Month: June 2003

This being a space where people are normally used to reading about politics, I’ll start with a true story concerning politics and the late John Fergus Ryan. In 1954, the 23-year-old Ryan, an Army vet with a wife and baby, decided to have a go at what he might have called, in that peculiar Runyonesque Southern vernacular of his, the “politics game.”

A scion of North Little Rock, Arkansas, Ryan became the all-purpose factotum for an obscure no-name candidate for governor of his native state. He set up shop one day in a rented room at the old Marion Hotel, a venerable Little Rock establishment which was, and had been for decades, the center of Arkansas politics.. (It was later razed to make way for the Excelsior, a more modern hostelry where a politician name of Bill Clinton would get in trouble with one Paula Jones.)

Ryan — known to his family as Jackie and to his wife Carla, then as now a looker, as Jack — went to work. He put out word on the street that would-be office-holders should stop by the rented room at the Marion, make their campaign contributions and sign up then and there for the state job they could expect to get when Ryan’s man was elected. It was a methodology which cut out all the frills and differed from the actual patronage policies then in place only by being unvarnished and direct.

Naturally, the main state newspaper, the old Arkansas Gazette, got wind of the scheme and sent a reporter over to pose as a job-seeker. The ringer would write up an account that made the paper’s front page the next day and ended Jack Ryan’s career as a political mover and shaker.. Anybody looking at the old yellowed clip decades later would be forced to conclude two things: that John Fergus Ryan, the author, could have written it better; and that the details of the story were the sort that belonged to Ryan’s own patented genre of the down-home Gothic.

The latter point is key: John Fergus Ryan, one of those writers unique enough to have invented a style, was in his own way a realist. He wrote some non-fiction, too, mainly for Esquire, but he was at heart a fiction-writer, and his outlandish plots and cartoonish characters reflected his sense of the way things really were.

HE WAS A PRO. There was method and exactness in the way he worked — in a cramped and windowless converted pantry space smack dab in the middle of his modest Midtown house, hard by the campus of Rhodes College.. Back in the Ô70s, when I used to teach creative writing at Memphis State University, I used as one of my basic texts a weighty compilation of materials — donated by Ryan — that started as a series of random notes: the kind of isolated quotes, details, and plot sketches that originate in a writer’s notebook as elements in search of a story.

Another set of pages showed those notes as they went through a process of development, embellishment, and elaboration into the first draft of a story. Then a second draft. A third and even a fourth, all Xeroxed and replete with marginal notes and handwritten line changes.

Then the final product — the story, entitled “The Bazemore Gala,” as published in The Evergreen Review, a leading periodical of the time.

Over and over, that series of progressions from beginning to middle to end did the trick and actually got student writers to tackle what might otherwise have seemed the implausible task of translating random thoughts and apercus into fiction. It was a kind of how-to manual for them, and if you ask, say, Arthur Flowers, the distinguished African-American author of several novels by now, how he got started, he would probably cite that student exercise of 30 years ago as key to his development.

Hell, I know he would. Flowers is one of several actually flourishing writers out there in the world that I was lucky enough to help incubate, and he is on record in several interviews as naming that class as his literary point of origin. He started keeping a notebook there, and I well remember his first complete effort, a Ryanesque effort that freely combined the comic, the grotesque, and the nitty-gritty into a neo-Faustian saga of other-worldly muckers called “The Devil’s Hell of a Plan.” His literary model would have been — in fact, was — pleased.

ONCE HE CROSSED THE RIVER into Memphis, where he earned his daily bread as, first, a social worker and later as a probation officer, Jack Ryan (who had also been a Pinkerton man) became simply John Ryan, the name he was known by to most of his friends. (It is also these days well known as the name of his son, namesake, and kindred spirit, the Memphis artist John Ryan, whose two siblings, Carla and Andy, round out what is a remarkably good-natured and bright-edged clan.) The “Fergus” part, though his by birth and certainly suggestive of the pagan Gaelic elements of his psyche, was added on for literary purposes because the classic American authors he had studied in school all had three names and he meant, at some point, to join their company. He very well may.

By the time of his death last week, of long-term complications from diabetes and Parkinson’s Disease, the ailments that had made his once Falstaffian physique unwontedly frail, John Ryan had compiled a body of work that had been published and read and admired on virtually all the continents of Planet Earth. And perhaps that “virtually” is an unneeded qualifier.. Even before he attracted the attention of American critics and readers, he had been taken up by the British periodical press, where his affinities with writers like the poet A.E. Housman and the belles-lettrist P.G. Wodehouse did not go unnoticed..

A spate of published stories would be followed in the last couple of decades by three well-received novels — The Redneck Bride, Little Brothers of St. Mortimer, and Watching. Ryan also did a play or two (one I remember concerned a patient at a mental hospital who ended up taking over the institution and running it — as good a metaphor as any for the circumstances to be observed during Ryan’s life and times). And there were screenplays by others. Billy Bob Thornton, the celebrated actor/writer/director from Ryan’s native Arkansas announced plans to produce a version of The Redneck Bride, and another entrepreneur actually did make a movie in 1999 based on Little Brothers. Called The White River Kid, it starred the likes of Bob Hoskins, Antonio Banderas, and Randy Travis, and, though for various reasons it never got released in theatres, it is available as a DVD online.

THAT JOHN RYAN HAD GIFTS as an artist and that he leaves behind a legacy of literary achievement are both givens. Those who knew him, though, will most remember him not primarily for his tropes but for his friendship. It is ironic that Ryan liked to see himself characterized by his wry and often quoted aphorism, “People are no damn good.” The fact is, as a person he was damn good. Let me count some of the ways.

He was the kind of guy who, when he heard you were moving house, would come over to lend a hand. He did so for me when, as a Gazette reporter and newlywed, I settled into a Little Rock apartment in 1967. He was there moving furniture and yanking doors off their hinges to create the illusion — and, in the fact, the reality — of more space. (It is no accident that so many people remember him as having been a “bear” of a man.) He was the friend who lent me his typewriter when I rushed back to home-town Memphis after hearing the news of Dr. Martin Luther King’s death in 1968 and discovered I’d left my own machine behind.

It was that vintage instument — the same one, or so I reckoned, that produced at least a portion of his own oeuvres — on which I wrote an account that, illustrated with classic photographs from another master, the great Ernest Withers, would appear 25 years later in a special King commemorative issue of Memphis Magazine. Never did I feel myself so honored by multiple associations.

I WENT TO THE VERY MOVING memorial service at the Church on the River in the company of several members of my immediate family Monday and heard number of graceful tributes, including one that made bold to describe Ryan — a cynic and hard-boiled religious skeptic, to say the least — as having been akin, in the warmth of his heart and in the nature of his own special ministry, to Jesus himself. To that I could say amen.

With me Monday was my oldest son Marcus, who almost three decades ago was in a Memphis hospital undergoing exploratory surgery that turned up a dreadful diagnosis and an even more dreadful — and immediate — prognosis. Keeping the vigil along with me in a waiting room had been John Ryan, and he was there when Marcus’ mother and I got the news, helping to cushion the shock. He was always available in the months that followed, in which treatment and convalescence were followed by a wholly unexpected recovery for which the term “grace of God” is the only proper signifier, and I could not help reflecting this week that Ryan’s good will had been among the elements that accompanied that miracle

I also could not help reflecting that Ryan, who had been consigned to years of unaccustomed frailty by his own illnesses, was deserving of his own miracle. What he had instead was the next best thing, an attitude that — born of his own incorrigible hustler’s optimism — was literally one of never-say-die.

As he lay on his deathbed, semi-comatose, he was still thinking ahead, according to his family, still trying to figure the angles and asking about the mail, still waiting for a publisher or filmmaker here or abroad to nibble at one of his overtures, still hoping to get news that he had received one of those whopping “genius” grants from the MacArthur Foundation that he thought, not without reason, he was entitled to.

And he was still able to stay in touch with things and to keep his hand in, even very late in the game. Once, last week or so, lying abed and seemingly unconscious, he heard family members and friends grouped around him trying to recall the punchline to a joke. Struggling to lift his head, he supplied the missing phrase:

“What’s time to a pig?” he said.

Next question: What’s time to a legend?

FORE!

Let’s play 18. There are at least that many reasons to embrace this week’s FedEx St. Jude Classic at Southwind’s TPC. While the Redbirds and Grizzlies continue to grow on us, our local PGA stop is now 46 years old and as healthy as ever. With an appropriate nod to its colorful history, here’s a cyber-round for the FESJC.

1) Billy Maxwell won the 1958 Memphis Open at the Colonial Country Club, an event that placed the Bluff City firmly on the still-growing map of professional golf. He edged Memphian Cary Middlecoff for a hefty winner’s check of $2,800.

2) A statue of Middlecoff now stands near the Southwind clubhouse, a fitting tribute to a man who won the 1961 Memphis championship, made 14 consecutive appearances at his hometown event, and was recently named the 20th best golfer in history by The Sporting News.

3) The FESJC knows greatness. Glance at the list of past champions and you’ll find Nicklaus, Player, Trevino, and Norman. Arnold Palmer played here five times, finishing eighth in 1958 and 1968.

4) The FESJC knows Cinderella. Glance at the list of past champions and you’ll find Jerry Pate, Jodie Mudd, Dicky Pride, and Ted Tryba. In eight appearances since his 1994 victory, Pride hasn’t so much as finished in the top 50.

5) This golf tournament is for Memphians, by Memphians. There’s a legion of volunteers who return year after year to make sure the tents are secure, drinks are cold, and “Hush Y’all” is at once a command and a courtesy. And that’s just for the fans. The players are treated like the big-leaguers they are.

6) “I must be in the front row.” Bob Uecker would love the FESJC. Nowhere else in the Mid-South will you find weekend duffers standing within earshot of Hall of Famers like Nick Price during a tournament televised live coast-to-coast.

7) The FESJC knows the record book. Al Geiberger became the first PGA player to shoot a 59 when he torched Cordova’s Colonial during his second round in 1977. In 1996, John Cook shot a PGA-record 24-under-par (189) over his first three rounds.

8) It’s all about the kids. Since 1970 the Memphis tournament has raised more than $14 million for St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital (including more than $1 million from last year’s proceeds alone).

9) The timing of the FESJC has never been better. Falling two weeks after the U.S. Open and three weeks before the British Open, Memphis essentially bisects the 2003 Grand Slam schedule. You’ll be seeing golfers aiming for peak form . . . now.

10) Defending champ Len Mattiace captured the brightest spotlight in the game when he capitalized on a stellar fourth round at this year’s Masters to force a playoff with Mike Weir. His rally at Augusta called to mind his charge from seven strokes back on Sunday at the 2002 FESJC. Look for a considerably larger Mattiace gallery this weekend.

11) International starpower. In addition to Price, Germany’s Bernhard Langer made an early commitment from overseas to play the FESJC. A two-time Masters champ, Langer finished second in his two previous Memphis appearances (1989 and 2001).

12) See ball . . . kill ball. Yes, he’s unkempt, and yes, he makes more headlines these days off the course than on, but Big John Daly is still ours. And he still drives the ball more than 300 yards without flinching. Every sport needs a cleanup hitter.

13) Root, root, root for the home team. As if Daly weren’t enough to give the field a local touch, we have Loren Roberts, David Gossett, Vance Veazey, Doug Barron, and Shaun Micheel aiming to keep the winner’s purse right here in the Bluff City.

14) Vijay Singh won’t be here. Sorry to be mean-spirited about this, but I’ve found a guy to root against on the PGA Tour. Considering all the controversy golf has faced over the years in battling racial and social stigmas, Singh has some pair to be an outspoken opponent of Annika Sorenstam breaking a gender barrier at last month’s Colonial. This ain’t football, Vijay. Girls can play too.

15) Money talks. Just ten years ago, the winner’s share of the purse at the FESJC was $198,000. This year’s champ will walk away with a cool $810,000. There’s no such thing as a recession on the PGA Tour.

16) Sweet 16th. The longest hole on the Southwind course – 528 yards, par 5 – is reachable in two for these pros. Which means an eagle or two just might land here (there were eight last year).

17) A national champ in the field. You have to go back to 1998 to find a U.S. Open champ in this year’s field, but Lee Janzen is a nice fit. The two-time winner of the hardest tournament in golf has yet to finish in the top-20 in six Memphis appearances. Here’s hoping he’s on the leaderboard come Sunday.

18) The kids win . . . again. The FESJC is the only tournament on the PGA Tour that features a charity’s name in its title. Do you think the children at St. Jude care who wins? For many of them, a round of golf is but a dream. Since 1970, the tournament has raised more than $14 million for the hospital. That, folks, is worthy of a golf clap.

1) Billy Maxwell won the 1958 Memphis Open at the Colonial Country Club, an event that placed the Bluff City firmly on the still-growing map of professional golf. He edged Memphian Cary Middlecoff for a hefty winner’s check of $2,800.

2) A statue of Middlecoff now stands near the Southwind clubhouse, a fitting tribute to a man who won the 1961 Memphis championship, made 14 consecutive appearances at his hometown event, and was recently named the 20th best golfer in history by The Sporting News.

3) The FESJC knows greatness. Glance at the list of past champions and you’ll find Nicklaus, Player, Trevino, and Norman. Arnold Palmer played here five times, finishing eighth in 1958 and 1968.

4) The FESJC knows Cinderella. Glance at the list of past champions and you’ll find Jerry Pate, Jodie Mudd, Dicky Pride, and Ted Tryba. In eight appearances since his 1994 victory, Pride hasn’t so much as finished in the top 50.

5) This golf tournament is for Memphians, by Memphians. There’s a legion of volunteers who return year after year to make sure the tents are secure, drinks are cold, and “Hush Y’all” is at once a command and a courtesy. And that’s just for the fans. The players are treated like the big-leaguers they are.

6) “I must be in the front row.” Bob Uecker would love the FESJC. Nowhere else in the Mid-South will you find weekend duffers standing within earshot of Hall of Famers like Nick Price during a tournament televised live coast-to-coast.

7) The FESJC knows the record book. Al Geiberger became the first PGA player to shoot a 59 when he torched Cordova’s Colonial during his second round in 1977. In 1996, John Cook shot a PGA-record 24-under-par (189) over his first three rounds.

8) It’s all about the kids. Since 1970 the Memphis tournament has raised more than $14 million for St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital (including more than $1 million from last year’s proceeds alone).

9) The timing of the FESJC has never been better. Falling two weeks after the U.S. Open and three weeks before the British Open, Memphis essentially bisects the 2003 Grand Slam schedule. You’ll be seeing golfers aiming for peak form . . . now.

10) Defending champ Len Mattiace captured the brightest spotlight in the game when he capitalized on a stellar fourth round at this year’s Masters to force a playoff with Mike Weir. His rally at Augusta called to mind his charge from seven strokes back on Sunday at the 2002 FESJC. Look for a considerably larger Mattiace gallery this weekend.

11) International starpower. In addition to Price, Germany’s Bernhard Langer made an early commitment from overseas to play the FESJC. A two-time Masters champ, Langer finished second in his two previous Memphis appearances (1989 and 2001).

12) See ball . . . kill ball. Yes, he’s unkempt, and yes, he makes more headlines these days off the course than on, but Big John Daly is still ours. And he still drives the ball more than 300 yards without flinching. Every sport needs a cleanup hitter.

13) Root, root, root for the home team. As if Daly weren’t enough to give the field a local touch, we have Loren Roberts, David Gossett, Vance Veazey, Doug Barron, and Shaun Micheel aiming to keep the winner’s purse right here in the Bluff City.

14) Vijay Singh won’t be here. Sorry to be mean-spirited about this, but I’ve found a guy to root against on the PGA Tour. Considering all the controversy golf has faced over the years in battling racial and social stigmas, Singh has some pair to be an outspoken opponent of Annika Sorenstam breaking a gender barrier at last month’s Colonial. This ain’t football, Vijay. Girls can play too.

15) Money talks. Just ten years ago, the winner’s share of the purse at the FESJC was $198,000. This year’s champ will walk away with a cool $810,000. There’s no such thing as a recession on the PGA Tour.

16) Sweet 16th. The longest hole on the Southwind course – 528 yards, par 5 – is reachable in two for these pros. Which means an eagle or two just might land here (there were eight last year).

17) A national champ in the field. You have to go back to 1998 to find a U.S. Open champ in this year’s field, but Lee Janzen is a nice fit. The two-time winner of the hardest tournament in golf has yet to finish in the top-20 in six Memphis appearances. Here’s hoping he’s on the leaderboard come Sunday.

18) The kids win . . . again. The FESJC is the only tournament on the PGA Tour that features a charity’s name in its title. Do you think the children at St. Jude care who wins? For many of them, a round of golf is but a dream. Since 1970, the tournament has raised more than $14 million for the hospital. That, folks, is worthy of a golf clap.

O, CANADA!

This past week, on Tuesday, June 17, Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chrétien announced that his cabinet had approved a new national policy allowing homosexual couples, male and female, to be legally married.

This is just one more example of how much more grown up Canada is than its neighbor to the South. If you want other examples, see Canada’s policies toward medical marijuana, greenhouse gases and the United Nations, and compare them to those of the current adolescents in the White House.

Homophobia is one of the great character flaws of the United States, which pretends to be an inclusive society, but which in fact has always preferred as little diversity as possible within its borders, except when it’s economically advantageous. If you’re poor, black, Hispanic, or mentally challenged, the power structure in the U.S. has traditionally had only one use for you: to provide the rest of us with cheap labor. Would 19th Century U.S. capitalists have welcomed the Chinese or the Irish if they had demanded a living wage? Would 20th Century capitalists have permitted mass immigration from Mexico and Central America if they hadn’t needed their crops picked and their lawns mowed for next to nothing? Tired, poor, huddled masses work cheap. If homosexuals promised to work as cheap, maybe our police, our politicians, and our judges would be more welcoming. Otherwise, privileged heterosexual Americans would prefer that gay people just go away, or pretend to be something else.

Okay, so I’m painting with a broad brush here, but I don’t think I’m far off. Outside of Broadway (Nathan Lane), an occasional Massachusetts voting district (Barney Frank), and Hollywood (Ellen Degeneres), homosexuality is still a matter of discomfort, even to most “open-minded” U.S. citizens. If you don’t think so, imagine the uproar that would ensue even in the most liberal northeastern cities if, in the next Harry Potter novel, our adolescent hero revealed that the true secret of his identity is that he is gay and in love with Ron.

Fundamentalist Baptists and puritans of other denominations, citing Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13, claim that the Bible calls homosexuality “an abomination” punishable by death. Interpretations vary, and the Bible seems to talk only about male homosexuality, but the fundamentalist view is pervasive in this country, even among nonfundamentalists: homosexuality, they believe, especially between men, is icky and wrong, and the Bible justifies every attempt to stamp it out. As far as I’m concerned, that’s just more evidence that the Bible is out of date as a moral map.

(Traditional religious dogma, along with a history of poor education, also accounts for the fact that homophobia is a powerful force, not just among the privileged white elite, but among many minority groups in the United States–especially blacks and Hispanics–and among the poor. Gays are in the unique position of discomforting Americans of nearly all classes and races.)

There are people in the United States who not only want homosexuals to stay in hiding, they want them to stop being homosexual altogether. These people believe that gay sex should be outlawed and that decriminalizing it is a threat to family values and will lead to the legalization of bestiality, incest and rape. Really, they actually say that. In fact, George W. Bush has nominated some of these people to our federal courts. (See last week’s column about William Pryor, one such nominee.) Now the U.S. Supreme Court is about to decide the constitutionality of a Texas law that prohibits homosexual–and many heterosexual–sex acts in the privacy of one’s own bedroom. Let’s hope the court majority overrules the Scalia-Thomas know-nothings, discards the outdated mores of an outdated religious text, recognizes the right to privacy as real and necessary, and ushers the United States into the 21st Century.

But even if that happens, don’t expect gay marriage to be on the agenda in U.S. legislatures anytime soon. Vermont’s recent recognition of “civil unions” (but not marriage) between homosexuals is a step in the right direction, and now many U.S. gays will go to Canada, get married, and return to test their marriage rights in U.S. courts. But if recent history is any indication, U.S. courts, growing ever more Bush-conservative, will spit in their face.

Which is precisely why many, perhaps most, homosexuals still hide their faces.

Three weeks ago, a friend of mine–a colleague for ten years and one of my favorite people–was rushed to the hospital with pneumonia. In his fevered delirium, he revealed to some of us that he has AIDS. Most of us who have known Matthew (not his real name) had long suspected he was gay. But in our workplace–a sports-oriented business with lots of jock types–homophobia has been an ever-fragrant presence. I’ve since learned that many years ago, our then-CEO even tried to get Matthew fired, claiming he was “a fag,” but Matthew’s immediate boss, bless him, defended Matthew as one of our best workers. Matthew learned his lesson, though. During the decades he has worked with us, he has never mentioned his sexual orientation, and we haven’t asked. Even after letting us know last month that he has AIDS, he has still not said anything about homosexuality.

Maybe if he had said something earlier, he wouldn’t be sick now. Maybe if he had felt free to be open about his sexual preferences, he would have also been free to have an open, monogamous relationship with a live-in partner. Maybe he wouldn’t have AIDS now.

In the United States, it’s not just military policy, but pretty much the unofficial policy of society as a whole: We don’t want to know if you’re gay, and if you are, don’t show it. But for some people, “don’t ask, don’t tell” isn’t just a wrongheaded policy, it’s lethal.

SQUISHY SOFT ‘DEMOCRATS’

Have you heard about the newest political party? You probably saw them, and mistook them for someone else. They are called The Invertebrates. Their symbol is the jellyfish. Dozens of Democrats, especially the leadership, have defected to the Invertebrate Party. Their “I sorta kinda disagree with W” squishiness has made possible the triumph of the fanatical. Their opposition to the agressive rightwing is so spineless, so timid, and so lacking in confidence, it can only be described as cowardly.

Why is the leadership of the Democratic Party so lacking in – well, leadership? Why are they so paralyzed when it comes to mounting any kind of credible challenge to the Bush agenda of war without end and decimation of the economy? Does anyone in the Democratic Party have a single idea which does not mimic the Republican Party? It appears that, collectively, the Democratic Party is struggling hard to straddle the right of center line the Republican Party is straddling, so it makes it impossible to recognize them as anything but Bush-lites.

The Democratic Party may have had all the “moderate” it can stand. There’s nothing “moderate” about George W. Bush and the Republican Party. As a matter of fact, a larger agenda of fundamentally changing the role of government is taking place in Washington, and no one is doing anything to stop it.

The problem isn’t that Democrats are on the wrong side of the issues. They are afraid to make an issue of being on the right side – not to mention directly in the middle of mainstream America.

For example, three out of four Americans believe the latest round of tax cuts will not significantly reduce their taxes and fewer than 30 percent think the cuts are the best way to stimulate the economy. A majority of Americans are intensely concerned about the skyrocketing unemployment rate and out-of-control budget deficits. But Democrats gelatinate when it comes to challenging a president who consistently provides more and more tax cuts for the wealthy. Some of them shoot out a few stinging words, but, inevitably, hitch themselves to that piece of Republican taxcut seaweed and float.

On foreign policy, numbers also favor the Democrats. The latest NBC/Wall Street Journal poll indicates that 57 percent of Americans are oppposed to investing the proposed years and billions of dollars to rebuild Iraq; however, Democrats twitter into semiliquidity when it comes to providing forceful opposition to the Iraqi quagmire – “Gosh, it may take a while, but we should fight the war on terrorism”.

And even though Weapons of Mass Destruction, Saddam Hussein, and Osama bin Laden have not been found, Democrats fear being called unpatriotic and unAmerican for speaking out about the wrongheaded and arrogant way pre-emptive invasion has been carried out without the support of the American public and the world.

And on it goes. The majority of the American people agree with the Democrats on protecting the environment, safeguarding Social Security, improving the quality of education, and providing greater access to affordable health care. They agree that corporate criminals must be prosecuted and that corporations must start ponying up their share of taxes instead of being given “corporate welfare”.

All of this makes the inability by Democrats to provide alternatives and opposition to the Bush administration even more infuriating. And shameful.

There are nine Democrats running for President in 2004. Some of them are talking tough. A few have stridently spoken out against the destructive policies of this White House.

But many of them, as Congressional members, have complied with Bush, have hemmed and hawed, but given wholehearted support of the war in Iraq and the tax cuts. They now expect us to believe they will stand up to the right wing forces wanting more tax cuts for the wealthy and more military aggression, even though they have previously been hesitantly milquetoast.

One of the greatest of all Democrats, Franklin D. Roosevelt once said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”. So to all you fearing, apprehensive Invertebrates, heed the word. Otherwise, you may find yourself to be just another washed up jellyfish on the political shore while the rest of us try to figure out how to live in a country that is broke and at war with the next enemy-of-the-month.