Shutting up is an art form

     I like to give directions to strangers, because there's pleasure in helping somebody. 
     You see a couple standing on the street, puzzling over a map or an iPhone, and you ask where they're going, and they tell you, and you point it out, and the puzzled persons stride gratefully toward their goal. It's so simple, and pure.
     With parents, it's the same. You know the way, you want to give a little hint, some direction, because you've so been there, and you so understand what they're going through, and what's going to happen. 
     Though it doesn't quite work as simply as with directions to the Willis Tower. Because parenthood is complicated.
     When our boys were small, a million years ago, an older person would notice them, in all their porcelain cuteness, playing in the park or whatever, and pause, smiling wistfully. You could just tell the older person was bursting to say something, wanted to pass something along, and eventually they'd make eye contact, and sigh, and utter a remark along the lines of, "Enjoy them while you can," or at least that's what I heard. They might have said something closer to "Enjoy them while they're young" or "What a great age!"
      Which puzzled and, honestly, slightly offended me, this grizzled stranger, this buttinski, offering this crazy comment, suggesting stuff that was never going to happen, not to me. "While they're young?" What do you mean? These boys are 4 and 5, have been for an eternity, and would be 4 and 5 forever. It sure felt that way at the time. Other parents felt their children's live speed past, perhaps, because they weren't paying attention. Not a problem here.
     Boom.
     Now that the boys are 17 and 18, at the moment, and it seemed like yesterday they were 15 and 16 and tomorrow they'll be 22 and 23. I find myself smiling, oddly, at parents with young children, and starting to say, "A great age. Enjoy them while they're..." and the words strangle in my throat, and I fall silent. Shutting up is an under-appreciated art form. 
     I find saying nothing is something I've been doing more and more lately. Even though I ride the train downtown with the older boy in the morning, the trip passes in total silence. That is what he wants. I know because I asked him about it once. "The train is for reading," he said, with asperity.  O...K...
      If the first shock of parenthood is when they show up, the second is when they grow up and leave or, in my case, are about to leave, or have already left in mind if not in body, the older one anyway, and you suddenly face the grim realization that what you thought was forever was really just a phase, a period, a span, an era. Eighteen years, from "had a baby" to "off to college." 
     And then what?
     Oh sure, you always remain the parent. That's what they say. Cold comfort. Like "we'll always be friends." Since the meaning changes. You're still a parent the way you were once a Cub Scout—it's a cluster of memories without a lot of day-to-day practical significance. He's never going to call;* if he won't look up and say something on the train, he's never going to call. I am certain of that. Not once. Maybe on my death bed. "Hey dad, hear you're dying; sorry I haven't called for the past ... 27 years. Been busy. Umm, how are things? Besides dying that is."
     Life is generally a letting go anyway, but with kids you see it so clearly. I've been lucky, in that I've had practice. When he had his bar mitzvah, I realized, somehow, that this wasn't a moment for me to hold some kind of potlach to myself. It wasn't my bar mitzvah, it was his. So I didn't pick the restaurant, didn't invite pals from work, didn't write his speech—heck, I didn't even read it. It wasn't about me.  Parents try to micro-manage because they want to impress people, want it to go perfectly. I figured, if he screws it up, then that's what'll happen and he'll learn from it. I stepped back in the shadows, where I belonged.
    He nailed the whole thing, by the way, beginning to end, including playing "Hatikvah" on the viola.
    I've used that logic a lot during the college process. It's not my life, it's his. That horrified some of my older friends. If I wanted him to go to a certain school, they urged me, I should just tell him. Order him. I'm the father. I have the authority. That wasn't my approach. He has to make these decisions, and if he makes mistakes, then they''ll be his mistakes. Better to let him make his mistakes than to force him to make mine.
    You'd think this broadminded approach would score me points, but it hasn't. My wife explained why.
     "You know," she once said, the best parenting advice I've ever heard, "they're going to have to push away against us, no matter how good parents we've been."
     So I accept the silences, let some harsh things he says fly by, when I can. Stuff I might argue about I let go. "This is not the hill to die on," his elementary school principal would say. Also good advice. The world will bring him down a notch or two, it always does.. I don't have to do it.
     I think, because of that idea, I've been able to avoid the fractious arguments that sons often go through with dads. I know I did. But this isn't about me. My work is done. Take a bow, and edge off stage, at least for the moment. That's what I tell myself: you can make a little speech after he gets married, at the reception, if you like. If there is one.  
     Maybe he has a point. If he wants silence, try silence. I can do silence. I don't have to talk all the time. Shutting up, as I said, twice now, is an under-appreciated art form. I've been tempted to ask him, if he feels the same way, but I'm worried he'd say, "Why don't you try it and we'll find out?" I'd smile tightly, biting back a retort, and think: good line. I like to read on the train too, so we know where he gets that from. 

* Editor's note: In his first three years of college, he phoned every Saturday morning, like clockwork, without fail, including his semester in Paris. Last Saturday we spoke for over an hour. EGD doesn't like to make errors, but it in no way regrets this one. 

RIP Tommy, remembering the Ramones

   Just the other day I saw a kid wearing a Ramones t-shirt, a common occurrence. The band represents a certain unnamed truth, a gritty, seminal element in rock music, a quality long departed that people clutch at, trying to touch something real. To catch the murmur of an after-echo. The shirt showed their unexpected-yet-perfect presidential seal logo, which somehow perfectly fit a band that crashed out chords, shouted out garbled lyrics and that was about it.

    And I almost said to the guy wearing the shirt, "I saw the Ramones once." At the Agora, a famous bar in Cleveland, a city that once prided itself as being the soul of rock and roll. With my girlfriend Sue. A long time ago. It had to be 1980, because it was their "End of the Century" tour —I still have the t-shirt — and that's when the album came out. Thirty-four years. Ouch. Still, several things remain clear. The dark bar, packed people, a few tables pushed to the side of the stage. The way the three band members stood on stage, four feet away, it seemed, their pipe thin legs spread wide, furiously thrashing at their instruments, Joey holding the microphone stand. How they would, on cue, turn, sweep one knee up in the air. The near innocence of it. The driving force of the simplistic, one-chord party music. All of us in the room, hopping up and down.

    "Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go....I wanna be sedated..."

     That, and how, at one point Sue got up on a table ... I must have helped her up ... and danced.

     That's it, that's my contribution to the oral history of rock music fandom. It isn't a moment that resonates with much of my life, before or after, which is why I cherish it, and don't trot it out much, lest it get spoiled by overuse.. But now seems apt. It's the thought that comes to mind when I see those t-shirts, and did when the sad news came that the band's last surviving member, Tommy Ramone, the drummer, had died. Rock and roll has been of limited use lately, since you weren't supposed to get old. But get old it, and we, did. At least, being old, you have the memories of rock and youth. And a bit of wisdom, enough to hold back bragging to strangers wearing a certain band t-shirt. It's lame, which is the opposite of rock and roll. Or at least I hold back, so far. Supposedly this old thing gets worse. Tommy Ramone's real named was Tamas Erdelyi; he was born in Hungary. He was 62. 

Saturday fun activity: Where IS this?

 
     One secret of living an enjoyable city life is knowing how to carve out a little private space for yourself, such as this picnicking couple spied recently is doing. To step aside from the hubbub for a little while. They could be in any park anywhere, but are actually across the street from one of the most tourist-clogged spots in the city. Where are they, exactly? If we turned our gaze away from them, what Chicago icon would we see? 
     The winner will review one of my dwindling stock of blog posters, sent in its own sturdy mailing tube, a $21 value. But you need to post your guess below and, being correct, need to claim your prize and send in your address. People often let that aspect drop, and it's dispiriting. I've never stumped you yet, so probably won't stump you now. But really, some grass, a few trees, an enigmatic wall in the distance. Maybe this one has a shot...Good luck, thanks for playing.
     

Bookstores can't die if new ones keep being born

Nina Barrett and Jeff Garrett at their bookstore.

     A pal of mine teaches in Evanston, where we sometimes meet for lunch. At Dixie Kitchen, of course, where I get the blackened catfish, every time, since I can’t conceive of liking anything better.

     As satisfying an experience as that is, Evanston is off the beaten path, so while there, I try to be efficient by hitting the various cultural highlights — Comix Revolution sometimes, and, until last winter, Bookman’s Alley, the sprawling used bookstore actually located in an alley off Sherman. I started going there as a green NU sophomore, and went regularly for the next 34 years, part to browse the books, part to chat with its eternally amused owner, Roger Carlson, the last man I referred to as “Mister.”

     But Bookman’s Alley closed, gradually, over years, lingering in a dim twilight of boxes and clutter.  Eventually, it was shuttered around December. In mid-June, I was vectoring from Dixie Kitchen to my car, when I instinctively glanced down the alley, holding a faint flicker of hope that the store might still be there, magically. There was a blue sign that hadn’t been there before, enough to get me hoofing down the alley.

    The sign was for “Bookends & Beginnings,” an aptly named bookstore that opened in mid-June in the former Bookman’s Alley space. Inside, I founded Jeff Garrett and his wife, Nina Barrett (“the copy editor isn’t going to like that,” I muttered, noting the Garrett/Barrett dichotomy).  If you think your career choices are daft, Jeff and Nina (as I will call them, since Garrett/Barrett just sows confusion) have opened a bookstore. In 2014. Without Wi-Fi or coffee.

     “Opening a bookstore is really overwhelming,” said Nina, who was a food reporter for WBEZ and is in charge of the store’s ample cookery section.

     Jeff was head of special libraries at Northwestern for 20 years but quit to devote himself full time to the book business.

     “It’s an area where our interests meet,” he said. “We both left our day jobs to start this bookstore. We’re hand-selling each book; we’re hand-curating the entire store.”

     “Curating” makes me wince — what’s wrong with “picking books our customers might like” — but the hand-selling aspect is key to the bookstore experience. When I think of small bookstores at their finest, I think of the old Stuart Brent’s on Michigan Avenue, and bright-eyed Adam Brent pressing Alfred Lansing’s Endurance upon me so skillfully that I bought it even though I had no interest — I thought — in early 20th century Antarctic explorers. Masterpiece.

     Bookman’s Alley had a grungy, comfortable, dusty vibe, which Bookends & Beginnings sandblasted away for something brighter, freshly painted, lighter but still homey. New books, quality remaindered sale books, a large cooking section, a big children’s section in the back. They had me at “new bookstore,” but I couldn’t help but admire the in-for-a-dime, in-for-a-dollar moxie that inspired them to install a permanent puppet theater by the children’s section. 

     What kind of shows will they have?

     “It depends on who we can get running our puppet theater,” Jeff said.

     “That’s Phase II of our plans,” Nina said.

     Talk about fate! I almost volunteered on the spot to be their first artistic director: We could mount a series of Eugene O’Neill plays adapted for the puppet stage while I pursue my dream of writing Punch & Judy vignettes pegged to current events. But I figured I was already in one moribund profession and it wouldn’t do to shift to another.

     Three weeks have passed since my visit, so I thought I would circle back and see, nearly a month in, how the couple are doing? Sorry yet? Divorce on the horizon?

     “We’re doing great,” Jeff said. “The art fair weekend was just spectacular. I think in a year we’ll still be here.”

     And still married?

     “Absolutely.”

     It’s encouraging to see people drop established careers and make a change. When it comes to professions, we have a sad tendency to slavishly follow the general trends. If the field of law is crowded, we urge people not to be lawyers. If there’s a shortage of doctors, great, then go to medical school. 

     We wouldn’t do that in other aspects of life — if a friend said he was marrying a blonde, you wouldn’t say, no, marry a brunette, studies show they get divorced less.

     The lone factor in choosing a career should be: Are you happy doing it? Then you can do the hard work needed to succeed, and if you don’t, hey, you’re still doing what you love. The message behind someone opening a bookstore in Evanston is not only that there’s a new bookstore in Evanston, but it’s never too late to chase your dreams. 

"Free free Palestine"

    "Free free Palestine," chanted hundreds, if not thousands of protesters marching along Wacker Drive Wednesday night. "Free free Palestine."
     They did not, significantly, demand that Gaza and the West Bank be freed from Israeli control. No Palestinian leadership—to the degree that there is any—seems to be calling for that. Or has ever called for that, to my knowledge. No, what they would like is the entire country under their control, not that it ever was, but they did live there, or at least their parents or grandparents did, once upon a time. 
     But that was in 1947. And it has been 47 years since Israel, getting a jump on the latest Arab attempt to destroy it, instead destroyed the Egyptian air force and seized the Sinai, the Golan Heights, and the West Bank. The Sinai was given back to Egypt in return for a sort of peace, but the Gaza Strip was kept along with the West Bank and Jerusalem.
     If they had pushed the Palestinians off the land then, by force, the world would have forgiven them, to the degree it can ever forgive Jews, long ago. By 1992, 47 years after the end of World War II, Germany was everybody's pal, Europe's most upright citizen, and all was forgotten. But that wasn't Israel's style, and the middle road, neither conquering the land nor abandoning it, created an ever-growing population of permanent victims, four million and counting. 
     Which is enough history to delve into, because while history usually helps in the understanding of current events, in the case of the Israeli/Palestinian stand-off, history is of limited use. No one can even agree what happened, never mind what should happen. The Palestinians see a history where their nation is seized from under their noses by crafty Eastern European Jews, and Israel sees a rebarbative people who bat away chances for peace time and time again.
     Neither can be deemed correct. What I used to ask was: What happens now? Assume, for argument's sake, that history actually occurred, in some form, leaving us to the present day. Where do we go from here?
     But even that question is naive. The answer, plainly, is nothing. Nothing happens. Or, rather, more of the same. They're going nowhere.
     None of the signs demanded union with Egypt or Jordan, which also border the Gaza and the West Bank. Somehow, this isn't their problem. You remember when Egypt and Jordan were demanding the return of those territories? Neither do I.
     Nor did the protesters demand an independent country. They decry "War on Gaza," which began, most recently, after weeks of missile attacks deep into Israel, and display their grievance to the world, in the hopes that the world buys it, which of course it does. Hating Jews is always in fashion, and there were plenty of pale, black-clad young kids, their faces covered, Sandinista-style, so that the government doesn't come get them personally, for striking their blow on the world stage, marching as part of their youthful Occupy Chicago lark. To them, oppression of the Palestinians, if that is the proper phrase, is the only wrong on the globe, except of course for life here with mom and dad.
     One of the keys to approaching the problem, in my eyes, is to remember that the world hated the Jews before. Before there was an Israel, and before there was a single Palestinian refugee. The Germans did not believe that Jews who had lived for centuries in Germany belonged there either. So the Palestinian complaints have to be given a bit of context. If Palestine was up for grabs in 1947, when the British buggered out, and the Palestinian forefathers wanted it so badly, you have to ask why they didn't take it themselves, why they let a ragtag mob of Polish refugees—in their estimation—take control of their land. The Palestinian national narrative presumes an element of bungling on their own part.
    That said, the four million Palestinians are real, and live in their limbo, self-imposed though it may be. Myself, I'd prefer Israel pulled out and declared them a state, unilaterally, at least once. They've taken steps in that direction, but they need to do it 100 percent, to illustrate the Day After Problem, which is: they pull out, the Palestinians start attacking them, because that's what they do, and they have to go back in and stop it.  That seemed where they were going, with the wall, but Israel has its own growing population of fire-eyed zealots, the folks who kidnapped a Palestinian teen recently and burned him alive, in retaliation for the three Israeli teens who were murdered last month. It was a depraved act, which made the situation worse. Though there is something almost anesthetic about the far right Israeli settlers and Ultra-Orthodox black hats. By rendering  Israel increasingly alien to its American supporters, it allows for a certain distance. Many American Jews increasingly regard Israel with a squint and a muttered, "This is not the place I loved, not anymore."
    But we fight that. Being Jewish, I support the Jewish state, even though it becomes more and more unpalatable with each passing year, as its own Jewish fanatics deform the country's modern values. If the present state of Muslim society can be explained by a revenge culture, then Israel has allowed itself to be pulled into it. Now the Palestinians are facing an enemy more like themselves. "When fighting monsters," as Nietschze said, "be careful not become a monster." Israel should have listened.
    Still, I can't pretend there is a false equivalence. Even were I not Jewish, one is a friend to the United States and an advocate of peace and democracy of some kind. The other claims to be oppressed but shows no interest in working to end that oppression, not an end that doesn't involve being elevated to a status that they never enjoyed and never can enjoy. In 1947, Britain controlled Palestine, then the Jews took over. The Palestinian Arabs, as they were called, had a chance for their own land, and batted it away, losing some land in a vain grab for it all.
    That has been their strategy this entire time, to their misfortune, and Israel's, and the world's. No amount of protest will change that. They're sticking with it, tossing down their losing hand, again and again, reshuffling the cards in their hand and ending up, again, with nothing. Only more time lost, and still more suffering. It hardly merits thinking rationally about by third parties because rational thought is such a trivial factor in all this passion and hatred and revenge and bloodlust. The end is nowhere in sight. I'm not sure there's much value in even paying attention to it anymore.

In 2011, I had lunch with Oril Gil, then the consul general in Chicago, to talk about the Israeli strategy toward the Palestinians. It was not encouraging. 

Attack of the Giant Cupcakes Repelled!

 

     You should never celebrate when any business goes under. Money lost, people out of work, dreams dashed.
     Yet, score one for the little guy.
     It will be five years ago, this September, that mother daughter team of Holly Sjo and Samantha Wood opened up The Cupcake Counter, a tiny, 290-square foot store wedged between a parking garage and a Quinta Inn on Madison Street.
     And a year later, New York giant Crumbs opened up directly across Franklin Street.
     In 2011, I compared the two this way:
     “Cupcake Counter cupcakes weigh about 2 ounces and look exactly like the cupcakes your mother would bake and bring to your first-grade classroom in a tinfoil-lined box to celebrate your birthday. The icing can be spare—sometimes it doesn’t even cover the cupcake top, but leaves a gap of bare cake rimming the crinkly paper wrapping. Decoration might be a single tiny red candy heart, set directly in the center. I would describe Cupcake Counter cupcakes as simple, classic cupcakes with a certain quiet dignity; solemn cupcakes, maybe even a little sorrowful; cupcakes as Wayne Thiebaud would paint them. Sometimes only a handful are on display.”
     Meanwhile:
              "Across the street at Crumbs is a different story...The display case is jammed with cupcakes, ranging from 1-ounce minis to the 'Colossal Crumb' intended to feed eight people. The ‘signature’ cupcakes are 7-ounce, 500-calorie behemoths the size and shape of grapefruits, domed high with icing, studded with candy, drenched in chocolate, crusted with sprinkles. Circus-like cupcakes. Mardi Gras cupcakes.”
     The assumption of course was that the big chain would drive the tiny storefront out of business. That’s how life works. Sometimes. But just as mice outlasted mammoths and the Book Bin in Northbrook saw Borders come and go, so Crumbs shut down while the The Cupcake Counter bakes on.
     This week Crumbs announced it is closing its 65 stores in 12 states, including two in Chicago, on Madison Street and in Water Tower Place. Its stock has been delisted from the stock exchange.
     What happened? Though one pastry chef I talked to called Crumbs, off the record, "shockingly bad," in the taste test I conducted with my family three years ago, we decided Crumbs was as good as The Cupcake Counter, while offering 250 percent more cupcake at a 25 percent greater price.
     They were huge.
     "Crumbs was big," said Sarah Levy, a dessert maven who had boutique bakeries around Chicago and now is entering the airport food concession business through her S. Levy Foods. "Not a nice little indulgence. There's guilt associated with eating such a large cupcake."
     She speculated that the out-of-town aspect might be a factor. "Chicago likes to support local business, so maybe the fact that they were this big chain ..." but then she observed that Sprinkles, based in California, still has "lines out the door."
     Does this mean the cupcake craze is over?
     "I hope the cupcake craze is over," Levy said. "In a way, I never fully understood it. I think there's still a ton of people who absolutely love cupcakes. The cupcake craze is not dead, but maybe it's slowing down. Maybe doughnuts have taken over. The doughnut eaters are taking away from the cupcake eaters."
     And then she went on to rhapsodize the Doughnut Vault. She certainly has a point.
     The only downside, except for those who worked for, invested in or genuinely liked Crumbs, is for the mother-daughter duo who owned The Cupcake Counter. Facing family obligations, they sold three years ago to Marlene Kritlow, who is not at all puzzled as to why Crumbs went belly up.
     "It makes a difference when you bake fresh," said the lifelong Chicagoan, who grew up in Uptown and "had the itch" to bake. "I think people can tell the difference."
     She said she has been watching Crumbs close locations around Chicago for a year.
     "Their quality was different," she said, noting Crumbs cupcakes were baked off-site and not always that day. "My customers would go, then they would come back."
     She watches expenses closely, and her store is always busy. "There's no downtime," she said. "We're happy, a great location."
     Does she see the cupcake craze fading?
     "No, cupcakes are never going out of style," Kritlow said. "Some of these franchises might open and close, there will always be trends. But people have always wanted and loved cupcakes. It's a portion, like an individual little present to the person. That never goes out of style."

Papa is a mean old waffle

     "Waffle," I said, one morning at breakfast a couple weeks ago, as our hostess passed around these delicately browned beauties. "Now there's an interesting word. I wonder where it's from?"
     Out came the smart phones, several at the same time, like Western gunslingers on the draw — I've noticed that people are rapidly losing whatever inhibitions they may have once had about consulting their phones on a moment's notice, even at meals, checking them when a question arises and often when one doesn't. I imagine someday soon it'll be rare to ever put them away.
    "It sounds Dutch," I said quickly, guessing, trying to lay out a claim before technology revealed the truth. Like placing a small wager: I'll put $2 on the Netherlands.
    Up popped the e-definition: "a crisp cake of batter baked in a waffle iron" and this etymology, dating to 1744: "Dutch wafel."
    Bingo!
    But there was more.
    As a verb, waffle means "to fail to make up one's mind" (not how I would define it. I would say it is closer to "vacillate, waver between two different courses of action.") 
     But the second definition led me to play one of my favorite etymological games: connect the meanings. Is there a link between "waffle" the foodstuff and "waffle" the politician's friend? And which came first?
     The Oxford English Dictionary defines waffle as "a kind of batter-cake, baked in a waffle-iron, and eaten hot with butter or molasses" (do the Brits not use maple syrup? Poor blighters) and traces "waffle" to "wafer"—obvious, though I had never considered it before. A footnote cites the source of wafer as the Teutonic, wabe which, to this day, means "honeycomb" in German. The Shorter Oxford adds a wonderful bit of US slang, "waffle stomper" for a boot with a ridged sole. 
     My 1978 full OED only offers waffle as a verb meaning "to yelp" but nothing about going back and forth. The 1993 New Shorter OED elaborates "of a dog, yap, yelp"  then pushes on to "waver, vacillate, equivocate," which makes me think it's a fairly recent usage. The OED traces waffle the verb to the Scottish, "waff," which means flap and flutter in the wind, so the path to waffling as indecision is obvious. The Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English ponders the connection, defining waffle as an aircraft term, "to be out of control" and "to fly in a damaged condition and/or uncertainty," dating it to the Royal Air Force around 1925 and wondering "Hence (?) to dither."
     Two different routes then, the breakfast treat arriving through the Netherlands, tracing back to the honey-loving Teutons (though it should be noted the French "gaufre," sounds awfully similar, and dates to the 12th century) while the personality flaw goes back through Scotland, evoking the fluttering sound of pennants. ("Waffle" and "wave" share the same heritage).
    Though both terms disappear quite quickly—no "waffle" in either Noah Webster's 1828 American Dictionary or Samuel Johnson's great 1755 Dictionary.  So no common ancestor for both breakfast treat and rhetorical blunder, though allowing a similar expression to stand-in, I found both crisp batter cake and inconsistency mingling in a single passage in the Second Act of Shakespeare's Henry V, written about 1599: "Trust none;" Pistol tells his wife. "For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes."
    Ain't that the truth? The Riverside Shakespeare interprets "wafer-cakes" as "fragile" as in easily-broken, but that's very close in meaning to wavering.
       There are a few obscure definitions worth noting. The Dictionary of American Slang defines "waffle" first as "a difficult or dangerous task" and then moves on to include "A disliked person, esp. an old person with wrinkled skin" and offers this 1934 gem from Damon Runyon: "[her] papa is a mean old waffle," noting that the usage was "never common." 
    Well, maybe it should be common. It's never too late. Some words slumber until needed. A "cursor" in my OED is defined as "a part of a mathematical, astronomical, or surveying instrument, which slides backwards and forwards." Where it stayed, esoterically—chiefly to describe the clear plastic sleeve on a slide rule—until about 30 years ago, when we all started using flashing electronic cursors every day. So as the Baby Boom proceeds into its senescence, I have a feeling we're going to be encountering a lot of mean old waffles, and will need a solid, unfamiliar, mildly-derogatory, slightly-humorous term to describe them.