Summer Reading

You've had a little bit of sun, a little bit of sand, now fulfill your summer reading needs with the literary stylings of the Proofread.

Allison jumps starts our current theme with a story about something that is flying in disguise.

Enjoy.

Rocketman

Lovell: Houston, I believe we've had a problem here.
Swigert: This is Houston. Say again, please.
Lovell: Houston, we've had a problem. We've had a MAIN B BUS UNDERVOLT.
Swigert: I mean, can you say it again in the present tense.
Lovell: Why?
Swigert: It will make for a better movie quote.
Lovell: Houston, are you serious?
Swigert: On a number of levels, yes.

This week, Sharkey explores the implications of editing on humanity and why some gems are better left unpolished.

[sic]

As a younger lad, I went through a phase during which I was fascinated by the space programs of the 1960’s. That being the case, when I stumbled a few weeks ago upon a Discovery Channel special on this exact topic, I of course settled in for an hour of uninterrupted space flight. The show culminated with footage of Apollo 11, including (of course) Neil Armstrong’s first step on the moon, complete with subtitles to illuminate the sometimes-scratchy audio. As Armstrong stepped off the lunar lander, the Discovery subtitles read:

“That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.” [significantly, sic]

The “[a]” ought to jump out at you there. These brackets don’t serve their most common purpose—to clarify a reference, like replacing an ambiguous pronoun with a specific proper noun—here; instead, the Discovery Channel producers decided they needed to correct Armstrong’s grammar. That’s quite an editorial decision, to correct one of the most famous spoken lines of the twentieth century. But in some sense, it’s nearly required.

Consider the alternative: “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” This is nonsensical, the interstellar equivalent of tripe like “winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.” Without the article “a,” the two terms “man” and “mankind” are equivalent and the juxtaposition of “one person” and “the whole species” is lost. Now, I’m not covering any new ground here—the grammar of Armstrong’s first lunar words has been debated very nearly since the moment he uttered them. The astronaut has argued that the “a” was intended, and that he naturally drops syllables on occasion. Others have claimed that Armstrong actually did say “a,” but it was lost to radio static. And the Discovery Channel is far from the first source to bracket the “a” in its transcription of the line.

But let’s be straight here: Armstrong messed up his line. Doubtlessly, he intended to put the “a” in there, but he didn’t. And I’m here to argue that it’s better this way. But first, we need to talk about Journey.

I should be clear: I don’t think Journey is a bad band, or that “Don’t Stop Believing” isn’t a pretty great karaoke song. So what follows should not be interpreted as “a person is a dope if they like Journey.” That being said, Journey has no humanity—by which I mean, their records have a sterility that removes them from what should rightfully be called “music that relays recognizable human emotion.” Admittedly, it isn’t fair to single out Journey: there’s a list of more-or-less sonically interchangeable rock bands from the ‘70s and early ‘80s, like Boston, Foreigner, and so forth. To anyone not completely obsessed with their music, all of those bands sound exactly the same; what, really, is the difference between “Don’t Stop Believing” and “More Than a Feeling”?

What unites these interchangeable classic-rock-radio monsters is a sort of sterile sheen that extends not just to the production values of the songs (although it’s a big part) but to the songwriting and the vocal styles. All of the big hits from these bands feature recognizable verse structure, interchangeable vocalists, and production that polishes each track to a high gloss. This similarity doubtlessly helped the bands thrive; after all, this was the period in which radio stations realized big money could be made as long as listeners didn’t bother to change the channel, so stations pursued similar-sounding bands. If song after song sounded pretty much alike, listeners wouldn’t change the station to hunt for something else.

Again, I feel compelled to stress: this music isn’t awful, and I’m not mocking people who enjoy it. Different strokes, after all. And I’m very conscious of the fact that the argument I intend to present here can come across as elitist or holier-than-thou. I ask the reader to trust that this is not my intent, but I also admit that I may be feeling skittish because this argument actually is elitist and holier-than-thou. Oh well—damn the torpedoes, I suppose.

When you set out to create (or promote) music that sounds exactly alike, you kill off what’s interesting and human about it: the randomness, the imperfections, the (dare I say) soul of it. Embracing one’s humanity means embracing one’s flaws, admitting that perfection is unattainable, and learning to see the beauty in what we cannot control. Creating assembly-line rock music requires absolute control: anything overly unique or unexpected fucks up the reasons people listen (or, at least, don’t not listen) in the first place, so everything must be carefully constructed to appeal to a generalized taste.

In doing so, affecting little moments of humanity get cut out of the music-making process. The randomness and uniqueness of individual performance gets papered over by endless multi-tracking, tight control of pitch and feedback, and precise editing. While this level of control can create something catchy, I argue it is rarely memorable or interesting. Indeed, many of the little moments in songs that people remember and adore are little weird bits of amplifier feedback, an unintended microphone pickup, a moment when the singer’s voice catches in just that way that adds new emotional resonance. It’s the flawed, uncontrolled, human nature of these moments that makes them what they are, and you’ll never find something like them in a Journey song.

The more perfect something is, in the end, the more difficulty we have relating to it. That’s the reason why utopia literature is so damn boring. George Orwell explores this point at some length in his 1943 essay “Can Socialists Be Happy?” In that essay, Orwell contrasts works of utopia like H.G. Wells’ with portraits of fleeting, impermanent joy like Dickens’ The Christmas Carol; “The Cratchits are able to enjoy their Christmas,” he writes, “precisely because Christmas comes only once a year. Their happiness is convincing just because it is described as incomplete.” That’s a picture of bliss we can relate to: one in which we enjoy the perfection precisely because of its contrast with the daily failures of life.

Utopian literature, on the other hand, comes across as drab and dull. When an author tries to describe perfection, all sense of emotion is lost. We can see this particularly well in literary portraits of heaven and hell. As Orwell points out, “Heaven is as great a flop as Utopia—though Hell, it is worth nothing, occupies a respectable place in literature, and has often been described most minutely and convincingly.” We don’t have the vocabulary to describe a perfect existence in any sort of detail; instead, we have to fall back on vague platitudes. For something to relate to our human experience in any deep way, it needs to be flawed in a way we can understand and sympathize with.

The very title of Orwell’s essay, though, points at the political, not just the artistic, and that’s an area that requires more careful steps. When thinking about how we should order our society, it doesn’t seem quite right to say, “Well, we ought to try to preserve some imperfections so that our civilization remains noticeably human.” Clearly, we are better off trying to move society forward and making every reasonable attempt to improve the environment in which we have to live our lives. The reason we find utopia stories boring isn’t that we would hate to live in a perfect world: instead, we just lack the ability to make an invented perfect world interesting or realistic. That perfect world isn’t realistic. That isn’t an excuse to stop trying.

The difference lies in the fundamentally accidental nature of our human flaws. What makes mistakes human is the fact that we’re trying to avoid them, and we fail to do so. If we make flaws goals in and of themselves, we’re far off the mark.

This is why the accidental nature of those memorable little musical moments is so important. It would be one thing if a band decided to meticulously place a weird microphone pop in the middle of a song, but it’s quite another if that little pop just happens on its own. (I should point out here the obvious: most music is meticulously edited in post-production. But there’s a difference between deciding to leave an interesting little flaw in the final cut of a song, and trying to place it there purposefully. The latter can be interesting, but the former will be more affecting. [If, that is, we can tell the difference. Which, of course, we can’t. We can only assume, and I would suggest that we tend to assume the former.])

So we don’t run any danger of creating a sterile, uninteresting world by attempting to make society better. We can accept the fact that we’ll never be able to get it exactly right—those little problems will keep popping up—but we don’t have to abdicate agency. The world will be plenty imperfect without our trying to guard those imperfections.

By now, it’s probably clear what all of this has to do with Neil Armstrong. When he fucked up his poetic line as he made tracks on the moon, he injected a vital bit of humanity into what was at that time our species’ crowing technological achievement. He not only said something beautiful and poetic: he tried to do so, and messed it up. That’s unique, un-recreate-able, human.

This may not come as a surprise, but I believe that elegant language is a striking and uniquely human thing: plenty of organisms express themselves, but it takes a diverse and complicated language to express one’s self well. In this sense, Armstrong’s (intended) line is a thing of beauty. There’s symmetry to the two halves, while at the same time providing an interesting contrast. Structurally, it calls to mind lines like “To err is human; to forgive, divine,” and please don’t think that wasn’t a carefully chosen example. But while the poetry is good in its own right, slipping up on delivery added a human touch that elevates Armstrong’s moment.

Consider the scale of Apollo 11’s achievement. We didn’t get a person (Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin) into space until April 1961. It took barely 8 years from that first set of tentative sub-orbital space flights to land people on the moon. Most of us have used calculators more powerful than the computer that got people there. But the story of manned spaceflight in the 1960’s is made all the more interesting by its repeated failures: toppling rockets, spacecraft fires killing astronauts, probes crashing uselessly into the lunar surface. After all of that, at the moment of success—whoops! Is there time for a second take?

Well, no. No there is not. We don’t get second takes—we just have to do the best with the one shot we had. That’s why Armstrong’s [sic] is better than any sort of perfect delivery he may have practiced in his head: it reminds us that even when we manage to get everything right, we can still get something wrong. We’re only human, and we shouldn’t feel the need to bracket that fact away in the transcripts.

Watch Out For That...

This week, Matt takes us on a ride. Danger, excitement, pratfalls: all of these things await you. So crank up your speeder bike and let's get to reading.

Forests of Endor

Simple questions are the most dangerous type of question.

“Mashu Sensei, do you want to go mountain biking?"

Simple answers are far more diabolical.

“Yeah, that sounds exciting. When do you want to go?”

But perhaps this is a lie. Questions will always be inherently neutral. Answers can kill people, though. While some will manipulate questions in attempts to force demeaning answers from people, responses more often than not set off a chain of consequences, good or bad, that few pleading the fifths could. In a world of metaphors, questions are like skeleton keys, while answers are like locked rooms. Put the key into the correct lock, and you open up a door to an adorable room filled with cuddly pandas. Choose wrong, and you also open up a room with pandas, but in this case the pandas are zombies and you are allergic to bears.

This story begins after our office’s daily morning meeting. Five days out of seven, I start my mornings with a meeting, and five days out of seven, these meetings are the most useless portion of my day. However, I always act like I understand their Japanese. I stand when everyone else stands, turn and look attentively when the principal is speaking, and take notes in a day planner, though actually I am just recording dreams I had about my best friend from school stealing souvenirs from Harrison Ford. (Side note: No Bryan, I haven’t forgiven you for embarrassing me in front of H.F. in my own home.)

With my ability to understand only basic Japanese verbs and nouns, my boyish good looks, and an abundance of curly locks, during these meetings I am essentially the equivalent of a labrapoodle in a sports coat. I imagine the teacher who sits across from me is thinking, “Aw, that’s adorable. He is pretending he can understand people language. And look, the puppy’s stamping the students’ homework. Who’s a good boy, who’s a good boy?!” This wouldn’t be so bad if, like a dog’s job, my profession rewarded me with frequent bite-sized snacks hidden in a workplace cupboard that I couldn’t reach, though I suppose I might be disturbed if it did. Actually no, I have little shame, and appreciate snacks of all shapes, sizes, ethnicities, sexual orientations, and religious creeds.
After one meeting in late summer, the kendo teacher — kendo is Japanese sword fencing — who sits at the desk kitty corner behind me, spins his chair around greets me.

“Hello, Mashu Sensei,” he greeted me pronouncing my name in using Japanese phonetics.

“Good morning, Ken Sensei.”

“What will you do the fall holiday?”

“I do not know. What will you do this holiday?”

The corners of his mouth turn up in a grin. “Do you like… mountain biking?” he says.
“Yeah, I like mountain biking. I liked mountain biking in America.”

This was first my first mistake.

“Oh, really? Do you want to go mountain biking with me this fall holiday?”
“Yes, that sounds fun.”

And that was my second mistake.

“When?” I said.

“Maybe Sunday. At 9:30 o’clock.”

“Okay. So Sunday at 9:30?” I say, subtlety hinting that the “o’clock” was unnecessary in that sentence.

“9:30 o’clock.”

And for about the 377th time, my attempts to curtail this behavior had failed.
The kendo teacher’s name is Ken, whom I more often than not refer to as Ken Sensei (i.e. Ken teacher). In many ways, Ken Sensei is like many Japanese people. He is very polite, works too hard and long for too little pay, and when free time permits, drinks a lot and doesn’t hold it all that well. But then again he is different. He is nicer than most people. And when you combine the kanji, the Japanese characters, of his name with his brother’s, Go, they form the word “Goken” meaning “Fortitude,” which makes the two of them sound like a cool version of the Wonder Twins.
He also tends to get confused more easily than a lot of Japanese people, or in actuality, anyone I know. My favorite example of this is when my friend Mike came out to Ken. But Ken forgot. While this is potentially excusable since both parties were consuming copious amounts of alcohol — and booze, the bane and boon for drunks who misplaced their cell phones and Verizon employees who replace them on commission respectively — my friend had to come out to Ken. Three times. The conversations generally went something like “Ken, I’m gay,” and Ken responding “same human, same human,” and concluded the next time they met when Ken would ask “How his wife was?” and my friend would say, “Ken, I have a husband — you know, who is a man,” and Ken eventually responding again with “same human, same human.” Oh, and no one can chalk this up to lost in translation. These took place in Mike’s fluent Japanese and Ken’s native Japanese tongue.

The Sunday morning arrived. I got up, walked to the station, and took the local express to Omagari, Ken’s hometown. We met in the parking lot. He looked “genki” (e.g. healthy) and ready to take on a biking adventure. I, on the other hand, was dragging from a long work week as director of The English Club’s plays (a plot filled with twists, tragedies, and an inability for anyone to say “tornado,” which was often pronounced “tor-nade,” starring a nearly all girl junior high school cast attempting to perform Snow White, which I will save for another time). However, lacking a realistic excuse to cancel (“sudden emergencies” are rare when you are single and without family in the same hemisphere) I had to persevere. I hopped into his car filled with bikes and an electronic Japanese-English dictionary and we began our one hour drive to the biking course.

Conversations, the kind that lack liquid courage, tend to be especially intimidating for many the average Japanese-English speaker, though in their defense, I rely on an over abundance of hand gestures and dances to communicate pre-school-level thoughts to clerks, restaurant employees, and train conductors, as I am terrified to try out my own (very limited) Japanese skills. However, after being here for a year and talking with a multitude of speakers, I have plans for all ranges of conversations. If they are mostly fluent, I talk at a slower speed with the slang removed (Japanese people just don’t understand the mean of “back of my grill, yo”). If they are really bad at English, conversations are always based around food. Once, I had a conversation that went something like this:

Man: “Do you like ramen?”

Me: “Yes, I like ramen.”

Man: “Do you like sushi?”

Me: “Yes, I like sushi.”

Man: “Do you like natto?” (Fermented soy beans)

Me: “No, I don’t like natto.”

One should note that this went on for about ten minutes, and “the man” was the fifty-year-old vice principal of my school.

There would be a lot of talking on this trip. I needed to be easy, but not patronizing (his English was good enough to almost pursue his dream of moving to Canada and being a kendo teacher/lumberjack. Well, until his mom forbade him from leaving the country), so I started off with easy questions fluent speakers ask each other. How was work? How is coaching? What did you do last weekend? Even though I knew about the week of testing at school and the upcoming kendo tournament, I did it because it’s a good warm up, and because I genuinely did care about those things (maybe things have changed since the last time we spoke). As anticipated, Ken happily told me about kendo practice and a kendo tournament, and even though it was not complex, I enjoyed listening.

The longer we drove though, the more my stock questions (What are your hobbies? What movies do you like? Where did you go to college?) dried up. Sometimes one question will be particularly difficult for us to answer. For example:

Ken: Mashu Sensei. Let’s go to combini (Japanese for convenience store) for cup noodle.

Matt: Okay. But I have — (oh god, think of a simple word for allergy, think of a simple word for allergy) an allergy — (oh god, how do I say this. MSG. Maybe flavor, spices…) to MSG. I will get something else though.

Ken looked concerned. He grabbed the electronic dictionary. This made his once safe driving along the twisting country highway precarious, as he tries to spell the word allergy. Which, because it’s filled with so many “Ls” and “Rs” is about as difficult as telling someone how to spell a word by describing the shapes of the letters
(“Okay, first squiggly line, then downward like cross in the middle…”).

Matt: Ken sensei, Dozo, dozo! (i.e. please allow me. I take it and show him.)

Ken: Ahhhhhhh! Al-lr-egy.

Twenty-five minutes had passed. I feared an upcoming awkward silence. Desperate for questions, I asked, “Ken Sensei, can you drive a motorcycle?” Not part of my repertoire of normal conversation, but a scrambled attempt to keep the conversation alive with a smidge of inspiration from the bikers who passed us. He replied, “They are very scary.” I said something like “But they are very cool.” He looked at me and said, “In college, big motorcycle accident.”

“What?”

“I was asleep.”

“Asleep?”

“Asleep? For how long?

He counts in his head. “Six months”

“Six months. You were in a coma for six months.”

“Yes, very scary.” He smiled. His left canine, the broke one, the one that I thought was probably chipped during kendo training (though I suppose you can’t say chipped when the whole bottom half is broken off) now seemed likely caused by his comatose body skidding across the pavement; I don’t know for sure. It always seemed too rude to ask.

He was a little nervous, but smiled again and said “Motorcycles are scary.”
I agreed with him.

Closer to our destination, somewhat after the disturbing conversation about motorcycles, he pointed out a hospital.

“My daughter was born there.”

“When was she born?”

“Last month.”

“Congratulations! You must be very excited.”

“Yes, I am very happy. But she is sick. She is at that hospital.”

“Why?”

“Ummm… Her blood is sick. She is very tiny.”

“Oh my god.” (My second ‘oh my god’ of the day.)

“I come here every night after kendo.”

“Every night? But Ken, this hospital is more than an hour away from our school.”

“I am always tired.” And he smiled again.

If this was the case, he did a good job of fooling me. It’s hard to pep up a conversation after something like “My infant daughter is dying.” But somehow we did. For someone who had faced a great deal of strife, he was more than taking his life in stride.

After probing into the history of Ken sensei, we arrived at the mountain biking area. He parked and pulled out the various pieces of wheel and frame from the car, and with a speed and precision that rivals his swords skills, assembled the two wheeled beasts. I began to realize there are more important details he neglected to tell me about his past or I forgot to ask about. I got on one of the bikes to test it out. “Wait,” I thought. “Why is this so springy?” In my mind, mountain bikes had gears on them. I mean, this had gears, but this bike looked way more expensive than my blue Bianchi 21-speed from fifth grade.

Another car descended from the mountainous roadway and pulled into the parking lot; it was two friends of his. He mentioned their existence on the way there, but besides saying that he hadn’t seen them in five years, I knew little else about them. They got out. One was a skinny, balding Japanese man, the other a portly (skinny by American standards of course), stout man. I introduced myself in what Japanese I knew, and soon after, Ken and his comrades began to change in the parking lot. As they put on their spandex racing suits and biking shoes, the contrast between their proficiency levels and mine was evident even to the densest person on earth, a title which I was contending for.

Later they would confirm that all three of them had once been semi-professional mountain bikers. I, on the other hand, in my white T-shirt, hoodie sweatshirt, and red gym shorts, was not a semi-professional mountain biker, or if I was, I decided to look the part of a student ready for his tenth-grade gym class, to throw off the competition. Yes, surely I had chosen such unorthodox dress solely for the purpose of hustling and demonstrating to these simple Japanese folk the American man’s ability to dominate any physical activity.

And then we were flying down the cedar tree-lined trail, approximately twenty-four inches wide, straddled to a bike. When I was not praying to the lord to help me return to my home that night perhaps only moderately injured, I was recalling an incident that my dad told me about either my uncle, cousin, or friend. I don’t remember the details, but this person, a biking aficionado, once was in a mountain biking tournament where he flew off his bike and smashed his head into the ground. And while he was wearing a helmet, and thus was okay, the impact cracked it into two separate pieces, quite possibly saving his life. Ken asked me if I had a helmet before we started, and I told him I didn’t (i.e. he didn’t tell me that I desperately needed one). Feeling that some sort of head protection was required, his solution was to hand me a baseball cap. I appreciated the gesture as I traversed the trails forgotten by both man and beast; I am certain that in an accident, perhaps one like my uncle’s, the half centimeter of cotton/polyester blend would have acted as convenient fast-acting gauze for any lacerations beneath.

The scenery was beautiful. Maybe. I don’t know really. The only chance that I had to appreciate it is when I was walking my bike up steep hills (in shame) or when I had literally tipped over going around a corner at a cautious two mile per hour, in one instance scarring my leg on the bike cassette in the process. Actually, that walking, tipping, and falling over happened a lot. So yeah, the scenery in many parts was beautiful, especially when I was not worried about a ravine or eroded trail leading to my demise. But the biking. Contrary to my understanding, mountain biking is not like biking in the city or on country roads. Are trees hanging over the trail ready to clip your head? Who needs to move them when you can duck underneath them at breakneck speeds? Is there a fallen tree on blocking the trail? Forget about it! Just have some mountain man cut a slit six inches wide, but still big enough to ride through (Hell, the wheel is only like an inch wide anyways). Roads muddy and covered in roots? Don’t worry, that’s what they call “technical challenges” in the business. Mountain biking is like riding a speeder bike through the forests of Endor in Return of the Jedi. You dodge. You weave. All while going a billion miles per hour. Throw in some guys chasing you in milk-jug armor and some tiny bears with spears cheering you on and essentially there no difference. Except I didn’t have the Force. So my trial, by comparison, made Luke Skywalker look like a pansy.

Things were doable. Until “the double dogleg.” To those unfamiliar with this golf term, a dogleg is a hole where the fairway, instead of going straight or curving gently back and forth, makes an approximately forty-five-degree turn, making an “L” shape. The double dogleg, as I dubbed it, parallels this golfing phenomenon, as a certain portion of the biking course also possessed a notable forty-five-degree left-hand turn. This was not uncommon for my biking excursion. I had ridden successfully around several of those twists. However, this turn was situated on a forty-five-degree downward slope, hence “the double dogleg.”

Ken noticed that I was nervous as I approach the precarious incline. He gave me instruction like lean your butt back, use the breaks, but don’t slam on the breaks. The others went first. They rode the hill with ease; they are semi-professional bikers, remember. Taking the ’80s band a-ha’s advice — “It’s no better to be safe than sorry” — I went for it. But half way down, realizing that I was going too fast, and that a-ha’s advice may be questionable — when was the last time you heard from a-ha — I panic. Instinctively, I slammed on my breaks and in a testament to Newton’s First Law of Motion, my butt and bike seat disassociated from each other and I flew over the handle bars as if I was sliding to score the winning run in the World Series, albeit in this case, a futuristic World Series played entirely in the air. I’d find out later from a native English-speaking mountain biker that the term for this technique is called “Superman.” For those who are curious, this is not only a proper noun, but a verb – superman, supermanned, supermanning.
I landed on the ground and rolled up onto my feet. I was scratched up and my wrist was a little sore, but I am immediately gracious that my neck I was intact. The others, with terrified faces, checked up on me.

“Are you okay?”

“Okay.” I smiled. I didn’t consider that a lie. I was not great, but I was not dead. I am pretty sure that is Webster’s Dictionary, fourth definition for “okay,” right above “the feeling of spending a spring night sleeping on a bumpy beach."

The rest of the course was difficult but less eventful, which I am sure my mother, who is hearing the purposely omitted details from the original account of this trip for the first time, is relieved to hear. We got back to the parking lot and rested. I was grateful to be done. But then Ken asked a question. Remember, the dangerous kind?

“Mashu Sensei, do you want to go again?”

But questions aren’t dangerous.

“Yeah, I can go again.”

The answers are.

I wanted to stop. But I had too much pride. I didn’t want to let down Ken, who had chosen to spend one of his about ten days off a year with me. One more time couldn’t be much more terrifying than spinning your chair around and asking someone to go with you on an afternoon outing, or taking a fifty-five-minute car trip with some quirky American you could only half communicate with. So I rode on. Back into the wilds. Back into the forests of Endor. And even though the second time happened to be more frightening than the first (knowledge of the obstacles did little to alleviate the fear), there were fewer spills and hikes of shame, and no supermans. I will admit I just walked my bike down on my second attempt at the double dogleg, but the others agreed that was a good idea, and we finished the second loop in success.
We celebrated our arrival back at the parking lot with a cup of instant coffee heated on a propane burner as I showed off the bear-claw-shaped scar on my right leg, a memento courtesy of questions, Ken and my stepmotherland.

New Theme: Flight

For the next round, your humble Proofreaders will be looking to the skies. Come along as we explore our new theme, "Flight," and all that the wonders of divorcing one's self from the ground can entail.