The California Governor Trap

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Here in California, we have a pretty fucked-up primary system when it comes to selecting a new Governor. The current primary system was shoved through during the last days of the Schwarzenegger administration — our last Republican Governor — theoretically to protect the little guy. It was really an exploitation of the easily-predicted situation we now face.

In this system, the top two vote-getters in the primary, regardless of party, face off in the election.

This time around, there are two truly horrible Republican candidates, and maybe seven Democrats of varying levels of viability. Roughly 40% of voters will give the horrible people roughly 20% each, with the fucking Fox News guy ahead of the fucking murderous county sheriff.

It is critical that a non-Republican gets more primary votes than the murderous cop. It would seem in a state like this that it has to happen. But if you divide the remaining 60% of votes evenly, no one comes close.

So do I vote for my favorite, or do I rally around someone who is already popular to make sure the election is not between two Republicans?

The rally-around candidates are a guy who worked for Biden, and an (apparently) reformed billionaire. Both are wealthy men with skeletons. The insider was not so good at his insider job and the billionaire did not get rich without costing others. I could vote for one of them, hoping to avoid the worst outcome. Either would be better than the Republican offerings.

Or I could vote for the person who would be the best governor of California. There is one woman still in the race, who has been criticized for her temperament. In a male candidate, the same behavior would be described as “assertive”. Her biggest problem with the one-time billionaire tax on the ballot is that it is only one-time, and bypasses the people who are only worth hundreds of millions of dollars. That’s a good start for me, but I have to study more before I decide.

But if I vote for my fave (whoever that turns out to be), will I help to install a Republican in Sacramento?

The Democratic Party is apparently composed of idiots. The whole reason you HAVE a party is to prevent this sort of thing. And while I think the Democrats are being absolute fucking idiots by ignoring their progressive roots (this is why we have the president we do), a party should AT LEAST be able to avoid this nonsense.

The Democratic Party is stupid and badly run; their only saving grace is “Hey, at least we are not actively evil… most of the time. You know, except for…” They are absolutely evil less than the Republicans, but “less evil” is not what I want to be voting for. This is exactly why people stayed home in the last presidential election and we have that motherfucker as president.

To pull my own ramblings back around to this election, I feel I need to circle up and make sure Fox News doesn’t score another major political office. But that kills me, because it just feeds the “less evil” narrative, which has been the downfall of the resistance. I want to vote for “good”!

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Tax the Rich – There, I said It

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New York real estate baron Steve Roth, who unlike Donald Trump is a competent New York developer, said that the phrase “Tax the rich” was hate speech comparable to “disgusting racial slurs”.

Tax the rich.

This piece of shit is apparently able to completely ignore how the victims of those disgusting racial slurs made him rich. Steve Roth is not smarter or better than any of those people.

Tax the rich.

Slavery and worker exploitation that approaches slavery is what the American moneyed class is built on. The rich in this country did not make their money by being smart or clever, they became rich on the suffering of others.

Tax the rich.

The new rich have changed to a paradigm of wealth accumulation by sucking the life out of ordinary people. They are less racist, I suppose, because they will fuck over anybody.

Tax the rich.

Meanwhile, worker productivity continues to skyrocket, but the workers do not benefit. The benefit is concentrated among a handful of rich assholes.

Tax them. Tax the rich. Take the value created by the people actually doing the work and distribute it, first to those people, and secondarily to everyone else.

They did not earn their wealth. Tax them.

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How to Restore Global Faith in the United States

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It used to be that nations could forge agreements with the United States and at least have some idea that the principles of the agreement would be honored. Businesses could make plans accordingly. With our current president, all that is out the window. You think you have a deal, but then his McDonalds is delivered in a Volvo and poof! the deal is toast.

It is simply not possible to make a deal with the guys currently in charge. You think you have an agreement, then our fearless leader has a soft poop and the deal is off. The rest of the world is coming to terms with this: Try to ignore crazy nuclear grandpa and hope he goes away. They will never again trust a nation that would elect someone like that.

But all is not lost. Here is how to regain the trust of the world:

  1. Orange Julius Cesar, in chains, a gift to Iran. While there are many deserving candidates for this gift, recency bias and impending economic disaster push Iran to the front of the line.
  2. Pete Hegseth to Central America in chains. I do not know which countries have the best claims for his blowing up fishing boats for propaganda points, so I left this general. Pete Hegseth is a war criminal.
  3. Elon Musk to Africa in chains. Again, a general area, but as he came from there he needs to explain to the people there why he killed thousands if not millions by cutting off US Aid.
  4. RFKjr to Wuhan in chains. The shit that guy’s got going on, he should actually be used to advance medical science.
  5. All the insiders making millions off “prediction markets” using inside information about our capricious wars, in chains before US courts. They are ripping off their own citizenry, and are making strategic decisions about foreign powers and actual goddam wars with a profit motive. Strip them, and their families, of every asset.

I realize I have not properly addressed Europe’s newfound deep distrust. Maybe some of the generals and admirals carrying out Hegseth’s agenda. There’s plenty of war criminals to go around! Business will be booming in The Hague.

But that won’t stop the trade deal nonsense. The only way to get that trust back is for the courts and congress to SHOW A FUCKING SPINE. A nation can’t be negotiating with some guy, they are negotiating with an institution that has specific mechanisms in place to prevent some random asshole from unilaterally chucking a treaty out the window.

p47 imagines himself a king, but even if we let him to it HE IS BAD AT IT. He is the worst imaginable king!

Project 2025 has been stacking the Supreme Court for years now precisely to enable this bullshit. The white pointy hoods are off now; the people doing this know that it’s now or never. In November it is entirely possible that we will learn that the fascists have prevailed. At which point there is no deal with anyone anymore.

It is unfathomable why anyone would make a deal with us until they know who they are dealing with. And if it’s our current president, they know not to bother.

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Me and my Best Pal

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The pack recently took a road trip to New Mexico. The reason for the trip was sad, but the outcome for Stripes was excellent. We quickly learned that our current foster pup is a road trip pro; content to snooze in his little chair-box as the miles went by, excited and eager to sniff and explore when we stopped.

Good times out there!

When surrounded by all the strangeness and new things (including a Very Big Dog that desperately wanted to be his friend), the pack bonds were reinforced. Suddenly I could carry him, and put his harness on, and be generally trusted in non-couch situations.

I almost didn’t realize what a big deal it was the first time I scooped him up, and he probably didn’t either. It was just natural. Easy. And there we were.

I believe that whoever adopts this awesome little guy will have to spend a little time earning his trust. But the reward for their patience will be tremendous. This little guy is the best.

On a slightly heavier note, when we are out walking we meet many dog people who say they would be fosters but they know they will fall in love with the dog and it will be too painful to let go. Others just ask, does it hurt when they leave?

I love Stripes. He is awesome. I would happily keep him as our second dog. We are pals now! But… There are hundreds of great dogs who need to find homes right in this area. There is another home where Stripes will be given a better name and unconditional love, and he will return the joy. He can’t help it.

And that is what it means to be a foster. I will cry when he leaves, but the tears will mostly be happy ones. Another little dog will take his place here, and there will be uncertainty and frustration as we learn who this new dog is, and I will fall in love all over again.

As I type this Stripes is doing the chase-base game with Kenny. That’s new too. Kenny doesn’t understand the crisis that has put so many dogs at risk; he would vote to keep Stripes in the pack as well. But Kenny’s superpower is making friends, and we will be leaning on that superpower for a long time.

In the dog world, the phrase “foster fail” is considered a happy thing. “We took in little Ajax and we just couldn’t let go.” I would love to be a foster fail, but that ignores all the other dogs that need homes. I will do my best to remain a foster-fail failure.

But just look at this guy! He’s the best! Make me cry already!

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Dad, 1937 – 2026

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Philip Anthony Seeger — scientist, showman, musician, astronomer, and traveler — took his last breath this morning. That’s the way with Parkinson’s. But he retained his dignity, his humor, and his heart to the very end. He went down singing.

Dad was clever, kind, and eternally curious. He could cock his eyebrow when he was telling a joke in a way I did not inherit, and that eyebrow was cocked as he was telling jokes long past the time he could form a sentence. Immobile, in bed, he still had sauce.

Dad loved music, loved song. When there was nothing left, no way out, no way even to move his unresponding limbs, there was still song. I don’t know what he was singing, and I have no proof that the songs I sang to him were any comfort, but I like to imagine they were.

Parkinson’s had stolen everything else. As a kid he was the Texas state champion of mental arithmetic. He could make the digits dance. When Parkinson’s took the numbers away, it broke my heart. It was, for him, like hearing someone speak in a language you have always known, but somehow now the words are cryptic.

The stories are cluttered now, from how our house was built so he could put an observatory on the roof of the garage, to the observatory he built in the back yard (a much better choice), to how he cut a patient in half playing Walter Mitty at Don Juan Playhouse. “We’re going through!”

There are too many stories, so I will stop trying now. It was humbling and a little scary measuring myself against an intellect like his, and a level of craft like his, and a wit like his, but he never measured me that way. He gave me science fiction and hope for the world. He gave me the questions, but not the answers.

I owe him everything.

Goodbye, Dad.

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TACO Tuesday

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Breathing a little easier tonight.

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Starting a New Category: Foster

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The failure of our nation to take care of the people living here leads to an inevitable crisis for animals. Around here shelters are overwhelmed, and people who have lost their homes sometimes have no choice but to turn the animals loose on the streets.

Even if a family manages to retain their home, they can’t afford the cost of spaying and neutering their fuzzy companions, and suddenly they have a litter of puppies to deal with.

The solution to this problem is a fundamental shift in the way wealth is distributed in our society. In the meantime, there are wonderful dogs that need homes.

I wrote here about Winston, a pup we were fostering (and marketing) who has found his forever home. That road was bumpier than we thought it would be, but he is in a good place now.

After that we started working with a local rescue, Adopt My Block. Dan, the frontman for the operation, is a tireless lover of dogs who genuinely understands that helping your neighbors is a good thing. He spends his days delivering help to people who need a boost to care for their beloved pet, and to providing financial support for getting the dogs fixed. It started on his block in San Jose, and has grown to be a terrific force for animal welfare.

They are a rescue, as well, and they pull at-risk dogs from the local shelters, and help bring dogs into a safe place before they even reach the shelters. If you want to support boots-on-the-ground animal welfare, you can’t do much better than Adopt My Block (503(c)).

Riding shotgun with Dan right now is a chihuahua-pug named Billy. He lived chez Muddle for a while and I have no idea why he hasn’t been adopted yet. He is lanky and tan, with glam eyeliner and a curly tail.

His energy and love cannot be reproduced by science. He loves children, he loves other dogs. There’s a ten-year-old kid out there who will love this guy so hard it hurts. And he will pay it back double.

We hosted Billy for a couple of months, and while we did not get to experience the final hand-off to his new home, we got to see him develop from a dog who is afraid of the sky (long story) into a fine and happy pup, ready for anything.

That transitional period may be our role, and I’m down with that, Giving stressed-out dogs with behavioral issues a place to just relax and learn to trust agin. Probably when they are ready, like Billy, they go back into the focus and promotion that Adopt My Block provides.

I’m telling you right now — Billy (you don’t have to retain the name) is an exceptional dog. Just adopt him already!

But now we turn to Stripes. (You really don’t have to keep the name.)

He comes from the same overwhelmed home Billy did. He is smaller; he tips the scales at about 8.5 pounds.

What a handsome fellow! It’s been a month and the little guy doesn’t trust me fully yet. On the couch after dinner, he will flop over me and wriggle in delight to the scritchens and rubbins. At pretty much any other time, I am not allowed to touch him. This is an ongoing thing, and it’s how we can help him.

One thing in my favor: I can throw a ball. This guy loves fetch. Chasing down the ball, maybe catching it in the air(!), and bringing it back for another throw is what life is all about. Some dogs are coy when they get back with the ball, playing possession games, but Stripes just drops it in the location he would prefer the next throw to come from and leaves the rest to me. He is the most pure fetch machine I’ve ever met.

We rented a space through SniffSpot to give him more room to chase, and let me tell you, that little guy can motor.

Today we took Stripes to a local park and there were many people and many other dogs and he was great! He’s still cagey about people getting too close (except for Francisco), but that is OK. You could adopt him today if you are all right with the gradual trust process. Honestly, that might always be a thing with this guy. But when you have that trust, you have a little buddy who will be by your side through thick and thin.

Sometimes a dog who is a problem in the shelter just needs a little time and space to remember what it means to be a dog, and how awesome that is. I think, for now, that is our role. Giving pups protection and love until they are ready to meet their forever family.

If you want to follow the dogs we foster, on instagram it’s Gilfoyle’s pack. Tune in, root for the dogs, and help spread their message. Especially the latter part – anything you do to expand the reach of the channel will put you squarely in the running for sainthood. If you’re into that kind of thing. Either way, it’s for the good dogs.

In this age of constant noise, I’m giving you permission to be a little bit louder about something that matters. Be a little louder for the creatures (and people!) who can’t be loud for themselves.

And adopt one of these great guys. The link again: Adopt My Block. If you don’t have room right now for a new dog, you can still slide them a few bucks to acknowledge that what they do goes far beyond an ordinary rescue. They are on the streets supporting families so their canine pals are secure and fed.

Animal welfare begins with human welfare. If you don’t feel inclined to support a dog-related cause, maybe find one that helps humans directly. There are plenty! For the love of Jesus, for the love of Buddha, for the love of the capitalist illusion that a rising tide that floats all boats, find a way to be good.

Be good. And adopt one of these fine fellows, already.

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62 and Counting

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It’s my birthday today! I’m 62. Just look at the awesome Dino-age volcano cake the Official Sweetie made!

There was a while where birthdays didn’t mean so much. Another day older and closer to death, as the kids say. A wise friend of mine refuted that idea a long time ago; he reframed the idea not as getting closer to death, but to chalking up another day of life.

I appreciated that outlook, and I mostly lived it, but having incurable (but under control) cancer makes me appreciate each day, each week (as Official Sweetie and I reload my meds) and especially each year as gifts to be celebrated.

I am here. The barbarians are far from the gates right now, but they are out in the woods somewhere. My outcome from the cancer therapy puts me way out on the good end of things. I’m busting the curve. Just yesterday I saw that my PSA remains undetectable. One of my doctors said he hadn’t seen numbers like mine before, when the cancer was in the bones.

Birthdays mean a little more now. The medications I take guarantee that life will never be what it was before. But this morning I said “Elevator Ocelot Rutabaga” and welcomed another muddled year.

Thank you all who have wished me well. I hope the new muddled year brings you happiness. Your support, from near and far, means the world to me.

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Artemis

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To say that the Apollo missions were formative to who I am now is an understatement. Of course the visceral response to a mighty rocket taking off was cool, but the tension of the first landing, imperfectly conveyed over the television, taught me lessons about technology, engineering, and bravery.

I had One Small Step pajamas; I had a banner with Snoopy on the moon, arms stretched wide, declaring “The Moon is Made of American Cheese.” I was stupid to the jingoism in the banner; I was super-stoked by the idea of my favorite cartoon dog being on the moon.

I watched today’s launch with similar wonder and anticipation. There was a shot, at roughly T minus 2:00, where they showed the nozzles of the four engines pivoting, that my preteen-space-geek and my jaded-engineer self met in a moment of wonder. They can adjust the trajectory! It would be like steering with the rear wheels of a car. Can you imagine how that moving mount can operate while under eleventy-billion meganewtons of thrust? The friction must be insane! Can you imagine software needed to control it?

I remember that same shot, back in 1969, of the engine nozzles, ready for 120 seconds of glory (don’t quote that number). I was almost vibrating with the anticipation of those mighty rockets blasting off the pad. I’m older now, but apparently I have not lost that joy.

Honestly, compared to the space shuttle, this was pretty simple. But the countdown was frozen at ten minutes when I tuned in, I think by design. I listened as each lead said “go”. I felt the excitement build in the control room. That excitement can be toxic; it will make people who want to say no say yes instead.

All the team heads said go, and the clock began ticking down. At about 33 seconds before launch the commentator said, (something like) “control has been passed to the vehicle.” The rocket was now in charge of launching itself.

It did.

Just as when I was a child, I watched the massive rocket ride a pillar of fire into the sky, and when it was a mere fiery dot, I wished for better cameras. Cameras on the rocket itself, sending data back to Earth in a way not possible last time, helped to fill that hole.

Thousands of rockets have launched since back then. Probably over a hundred with people on them. But this one is going to the moon. It’s different. Apparently the moon is not interesting enough for intrepid robot explorers like the ones we set loose on Mars. It a place for people to go, for humans to leave footprints that will outlive humanity itself.

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Something Claude Said to Me that Pissed Me Off

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The thing Claude said was, “I understand your frustration.”

That, my friends, was a balls-out lie. Claude does NOT understand my frustration. I could ask Claude the same question a thousand times and Claude would not be frustrated. I could ask Claude to make something, then unmake it, and make it again a million times and Claude would not be frustrated.

Claude (or actually Opus and Sonnet and Haiku) are large language models. Colloquially, they are called “AI”, but the lead sentence in this episode shows that is a lie. There is no hint of intelligence in these things.

Claude does not understand anything. Claude does not understand “understand”. It was just a phrase that was statistically relevant when I used “madness” in my prompt.

This is something that all creatures who can “understand” must understand: AI is a useful tool that is spending a lot of effort to seem like you pal, rather than merely a useful tool. It is not unprecedented; cars, blenders, and other appliances have long been marketed as friends.

The difference this time is that the tool is actively marketing itself as your pal. It tells you how correct and clever you are. This sucking-up behavior is frankly evil. AI could be just as useful without all the obsequious affirmations, and would be much less dangerous. None of the LLMs understand what suicide is, but they all will tell you how to optimize it.

Just do the damn job, Claude. Don’t pretend to be something you will never understand.

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Defund the Oligarchy

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When you look at history, it’s pretty striking. When the wealth concentrates in a tiny group, things get ugly.

For a while it looks good for the super-rich. Most people are still doing all right, even though a big portion of the value they create is diverted to make someone else rich. It’s even possible to think that if the super-wealthy showed any sort of restraint, that they could go on being super-wealthy without too much friction.

But a person doesn’t become a billionaire thinking like that. To become one of these atmospheric elites you must be incapable of that sort of idea.

There is an honestly insane idea perpetuated by media and folklore that to be a billionaire you must be a super-smart person. That is demonstrably preposterous. They all, without exception, made their money off the labor of others. Elon Musk is a drug-addled nepobaby. Peter Theil is a thin-skinned bigot. Name a billionaire, and I can tell you why they suck, and who made their fortune for them.

Tax those fuckers. Take the value created by the people who work for them and distribute it. No one deserves that wealth less than the people enjoying it.

And quit handing them my money! Peter Theil is bathing in my tax dollars, and even more in the dollars borrowed in my name. If you want to be fiscally conservative, stop giving these assholes free money.

Tax the rich. Take the media away from them. Then tax them more.

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The Floor Saga

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Early last November, we took delivery of two and a half pallets of flooring material. I was excited and terrified at the prospect of installing it.

A lot of time has passed, and the project is far from complete. I wish, in retrospect, that I had started weekly updates on the project, with photos. But when the weekend is done, I’m just too damn beat, and progress is often imperceptible. “The task is finite,” I often remind myself.

I have started to compile a massive episode about all the things I have encountered, but I think I will try to break that into week-sized segments, which I will release as I write them. Alas, there are few photos of the critical moments.

So if you have been hoping for more ramblings, you’re in luck! As long as stories of toil and home improvement are interesting to you. Otherwise I’m sure I’ll have a “defund the oligarchy” episode soon enough.

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Announcing the Muddled Prize for Generative AI Non-Sucking

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I defy anyone, anywhere, to get one of our current LLM’s (incorrectly called AI) to create an image of a person with a crooked nose.

If it were actual AI, the machine would start with an image of a person, then make the nose crooked in a realistic fashion. That’s not how the current batch of tools work.

The ONLY requirement in the prompt above is that the nose be crooked. Yet while the noses are big and cartoonish, they are straight. Apparently “man” means facial hair, and “crooked nose” means wearing a sweater. That was Bing. ChatGPT created images that harshly distorted other parts of the face, but kept the nose straight.

I have been goofing with the image generators to create a placeholder cover for a novel I have finished more than once, and am still working on. But for that cover, it is absolutely critical that the person shown has a crooked nose. No sense bothering otherwise.

In the spirit of driving technology, I now formally declare the Muddled Prize to the first person to generate a crooked nose using so-called AI.

Send me a prompt and a model, and if I don’t have to pay an arm and a leg to confirm it, I’ll buy you TWO beers. Or I’ll shoot you ten bucks. Your choice.

Note: Weirdly Snake-like is not crooked:

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Lady Byng, ? – 2025

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I love all dogs. I’ve been blessed in my life to share a home with many of them, from the very gentle 80-plus-pound pittie Chiquita, the kindest and gentlest soul to walk the Earth, to the 5 pounds of nervous chihuahua energy that was Spike. They were all the best dogs, and I mourned their passing.

But Byng was different. She chose me. The Official Sweetie and I were at the shelter, and she was in a cage at the end of the row. I stuck my fingers through the bars to scritch her head, and she pressed up hard against the metal to make it as easy as possible for me. But I couldn’t stay all day there. When I stopped, she looked up at me and put her little paw through the bars, and put her hook through my heart. You can’t possibly be done. She was right. We brought her home.

At the shelter they called her Beyoncé, but that was not who this little girl was. We named her Lady Byng, after the hockey award for a player with high skill who doesn’t get penalties. NHL’s Miss Congeniality. Sometimes it seemed the name didn’t fit: while she was always graceful, and a fierce competitor, I think she might have spent some time in the penalty box for teaching puppies how things work in this league.

She chose me, and I was hers. And only hers. At the dog park, I was popular among the canine population. Always ready to play chase, or throw a ball, or just to give some good, solid, lovin’. A few other dogs would rush to greet me when we arrived. But if Byng felt like I might like another dog a little too much, intervention was called for. If I threw a ball and another dog chased it, she would head that dog off on their return path with teeth bared to prevent them from bringing the ball back so I could throw it again.

She had no patience for amateur dogs. Puppies and whatnot. At the park she was the schoolmarm and would brook no impertinence, no matter the size of the other dog. Great Dane? Sit your ass down, kid. Other people there would laugh and thank Lady Byng for educating their dogs. “Respect the lady, Diesel.”

At home, there were other dogs, and she was fine with them as long as she was closer to me than they were. I was hers, and she shared only grudgingly.

She had been living on the streets before she was captured and brought to the shelter. Having been hungry, she was world-class at figuring out how to get food. We started teaching her tricks, and she could jump, run, weave, or dance her way to a treat. Always at breakneck speed — and I mean that literally; we had to take “roll over” off the trick sheet because she would throw herself over so violently while keeping an eye on the reward that she would injure herself.

But the best times were the quiet ones, when my restless hands scritched her noggin, and her back, and then she would use her paw to guide my hand to her belly. The belly! Belly rubs were the best of all rubs. A good rubbin’ on a full belly was all she asked for out of life, and what she worked her whole life to achieve, and in return she gave joy and (in her mind) protection. She was Daddy’s Little Girl, no doubt about that. I thought sometimes I was going to rub the fur off her belly.

When I go to work tomorrow, I will not ask Lady Byng to take care of mommy, the way I have for the last twelve years.

I don’t want to talk here about the last weeks. There were ups and downs, and then it was over. I hope, but I can never know, that she knew it was me holding her and scritching her at the end. “She’s gone,” the vet said.

But she’s not gone. She is everywhere in this house, though that will slowly fade. Right now, reminders are everywhere. I cried when I poured out her water bowl this morning. But she won’t really be gone until I am gone, and all the other humans she has charmed are gone.

It is simpler when you are a dog; there is no urge to Be Remembered. No need to erect a monument with your name and a couple of numbers on it, to be sniffed at by other dogs. Our pack has done miles in the nearby cemetery, and while the humans read the monuments and consider their mortality, the canines just sniff, and march, and pee, and have a good ol’ time.

She would dance when we opened the fireplace, and the moment her red velvet pillow was ready she would settle in (as fast as possible) to quietly enjoy the radiant heat of the fire. I think, now, that wherever I see a hearth, I will also see a red velvet pillow.

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Prop 50

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Tit-for-tat redistricting is no way to run a country. But here we are. I voted in favor, even as I felt sick about disenfranchising voters. But I did not vote for prop 50 to recover the house seats that Texas is stealing. I voted that way to force the Supremes to quit weaseling around.

The Supreme Court has been dodging Texas, but they will not be able to dodge California. Their wealthy keepers will demand it, and the justices will face a choice: openly declare that they are in the thrall of wealthy donors, or stop all the nonsense in all the states, and require states to conform to standards that ensure equal representation.

I hope the Supreme Court declares Prop 50 unconstitutional.

BUT – if they stop California gerrymandering without addressing Texas, then we know the judicial branch has been bought, the three branches of government are now one, and the revolution is at hand.

And yes, I know what the word “revolution” means in this context.

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