark, "that's the last nail in the coffin of the '60s," likely a reference to Lennon and the Reagan revolution that was imminent. For me, it was a reminder that it was time to move on from those childhood summers.
Nov 5, 2006
Paranoia Redux
Change is brewing, can you feel it?
The old, tired planetary systems that have ruled by force for millenia are self-destructing, even as they attempt murder-suicide.
Paranoid patriarchy, that old standby, is giving way to the universal feminine.
Sometimes, it doesn't look so good. Sometimes, it feels like things keep getting worse.
Look behind the curtain, Toto.
Intransigence is giving way to surrender.
New children are entering and spiritual "sleeper cells" among us, they, too, are awakening.
It's not going to be easy. But then, again, no one said it would be.
The key is to remain centered and to move in love, not fear.
Only by joining together in love will we move forward into the new world.
The old, tired planetary systems that have ruled by force for millenia are self-destructing, even as they attempt murder-suicide.
Paranoid patriarchy, that old standby, is giving way to the universal feminine.
Sometimes, it doesn't look so good. Sometimes, it feels like things keep getting worse.
Look behind the curtain, Toto.
Intransigence is giving way to surrender.
New children are entering and spiritual "sleeper cells" among us, they, too, are awakening.
It's not going to be easy. But then, again, no one said it would be.
The key is to remain centered and to move in love, not fear.
Only by joining together in love will we move forward into the new world.
Jul 4, 2006
Independence Day my ass
God Almighty Independence Day
A national holyDay
A liberation Day
License to blow bite-sized
mortars Day
Fill the fiery sky with smoke Day
Strike fear in the hearts of every living non-human Day.
Sons and daughters, mothers and fathers
Of Lexington and Bunker Hill,
I call out to history...
Battle cries, the wounded child dies
Red sky at night
A soft sigh, a caress, an end
A national holyDay
A liberation Day
License to blow bite-sized
mortars Day
Fill the fiery sky with smoke Day
Strike fear in the hearts of every living non-human Day.
Sons and daughters, mothers and fathers
Of Lexington and Bunker Hill,
I call out to history...
Battle cries, the wounded child dies
Red sky at night
A soft sigh, a caress, an end
Jun 6, 2006
Transportation solutions
Can we move forward on transportation? I hope so. Our transportation thinking has been shallow. We've been locked into the bus/light rail/bicycle paradigm. What we need is a move toward systems thinking. In that mode, we look at every urban planning and transportation challenge with new eyes. It's time to think mobility, not simply transportation. Students at MIT did an interesting project. They noticed airports have these neatly stacked carts in them. They extended the airport shopping cart concept further---to automobiles. In this integrated system, stacked rows of two-seat mini-cars, perhaps powered by a diffused engine system, sit at the entrance to subways. Passengers collect their public mini-cars there, which are good for short trips. The cars are then deposited in another stacked row at another terminus, such as a subway entry. Such an integrated, networked system can function almost the way a beehive does. Each part within the system compliments the whole system. An integrated system of vehicles of varying shapes and sizes, each dedicated to a particular function, would fit into a systems approach to mobility. What we have today works, to an extent. But it is a limited vision.
Jun 4, 2006
Inconvenient truths
Al Gore's star seems to be rising again. It started with an appearance on Saturday Night Live last month. Now comes a film about his slideshow on global warming, An Inconvenient Truth, which my wife and I watched today. The films a little hard to sit through but I came away from it really angry and concerned about our future. At times, the whole issue can seem overwhelming. It's similar to the feeling I get when I have a huge project due. If I chop it into manageable pieces, it's far easier to handle. Same with environmental issues. Rather than take on Big Oil, I'm working at the local level. I've researched pesticides. They're everywhere and people, I think, can relate to wanting safe yards. So that's where I started, just reading everything I can get a hold of about pesticides and herbicides. The next step was to do a Powerpoint presentation for my Condo association. They weren't moved to action, so I have to improve the oratory. Next up: more neighbors. This is my antidote for my day job, where I'm expected to write objectively. I don't think the environment is an objective issue, if such an issue exists. We're all in this bowl called earth, breathing the same air, drinking the same water. God does not recognize Human boundaries, neither does nature.
Feb 11, 2006
Under the radar and beyond belief
Bernardo's Hideaway
How many of you know there was a massive UFO sighting in Milan Feb. 6? Thousands reported seeing a panel of lights suspended in the sky for 6 hours. The lights changed color and position, were photographed by TV and newspapers, yet were not picked up on radar, meaning they could not have been weather balloons. This is according to Paola Harris, a journalist based in Rome.
Similar sightings have been reported in Mexico City, Madrid, even Washington, D.C. and yet the voluntary censorship within U.S. media is absolutely stunning.
No other first-world country has this level of censorship about UFOs. The Italians don't even refer to them as UFOs --simply as lights in the sky.
Those who think for themselves and have followed the UFO issue for years (33 years in my case) know there is a very overt and also a very covert effort to supress information about extraterrestrial intelligence interfacing with us.
Books have been written on the subject. But I wonder how many people, who consider themselves otherwise open-minded, even have a clue about what's been happening here and abroad for decades.
How many of you know there was a massive UFO sighting in Milan Feb. 6? Thousands reported seeing a panel of lights suspended in the sky for 6 hours. The lights changed color and position, were photographed by TV and newspapers, yet were not picked up on radar, meaning they could not have been weather balloons. This is according to Paola Harris, a journalist based in Rome.
Similar sightings have been reported in Mexico City, Madrid, even Washington, D.C. and yet the voluntary censorship within U.S. media is absolutely stunning.
No other first-world country has this level of censorship about UFOs. The Italians don't even refer to them as UFOs --simply as lights in the sky.
Those who think for themselves and have followed the UFO issue for years (33 years in my case) know there is a very overt and also a very covert effort to supress information about extraterrestrial intelligence interfacing with us.
Books have been written on the subject. But I wonder how many people, who consider themselves otherwise open-minded, even have a clue about what's been happening here and abroad for decades.
Jan 2, 2006
In an instant, love took wing
He arrived into our lives much the way he left us. That is to say, we didn't seek him out, nor he us. And when he left us, it was sudden, unplanned and stunningly swift.
He was our cockatiel, my wife Bianca's and my pet bird. He was a pearl-grey, the most common type of tiel, the bird that is native to Austraiia.
My wife has 20 years experience with tiels. When the bird we came to know as Pico arrived a few days after Labor Day, 2001, I was resistant. I had no interest in keeping a bird. They seemed so simple, just feathers and beaks and talons, and excrement that I'd have to clean up.
He'd been picked up off the street in Maple Valley, Washington by a guy driving a pickup. The story goes that the little fellow was right at home on the driver's shoulder, giving him little ear nibbles. This was a bird who, though only a few months old at the time, had obviously been much loved.
He spent several months with a family that had too many pets to keep him long. So they gave him up free and we were lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.
Hmm...some luck, I remember thinking at the time.
Right from the start, he took to us virtually without hesitation. This bird loved to be nuzzled, massaged, stroked. He craved it. We'd never seen anything like this before.
After a brief period of skiddishness, he settled down to become a fabulous house companion and I soon got used to cleaning up his droppings, even allowing him to land on top of the fridge (though we eventually banned that). We'd get his wings and talons clipped every now and again but, for the most part, he was free to roam our condo.
I learned a lot from him. He taught me several calls and variations within calls. We set up a perch in the master bathroom, where he could see himself in the mirror, clean his tail feathers and just sit, sometimes for hours. He'd climb on our wedding photo and sit there, content as could be. We hung beads to separate the master closet from the master bathroom and he'd climb the beads like a circus aerialist, hanging upside down as we'd laugh.
He taught me to see love in a new way, as something that pulsates like a vibrating ball of light, that shines like an incandescent bulb. He sometimes seemed so insistent on being stroked, that I often wondered whether we spent too much time with him. He'd often walk to the edge of our dining room table and start this intense clucking in which his entire body vibrated. Bianca said she thought it was an orgasm. I always thought it was really him just expressing joy in the moment.
I used to wonder what would happen if he ever flew away. Once, early on, I walked outside to our non-attached garage, got into my car and was shocked to notice he'd been on my left shoulder (his favorite spot) the entire time.
A month ago, we brought home an 8-week old male Chihauaha, whom we named Paco. Pico and Paco seemed to have a good ring, though it's almost too cute to be real. The dog and the bird slowly began to touch each other, never with malice but only genuine curiosity. I imagined that Pico felt secure in the knowledge that he could escape the dog's clutches in a flash.
I was right. The fact that he had full use of his wings, I believe, made him feel more secure around the dog.
I'll admit it, we coddled Pico, the bird I called "God's favorite cockatiel." We even ripped most of our carpeting out and replaced it with Pergo, in part to make it easier to clean up after him.
On New Year's Day, we'd had a potluck at the community recreation center when the power went out. I'd just awakened from a nap and noticed all the lights had gone out while I slept. I was worried about the pets, since it was pitch dark. I tracked down our emergency flashlight and helped the dog find his food dish. Then I went to the bathroom, where Pico'd been resting. He jumped onto my hand and then to my left shoulder, secure. After several minutes dealing with Paco, I went to the sliding glass door, swung it open and stepped outside into the pouring rain, headed for the recreation center. It was about 4:30 p.m. After about 1-2 minutes, I suddenly became aware of Pico on my shoulder and I panicked. That startled him and he took wing, circling above me clockwise, calling out to me and I to him.
And just like that, he was gone.
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