Flashback 2012: Stealing bases? Just buy them

Not a bad view from the former section 219 in 2012. 

     April, warmer weather, finally, and a man's thoughts turn to baseball. Well, some men. Not me. That ship has sailed. Whatever residual fandom is left has boiled down to a single, quivering neuron that annually squeaks. "Maybe this year you should take in a game at Wrigley." Where all my happy memories are of: a) walking up to the park along Addison from the Red Line b) seeing that expanse of green as you rise from inside a tunnel and c) biting into a warm, moist Vienna frank. 

     Notice what's missing? The actual baseball part. Players playing the game. Never a priority. Nor a memory. I couldn't recall a single play at Wrigley if you put a gun to my head. But I do still go, every few years, usually squiring visitors, as in the story below. I just like the ballpark.

     A little update. The dog that cost $5 in 2012 will now set you back at least $9. Game-used bases cost $100 more than 14 years ago. You can also buy infield dirt for $20. The only thing the same is that you could have bought the cheapest tickets to Friday's game against the Pirates on Stubhub for $8. There is no section 219 anymore — it goes from 218 to 220, thanks to a re-numbering to squeeze in more luxury boxes — but with an assist from Cubs maven Bill Savage, we know that the old 219 would be around 215 today, where tickets were going for $11 on game day. (Perhaps an unfair comparison, as game day tickets tend to plunge).

     The really good news is that kids under 13 — the first thousand to get a wrist band anyway — can still run the bases for free at Wrigley after most Sunday games. 

     No need to steal second base anymore. You can just buy it.
     The ballplayers can’t, of course. They still get to second base the old fashioned way. But now, in our let’s-monetize-everything world, you can skip all those years of honing your batting skills and, for $250, purchase second base ­— or first, or third ­­— used during a game at Wrigley Field. Pay for the base beforehand in the concourse behind home plate; it’ll be swapped out with a fresh base after the fifth inning and delivered to your seat.
     At U.S. Cellular Field, you can’t buy a base, but you can pay to be the guy swapping them out, or dragging the infield, or sitting in the dugout during batting practice, or having dinner with Jerry Reinsdorf (though if they really wanted to clean up, they should sell the chance not to eat with Reinsdorf).
     Economics aside, Sunday was still a beautiful day for baseball, on my first visit to Wrigley in years, squiring around my cousin Harry from Boston and his family. As regular readers know, I’m the sort who, left to my own devices, shuns sporting events. But I am a genial host, and Harry suggested we might take in a game, the way people speculate about travel to Mars — as a remote, wouldn’t-it-be-something possibility, colored by his experience trying to get into Fenway Park, where you must plan to spend a fortune to buy the precious tickets passed from hand to hand, generation to generation.

Section 219 is now gone.

     Not so at Wrigley. Jump online the day before, eight tickets in section 219 — back under the upper deck, but with a great view of the field — for $33 apiece, plus change. I hate to be one of those columnists who discover regular life and starts gibbering in amazement. But I was taken aback by how cheaply you can get into Wrigley, thanks to dynamic ticket pricing. You can get seats for as low as $8, to see scrub “bronze” level teams like the Brewers or the Astros — the same ticket would cost you $29 to see the Red Sox or Cardinals.
     This isn’t to suggest things are inexpensive at Wrigley. Far from it. A non-jumbo hot dog costs $5. My wife went for a cup of vegetable sticks, a hummus-like dip paste, and a small bottle of water, for — place your guesses ­— $10.75.
     Someone has to pay for those player salaries, though judging from this year’s lineup, Cubs owner Tom Ricketts is not yet coughing up the elephant dollars for superstars. While no baseball expert — the thought “So Mark Grace isn’t here anymore?” popped into mind early in the game — I’ll admit, I didn’t recognize any of the players’ names. Brian LaHair? Darwin Barney? They seemed to radiate a deep, Joe Shlabotnik-type obscurity. Not entirely a bad thing. There was a certain joy, a purity in seeing two teams of complete nonentities ­— the Washington Nationals are not exactly the 1927 Yankees either ­­— battle it out in a hard-fought game. The Cubs won, so maybe it’s a building year. 

Back when there was a 219 (Image courtesy
of the Bill Savage Collection)

     I sat back, munched peanuts, tossed the shells at my feet, and enjoyed my afternoon at the ballpark. Even my older son looked up from reading Jane Eyre from time to time to glance at what was happening on the field.
     After the game, I swung by the base-selling table behind home plate, and found they sold two bases to a pair of poor souls with more money than sense, plus one from the day before for $200. Although that might be harsh; the most surprising thing about the base-vending is, judging by mark-up, the bases are one of the bigger values at Wrigley, since a new base costs about $150 online.
     After the game, the Cubs invited kids to go down and run the bases. Of course, Harry’s girls ­— 7 and 10 — were eager to do it, but I was surprised when my two surly teens joined them, big happy grins on their faces. My wife thought being on the field was magical, and even though I had been there before, I admit that just laying eyes on Wrigley Field is worth a visit. The fact that they also put on a game is an added bonus. Maybe I shouldn’t give them ideas, but there was no extra, kids-running-the-bases fee, which is ironic, because that was the most valuable part of the whole day.
       — Originally published April 11, 2012

What are the 400 uses of dental floss?

     "Old age isn't a battle," Philip Roth once wrote. "Old age is a massacre."
     One certainly suffers losses. First, friends and loved ones are scythed down by jealous time. Second, your body acts up in ways I shan't catalogue.
     But there are also advantages. For instance, after decades of trying, I've finally gotten good at flossing. In my younger years, I'd begin with determination anew after every visit to the dentist. But weeks would pass, I'd skip a day, then two, and the little white box of floss would be pushed aside in the bathroom, ignored until the next visit.
     Not anymore. Lately, I've been a champion, floss-wise. I'm not sure why — probably with the mounting problems of age, I don't want to lose my teeth too. I almost look forward to flossing, which gives you an idea of how exciting my life has become.
     So when I got to the end of one spool Tuesday night, I immediately toddled off to my wife's bathroom to raid her supply, grabbing a package of GUM Fine Floss — mint, waxed, the good stuff.
     As I opened it, I read this bit of ballyhoo on the package:
     "UP TO 400 USES."
     Four hundred ways to use dental floss?! I marveled. That's a lot of uses. I honestly couldn't imagine what they might be.
     Finding your way out of a labyrinth? There had to be some very strange, esoteric, highly amusing suggestions from the GUM folks. I must know.
     Jumping online, I found GUM to be a local establishment — part of SUNSTAR, a Japanese company whose American operation is based in Schaumburg. But no official "GUM 400."
     I wrote to the folks at GUM (an abbreviation of "Gentle Uletic Massage," "uletic" meaning, "pertaining to gums") Tuesday night. Not expecting much. If you remember our bitter experience with Smuckers, trying to get them to explain why their natural peanut butter tastes so good, you'll know that my hopes for any given corporation deigning to comment on any given subject are slim.
     Impatient, I explored online.
     The first hit, "11 Surprising Uses for Dental Floss" by the American Association of Retired Persons (I'm telling you: old people, we love our floss). The first was not what I would call hip: "1. Remove skin tags" Were I composing that list, I'd lead with "7. Detach sticky cookies." From baking sheets if — what? — your spatula is broken?
     The problem with the AARP list is, it's all notional. Is there anyone who actually uses dental floss to slice cheesecakes? (Answer: yes. YouTube offers many videos of cheesecakes being smartly cut with dental floss "No drag, no mess, perfection," says Chef Dave Martin. Eli's Cheesecake does not use floss to cut their cheesecakes — the crispy shortbread crust interferes — but does use it to slice unbaked pies).
     The internet is alive with lists of ways to use dental floss other than to clean between your teeth. Hawaii's Kaua’i Hiking Tours offers "27 Survival Uses For Dental Floss," starting with (AARP take note) "1. Make a Lean-To" and including clotheslines, thread, shoelaces, and my favorite, as "dummy cord": a secure line to keep your knife or compass from tumbling out of your backpack and being lost.

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Flashback 2013: Reviewing movies was the least of it

Roger Ebert comments on NPR in 2006 (Photo courtesy of Sound Opinions)

     Shakespeare wrote, in "Julius Caesar," that "the evil men do lives after them, but the good is oft interred with their bones." That might be generally true — I'm not in a position to tell. But not always. Not with Roger Ebert, whose kindness and wisdom — and excellent writing — extend far beyond his time on earth, or the after-echo experienced by even the most successful journalists. 

     Certainly he lives on in my writing — I mention him from time to time, and recently started a column  with his lecturing on "La Dolce Vita." Facebook served up this piece, that ran 13 years ago today, and it's too enjoyable not to share.

    As is one moment that I mention on Facebook — truly, it's the part I remember best, as I was practically cringing. Here's how I describe it:

     "Roger Ebert's funeral at Holy Name was quite beautiful — my column will be posted [soon]. There was a bit of levity, before. I was sitting with the Sun-Times crew and the Holy Name, pastor, Msg. Mayall, came over to me, directly. 'You're not going to escort me out, are you?' I said, in a small voice. No, he wanted to thank me — I had helped raise money for repairs after their fire (I had forgotten). Nice guy."

 

     In the end, the movies weren’t the important part.
     Oh, being a film critic certainly made Roger Ebert a rich, famous, influential man.
     But — and as with all good surprise endings, I didn’t see this coming — when his loved ones, his friends, colleagues, regular readers and admirers gathered at Holy Name Cathedral Monday to say goodbye to Roger on what started as a rainy, gray, chill Chicago morning and ended in warm, golden sunlight, the world of box-office numbers and star-fueled glamour and good reviews and bad reviews felt very, very far away.
     What mattered was his noble soul, his quick mind, his big heart, his brave pen, his loyalty to his profession and his city. “We know he loved Chicago and Chicago loved Roger,” said Mayor Rahm Emanuel. “He was the most American of American critics in the most American of American cities.”
     Mass was officiated by a trio of priests — Monsignor Daniel Mayall, parish pastor of Holy Name, the Rev. Michael Pfleger, St. Sabina’s firebrand and the Rev. John F. Costello, special assistant to the president of Loyola University, who delivered a homily that showed off his Jesuit training by explaining — without ever drawing attention to the fact he was explaining — a question perhaps on the mind of many: how Chicago’s most famous agnostic and public doubter of all doctrines ended up being delivered up to heaven at the city’s preeminent Catholic cathedral.
     The answer: He found God — well, a version of God, Costello said, “a new God, one of ironic compassion, of overpowering generosity, of racial love” — at the movie theater.
     “I am convinced from our conversations that Roger found in darkened places, especially theaters, just such a God,” Costello said. “In that discovery in the darkness, Roger found a Jesus very different from the one he had been handed as a young Catholic child growing up in the Heartland of our great country. This Jesus was an ironic one with unquenchable love, even for — especially for — people who betrayed him.”
     Costello cited the 1966 novel “ Silence,” by Japanese writer Shusaku Endo. Its main character, Father Sebastian Rodrigues, is a 17th century Portuguese Jesuit priest who learns that his beloved former seminary teacher has been captured in Japan, tortured and forced to renounce Christ.
     “Finding it impossible to believe that his mentor and teacher chose apostasy over ‘glorious martyrdom,’ ’’ Costello said, Rodrigues travels to Japan, where he finds himself in similar straits — captured by a Shogun warlord, who demands that he also condemn his faith — only there is a cruel twist this time. It is not Rodrigues who will be tortured, but three Christian peasants who will suffer in his place unless he renounces his belief by trampling upon an image of Jesus.
     “In the dark night of the soul, Rodrigues choose to apostatize for the love and compassion of those suffering,” Costello said. “In praying to the heretofore silent Jesus, Rodrigues hears from the face of Christ that he is about to defile, ‘Trample! It was to be trampled on by men that I was born into the world. It was to share men’s pain that I carried my cross.’ ’’
     In other words: Sometimes official doctrine has to be set aside in order to help people. Not a message the church is saturating the airwaves with. But then, that was Roger. He could bring out the best in anybody.
     “Roger loved being part of the humanity he embraced all of his life,” Costello said. “He, like Rodrigues, felt the compassion and love he saw among the shadows in the celluloid darkness, for the people in the stories, the viewer in the theater, and the hearts which meekly yet unwavering seek their Author.”
     Gov. Pat Quinn called Ebert “a great and humble man with a servant’s heart” who had “a passion for social justice, Catholic social justice.” If you’re wondering what reviewing movies has to do with social justice, the Rev. Jesse Jackson’s middle son, Jonathan, explained how Ebert was a passionate advocate for African-American filmmakers.
     “He took us seriously,” Jackson said, reading a note from director Spike Lee. “ ‘He saw young black children not as problems, but as people . . . Roger Ebert was a champion of my work and other black filmmakers at a critical time in American film history.”
     The last speaker was Roger’s widow, Chaz Ebert, moved by her daughter’s words, she said, to spontaneously take the pulpit.
     “He would have loved this, the whole thing,” she said. “Loved that you were all here. . . . He really was a soldier for social justice. He had the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. It didn’t matter your race, creed, color, level of ability, sexual orientation. He had a heart big enough to accept and love all.”
     Funerals are for the living, and Roger Ebert’s not only made being alive seem more precious, but sent those attending into the day wondering how to do a better job of it.

           — Originally published in the Sun-Times, April 9, 2013 

Ye facing the music over idiotic embrace of Nazism

Illinois Holocaust Museum

     Did you notice, in Monday's column, how I copped to not knowing about the Greek god Artemis before the current moon mission, despite all my talk about being educated? How can I do that? Because one of the things I learned is that the world is big, filled with stuff, and most people know absolutely nothing about almost everything. The shame is in pretending otherwise.
     So I can confess that it wasn't until Monday, reading my Sun-Times with my morning Nespresso, that I learned, on Page 12, that Ye, the artist formerly known as Kanye West, last year released a song called "Heil Hitler." If, like me, you just found out about it now, what is your reaction?
     Are you offended? Incredulous? I hope not. As one of my cherished readers, I'd prefer your reaction to be curiosity, mirroring my own response: an enthusiastic, "I gotta hear this song."
     Easier said than done. One of the worst aspects of our current dilemma is the idea of gatekeepers preventing supposedly vulnerable populations from having their sensibilities seared. Whether the right, vindictively trying to purge life of people they hate. Or the left, timidly trying to pretend that hate doesn't exist. One is worse; neither are commendable.
     I started at YouTube. Nothing but criticisms and parodies. Then Apple Music. The same. So I did a Google search, and found the full song — of course — on that slop sink of hate, X, nee Twitter.
     I stopped using X regularly when Elon Musk went full fascist — his Nazi salute, his blowing kisses at European neo-Nazi groups. Kind of a giveaway. But I didn't quit, for eventualities like this.
     "With all of the money and fame I still can't get my kids back," Ye trills. "So I became a Nazi, yeah."
     Stop right there. Offended yet? Of course not. At this point, if you are like me, you feel sorry for Ye, who has four children with his former wife Kim Kardashian.
     Imagine connecting those two thoughts — complaining about not being able to see your children, then using that as an excuse to embrace Nazism. Is Ye expecting that to help? "Your honor, I need to see my kids. I know I had troubles in the past — never should grabbed that microphone from Taylor Swift. But I've worked hard to improve myself. I'm a Nazi now ..."
     Not a smart strategy, right?
     I shouldn't jest. Ye has admitted to being bipolar, and nobody disagreed with him. He also apologized for the song, though that's a tough one to claw back. Hard to argue it was a gaffe; he also sold Nazi merchandise.
     I think it's important to recognize that people still embrace the Nazis. It's valuable to be reminded of their error, which sadly is not confined to the 1930s. To embrace Nazism is to be lulled by a strong start — great uniforms, bold iconography, massive Nuremberg rallies, the Blitzkrieg, those diving Stukas — but ignore the bad end. Your nation bombed to total ruin, the Nuremberg trials.

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Little life

     I've reflected previously on the Latin term, memento mori, literally "remember to die," but interpreted as, "remember that death is coming." A goad to use the time you have, as best you can, even as it slips through your fingers and is gone.
     But that's a tad bleak, on a sunny spring day. So I'd like to flip it around, to memento vivere, or "remember to live." Something I tell myself, continually particularly in the mornings, facing the prospect of what can seem isolated, dull days after the commotion of the holidays. 

     How to remember to live? Moving the great engines of commerce and literature, of science and government and politics, are well beyond my scope and I imagine yours too. So we notice the little things, like these fat pink magnolia blossoms, dappled with dew, Monday morning. They are full for so short a span — a few days really, a week at most — and then are blown away by winds or burnt brown by a frost. 

     The blossoms, and the little dog — almost 16 — playing in the yard beyond. I can drop her leash and she doesn't run off anymore, but dutifully trots ahead, or busies herself with her own exploration of the tiny world immediately in front of her.

     And beyond that, the moon, 3/4 illuminated, at the "waning gibbous" phase, for those who care, a chalky smudge against a painfully blue sky that Artemis II is even now about to swing around.

     You can view this two ways, each illustrated by its own song. There is Isabel Pless' "Little Life," a vindictive stab at a former lover after the Nashville-based Vermonter realizes, "forgiveness isn't working." It begins, "I hope hell's hotter than you thought it'd be/I hope people stop listening when you speak" after "you realize you're just some guy."

      I hope karma's the bitch she's always been 
      I hope the regret eats you from within

     That's one route, and I admit, most mornings I start there. But there's another, encapsulated, fittingly enough, in a Cordelia song, also named "Little Life" that I strive toward emulating, Monday more vigorously than usual. A lilting melody from the British folk pop singer that went viral in 2023, asking the question, "How would you have me described?"

     A little bit more
     A little bit less
     A little bit harder than I thought they said.
     A little fine
     A little bit stressed
     A little bit older than I thought I'd get.
     But I think I like this little life. 

     Amen to that. You have to like your life, make yourself like it, whatever it happens to be — it's a requirement — because otherwise you just waste your precious time over things that didn't happen and people who aren't there. The acceptance that a certain program of my acquaintance goes on about. It isn't easy. In fact, sometimes it's hard. But like many hard things, it's also worthwhile.

      Others appreciate it too. I couldn't help but notice that the Isabel Pless "Little Life" video has gotten 95 views in the past two years, while Cordelia's has had 868,000 views in the same span. Negativity grows tiresome. Trust me on that one.

NASA, of all people, gets back into the space biz

 

Artemis II crew.

     Too bad some of the fame attached to remarks made on humanity's first landing on the moon, "Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed," on July 20, 1969, and the even more renowned, "One small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind" was never extended to the enthusiastic, if ungrammatical, burst at the last moon landing, Apollo 17, on Dec. 11, 1972.
     "We is here!" cried rookie astronaut Harrison (Jack) Schmitt. "Man, is we here."
     Now we are returning to the neighborhood for the first time in nearly 54 years. All exploration is grounded in the time when it occurs, and just as the Apollo program was an artifact of the rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union, so Artemis II, expected to swing closest to the moon on Monday, can be seen through a lens of 2026 and a nation in turmoil.
     A time when actual reality can be lost in the fun house of social media — for instance, we're skimming past, not landing on, the moon. Artemis II will fly about 5,000 miles above the lunar surface; to put that in context, the International Space Station orbits about 250 miles above the earth.
     Is the public enthralled by this latest foray into space? Hard to say. Boredom with the assumed wonder of space exploration is a theme almost as old as space exploration itself.
     If you remember Ron Howard's excellent movie "Apollo 13," interest in what would have been the third moon landing was tepid until an explosion damaged the ship and forced a dramatic skin-of-their-teeth return. Before the crisis, while Jim Lovell does a live broadcast from space, the guys at Mission Control in Houston sneak glances at the Astros game, and none of the networks chose to carry Lovell's show.
     When Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, Chicagoans were almost as amazed by the fact they could watch it live on television.
     ”We were all there, bound together by the miracle of communication that intertwined all the other miracles of technology that marketed man’s first step on a celestial body,” the Chicago Daily News said in an editorial.
     The Chicago Tribune, with characteristic modesty, editorialized that their coverage of the event was an achievement on par with the landing itself.
     To me, half the wonder is not the journey but who's doing it. After years of headlines about private space ventures, Jeff Bezos' Blue Origin and Elon Musk's SpaceX, I reacted to the Artemis II mission with a surprised, "Does NASA still do that kind of thing?" 
     To add context, Artemis II took off Wednesday night. On Friday, the Trump administration proposed chopping the NASA budget by 23%.
     I had two questions. Apollo used a three-man crew. So why does Artemis need four astronauts?
     The short answer is the Orion spacecraft is designed to be flown by four astronauts — it has 50% more living space than the Apollo command module — but reading the NASA release announcing the crew, you can't help but suspect there's some Biden-era diversity going on as well:

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Recessional

 

Winged bull from the throne room of Sargon II (Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures)

     Saturday dawned quiet.  The big pots were scrubbed and back on a high shelf.  The extra tables, back down in the basement, along with the dozen folding chairs. The living room furniture was returned to its proper place. The dishwasher, going non-stop for a while, stilled. The rain continued, off and on, and a chill gray set in, as if spring were having second thoughts.

     Friday the older boy and his growing family had departed for Michigan. The younger and his growing bride, back to their dozen daily concerns in Hyde Park. I missed them more than I savored the silence, and thought, for some reason, of a dusty line from Rudyard Kipling.

    "The tumult and the shouting dies, the captains and the kings depart." 

     From "Recessional," written after Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee in 1897. (A recessional is the hymn chanted in church after a service as the choir and clergy depart). I don't remember ever reading "Recessional," but found the poem online easy enough. It's out of copyright, and brief, so I can share the whole thing. I think it merits a read:

                              God of our fathers, known of old,

                                 Lord of our far-flung battle-line,

                              Beneath whose awful Hand we hold

                                Dominion over palm and pine—

                              Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

                              Lest we forget—lest we forget!

                             The tumult and the shouting dies;

                               The Captains and the Kings depart:

                             Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

                               An humble and a contrite heart.

                             Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

                             Lest we forget—lest we forget!

                             Far-called, our navies melt away;

                              On dune and headland sinks the fire:

                             Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

                               Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

                             Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,

                             Lest we forget—lest we forget!

                             If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

                              Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,

                             Such boastings as the Gentiles use,

                              Or lesser breeds without the Law—

                             Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

                             Lest we forget—lest we forget!

                             For heathen heart that puts her trust

                               In reeking tube and iron shard,

                             All valiant dust that builds on dust,

                              And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,

                             For frantic boast and foolish word—

                             Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

         That seems an apt sentiment for Easter Sunday. Britain was at the height of its power and Kipling, the bard of colonialism and the White Man's Burden, tacked against type, invoking humility and God.

         Not entirely, of course. There's a lot to unpack in the poem. Did you notice "an humble." Correct once upon a time in England, where the "h" was unpronounced. 

         The expression "lesser breeds" pokes a 2026 reader in the eye.  But notice what makes someone a lesser breed: being "without the law." A condition that we are flirting with. Or swan diving into. Or already drowning in. Give "lesser breeds" credit — at least it's spoken plainly. We embrace the attitude while avoiding the candor. Which may be even worse.

         To his further credit, the "heathen heart" putting its faith in smoking guns and shattering shells is clearly Kipling's countrymen. And ours.

         "Drunk with sight of power." Ain't that the truth? Worth remembering, as former attorney general Pam Bondi slinks off into whatever eternal ignominy awaits those who make their devil's bargain, leap willingly into the sucking maw, serve their shameful span, then are shitted out Trump's enormous backside. As much as I'd like to let out a faint "yippee" at her being cashiered, it strangles in my throat, realizing why she was canned: for not being skilled enough at covering up Trump's crimes, nor successful enough when twisting the Justice Department to persecute his enemies. Expect her replacement to try harder.

         In critiquing the poem, I overlooked the most important part. Notice it? "Lest we forget." It must be important, he says it eight times. Lest we forget ... what? That power, like life, is fleeting, and when it ebbs all we have left is the memory of how we conducted ourselves — in honor, honesty, humanity. Or with greed, violence, shame. 

         It is worth realizing that Great Britain ain't so great anymore, yet still exists. If the United States is in decline — and the warning bells are flashing, the needles red-zoning, the sirens whirring — then we were not defeated by an outside foe, but we destroyed ourselves, by turning our backs on our supposed values and groveling before a golden calf that would embarrass the folks in Nineveh and Tyre, great cities in Biblical times. Not such a big deal anymore. It happened to them, then. It's happening to us now.