Past Participle

You can read my post here.

Riding Ferris Wheels With Men

Sunset with Ferris Wheel in Distance

I rode a ferris wheel with the man I loved in the parking lot of a strip mall somewhere in Nashville, Tennessee.  It was the last century. It was the last millennium. The air was still dense with humidity even after the sun sank,  a pale disc that had hung baleful in a colorless sky for months. The Chinese restaurant where we ate beforehand was dark and cold. We ordered hot and sour soup and shredded garlic pork that came with rice. We read our fortunes. Men trip not on mountains, they trip on molehills. I know I threw my head back later and laughed into the sky, my hair damp on my neck, drops of sweat in the small of my back, our fingers entwined, legs dangling over the parking lot far below. I couldn't bear to look down. The bench creaked when we shifted. He always made me laugh. Did we marry later that summer? Did I betray him less than two years later?

That dizzy dancing way you feel.


Men watch football and they watch baseball. They watch basketball. When they aren't in the kitchen, men watch cars going round hairpin bends in foreign countries. The sisters of men watch football, too, and they watch basketball and crack nuts in their new teeth, crunch like the bodies on the screens. The girlfriends of men watch football in their team's jerseys, screaming at home on the couch or in sports bars, lunging toward screens, so many screams. I'm a girlfriend of a man who watches football and who watches basketball, but I don't watch. I can't bear to watch.


I was delighted to find myself swept upwards and downwards at such speed. But the wheel turned round so rapidly that a Greek who was sitting near me couldn’t bear it any longer, and shouted out “Soni! Soni!” (enough! enough!)

Pietro Della Valle, a Roman traveller visiting Constantinople during a Ramadan festival in 1615, riding what was known as a "pleasure wheel"

Basketball Agita and a Punch to the Gut

So ya'll know that I am the world's least able athlete, have an antipathy toward football that rivals one toward Drumpf and am otherwise bored out of my mind by sports with two exceptions: when my sons play anything, I'm into it and I am a Tar Heel basketball lover of the nth degree.

So, yeah. Last night. I have a friend who can't watch the Heels play anymore because he's afraid he'll have a heart attack. I felt some serious agita last night, lying on my bed with Henry sprawled next to me and the laptop open to the final NCAA championship game. Oliver is on the east coast with my parents, but when Marcus Paige shot that 3-pointer to tie the game, I called him and before I could scream in exultation, The Big O screamed back at me that VILLANOVA WON, MOM! VILLANOVA WON! And Henry and I looked back down on the little screen which evidently was a second or two behind the regular broadcast and watched Villanova make that final shot and wow. Just wow. Or should I say holy shit. And then I just expired, as did Henry.

Anywho.

On another note, I was up most of the night with Sophie. We're going through another weird period, and I'm just barely keeping it together. So many of you help me to keep it together, and I am continually reminded of the grace that lives in this world. I'm frustrated and pained at what's going on -- not just in my literal world but in the world at large. Being able to channel that frustration and anguish into writing keeps me quite literally alive, and my post over at marijuana.com today was like a reverse sucker punch.  Please visit it, give it some love and share it if you feel like it. Here's the link:

The Literal Beating Heart

Lacrosse and Weekend Recap

Henry and I left Friday afternoon for Palm Springs where he played about seven thousand games of lacrosse while I watched.

Here are a couple of good action shots. Henry is the one on the far left at the edge of the photo, number 15.

Here's another one:

Here's me, watching the field. I have a really shitty sports-mom chair that is sort of broken, and because it was Palm Springs, and the sun was shining mercilessly at times, I rigged my sweater as a sun shield and hid out.

Normally, I wouldn't post such an alarmingly close photo of myself, but I sort of like the weirdness of the colors -- my upper lip has entirely disappeared into what appears to be lily-white skin (that I've never had), there's an enormous line running down the center of my forehead (that I've had for a short time, but it appears to have lengthened and deepened), and some horrifying crepey substance below my neck which I swear to you is NOT my skin. All moles (beauty marks) and errant eyebrow hairs are original. Posting this here is a rather vain attempt to purge myself of vanity. Humor me.

I also got to do my favorite thing which is to sleep in a hotel bed made up with white linens. I threw myself down onto this bed on both nights we stayed in the hotel, eventually making my way under the duvet with my little chapter of War and Peace (yes, I'm still going strong with a chapter a day, are you?) and then a few pages of Magda Szabo's The Door (my Books & Bakes selection for January) before literally crashing around 9:15. Henry, I believe, watched television from his own bed and claimed that I snored. Good thing he's so handsome. Here he is taping his lacrosse stick.

Here's a photo that I took at sunrise from the balcony of our hotel room, where I most certainly did not snore:

In all seriousness, being the parent to a teenaged boy is really the best, especially when your son is nearly always charming and patient, drives well on southern California freeways and never complains. All of the superlatives more than make up for having to charade as a sports mom which means yelling out every now and then in excitement, wincing when said teenager goes sprawling into the ground, tolerating the Screaming Dads and every now and then throwing in a comment or observation about the game which appears out of my mouth like a sort of cartoon bubble. Since I barely know any of the other parents on the team (there are actually some really great ones this time around), I imagine they think I know what I'm talking about, but I can assure you, Reader, I absolutely do not know what I'm talking about when I talk about lacrosse.

What happened up there is that Henry came running toward me -- I mean, the player with the ball -- and I was able to take that amazing action shot. Two seconds later, he lay sprawled on the ground, and good lacrosse mom that I am, I barely winced and certainly didn't gasp and might have even yelled at the ref, but I can't remember.

Did I say anything about living in southern California and how fantastic it is? This venue was just a two hour drive from us -- desert and blue skies and snow-capped mountains ringing the fields. Whoa. Right?

Blue Heaven, LA-Style, With A Series of Admissions

What was blue heaven to me, back in the day, was my years as a Tar Heel at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Blue heaven to Oliver, though, is Dodger Stadium. I went with him to a game tonight and admit that I had a great time. I used the hashtag motheroftheyearwhohatessports when I posted some pictures from the game. Oliver and Henry received a whole series of tickets from Uncle Tony last Christmas, all in the outfield section where there's an All You Can Eat theme.


Lila Downs sang the National Anthem, and I will admit to shedding tears.


I ate a Dodger dog with ketchup, spicy mustard and sweet relish. Although I'll maintain that they look nasty, I'll admit that they taste damn good.

I ate some tortilla chips and nacho cheese. I admit that I like this disgusting fake food.

I shared an ice-cream cookie sandwich with Oliver that cost $4,987,632 and was thankfully not in the all you can eat category. I admit that I really didn't need to eat it.

I drank a Diet Coke.

I did not drink beer although it looked tasty despite the plastic cups that I, admittedly, drank too much out of back in my blue heaven and thus feel a gentle snobbery toward --

The guy at the end of our row kept standing up and shouting insults at the opposing team's outfielder. When I expressed dismay, Oliver reassured me that they are "trained" to deal with the insults, that they don't care about it, and that they are making millions of dollars to stand out there so I shouldn't feel sorry for them. I admit that he had a point, so I texted with my friend Lisa a bit as a distraction.

One of the rookies is a guy that looked pretty darn cute, and when I asked Oliver who it was and said how cute he was, Oliver told me that he was twenty years old and that I was weird. Whatevs, as the youngsters say. I admit to a boy crush.

I have to wear my glasses for another ten days because I have some sort of inflammation under my eyelids. I can't believe that I wasn't picked to appear on the GLAM CAM, although the prospect of appearing on those giant cameras that hang in the LA skyline rivals the archetypal nightmare of walking down your middle school hallway nude. I admit to my vanity, particularly when it comes to glasses.

Peace, Anonymous

The positive thing about getting Anonymous comments that are -- let's say -- critical, is that they inspire some thought for me beyond caregiving and dildos and the weird Swiftian farce that is unfolding at Sony. Yesterday, a reader left a comment on my Oceanside Hustle post, suggesting in that ever so gentle tone of the righteously passive-aggressive that I should stop complaining about lacrosse and, rather, begin reveling in the blessing of having a son who can participate in sports.

Sigh.


Reader, I felt the ping of insult and the pang of hurt. I might have felt the teensiest bit righteous, myself. I left a quick and flippant lighten up reply, but I also recognized that queasy you are way too exposed kind of feeling, and then I did a little navel-gazing and figured the reason why I felt these pings and pangs is because there is always a modicum of truth to every bit of criticism that hurts us. I do complain a lot on a moon, worn as if it had been a shell, and I'm hard-pressed to feel grateful for anything on some days. I think a lot of bloggers would agree that complaining is easy to do and can be almost enjoyable, particularly if it's couched in humor or sarcasm. At risk of sounding defensive, my complaints about the trivial stuff in my life (the constant sports watching being the main one) are surely balanced by the obnoxious number of posts where I stand in awe of the two wildly accomplished, beautiful sons that grace my life and the profound and graceful presence of my amazing daughter, all three of whom are such individuals that I can't take any credit for their being other than the literal bones, tissue and flesh with which they're knit from my own and their father's bodies.

But maybe I can do better.

My gratitude for this good fortune overflows.  I'm also alive and dancing on this tired earth as fast and as best as I can.

Peace Anonymous. Now go get yourself a stiff drink and lighten up.

On being "legit"

I have absolutely never been any good in any sport except, strangely and inexplicably, bowling. I am a damn good bowler. I took Oliver and his friend bowling this afternoon, tied those lovely size nines on and started with a spare. Ya'll, I haven't bowled in probably five years. I think the last time might have been at Henry's birthday party that I know I chronicled on this blog. I'm too lazy to find the link. But my ever-growing Italian peasant arms are strong as hell even if it felt as if my thumb got some nerve damage.

I got a couple strikes and spares, one gutter ball and miscellaneous. And I beat both of those teenage boys. Afterward, when I treated the losers to lunch, I was mocked during a brilliant discussion about french fries for never using the right phrase when ordering a certain kind from In N Out (I'll admit here that I purposely use monster fries instead of animal-style fries just to get their teenager goats. Don't tell.). I sighed and said, Yeah, I guess I'm just a big uncool dork. Oliver's friend told me so is my mom (his mother is a beautiful, very funky, very brilliant and very accomplished artist with multiple degrees from Ivy League universities and about as removed from uncool dork as I am from world's greatest and leanest female athlete), but later they said that I was legit as far as bowling goes.
Here's the proof:

I bet with a little practice I could join a league and start traveling. This might be my ticket out. What do you think The Teenagers would think of me, then?

Homelessness, Racism, the Sports-Industrial Complex, and Dyslexia

Skid Row, Los Angeles

I've mentioned it before, but my son Oliver has a pretty severe case of dyslexia and associated learning difficulties. While the few months we've been homeschooling have done wonders for his self-esteem, he continues to struggle with his feelings for the disorder, and while the prevailing one is shame (and very common in dyslexics), he is also impatient with it and at best, angry, as opposed to accepting. Oliver is with me much of the time as I traverse this great and diverse city, and one of our favorite sights is in the heart of Hollywood, right at the intersection of Hollywood Blvd and Highland. If we're lucky enough to catch a red light, we look at the opposite corner to see the same elderly man holding up a cardboard sign that says, FUCK YOU. I don't know why this makes us laugh -- perhaps it's the audaciousness of it, mixed as it is among the crowds of tourists, the hucksters dressed as superheroes, the equally elderly man perched on top of a U.S. mailbox with the sign YOU'RE GOING TO HELL, JESUS SAVES (who I've always thought was incredibly hopeful and ambitious, given the location).  Yesterday, we were pulling out of a Chick-Fil-A (I know, we're not supposed to support a homophobic organization, but this is the Hollywood Chick-Fil-A), when we noticed a guy sitting on the curb across the street with his homemade sign that read I WOULD BE ALERT BUT I'M HOMELESS AND HUNGRY. I HAVE MORALS AND HERPES. Oh good Lord, I thought, steeling myself for Oliver's questions. Sure enough, he asked me what it all meant, so I told him. He thought for a few seconds and then said, Well, anyone who can spell those words is probably fine. That made me laugh out loud and then think in my mind about just how hard it is for Oliver to be dyslexic -- so hard that a man with apparently no possessions other than a dirty, weird sign would seem, to Oliver, to be in a better position. Then I worried that Oliver might need a little more perspective, so I lectured a bit, as I am wont, on compassion and perspective, and he tolerated it. Later on in the day, when I heard for the gazillionth time about the asshole basketball team owner and his sordid mistress and the outcome of his racist conversation being his swift dismissal and ban from the NBA, I wondered why some wrongs get such quick and relatively easy responses from the Powers That Be. Privacy issues aside, and trust me, I don't give a flying foo-foo about sports in general, much less the business of sports, what about that particular story warranted the enormous outcry that something like the growing number of homeless people living on our streets doesn't -- or children being denied medication like medical marijuana -- or women not making the same amount of money as men in similar jobs -- or people getting laid off when the CEOs of their companies pull in tens of millions of dollars in salary alone? Or, let's face it -- the growing number of citizens here who live in poverty alongside people who buy and drive $150,000 cars, or send their children to elementary schools that cost $40,000 a year?

Is it all relative?

One of my Facebook acquaintances (let's face it, not all of our Facebook peeps are friends) posted something about how awful it is that Obama had something to say about that basketball owner but, so far, hasn't said anything about removing marijuana from the Schedule 1 class of drugs. He was pretty angry about that as were most of his "friends," and if it weren't for the many racist comments on that string (not from him), I would have agreed with his frustration. I'm not a moral relativist and actually hate the expression it's all relative, but I have to wonder what, exactly, drives people other than money. I'm curious why, exactly, this particular instance got this particular enormous response. I guess it's a good thing, but it does make me wonder. Oliver's anguish over dyslexia seems to trump the homelessness of that man in his mind. Obama not taking a stand on medical marijuana trumps his taking a stand against racism for some. Freely using the word retarded which basically dehumanizes and denigrates millions of people is not nearly as bad, apparently, as denigrating millions of black people.

I don't know what to think, but I'm thinking. And it makes me think the guy with the FUCK YOU sign might have the answer.

On Becoming a Lacrosse Mother

Henry is Number 10

My baseball Saturdays have now officially become lacrosse Saturdays.

I watched Henry play two games of lacrosse today in two different locations for a total of three hours game time, 2 hours of pre-game warm-up and another hour of driving. The first game was a high school game, and Reader, it was intense. Henry's team played a high school that is known for its football team (I believe one of the best in the nation?), and a few of the lacrosse players (who also play football) had tattoos. I'm not sure what strange karma I'm acting out by being the decidedly unathletic and disinterested mother to a kid who at one point nearly knocked heads with another over something illegal or another, but I acted nonchalant while I died inside. A fellow parent whom I vaguely remember from flag football days, at least six years ago (when the boys had neither hair on their legs nor tattoos),  as a screaming type of coach-father, nodded at the posturing of the two boys, and when I asked him what the problem was, he said, Testosterone. Good for Henry. I never know what the hell is going on on the field, so I nodded my head,  but in my mind they were roosters with their chests puffed up. Don't worry, though, Reader. I refrained from using my words, at least those words that I am quite skilled at using, and I shed all metaphors and stood up occasionally to shout strong and admonitory verbs. Karma is a bitch.

At the second game, I believe my son was actually thrown out of the game toward the end for yelling something or other at the ref, but how would I know what the true story was as I was finishing another chapter of The Luminaries in my car.

Parenting and Summer Reading

So, I've got two kids in high school and one to go. Oliver will be entering the seventh grade after Labor Day, and he's the one who despises school, mainly because he has some learning disabilities and up until very recently, we didn't really have a handle on those. Conversations this summer around summer reading requirements have generally been the type where if you suggested that someone should perhaps start reading their required book and if you happened to be lighting a candle at the same time to mask the smell of another child's diaper, the whole house would have gone up in flames.

Anywho.

Last night I made a gentle suggestion that perhaps it was time for someone to start reading their required book (and to be fair, the first was actually finally finished three weeks ago!). The suggestion hung there in the dry and combustible air. Mom, I really hate basketball, and it's a book about basketball, he said fairly rationally from his perch on a stool in the kitchen. I confidently spooned beans into a bowl  for Sophie's dinner. I love basketball, actually, (because I went to the world's greatest basketball university which is another topic altogether) which is saying a lot given that I am utterly not into sports, completely nonathletic and verge on the irrational in my hatred of football. Well, it's not really about the sport, I said, it's about a boy who plays basketball, but it's really more about him. Someone frowned and squirmed on his chair. I scattered chicken on top of the beans and sprinkled cheese on top of that. Hey, I've got an idea, I said, as I put the bean concoction in the microwave. If you finish this book without grumping around and resisting it, I'll buy us two tickets to a Lakers or Clippers game. Someone stopped squirming and looked interested. How about the Dodgers instead? he asked.

Reader, if you're a young parent, don't let anyone tell you that bribes shouldn't be used in parenting. Consider yourself skilled if you get your obstreperous, extremely volatile offspring to agree to read about basketball (your favorite sport) in return for you having to sit through baseball (a sport that bores you to tears). Consider yourself a good enough mother.

Plus, your house doesn't go up in flames.

Kicking off from center field and tulips

 At 7:30 am, I was doing this:

I was watching him:

At 10:00 am, I bought these as a sort of reward and incentive to get through the rest of the day:

At noon, I was doing this:

(disclosure: the photo is taken from another game earlier in the season, but you get the gist)

Some of you might remember when I described my Italian grandmother, in her very old age, walking around the house in her black dress muttering Pray that I die, Pray that I die. Well, I'm going to confess that the prospect of another basketball game contingent upon that one, provoked a similar response in me. Pray that they lose. Pray that they lose. If anyone is reading this who happens to be on our team, please forgive me. My prayer was answered, and they lost. Basketball season is officially over.

At 2:20 pm, I was watching him:

Henry broke a long batting slump, so bad that he had been plunged into the depths of despondency and failure just two days ago. He hit a DOUBLE and a TRIPLE. I screamed myself hoarse.

At 4:00 pm I'm watching this:



I just remarked on Facebook that the trouble with Facebook is that superlatives have become cliche, and there's just no way to properly describe Van Morrison in this video without using one.

Jock Talk, Part 3,459,213

Henry's lacrosse season is over, and Oliver's basketball nearly so, but baseball season has begun, and yesterday I went shopping for gear with Oliver. Both boys are catchers and require the requisite baseball gear and then about a million dollars worth of catcher protection crap. Henry and I had gone last week, but I'd forgotten to purchase a few things for him, so when we got home, Oliver quickly separated his stuff from Henry's. He held up two identical boxes that housed jock straps, one an adult small and the other an adult medium. They were both priced $5.99.

If one is bigger than the other, why do they both cost the same? Oliver asked.

Well, it's probably only a bit more material, I said.

That's stupid, Oliver said.

Well, maybe they're ripping you off for the small one, I suggested, and was interrupted.

Yeah, and maybe you're getting a good deal if you've got a big _______.

Reader, I'll let you fill in that blank but know that I burst out laughing with Oliver when he said it.

Interception

Yes, he caught it and ran. That's the Big O, playing flag football on a golden evening in Los Angeles. I've said it before, but despite my own complete and utter lack of expertise in anything athletic (and interest, I'd add), I've grown and raised two athletes, boys who love to talk and play sports and who get their ya-yas out on the field. And I'll add that it doesn't inspire me to be good at anything athletic, either. I'm happy sitting in one of those chairs that fold up like an umbrella, my face turned toward the sun, grateful for their health and exuberance and abilities.

How I respond when people tell me it must be romantic being married to a Chef, and why I sort of believe in karma

A typical Saturday involves the careful calibration of two very sporty boys' sports schedules. Right now, we're in the middle of the BIG CROSSOVER -- when pre-season baseball begins and lacrosse is still going on. The Husband, The Chef, is NEVER around on Saturdays. In fact, he's never around on any day, bless his heart, (although I am grateful for how hard he works for our family).

I literally had to map out my day last night. I challenge you to figure out the glitches and report back. As for karma, remember that I had absolutely no interest in any sports at any period of my life (well, maybe for Tar Heel basketball) and I have not one but two boys who love them, all of them.

Start Destination: HOME (mid-Wilshire area)
Driver/Chauffeur: Myself

Here I am, waiting for the boys to get in the car

Destination #1: Cheviot Hills (west Los Angeles), 25 minutes away on surface streets
Event: Pre-baseball season baseball game
Time: 11:00 am
Time to be there as per coach: 10:15 am
Child involved: Henry (Oliver will have to come along because of Destination 3, see below)
Who Watches: Myself and Oliver


Destination #2: Mar Vista (even further west LA)
Event: Final Lacrosse Game (unless they win and then there's more next week)
Time: 1:00 pm
Time to be there as per coach: 12:15 pm
Child involved: Henry (will have to leave baseball game early and change from baseball uniform to lacrosse uniform in car. Oliver is still in tow)
Who watches: Myself and Oliver, until we have to leave for Destination 3 which is also Destination 1




Destination #3 (or #1): Back to Cheviot Hills 
Event: Final Lacrosse Game (unless they win, and then there's more next week)
Time: 3:00 pm
Time to be there as per coach: 2:15 pm
Child involved: Oliver (Henry will still be playing his lacrosse game at Mar Vista, above)
Who watches: Myself, until I have to leave for Destination 4


Destination #4 (or #2): Back to Mar Vista
Event: Lacrosse Game
Time: who knows?***
Child involved: Henry


***Currently trying to figure out whether Henry's game will finish in time for me to bring Oliver to his game. If not, will I have to leave Oliver's game and drive back to Mar Vista and then back to Cheviot? 


Such are the musings and machinations of a literary mind.

So here's what I think about football.

A few of you asked and a few of you should probably not read any further because here's where I expound upon football and why I've always hated it and why the recent Penn State atrocity gives one a modicum of license to tell it like it is, at least if you're me. Plus, I have the urge to just tell it like it is, for me. The for me is purposeful, so don't get your panties in a bunch (is that the expression) or go thinking I'm all self-righteous and pretentious (although I can be).

It's what I think. And it's going to be a helluva rant.

I am repulsed by football and always have been except for a brief shining moment when my much-beloved high school boyfriend (hey, Clarke) played it, and the shining moment was not the football-playing but the dates afterward with the boy I loved. I suffered through a few Atlanta Falcons games with my family and many University of North Carolina alcohol-fueled end-zone sitting in the boiling autumn sun with more dates games, but The First husband hated the game as much as I did and The Current Husband is Swiss and thinks it's stupider than anything else in America, so there you go. I've had a history of hating football, and it hasn't stopped yet.

My boys periodically pester me about playing it, and I'm not budging. I tell them NO because of my perhaps irrational fear of head injuries. I tell them that I'm just not up for the risk and having not one but two kids with neurological problems. I know that some of you might think this insane. I also tell them that I think football is a stupid spectacle, and that would include the Super Bowl and the insane amounts of money spent and consumed. Honestly? The Super Bowl, to me, is equal in barbarity to the Roman gladiator games of old. The commercials and all the hoopla about them just add to the sickening disgust. (I told you this was a rant).

Here's what else. I think the Penn State horror show is emblematic of American culture in this, the third millenium where every single thing is a commodity, to be bought or sold or valued in economic terms. I've spoken about this ad nauseum as it pertains to people with disabilities. Those of us in those particular trenches, in fact, anyone who has any kind of healthcare issue, must frame our fight in economic terms to soften the blows, to gently influence, to persuade, to get anything. One must make the case that it costs less to help a family to take care of their child or elderly parent at home than to place him in an institution. Those who oppose the death penalty often say it costs more to put someone on death row than to give them life in jail. Money speaks and it speaks incredibly loudly. There was money to be made when American troops were sent to Iraq ten years ago. I'll only mention the commodification of healthcare -- the industry of depression -- treating patients as consumers, etc. etc. etc.

Etc.

Those heinous acts at Penn State happened because one perverse man with a sick, sick mind, was protected by those in power because of the economic repercussions of the scandal. Sure, there's a bit of social scandal thrown in there -- the cult of personality and sports, the protection of one's job, one's reputation -- but I think of football as an industry and the wheels must be kept greased, the benefactors satisfied, the wins bought, the show must go on.

You can protest all you like about the entertainment factor of football, what a great game it is, how these boys have worked hard their whole lives to participate, and that might have been true at some point, but it's not true today -- in either college or pro ball. It's about the money, and the monster that lured numerous boys into the hallowed locker rooms of football and then proceeded to rape them was supported by the sick apparatus of American sports. I'd throw in all college and pro sports, actually, and while I don't despise baseball or basketball, like I do football, I hate the whole industry of sports in general. The spectacle of thousands of people protesting and supporting the coach of that team was another emblem of our culture gone awry. For a minute, I thought that all those guys in charge should have just killed themselves -- sort of like the Japanese do, I think, when they've been shamed.

I think the football program at Penn State should be shut down. That would honor the victims and begin to right the wrong. But that's never going to happen because most of us will continue to plead the case that a few bad apples shouldn't spoil the bunch. An attitude that's as American, now, as apple pie.