More from the Doctoring Industry

This "study" had a sample population of 25.

How do these people get funding?

Why does anyone bother to report the results of these studies?

And most importantly...

Why do we actually base policy discussions on crap of this sort?

Fight the Doctoring Industry (the Medico-Pharmaceutical Complex)!

Jose Tomas Gored in Linares

Jose Tomas took a horn yesterday in Linares. While it was described as "grave" he was able to finish the bull. If you want to see the details (although you can't see that much, for instance, the actual wound, but you can get a good idea of how the horn picked him up, and you can see one of his bandarilleros making a bandage out of his necktie), click on the video, below:

And, of course, when you see what those horns can do, it puts stuff like this in perspective (the following is El Cordobes, whom I have never seen. In fact, this clip is about all I have seen, but the perpetual debate over this figura has flared up again on Mundo-Taurino, so it is about time I learned more about El Cordobes and his Salto de Rana, seen here):

First Lost Tooth

Last night, only two days after her sixth birthday, Amalia lost her first tooth. She was quite proud of this, as it is even more proof that she is a big girl now.

Today she is working on thank you cards for birthday presents, and my bending of the rules of typography bugged her. Of course, my bending of the rules was to have helped her avoid violating another rule and was to have helped legibility. You see, she had to write a word that would not fit on the line. Her normal M.O. is to simply wrap the word, no matter what the syllable break, and omitting a hyphen. I convinced her that it would be OK to go into the gutter with her long word.

Resistance.

I even pulled out a couple of examples to show her words that crossed the gutter.

Oooh. That looks cool.

Now, we have long words so placed as to require crossing the gutter.

I have to remember to keep her out of my collection of avant-garde typesetting magazines.

The Studio!

Today (Monday) work began in earnest on getting the studio up and running. It is a big task and will take much longer than I originally thought (although I knew that already, which is why it has taken me so long to start), but at least things are moving forward. As to the kitchen...well, it is unfortunately pretty functional as is. This means that the many nuisances can be tolerated, making this a back-burner project.

But that is why the blogging was sparse Monday. It should pick up later in the week, as there are things that must be discussed (Borat for one thing, which I finally got around to seeing Sunday night, and recipes, finally).

For those of you in the Bay Area, please note that I will be giving my second lecture in the three part 19th century art and Catholic thought series on September 20 (or is it the 19th - whichever is Thursday) at 7:30pm at St. Margaret Mary's in Oakland. This one will be on French Symbolists and neo-Byzantinism. Cocktails to follow at a local watering hole, perhaps? The real information can be found on the St. Anthony of Padua Institute website (see the sidebar).

Six Big Ones!

Today is Amalia's sixth birthday. We celebrated with a picnic in the park. A family party will probably follow in Sacramento in the next couple of weeks. Sacramento is good, because it is close enough to both sets of grandparents, and my parents have a lot of space in their backyard.

Now that we live closer to both, and have space, we might have to move some of these things to our house. However, we are still not completely moved in (don't ask what my studio looks like), so large scale entertaining will have to wait.

Anyway, it is hard to believe that it has been six years since Amalia was born. It seems like yesterday, and it probably always will.

There's no Anti-Biker like an Ex-Biker

Now, we all know that the most obnoxious anti-smoking neo-Puritans are the former smokers. What motivates their nastiness? Deep down missing something and knowing that they have to do without because they could not moderate? The intensity of a recent convert? Who knows?

I am an ex-bicyclist. I used to wear improbable outfits and little caps with the bills turned up and would find nothing better than to come up really close to a slower biker on the American River Bike Path and pass within an inch of disaster while uttering a curt "on your left."

Yes, you see, driving a BMW doesn't make the jerk. The jerk gravitates towards the superior technology of the BMW. And as jerks grow up, they should trade in the sleek French racing bike for a German car. Bicycling is a childish matter.

But the inner jerk remains.

Q: What is the difference between a porcupine and a BMW?
A: The porcupine has pricks on the outside.

Har har har.

So, now that I am an ex-bicyclist who drives an over-powered German car, and looks at two wheelers as irritating cretins who get in the way of true progress and don't obey the traffic laws even as they demand all the rights of automobiles (yes, how do I know they do this? never you mind)... I have to say that seeing this video perhaps doesn't inspire Schadenfreude exactly, but... well, something along those lines:

Hey!

How do I get my group listed as a hate group so California can move ahead on the hate map?

First, it probably needs to be a group, so come on, folks...join the Keilholtz Falange! Let's get on the map!

Look, I will even take out of staters, as second class members, perhaps (look SPLC! "second class members" Nevadans sit at the back! Oooooh!).

In a related front, I just heard that Abe Foxman has finally renounced (somewhat) his holocaust denial (as in Armenians, Turkish slaugther thereof). Just a couple of weeks ago he fired someone who went on the record saying that it was a genocide in Armenia. Media pressure changed his mind, but not enough that he is willing to back the Armenian Genocide Censure bill in Congress. That would piss off the Mohammedans, who are great friends of the Jews(!). Abe needs to check the filter in his hookah.

I am not the least bit an anti-semite. In fact, I cannot understand it. I understand most prejudices, really, especially the Irish-English ones, but hatred against the Jews? They are a good bunch, for the most part. But, like anyone else, they have their bad apples.

Abe Foxman, for instance. A sort of Jewish Bill Donahue, but more obnoxious, more out of central casting, and stupider (and that is tough). Right now the Italians have as our Primo Culo, the one and only (deo gratias) Nancy Pelosi (well, there are some Italian magistrates who vie for the Continental honors there). And I can't say that I would take a trade. I am glad that he is not Signor Fossimani. I am glad that he is not a Californian, too.

What is that in the air? Autumn?

For the second time this week I got the distinct feeling of autumn in the air. Today it was while walking up the porch stairs after taking out the trash. The wind, the wind's direction, the temperature, humidity and air pressure, they all said "autumn". Some of the leaves in the area are starting to turn from the deep green of late summer to the gold and red and orange of autumn.

I love the early autumn, because I have the best tomatoes, the best figs, the first of the winter squashes, and the weather is just getting cold enough to really make me want to drink rich, heavy, tannic wines, like a good cabernet sauvignon, and to eat big roasted chunks of pig or even, as the weather gets colder, braised beef.

The Internal Combustion Engine...The Automobile...The Volkswagen (different class than "Automobile")...The Rocket...The Jet....Bach....Mozart...Haydn....The Speed of Light

Eventually you all are going to have to recognize that, yes, we may be bastards, but we are smart bastards. Even the Poles, who have very good reason to look at us with a measure of suspicion, recognize that we are smart.

Now, I am not expecting you to all break into a round of the Deutschlandlied, just yet, but, c'mon... we just broke the speed of light.

The laws of physics are no limit to the German spirit!
(yeah, yeah, the German spirit is the major obstacle to the German spirit...I suppose God gave us our personalities as a natural handicap to make up for everything else, but between pleasant personalities on the one side and eyes of sapphire and a nearly uncontrolable urge to take over the world on the other...hmmm.).

The Turkish Army

I have long admired the Turkish Army, for its role in preventing Turkey from going into a frenzy of Mohammedanism. Now, am I holding a double standard when I praise the Turkish Army for what I condemn in the French? Yes, and for good reason.

The Catholic Faith is True, and Mohammedanism isn't.

I know that this is a hard saying for mealy-mouthed modern relativists, but it is true, no matter how unfashionable it is. When the French want secularism, they are rebelling against the very thing that allows a concept of secularism (ironically, opening up the gates to the sort of folks who sneer at secularism). When the Turks want secularism, it is a different story.

My prediction in the latest manifestation of the Army-Government saga? When Erdogun is begging the army to stay out, they are already in. Expect a turnover soon.

A Redneck's Last Words....

Or file this under "you can take the boy out of the Central Valley, but you can't take the Central Valley out of the boy."

Anyway, a redneck's last words?

"Hey, watch this!"

Tomorrow I take a new step. I venture into unknown lands. I have done this sort of thing before, and it has been with mostly good results, but the ante has been upped. The stakes are higher. The horsepower is, well, actually measured in horsepower.

The stand mixer needs servicing, and the nearest shop is in Santa Rosa.

"Shucks!" thinks I, "it's just an electric motor and some sort of belt drive."

I have gotten very good as espresso machine repair and improvement. I can take apart and reassemble a fishing reel. OK, there is that automatic winding fly reel, but I will swear up and down that it is defective design. Why not have a crank anyway? Stupid design. It never worked very well, although it never malfunctioned enough to be considered "defective" and worthy of being returned to the rod and gun shop.

Of course, I risk a lot more by cracking open the expensive, professional stand mixer, but it died during a giant batch of heavy almond cake batter, leaving us scrambling as to what to do to make sixteen pounds of buttercream frosting. It's not just a broken kitchen gadget, it is a vendetta. There is a bad belt in there, and I am going to tear it out and show it how to transfer kinetic energy from one wheel to another. Or replace it.

Ah, now to find a source for mixer parts...

The fun never ends. If I am feeling motivated I will take pictures.

Okra!

I like okra, but whenever I suggest making it for dinner, Melanie has always said, "yuck! That slimey stuff" so I pass since I don't want to cook a dish just for one. Well, it has been building to a boiling point, and I decided to cook okra, even if I am the only one who is going to eat it. So, I bought a bag at the local farmers' market and fixed it up in a Cajun style, with some modifications. Melanie liked it so much she asked me to put some in her lunch today.

Finely dice an onion.
Dice a red bell pepper.
Coarsely chop a few tomatoes, reserving the juice.
Mince three cloves of garlic.
Slice your bag of okra into quarter inch rounds.
Fry up your onion and bell pepper in a mixture of bacon fat and olive oil.
Add the garlic and okra.
Fry to coat everything with oil.
Season with pimenton agridulce (or cayenne, if you want to be a purist).
Add the tomatoes, the juice from the tomatoes, a generous pinch of Mexican oregano, and a splash of dry white wine or dry white vermouth.
Cover and let simmer.
Serve with barbecue, sliced melon, grilled peaches, and a bold fruity red like a Sierra Nevada foothill zinfandel (we actually had an Amador County barbera, which was a good pairing).

First BLT (and second and third...)

This week I had the first BLT of the season. It was magnificent. In fact, it was so magnificent, that I had to make it again the next day. I have started to do something that I highly recommend (besides using dry-farmed tomatoes, which you really should try if you get the chance. Amazing things), which is to toast the bread by lightly frying it in the bacon grease. WOW! It takes the BLT to a whole new level.

But remember, if you eat one today, you need to do an alternative penance!

Max Roach, RIP

Max Roach died at the age of 83. He was one of the best, a musician who combined solid chops with keen ears and a brilliant mind. Drummers are generally the best listeners in a jazz ensemble, because the thing that distinguishes a solid timekeeper from a total drummer, is the ability to underscore and support structural variations and to adjust to a variety of factors: comping patterns, solos, etc. He can raise or lower the energy level, can transform a good solo into a great solo, and, if he has tympani, can even make the whole ensemble sound out of tune, should they anger him. There is a reason that the tympanist is the highest paid musician in the orchestra.

Max Roach could do all of this. In fact, you could jettison the rest of the band and he could engage an audience for a set or two just by himself.

Cooking is Good...

Bookkeeping, on the other hand...

Although it is not really awful, just dull, and gives me a headache, since I am convinced that I am about to transpose numbers or create some other error.

But the worst, is estimating.

No. It is kind of fun to do.

The worst is comparing the estimated costs and hours to the actual costs and hours and realizing that, on an hourly basis, my kitchen grunts are making more than I do. I used to think that it was a grand gesture when an employer retired, giving the business to the employees. I now realize that it is nothing more than a parting act of vengeance.

Anyway, I can't really complain, since the nature of estimating is that one gets better at it (unless one is a bit slow), and we can also expect improvements in our processes and systems which will help us hit lower numbers. And, meanwhile, the whole thing is pretty fun and exciting, even the feeling of impending doom when your stand mixer dies on you while you are making a batch of wedding cake batter, and the sixteen pounds of buttercream that need to appear in the next twelve hours suddenly seems like a totally different task than what you had planned on (yes, this happened).

Anyway, that was my whine for the day. Now back to bookkeeping (and trying to keep Amalia on task in her room cleaning).

I miss the Cold War.

This thought came to me as I was deleting spam comments from the blog. The majority of my two or three hundred daily spam posts have ".ru" addresses. Now, I have many prejudices, but topping the list (or at least sharing it with the Englisch) are the Russians. I dislike most of their music, most of their art, most of their architecture, find their Patriarch a KGB stooge, and their writers overwrought handwringers. And I find vodka a silly drink.

Now, obviously there are exceptions. I like some Russian music, particularly the more folkloric (but not the Stalinist Folkloric stuff) music (and Tchaikovsky, who was really German in his music). I like some Russian literature. When I have had enough silly vodka, I find Russian architecture amusing.

But, when I have to sort through scads of Russian spam, I am ready to revive the Cold War.

I have fond memories of the Cold War. I was on the other side back then, but it was a good time.

If the Russians had tried to infiltrate a blossoming new media at that time, we would have considered it an act of war and would have reacted innapropriately. Commie fifth columnists (and, yes, just about anyone you have ever suspected of taking orders from the Kremlin was doing just that), would have clucked and tsked.

Of course now we know that Sen. McCarthy was right, and yet, his name is used as if he were some sort of demon-man (which Paul Robeson, the Commie psycho ham actor and third-rate singer, who, unlike the Hon. Joe McCarthy, was honored by a postage stamp(!), certainly was).

We won, and are overrun by tacky Russian neo-capitalists spamming us with offers of everything the decadent West has to offer, but in helpings that would make a Cold War Vegas denizen blush.

Whooo hoooo! Raise a toast to the man who brought capitalism to the Russians!

It almost makes me want to sing "Old Man River"

Back at the Computer!

Actually, I was at the computer a lot these last couple of days, as the computer is my command center. I even, at one point, had the thing on a shopping cart because I had not been near a printer since the last modifications of the shopping list were made. Egads.

It was a success and a disaster. A beautiful disaster. The human body was not meant to endure that sort of thing. Melanie was on the crew for one and a half of the days.

"My work is a lot easier than yours," quoth she.

She is right. Cooking professionally is for the birds, but, mamma mia, those birds are well fed! And if they didn't cook they would probably be felonious birds.

Felonious Bird. Well, yes. Architect of beebop. Nevermind...

Anyway, the gig went well. Probably since our big day of cooking was the feast of the patron of cooks.

So, now blogging will go back to its usual rhythm, which is, as you are painfully aware, rather arhythmic.

Cooking Has Begun.

As you can imagine, the next couple of days will be pretty hectic.

I had some food musings to write about, but opted instead for a few short stories (reading, that is, not writing 'em) from the 1995 edition of The Best Short Stories from the South. Sitting on the front porch on our new rattan chairs, sipping a Scotch and reading Southern fiction must be one of the high points of those great minor pleasures we can enjoy here and there.

Also, we are unveiling our catering company's website this weekend. I need to write some more text for it and to email some pictures to the webmistress.

Perhaps tomorrow I will feel like writing about the smell of sauteing mushrooms, or the joy of buying a whole case of Sadie Farm dry-farmed tomatoes (which might well be the best tomatoes in the world). Or I might read another 60 pages of Southern fiction, sipping at a Scotch and feeling the breeze on the bottoms of my bare feet. We'll see.

Happy Feast of St. Dominic

Go out and feed your inner greyhound.

Meanwhile, I am in the state of having made my timeline and finding that it looks too easy, which means that I have undoubtedly forgotten something crucial.

But, thanks to modern technology...and BLEACH!...my whites are dazzling. When I walk into the room, I will project the perfect image of cleanliness. The microbes will be afraid to come near anything I cook. They won't even want to be in the same room as me.

Don't do that in here! I run a clean kitchen. What do you think this is, an operating room?

There is something awfully nice about having your whites slightly blinding. It won't last all that long, but it is one of those great anticipatory moments, sort of like the parade at the start of the bullfight. You don't know if the bulls will be good, or if the matador y su cuadrilla is going to be up to the challenge, but the potential is there.

Baseball needs something like this. The first pitch and that silly flag squawking are lame compared to the opening of the bullfight. The umps should come in on horseback, make a ceremonial tour of the ballpark, as the players, managers, groundskeepers and bat boys march in in stately procession, salute the representative of the Commissioner, and then procede to their respective dugouts, as the organ plays "La Virgen de la Macarena."

Hey, now. That's an idea. When the cooking gig is over, I think I am going to arrange "La Virgen de la Macarena" for organ. I am sure the neighbors will love that, especially when played at full volume, fueled by half a bottle of tequila and punctuated by cries of "Ole!" and demonstrations of toreo al salon on the front yard at 2am.

Although it seems odd to still call it toreo al salon when it is done outdoors, although who has a large enough salon to wield a cape and shadowbox with imaginary miuras? Come to think of it, I have only seen toreo al salon done outdoors.

Transfiguration and The Bomb

Don Jim has a good post up on the Transfiguration and the moral teaching of the Church on the atom bomb. Of course, he is right, and even I have to admit that the indiscriminate bombing of London by the Luftwaffe was probably morally wrong. The Church doesn't mention the English by name, though...

Oh Sweet Caffeine

Yet another of the many benefits of coffee (although if you read, it is the caffeine that does the trick) can be found in this article, especially for the women.

Coffee is really one of the most wonderful things in the world, especially when brewed into a good espresso ristretto.

One of the signs of the greatness of Bach is that he wrote a Coffee Cantata (not to mention setting "The Edifying Thoughts of a Tobacco Smoker" to music).

Bach. The Osmonds.
Bach. The Osmonds.
Bach. The Osmonds.

Luther may have gotten some things wrong on the Sacraments, on the nature of the Church, on Scripture, and so forth, but he did not create a false religion that produced crap like the music of the Osmonds. Gotta hand it to him.

And, yes, if you want to take this as an invitation to point out cheesy Lutheran musicians, go ahead, but be charitable. Lutherans tend to be very nice people.

So do Mormons, but there is something creepy (well many things, starting with Joseph Smith) about the whole LDS business. And don't get me started on the L.Ronists, Falun Gong, and the rest of their ilk.

And a little Yee Haw for your morning...

Mark Sullivan (also known as "He of the Polish Moose or Estonian Antelope or whatever that thing really is Fame") posts many good and great posts. He instinctively can find the shining greatness of our American culture and does a good job of highlighting it (although he also does have those rare lapses when he writes about hockey, but that is something caused by impurities in the Eastern waters or something). I recommend reading him regularly, even when he is waxing ecstatically about the BoTox or whatever that team is that plays out there.

Once in awhile, he really hits a home run, that, like a Bonds Bomb, sails clear out of the ballpark. His recent splash in McCovey Cove is about Country Music, which, as you all know, is dear to my heart. And Barbara Mandrell's singing and steel guitar playing make you forgive her framing her pretty face with that preposterous hairstyle.

So, take a few minutes off, crank up the volume on your computer, and enjoy the clips.

Stetsons off to Mark Sullivan!

Privacy Rights

As you know, I don't give a hoot for so-called "privacy rights." The only privacy rights that exist are the right to not be forced to go naked in public (and along with that comes the responsibility to not go around naked in public, or semi-naked), and some limited right to keep private matters private (and along with that comes the responsibility to keep them so yourself. That means that if you are gabbing on the cell phone in public about your sex life (or advertising it on a teeshirt or bumber sticker), don't holler to me when the government wants to tap Ahmed the Mad Bomber's phone).

Beyond that, all bets are off, and the whole protection from search and seizure thing is nothing but 18th century liberal fetishism for the supreme autonomy of the individual. Bah! Bah! and Bah! Humbug!

If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to hide.

This sentence still sends liberals up the walls, although none of them can really give a rational reason that it is in error.

If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to hide.

It will probably be the motto of the Civil Guard in the Keilholtz Dictatorship.

Personally, I find it fascinating that Google keeps track of all of these search engine requests. It will be extremely valuable to anthropologists of the future. However, that being said, I do find things like this amusing. Someone went to a lot of trouble to turn their fetish for privacy (and one wonders what sort of wrong they are doing that they dedicate so much time to wanting to hide it) into a product.

So, if this sort of thing appeals to you, for whatever twisted reasons you might have for keeping your internet activity hidden, here are your fellow travellers. In the Dictatorship we will probably secretly monitor who goes on this site and do some investigations.

Calm Before the Storm

I have a big cooking gig this coming weekend. By Friday, I will be a basket case, stressed out, exhausted, ready for the rush of Saturday. Right now is just the feeling of impending doom, which is normal. Tomorrow I make the production timeline, teleconference with my co-chef, test a recipe, etc. The fun begins. I am slightly relaxed, knowing the once that timeline is written, all will go well, as it always does. But until I have that timeline with every dish charted, I feel like I am a sitting duck on the Gulf Coast awaiting the hurricane.

Blogging might be sparse, or it might be heavy, as it can be a good way to think about something, anything else, but it will certainly be a little odd. That much I can guarantee.

So, if you are not in the mood for odd posts, stay clear for a week. Although, odd posts are pretty much what I have been giving you recently (yeah yeah, recently?), so you know what is in store.

We are settling into our new location. It is good. The weather is good, the neighbors great, the food scene, well, crap, but we are not far away from good eats, and since we aren't going out for great meals all that often these days, I can't say that I am missing anything from being out here (and when things settle down, we are frightfully close to the Napa Valley).

Appropriately enough, the feast of St. Lawrence is coming up. As you all know, St. Larry is the patron of cooks. I think I will be praying for his intercession frequently in the coming week.

I have been doing these cooking gigs to get it out of my system, which is sort of like doing dope to end the urges to do dope. It feeds itself. I find myself planning the next event as soon as the last dish is cleaned from the current event. To think that this is all part of my mad scheme to avoid opening up a restaurant. I think I will call it Pizzeria Mazentio. Har har har. Yes, the first record of pizza that I know of is in the Aeneid (the Trojans are told that they will be so hungry that they will eat their tables - in Italy they are served a peculiar dish that uses a flat bread as the table for the meat and vegetables, which they eat). Mazentius is a bastard, but I cannot help but think that his name sounds like a good name for a restaurant. It is one of those names that sounds good even in the thing it stands for stinks. Listeria is another one. It sounds like a fragrant flower. It could make a great bouquet with Chlamydia, which is also an entirely too lovely name for what it is.

Plumbago, which is a lovely flower, on the other hand, sounds like a disease. Perhaps they could exchange, sort of like a spy exchange. Two cars approach each other in a remote parking garage. They flash their lights. Agents of each side step out of the car and check the surroundings. Plumbago and chlamydia switch names. Everyone goes home and it all appears in a Freedom of Information Act file sometime in fifty years when the whole thing is declassified.

I need to get some sleep.

San Francisco Ferry Building

Here is a photo, simply because I haven't posted anything visual in awhile. I know, it has been even longer since I posted a recipe, but those take time to type up. Anyway, here is a view of San Francisco's Ferry Building:

copyright 2007 by Erik Keilholtz

Ratatouille

I finally went out and saw Ratatouille. As a food critic, I loved the character monsieur Ego. I can think of a few critics who fit his mold perfectly. And he is right, writing and reading pans are more fun than writing good reviews, although a steady diet of them causes depression, and the risk of losing sight of the joys of food. When I have received the most positive email, it has been for giving places a thorough drubbing.

Now, I disagree with the sort of sentiments that a critic's work is less worthy than the chefs. There are some chefs who will create good food no matter what the world says. And, if they happen to get some good reviews and publicity, they will thrive. But there are many chefs who will get lazy and cheap, and the role of the critic is to keep them on their toes. If a place is charging good money for an entree, then they had better earn it. If they know that their food might be served to a critic, they might think twice about cutting corners, and if they get caught cutting corners, a negative review might be the wakeup call they need.

It is a good film, and I recommend it to anyone who cares about the world of cuisine at all.

Beausoleil

I saw the well-known Cajun band Beausoleil perform a free concert on the quad at UC Davis last night. It was perfect weather for a picnic/concert on the green. I used to listen to this band a lot, even before I worked for their first label, and last night was a reminder of why.

I generally prefer more archaic Cajun music, such as the incomparable Wade Fruge (check out J'ai Ete Au Bal for some beautiful footage of traditional Cajun music), but the musicianship of Beausoleil is outstanding. I think Michael Doucet keeps getting better and better (he can also be heard on the arch-traditionalist Savoy-Doucet Cajun Band, along with Marc and Ann Savoy).

Beausoleil has a new album out. I have not heard it yet, but if it reflects what I heard last night, it will be good.

The Headline is Wrong

The headline to this story should be:

Courageous elderly priest stands down pack of violent defiant low life dirt punks.

And he should be promoted to Archbishop.

Yes, he probably should have kept his cool a little bit and probably should have used less, well, colorful, language, but there were about a dozen of the trespassing little rats, they were defying him, they were quite probably armed to some degree, and I can hardly blame him for using language milder than I would have used on the little turds.