The Sanctity of Marriage

McCain Obtained Marriage License with Cindy While Still Married to First Wife

While the news about Edwards’ affair has become front-page news, little attention has been paid to a recent report in the Los Angeles Times that exposed new details about how John McCain’s first marriage ended after he started an affair with his current wife. The paper revealed that McCain obtained an Arizona marriage license on March 6, 1980 to marry Cindy Hensley, even though at the time he was still legally married to his first wife, Carol.

I stole this from Dcup and Democracy Now

Here is another example of man at his worst, and the general hypocrisy.

The Irresistible Lure of Strange Nookie

It's odd how a little strange nookie can bring the mighty down. "I did it because I could, and I thought I could get away with it. I didn't tell you, honey, because I thought it would make you mad. I was trying to keep my behavior from hurting you, darling. I love you. It meant nothing." These are words most women and a lot of men have heard in some variation by the time they're thirty or so. If not, he's probably really good at keeping his secrets secret, or you have agreed to an open relationship and complete discretion. So far, so good. But I bet it will bite you on the ass someday. Love can ruin the best marriages.

Love is strange in and of itself. And as some of my favorite books have demonstrated so beautifully, there are two or three entities in any love relationship. There is the lover. There is the beloved. And then there is the other beloved, that longed for other, the temptation. Honesty has very little place in love since none of the performers in this fascinating dance knows why they love the mysterious other and must pursue this person or resist another.

Ballad of the Sad Cafe the novella by Carson McCullers is the book that best and most quickly comes to mind when I ponder the mysteries of love. The ebb and flow of love, it's circularity, the pull and push back of love. Need is always a character in love. Neglect, arrogance and dishonesty are often the weapons of it's death.

Another of my favorites is Death in Venice by Thomas Mann. The love of the forbidden. The love you would ridicule in another, have ridiculed in another. The love that is your demise.

And oh, these days, how love or lust or curiosity or narcism has brought another mighty man lowdown. Sad it had to be the husband of Elizabeth Edwards.

A Great Jazz Quartet in the Neighbor's Backyard

I've never been much of a party person. In the thirty or forty years I've been on antidepressants and other bipolar drugs, alcohol has been off my radar. And since I'm the only smoker in any group these days, I never really feel welcome or comfortable. Plus, I'm a wallflower. I try to find someone I know and sit next to them and then never move. I don't mingle. So, parties hold no charm for me anymore.

This party was different. These are neighbors I'm very fond of, and it was their ten year wedding anniversary. That would have made it worth an appearance, a card, a bouquet of flowers. But the real draw for me was the news that there would be a jazz band. It's always been my favorite music. The party was scheduled from 7:00 to midnight, but the jazz was from 7:00 to 10:00. They set up under the portico in front of the garage, which is fairly close to my bedroom window. The band started assembling and tuning up at 6:45. I was curious to see how Cyrus would do, since in the warm-up phase the bass was a bit loud and the drums were popping. But the moment they swung into It's Wonderful, I knew Cryus would be fine. It is, after all, the music I listen to when I write. It's the music of my entire life. It's my soundtrack.

They covered Charlie Parker, most beautifully with I'll Remember April and Cherokee. They played the Coltrane versions of Giant Steps, and Lush Life. They played Oliver Nelson's Stolen Moments, Miles Davis' So What. And they did some of my favorites by Monk--Straight no Chaser, and April in Paris. The drummer was a kid who looked about nineteen. The bass player was the only one who looked like an old jazz player, the keyboardist was another kid, and the sax player looked all of twenty. He played tenor and alto sax plus flute. There was not a moment when they missed the swing, the timing, the mood, the feeling of the songs they played. They were great. And the best thing of all is this was their first gig together. I have rarely heard jazz players play so tightly and with such swinging joy.

And the food was good, too.

Not Exactly Better Than Ever, But She's Back

I'm not so irritable, and that in itself should be alarming. God knows there's so much to be irritated about, but I don't care. I'm doing my little chores and sleeping well. I'm even dreaming again. Let the world go to hell in a hand-basket. Me, I could care less.

I have contracted with a friend and neighbor to accompany me whenever I go see my cardiologist to take notes and ask questions.

Enigma sent me easy yoga links and if I could stay awake while relaxing, I'd be doing some yoga.

Freida Bee has inspired me to clean my closet of clothes that are too small and to forget forever that I might be that size again. Then I go in hunt of my transitioning from plump to fat clothes, mainly some form of muumuu or maternity clothes that will accommodate my gut. And I must buy a new bigger bra and several pair of fat and happy under pants.

I am diligently editing my novel, chapter by chapter. My goal is to work on a couple a day.

And I'm going to a party tonight. Imagine that. It's just next door, but still... There will be food, drink, grown ups and kids. It's a start.

The Way of the World, Ron Suskind's New Book

From Salon.com:

This is a piece about the forging of evidence to go to war. It's about providing "deniability" for Bush. It's about the new Way of the World.

Rage Update!

The afternoon at the hospital started out with one small tweak of my rage meter. The hospital I go to, to see my cardiologist, is new and maze-like. So I usually stop at the one place I can reliably find--The Heart Lung Center. I asked the woman at the desk directions to Dr. Weiss' office. She asked me if I just had an appointment with Dr. Weiss, or was I having a procedure done. I told her I was having a stress test. She said, "That might be done downstairs." She called downstairs, and no I was not scheduled for the test downstairs. Then she called the Heart Rhythm Center and got their answering service. They were at lunch and wouldn't be back until 1:30. My appointment was for 1:00 so this was the first real tweak of my rage button. Remember I had not had my latte, and I'm not doing well on Zoloft for my bipolar disorder. I can't sleep. Everything pisses me off.

When I got to the correct location, there was one lone receptionist at the desk. The first thing out of my mouth was, "Why would they schedule me for a stress test at 1:00 if everyone is at lunch until 1:30?!!" She said, "I don't know what you mean. The techs who do your stress test are here, and it will only be a moment."

They did take me back to get my stress test post haste. But once I was wired up, they did a pre-stress test echo cardiogram. The found something hinky and asked me if I had a lot of headaches. Yes, yes I do. I wake up with a headache almost every morning. Next question is would I mind if they do a couple of extra tests. No I don't mind. I want whatever they think they see to be definitively checked out. What they think they see is a hole in my heart that could be the culprit in my headaches, and might be bad enough to need repair. I say, "When they did the procedure to to check for clots in my heart, I remember being told there was a hole in my heart, but when I went to see the cardiologist there was nothing in the report on that procedure to indicate that they found a hole in my heart. No mention." Now I'm starting to get really pissed.

So they IV me to inject a dye in saline to follow it through my heart. This makes them decide to do another test. They take me all wired up with the IV in my arm to another room. They put some gadget on my head, screw it on tight at my temples and inject another dye. This confirms something and then they take me back for my stress test. Now I'm stressed. I chug away on the treadmill, huffing and puffing within a minute, but every three minutes they increase the incline and speed. My legs start burning, then my ass muscles start burning. "Can you hang in there, you're almost through." I gasp, "Yes," gasp, "I think so," gasp. I make it through that test but I'm light headed and chugging, gasping for air. Quick, hurry, get back on the table to do the post test echo-cardiogram. Once that's done, they send me to an empty room to wait for my cardiologist.

He takes forty minutes to get to me and my irritation is growing by the second. Remember, I like my cardiologist. He's an Obama liberal. But when he finally comes in I have steam shooting out my ears. My nostrils are flared and shooting fire. I'm wishing I had a shotgun in my purse.
He says, "You have a hole in your heart that might need repairing." I say, "Remember when I came in after the first procedure and told you I heard them say I had a hole in my heart, and when I asked you about it, you said there was nothing in the record about a hole in my heart, and that I must have 'thought' I heard that, but didn't really?" He says he remembers our conversation but there is nothing in the record to indicate that they did, in fact, find a hole in my heart. I said, "This is unacceptable. I consider this omission from my records negligent." Well, this is as close as I can get to blasting him with my imaginary shotgun. I tell him I'm having problems with the new antidepressant and am unusually irritable. He says, "please have your psychiatrist call me--I'll reassure her that the Doxepin wasn't the problem with the fibrillation."

He tells me he isn't the one to evaluate the seriousness of the hole, and that I need an appointment with another doctor who is the one to read that part of this testing and decide whether or not it requires repair. Bla bla bla. I can no longer listen. My brain has shut down, and now rage is all I feel. Funny how rage shuts down the rest of the brain functions. After he finishes his bla bla bla, he takes me into the area where I'm to wait for the receptionist to make an appointment with this other doctor. The desk is empty. The is no one in the hallways. I want to start screaming, "Jane, you ignorant slut. Where the fuck are you, you lazy, slovenly bitch!!!!" But thankfully don't. By the time I get out of the building I'm at swearing, screaming rage level.

When I get home, I eat a bite, fix my latte, and decide to call my shrink's office again and try to find out why she has taken so long to get back to me when I knew I'd lost my mojo, my sweet temperament, my ability to sleep at night and all fucking patience with everyone. I know it's the drug switch, and I want off Zoloft and back on Doxepin. Now! She gets me to stop screaming and is very patient, considering how angry and loud I am. She tells me to stop the Zoloft and to begin to go back on the Doxepin gradually. When I hang up I'm still furious, but with a bit of pacing, and some deep breathing, and watching Keith, I finally calm down.

In a couple of days when I'm not so irritable, I'll aim what fury I have left at Comcast, who has the nerve to call themselves Comcastic.

No Latte? Are They Crazy?

Today I have to go get a stress test. Yesterday the bitch, no I mean nurse, who gave me instructions for my stress test, ordered me to take no blood pressure medicine and no caffeine. Yes, I can eat something and take my other pills, but no LATTE? Jesus, how am I supposed to get the organism chugging into consciousness? I will report on this horror when I get home. But I'm betting the worst part of the stress test is the no latte part.

First Love Last Love

I got a late call from CTB, the first and last love, tonight. He's been reading my blog and wanted to talk. There is almost always some small favor he wants, but I'm still willing. You know what they say about that first love--it's always with you.

He is a great musician. He used to play jazz bass. It was when he was first becoming a bass player that I fell in love with him. Acoustic bass is a very sexy instrument--shaped like a woman and held in a full bodied embrace. Then he switched to electric bass and started playing country music in the western version of a honky-tonk, or as I called them, toilets. He drank too much in those days and his friends were not all that interesting. The charm wore thin. But the love remained.

Now he plays guitar. He is working toward virtuosity--not that tough for him. He can play any instrument. Tonight he recommended his new guitarist obsession. A man named Pierre Bensusan. So, for CTB and the rest of us, here is a little Pierre Bensusan

Is Our Government The Terrorist?

Bruce Ivens is the fall guy for the 2001 anthrax attacks. How convenient that he killed himself. What I remember about the anthrax attacks was that journalists were targeted and that postal workers died. It was a long time ago, and we were told by our government that the anthrax came from Iraq. One of the first justifications for targeting Iraq was it's ability to deliver weaponized anthrax to kill Americans. All of this makes me a bit suspicious that the man who was being targeted this time as the anthrax killer was Bruce Ivens and that he acted alone. It smells like a cover-up, and possibly a conspiracy to prevent the truth from ever being known. But I was never one of those people that bought the story that Kennedy was shot by Lee Harvey Oswald--the lone gunman.

J Edgar Hoover was the man in charge of the FBI at that time, and he had his reasons for wanting to get rid of Kennedy. Since those days the covert, intelligence gathering aspects of our government have grown like mushrooms in the dark. When G W Bush came into office he had his reasons for wanting to go to war with Iraq. It is no secret that "intelligence" was manufactured to scare the bejesus out of us and push the narrative that somehow Iraq was a bigger threat to us than the terrorists that came out of Saudi Arabia and took down the twin towers on 9/11.

I don't trust many news organizations anymore. But I do still have a bit of faith in NPR. This is one of their stories about the man who killed himself when he became a target in the anthrax "investigation."

Inquiring Minds Want To Know

Amy Chozick poses the question in The Wall Street Journal this brilliant and completely relevant question--Is Barack Obama too skinny to be President? Hard to Believe Some People thought the Wall Street Journal Would Go To Hell After Rupert Murdock Bought It.

While We're On the Subject of Writing

This was sent to me by my beloved friend and administrator, Phillip. It's perfect for so many reasons.

Giles Coren, to his editors at The Times (London) for removing the word “a” from the closing sentence of his review

Times subeditors reply to Giles Coren

Jane, you ignorant slut

The first time Peggy referred to me in her blog as "my Administrator", I said to her, with my voice to her ears, "That sounds a little cold and impersonal to me. I wish you wouldn't do that. It's not like you need to protect my identity."

She said, "You are my Administrator because I'm dumb and you take care of everything for me ...."

OK Peggy. Just like assholes, right?

Administrating is something I get paid to do, helping friends is not.

It's all like that. Makes me ....

Sad, really. I'll help anybody who deserves it; anybody I think is doing something worthwhile but doesn't know much about the technicalities. I do it a lot. I live doing it. I can get to a problem more quickly than a fucking problem. Spare me the cadence; milliseconds add up. Be kind, rewind. Simple as that. Are we clear sailor?

Online group therapy might be a wonderful thing but it's not on the list of things I am interested in, nor on the list of things I think publishers are interested in. I think it de-values Utah Savage. I think Peggy just got a bad case of the jitters and, sadly, retreated down the path of familiarity. Here's how it goes Peggy: we might get 5 minutes on the novel. If we're lucky, a couple minutes on the rest. Make it a money shot. She was a lot closer than she is letting on. But you'll have to ask her about that.

Lapdogs are great. They build confidence. Peggy likes you because you are more than that. (I think). Do with that what you will.

You are welcome to shoot slings and arrows my way. Be the first. I'm all over the place. You can figure it out.

I'm Thinking I Need A Shotgun

Utah is one of those groovy states where anyone can carry a gun. And you can get a great bargain at a pawnshop. Isn't that nice? I've had a little ladylike Browning automatic. It was a sweet little gun. I only used it once to get rid of an unwanted suitor. I didn't even have to shoot him. I just pointed it at his face and told him to get lost. He damn near crapped his pants. And I loved the fact that he was the guy who talked me into buying it, because he thought I needed protection. Yeah, protection from him.

I've fired almost every kind of gun that was around when I was growing up. I used to hunt rats at the dump when I was a little girl. The gun I learned to handle was a Luger. My father brought it back for my mother when he came home from soldiering in WWII. He was also the kind of man a woman needed protection from. When we ran, she took her gun. So when I was eight my new daddy took me to the dump in Willimina, Oregon to shoot rats. He thought a well rounded child should be able to handle a gun. I was a good shot. No fancy two handed bullshit for this little gunslinger. I stood square shouldered, left arm lose and relaxed, right arm extended, head turned to sight down the outstretched right arm and bam. Dead rat. I should have swung it that quarter arc and killed the rat leaning against the station wagon, puffing on his Camel and holding his beer bottle in his right hand. But I missed that opportunity.

I hunted all through my childhood and into my teens with my dad and grandfather. We hunted doves, and pheasant. We went to the gun club and shot skeet. We hunted porcupines at night at my grandfather's cabin, finding the game with a flashlight and then shooting them out of trees or as they waddled across a trail. It was another opportunity I missed to kill those two bastards.

I never bragged about my experience with guns. But when I started dating, guys always wanted to impress me with their macho shooting skill. I might pretend they needed to show me how to hold a rifle. I might miss the first couple of cans or bottles, and they would show me how good they were, how easy it was. Then I would take the rifle and wait while the young man so intent on teaching me his game, would set up the targets again, and when he got back out of range and almost to my side, I would take out every target before he could turn around and look. It was a jaw dropping experience for the young man who seldom asked me to go shooting with him again. I hunted rabbits alone. I was a right little savage.

Once I started taking acid and smoking pot I lost my taste for guns. I mellowed out. I was a fashion model and traveled where ever I wanted, staying long enough in one fashion capital or another to get an agent and make some money and then I was off again. It was an easy life. A young beauty is welcome anywhere. And oddly men always wanted to protect me. That is until I started marrying them. Strange how quickly a man who professes to love you can turn into an abusive prick once he thinks he owns you. I finally gave up on men who claimed to love me, and decided I preferred the occasional friend and a solitary life.

Today my old friend came over to bring me his home made corn bread. I peeled a chilled cantaloupe and sliced it and we shared a lovely lunch. We talked about politics like we always do, and the subject of the Supreme Court came up. We both hate that prick Antonin Gregory Scolia, the gangster of the current court. I also loathe Clarence Thomas, but he is merely an angry, vengeful man--not very smart and not terribly dangerous. But Scolia is a Cheney type gansta. It got us talking about the new ruling concerning gun laws, and got me to thinking I've always wanted a shotgun. It's the only gun I'd really want these days. I think there is nothing more chilling than the sound of a pump on a shotgun. That sound of someone getting ready to do some real damage. And I would imagine a woman with a shotgun could scare the crap out of any intruder. It's everyone's right to own and carry a gun in Utah. And I'm nothing if not a good citizen. And who knows when some asshole might decide to ignore the beware of dog signs and intrude on my privacy.

I'm Sorry

I'm not sleeping well and woke up inexplicably at 3 AM and decided to read a blog or two looking for inspiration. I read Liberality's post from yesterday and was amazed and delighted. I started scrolling backwards reading what she's been up to and was further amazed. Other people have real lives. Fancy that. I know Dcup has a huge real life and I've never been able to figure out how she does it. Not only do you guys have spouses, and kids, and jobs (and in Libs case, school) and write, you actually vacuum. Then you go visiting and say funny, smart things, like the perfect party guest. I've almost always been the wallflower at the party. So I'm in awe. The only party I've been throwing lately has been the most disgusting of all parties--the pity party. Well, I'm finally disgusted enough with myself to give it up. I'm calling my shrink today and telling her this latest drug change isn't working. I'd rather be fat than dull. Hell, I rather be dead than dull.

I owe my administrator a huge apology. No one has done more to help me master a few of the fundamentals of computing. His patience is astounding. He has been generous and for the most part very kind. Besides all of that I really like him. He's given me the world, and I've acted like a petulant child at a tiny bit of criticism. Yes, I am ashamed of myself. He has asked me to leave him out of my card game. And I will, once I state publicly what an ass I've been. I'm thin skinned beyond belief. I hate whiners and I'm a huge whiner. This leads to self-loathing. Duh. Circular and stupid. I'm climbing out of the hamster wheel and will attempt to peer out the window now and then.

Yesterday I got a lot of very good advise from the women who know when someone needs an intervention.

I've Lost My Mojo

Things are getting me down. I'm not sure what it is exactly, but it's depressing. It's probably a combination of things, but prior to my antidepressant change I was, despite all the other problems, enthusiastic and energetic. The final nail in my creative coffin was the email from my administrator, and I thought friend, who said, in essence, that I'm a bad writer. This is not an incentive to write. I spent my adult life either married to men or living with men who defined me as a bitch, and never lived with a man who took me seriously in any way except as a sexual object.

I grew up in a family that defined me as the problem, and all my family's ill treatment of me was deserved. I was the scapegoat in my family, and it took forty years of therapy to begin to turn the corner on that. I was told over and over to take responsibility for myself, even when I was a child. I was told that the terrible things done to me were my problem. So part of the reason I accept another's assessment of me as bad or childish or without talent is part of that legacy. My only value when I was younger was as an object to be used--either a good accessory or a piece of crap. So the bipolar roller coaster and the recent change of meds, the bad teeth, the bad ticker, the neurotic dog, are getting me down. I don't need anybody to feel sorry for me. I don't need pity or sympathy. But a gut kick isn't particularly helpful either. At my best I might be a bit of a drama queen. At my worst, I'm a limp rag, unable to think, or bathe, or feed myself. I nowhere my worst yet, but I could get there.

But I don't want to give this up. I want to get better at it. Bear with me. It may take awhile. And when I have the energy to write, I'll be trying to finish my last damn edit on the novel.

To Randal, Dcup, Diva, Liberality, DK Read, Enigma, Anita, and Unconventional Conventionist, and the rest of you, I'll be around, lurking and sulky for awhile. But once things settle down health wise, I'll be back wisecracking, and acting like a citizen who gives a shit again.

Dcup Understands Me

Well, this about sums up everything I love about jazz and a great torch singer. It doesn't hurt that the lyrics suite me perfectly. I'm a lucky woman to have a friend like you. And just for the record how did you find this perfect piece?

From My Administrator

I thought that this was a bit harsh. But the bad writing bit cuts very deep. Sends me back to the drawing board. Makes me deeply ashamed of myself. And I know I deserve the exhortation to write well. Bad writing should offend us all. My administrator sent this to me after reading, or trying to read a bit of the novel, and then asking me to fix something in the first chapter. My lack of editorial skill is shameful. But, it is my belief that a writer needs an editor--someone not so close to the story. Yes, this is a poor justification for sloppy writing. Yes, I'm often childish--I'd say I'm about twelve. A pissed off twelve year old.

From my Administrator to me in response to a couple of childish emails I sent to him.


"Peggy, darling, you know this is a piss poor message. It insults me, makes me think that you think I'm interested in, motivated by, childishness. I'm not. Maybe other people in your life are, or have been. Maybe it works on them. Do you respect them? Swearing doesn't make you tough. You can't continue to pretend that only prudishness would find this offensive. It's bad writing, simple as that. Bad writing offends me.

It's not a special case. It's a clear one. Anger, frustration ... oooh golly, the swear words make it so. Are you kidding me?

It's childish dumb and weak. It's not an "over use of the expletive."

And you can quote me on that.

I went to the Giants game tonight."

On Jul 26, 2008, at 7:50 PM, U.Savage wrote:

I could probably do some damage trying to fix this fucking problem. I want only Jabber available as an Ichat option. What is the Aim bullshit I can't get rid of.

For Non, Je Ne Regrettes Riene

Ne Me Quitte Pas, by Nina Simone

Stolen from Unconventional Conventionist

All it takes is one

Churlish in the Dog Days

I'm tired and pissed off and sad. And My Administrator is fed up with me. I have been experiencing these cardiac events, as my E Cardio heart monitor techs call them when I have to unload the days happenings into the phone. I don't notice the events, I just feel churlish, tired, and incapable of doing the simplest things--as if I left the house that is my brain, and some moron has inhabited it in my absence. And the weather isn't helping.

Over the past few days it's been 105 in the shade of the gazebo. And then out of nowhere a single cloud forms and then one crack of lightening and my house gets a surge that knocks out everything. Yes my friends, I did not own a surge protector. No, I just "forgot" to put it on my shopping list. No I'm not a complete moron, just a moron in some areas. Those parts of my brain not engaged in foraging for food and the fistfull of pills I take each day and finding a place that isn't out of my smokes, is about the limit of what I feel I can do at this particular point in my rush toward the grim reaper. I'm wired up like frankenstein, with a monitor hanging from my neck that's like wearing an especially ugly neckless that weighs too much--the wires dangle, and it's too hot to wear anything that would make this unsightly mess less visible, so I go around with wires hanging, and my monitor swinging jauntily from my tired neck. I'm fed up and very tired and really cranky.

After the second or third surge, my Administrator told me to "GET A GOOD SURGE PROTECTOR OR YOU WILL KILL YOUR COMPUTER, and in his tone was the last bit, but not exactly said, YOU MORON. I am grateful to my Administrator, and I'm obedient like a five year old to his shouted orders. So I got the most expensive surge protector I could find. I unplugged the tangle of cords, and reinstalled the important ones, and then BAM, another surge. Well, thank god, I was "protected." None of this makes me less cranky or surly or irritable. Part of this irritably is the result of the antidepressant change, and the heat isn't helping, and the heart going haywire several times a day for no fucking reason, and the extreme fatigue of it all. Could this be the big ennui that is old age and the approach of the sweetly smiling grim reaper creeping up on me? It's probably all of the above. But then, in response to a too desperate email and a couple of whiny emails I sent my Administrator followed by a day of silence from him, I got a very pissed off email back. I don't doubt that I deserved his scorn and impatience, but it hurt my feelings. And since I feel like one ragged exposed and overused nerve, I shut down my computer and took to bed.

And a damn good thing it was. A storm blew in and knocked the power out in the whole neighborhood. So, no fan, no swamp cooler, no TV, no lights, one candle, and fortunately one flashlight that worked. So after a night of too much time to think, and a restless sweaty sleep-- I'm in no better mood, but I will not yet give up the blogging, and I will continue to swear like a drunken sailor, and I will, eventually, slowly edit my fiction again.

PS . So to console myself, I made a luscious fresh peach cobbler because it's peach season, and I'm finally tired of cornbread.

Oh, and I almost forgot--the three molars on the lower right side of my jaw have become abscessed, and need to be pulled, cut out, whatever. But because of the heart thing and the big dose of blood thinners, I can't have this little painful problem dealt with. I can't afford it anyway. So I stay on antibiotics to keep the pain to a low simmer. Did I say I can't afford it? Medicare does not cover dental emergencies. But even if they did, I still couldn't get this last indignity taken care of.