Wednesday, November 29, 2006
I recently went grocery shopping at The Jewels.
But something was different.
Standing in front, in the spot usually reserved for the gregarious Streetwise vendor, was one of the mayor's tall fat leather-clad Machine ward cretins.
He held a clipboard in his hand, and as I slipped past him I realized he was collecting signatures to get da mare on the ballot for the spring primary. (Mayoral hopefuls must procure a whopping 25,000 signatures -- while statewide candidates only need 5,000 signatures to run for office. This 1995 rule makes it nearly impossible for outsiders to get on the ballot and could perhaps explain why we have a Mare for Life). I'd seen a similar clipboard-toting thug in front of the drug store on Sunday, and gave him a wide berth.
When I came out, though, the corpulant committeeman caught me.
"Are you registered to the vote in the City of Chicago?"
"Nope," I said, pulling out my keys and making a beeline for my bicycle.
So much for satya.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Two students came late to the Mysore (self-practice) ashtanga yoga class.
Late as in they began setting up their mats and assorted props and sundries 15 minutes before class ended.
It was not a big deal since the teacher was sticking around to do her own practice after class anyway.
The teacher didn't give them any help, however, because 1) She was off the clock 2) She was focusing on her own practice 3) She believes such behavior rewards tardiness, and 4) They didn't ask for any.
At a couple of points the teacher left the room to attend to some business, and returned later to pick up where she'd left off.
Upon one return, the students told her they had been watching her and were concerned about her practice.
Apparently she'd been dangling her head in Caturanga Dandasana (a sort of push-up) and doing some weird neck-thing in Uttanasana (standing forward bend).
She conceded, and explained she was in pain from teaching the previous day's Mysore class and had been rushing thru Caturanga to get it over with as quickly as possible. They made suggestions about her shoulder placement and one of them even adjusted her.
It felt good.
Later one of them kindly offered her an adjustment in Supta Vajrasana, which she politely decllined. The shelf under which she'd wedged her knees worked just fine.
After seeing her barely grasping her thigh in her bloated, post-Thanksgiving rendition of an intense seated twist called Ardha Matsyendrasana, one of them suggested she modify the pose and showed her the options.... much the same way she'd often explained the same modifications to her newest beginning students. The teacher, slightly defensive, said something about having back issues and the twist being deep enough as it was. The suggestor said the modificiations had been learnt from Famous Iyengar Teachers.
The teacher, who'd learnt her own modifications for various poses from 1) Famous Ashtanga Teachers* 2) The many workshops, intensives and retreats she'd attended and written about over the past decade, and 3) By working with her own tight, old and misshapen body and those of her students, held her tongue and did the pose her way.
It was also suggested that she go to a teacher who is well- known for knowing many ashtanga modifications, particularly for the injured.
The teacher was nonplussed.
The ego however was not confused.
It was annoyed.
But the practice went on, such as it was.
And the mouth remained closed, and no words about proper drishti (gazing point) and so on spewed forth.
Not til much later, anyway, when the hands took over and began typing up a storm.
* Famous Ashtanga Teachers such as Maty Ezraty and the Millers Chuck and TIm, among others.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
Even public radio* is flogging the perennial, yawn-inducing stories about today's shopping frenzy; Check out the brainwashed people fighting over Ninetendo XXI! Listen to the cash register ring! See the merchants smile!
Has no one informed them that today is Buy Nothing Day?
Not to mention Fur Free Friday?
*That said, the essay aired today and sounded really good.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
I'm grateful today for the fact that there are no holes in the roof (that I know of) and it's a decent temperature in here and there's food in the cupboards and the electricty works and you can turn a faucet and water comes out.
The other night I watched Spike Lee's brilliant When the Levees Broke. His work has been hit-or-miss over the years (She's Gotta Have It = Hit, School Daze = not so much, Do the Right Thing = hit, Jungle Fever = not so much, etc). But this is a masterpiece. I stayed up until 1 AM watching it --unprecedented outside of a brand-new relationship -- because I could not turn it off.
Most of those people are still in trailers, by the way.
I'm also thankful that my left elbow stopped hurting and I can do vinyasas and was able to ride my bike to teaching (for double time) this morning and that I could snap digital photos on the ride home and also that the History Channel is rerunning Desperate Crossing: The Untold Story of the Mayflower tonight at 7 (8 Eastern). I caught the last hour the other night and it was great (well, it was until the Wampanoag actor playing Squanto* appeared sans costume, in an office, and addressed the camera as a Native American expert. Talk about breaking down walls....).
*Squanto looks a bit like John Herndon of Tortoise back when he was Johnny Machine of Poster Children.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
I was half- listening to Chicago Public Radio's magazine show while making chai this morning when I heard them say something about overeating on Thanksgiving and raw foods. My ears perked up, and next thing I knew I heard my own voice talking about how "afterwords I was thirsty, and my date and I both craved ice cream." What an awful, flat, Midwestern voice, I thought. But it was mine. And they said the magic words -- that the essay would air on the next show.
But when is the next show? Thanksgiving or Friday?
The website doesn't say.
The person at the front desk didn't know.
And no one at the show picked up the phone.
Some background: I recorded this essay the day before I left for India last May. Six months ago. I remember being miffed upon learning that the station's free parking policy had just changed, and that I'd have to shell out $24 for the 45 minutes my car was in the Navy Pier garage. No one told me. The regular producer was out, and I couldn't help but telegraph my hurt surprise to the person who recorded the essay.
While in India I e-mailed them a few times asking when / if the thing had aired.
When I returned in late July I asked again.
The producer did some research and got back to me a few days later.
Apparently they had lost it.
"Aha!" I thought. "Punishment for geting mad about the parking."
But they said they still wanted it. So I rode my bicycle down to Navy Pier and re-recorded it, along with a new essay about surviving summer in Chicago -- with the regular producer, whom I adore.
Of course the heat wave disappeared, never to return, the minute I rode out of the garage.
And despite occasional prodding, the raw foods essay never aired either.
"OK," I figured, "They're done with me."
But after 42 years you get quite good at beating your head against a wall.
So after many false starts I sent them a new essay -- about feeling like an underacheiver at my 20th college reunion.
(Actually I feel like one all the time. But that would be a book, not an essay).
Lo and behold -- yesterday they e-mailed back the new essay with minor edits and said I should set up a time to record it.
"OK," I thought. "Now they'll have three of may essays to misplace."
So when I heard my thin flat voice coming through the radio today, I actually whooped and jumped up and down.
Maybe I do have a career after all.
Now, if only I could figure out when it's going to air.
The interim producer got back to me: It will air Friday sometime between 9 and 10 on 91.5-FM. Ha!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Here're some images of Chicago's new Trump International Hotel and Tower, captured by the CacaCam on Friday. It's meant to usurp the Sears Tower as America's tallest building. Condos start at $470,000 and top out at $9 million. At last -- affordable housing in a building that will put Chicago back on the map....
Saturday, November 18, 2006
It is freezing cold here.
Yet both air conditioners are still in the windows, letting in more cold air.
In the past few years the landlord has sent his workers to remove them (so that he could save on heating costs of course).
But not this year.
I can't do it myself because of my bad back. Plus one of them is just too damn heavy.
I can't call anyone because everyone I know either has a bad back or is estranged from me or both.
Maybe I can hold out all winter.
After all, layers are in this year.
Friday, November 17, 2006
According to Anthony Lane's New Yorker review of Casino Royale, the new James Bond is a bit asexual*:
"Poor fellow. If Pussy Galore showed up, he'd pour her a saucer of milk."
*Perhaps he's a yogi.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
This Windian, urban-dwelling version of Durga is usually depicted with just two arms and is surrounded by flames representing the pain of everyday existence. The lightening signifies the potential for enlightenment. This form of the Goddess is the embodiment of anger turned inward (Depression) and she often underestimates her own power. Yet she still manages, ultimately, to vanquish the enemies whose bones litter the ground. Her vehicle is either a horse or a cat -- depending on her mood. Both vehicles are advocating for a big bowl of ladoo to be added to the mix.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Caca began studying yoga in Tibet with Yogeswarar Rama Mohana Brahmacharya in the 1920's. After spending the next two decades meditating in a cave, she began teaching in 1941. Her students have included David and Andy Williams, George Michael, Stephen Hawking, Indra Devi, Maria Callas, Steve McQueen, Kamil Ataturk and Georg Fuerstein, to name just a few.
She's been making annual trips to Mysore to study with her beloved guruji, Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, since 1943 and has completed all 11 series of the ashtanga vinyasa system -- including the five secret ones they never discuss with westerners. She holds advanced degrees in anatomy, psychology, physical therapy and Eastern Studies and is fluent in English, Hindi, Sanskrit, Farsi and Gibberish. She's held lucrative intensives, retreats and teacher training programs on six of the seven continents and has scaled Everest in her bare feet.
*Ever notice how many yoga teachers pad their resumes? Satya, my arse.
Monday, November 13, 2006
I learnt a few things while going through my grandfather's photo album at my brother's house yesterday.
My grandmother (mother's side) was born 100 years ago today (she died in 1991).
Her husband died at the age of 67, in 1965.
My mother (their daughter) also died at the age of 67.
Her sister killed herself when she was in her 30's.
I suppose that means I should get around to writing that novel sooner rather than later.
Recently in class a student did the finger-wag at me. You know, the gesture where they lift their index finger and curl it towards them a few times as if to say, "Come over here, slave-bitch. NOW!"
I always hated that gesture when I was a waitress, and often interpreted it as a signal to disappear into the bathroom.
But I came over anyway.
"What would you like?" I asked, taking out my notepad.
Yesterday's baby shower was very empowering.
First there was the open bar; after a few drinks we all got into a very deep discussion about politics, architecture and morality.
Everyone was dressed very sexily I may add.
But my miniskirt was still the shortest.
La Leche League gave a breastfeeding demostration, and recommended that the new mother breastfeed for at least five years. Then they handed out baby dolls to everyone and had us try it.
Then Planned Parenthood led us through a breast self-exam.
After the presents were opened, we loaded our plates at the vegan buffet and toasted Nancy Pelosi. Kneeling men massaged our feet while we came up with a plan for resurrecting the Equal Rights Amendment.
Then the band started, and we danced like crazy people at a Cramps concert.
Needless to say, I'm now a huge fan of the baby shower -- and can't wait to have one of my own.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
I stayed in last night and watched the 1937 multi award-winning The Life of Emile Zola. We briefly studied The Dreyfus Affair in college but none of it really stuck; French people, army politics, anti-Semitism, railroading, corruption, J'accuse...! -- why was Prof. Moodie so obsessed with this Franco-crap?
If he'd only shown us the film, instead of making us read some dry academic account of it.
It stars the brilliant Paul Muni as the muckraking French writer who'd written many bestsellers and become rich, corpulent and -- according to his friend Paul Cezanne, who subsequently ditched him -- complacent.... That is, until the wife of the wrongly convicted Jewish French Army Captain Alfred Dreyfus convinced him to take up his case. Zola turned his back on his good name and fancy lifestyle and became a pariah for taking on the glorious French Army. In his dotage he realized he was more interested in satya, or truth, than consuming the most tender lobster.
Two things stand out.
-Before testifying in court, witnesses held up their right hand and were asked, "Do you swear to tell the truth without hatred or fear?" No mention of god.
-After acquittal, the government brought Capt. Dreyfus back from his South American prison and made him a knight of the Legion of Honor. At the ceremony, the general (?) pinned a medal on his chest........and then kissed him on each cheek.
We could learn from that, I think.
more details, from Wikipedia:
The Dreyfus Affair was one of the most important scandals of the French Third Republic, if not the most important.
The Affair deeply divided the country into Dreyfusards (those supporting Dreyfus) and anti-Dreyfusards (those against).Generally speaking, royalists, conservatives and the Catholic Church (the "right wing") were antidreyfusards while socialists, republicans and anticlericalists (the "left wing") were dreyfusards, though there were exceptions.
The Dreyfus Affair could not have happened in a country wholly antisemitic, nor in a country devoid of antisemitism. Indeed, Alfred Dreyfus, openly Jewish, had been admitted to the most selective military schools in the country, and had been commissionned into a sensitive position; this was, at the time, unheard of in several other European countries, where policies of discrimination were often in place.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
The March grand opening of the brand-new, Flordia branch of the Ashtanga Yoga Research Institute will feature a two week workshop with Guruji, Sharath and Saraswati. It's in Islamoralda, the sportfishing capital of the world... which means it'll be affordable and accessible to all. From the AYRI website:
"My beloved students,
"For the last 30 years I have been visiting the United States to spread my teachings. With great pleasure, I am proud to announce the opening of my new yoga center in Florida.
"I would like to invite each and every one of you to join myself, my daughter Saraswathi and my grandson Sharath for the grand opening party on March 24th, followed by a 2-week workshop. This will be our only visit to the United States in 2007. I look forward to seeing you there!
First week (5 days): March 25, 26, 27, 28, 29
Second week (5 days): April 1, 3, 4, 5, 6 (April 2nd moon day holiday)
7:00AM Led Primary Series
Fees: 5-day workshop $200, single class $50
Workshop students are invited to the opening party on March 24
Registration opens November 15
I was really enjoying reading Jonathon Franzen's book of essays, "How to Be Alone."
Until it fell into the bathtub, that is.
And it's a library book, too.
When/if it ever dries I'll post a picture.
In the meantime, here's a excerpt from Franzen's 1995 essay "First City," on why NYC is more like a European metropolis than an American one:
"Hiking is what I do for fun in Manhattan on windy days or after sundown, when the diesel fumes lift. I'm a recreational walker, and in the last few years I've noticed something odd when I've hit the sidewalks of suburban St. Louis and suburban Colorado: a not negligible percentage of the men speeding by me in theri cars or sport-utility vehicles (it's always men) feel moved to yell obscenities at me. It's hard to know why they do this. The only things unusual about me are that I'm not driving and that I'm not wearing teal and purple or a backward baseball cap. My guess is that they yell at me simply because I'm a stranger, and from the perspective of their glassed-in vehicles I have no more human reality than the coach on their TV screens who has elected to punt on fourth and short.
"I've been yelled at in New York, too, but only by deinstitutionalized psychotics, and then only in the midst of fellow subway riders who sympathized with me...."
Last night was the first installment of Paul Grilley's yoga and anatomy workshop, and I was singled out not once but twice for the, uh, uniqueness of my body; first, for my amazing hyperextending arms. And then for the lack of mobility in my neck: when I tilt my head back it goes 45 degrees max. Then Mr. Grilley pointed out a woman at the other side of the room; her head goes back THREE TIMES as much as mine.
No wonder my backbends suck.
Friday, November 10, 2006
...for NPR, and I promise not to write about them again for some time.
But they did do a rather good piece on negative campaign ads earlier this week. Apparently not only are the Democrats back -- but also irony (and not just on the Daily Show, either).
"All Things Considered" asked two of the genre's top voiceover actors to twist around some nursery rhymes to sound like negative campaign ads. As with the Rumsfeld verse, seeing is good, but hearing is believing.
“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. He said he could put himself together again. But after wasting thousands of our tax dollars, all the King's horses and all the King's men, he failed us. Humpty Dumpty. Wrong on wall sitting.”
I never did like that one anyway.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Morning Edition ran an uncharacteristically jocular piece today about the unintentionally brilliant poetry of former Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld. The warmonger has recited so many poems in fact that Slate has posted them in two parts: volume one and volume two. Of course there's also a book and a CD of songs that kind of suck. While seeing is good, hearing is believing. A sampling:
As we know,
There are known knowns.
There are things we know we know.
We also know
There are known unknowns.
That is to say
We know there are some things
We do not know.
But there are also unknown unknowns,
The ones we don't know
We don't know.
—Feb. 12, 2002, Department of Defense news briefing
Once in a while,
I'm standing here, doing something.
And I think,
"What in the world am I doing here?"
It's a big surprise.
Interview with The New York Times
May 16, 2001
You may think it's something
I ought to know,
But I happen not to.
(July 9, 2003)
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
From today's Chicago Tribune:
"The two sides were holding placards and screaming at one another behind police tape while county workers carried in voting materials."
The hottest race here is the one for Cook County Board President. It's soclose in fact that we still don't know who the winner is the day after the election.
A bit of background: Cook County has a $3 million budget and myriad patronage opportunities and hence is like a magnet for some of our more cunning politicos. Last year around primary time then-president John Stroger, an African American Machine-supported Democrat, became very ill and had to step down. Somehow though he got his son on the ballot in his stead. Very third world. Very Evita Perone. Meanwhile interim board president Bobbie Steele (a female, African American Democrat) found proof positive of widespread corruption under Stroger's watch. Not that there's anything wrong with that here in the Windy City.
The current race between 43-year-old Democrat Todd Stroger and Tony Peraica, a Croatian-American Republican, was soclose that when I went to sleep last night it was 55 to 45 in favor of Stroger, with many precincts still to be counted. The votes were split along racial and suburban/city lines ouf course
What I didn't know was that at around 1 AM things got so out of hand that Peraica and supporters actually got into taxis and stormed the County Clerk's office -- which is headed by David Orr, a white, liberal, squeakly clean Democrat.
What prompted them were some election shenanigans that had taken place two hours earlier. According to the Sun-Times, "Orr emerged from his office to say 'hooligans' were trying to break into boxes with election cartridges inside.
"'Drunks or whoever, they were trying to block people from bringing them up,'Orr said. 'And the freight elevator was broken'
"Still, Orr said the integrity of the election hadn't been compromised.
"'Media cameras captured boxes being ripped open by unknown people, and others lying over the boxes to protect them. One man was arrested for allegedly damaging the elevator.'"
Once the Peraica people got there, "a Stroger campaign volunteer was seen briefly wedging himself into the revolving door. Eventually, most supporters were allowed in, and Peraica and six supporters met with Orr, along with seven Stroger supporters.
"'I smell a rat here,' Peraica said, citing $60 million in upgrades county taxpayers funded to improve voting equipment since a similar debacle in the March primary.
"Peraica's venomous response was a stark contrast to Stroger's reaction. Stroger, a Democrat, giggled as he told supporters he was going to bed for the night and would wake up today 'just like Christmas' and celebrate."
Sometimes, this is the best city ever.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
I finally dragged my arse over to the yellow-y high school and voted. I loathe going because of the gauntlet of bouncer-type ward cretins who verbally assault you (they would call it electioneering) on the way to the polling place. But school had just let out and everyone was under 20 years of age. Each and every high school girl on the north side, by the way, has a short black parka that skims the waist (the better to show off the arse) and is topped by a fake fur-trimmed hood.
Sitting behind the counter inside was the Walkin' Man (a spindly gent who walks around the neighborhood year round and reminds me of an older Martin Sheen, only with uneven legs rather than arms). A middle-aged black woman with a Betty Boop voice showed me how to use the giant, game show-size ballots we're now using instead of the old human scale hanging-chad punch cards.
As I blacked in my choices, the salsa and circus music blaring from the adjacent auditorium competed for aural supremacy against the shrill, fake-sweet voice of a mom who was far more interested in socializing her todder than questions such as whether the state should ban the manufacture and sale of assault weapons: "Who's a good girl? Are you a good girl? GOOOOOOOOOOOOD GIRL!!" vs "Da-da, da-da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-da, DA-DA-DA-DA-DA..."
In the end the circus music won out. It always does.
Apart from the usual races there were at least 50 judges to deal with. For some reason the general public in Illinois must decide whether or not to retain judges. Like we have a clue. It's like letting retards, er, the mentally impaired, do god's job for a day. Luckily I had printed out a list of losers and keepers supplied to me via Dexter. But I nearly lost my eyesight squinting at the long list of names in the dim light. As I voted I realized that my usual strategy -- when in doubt, keep the women and minorities and toss out The Man -- was completely wrongheaded. Oops.
We also got to decide whether the state should pull the troops out of Iraq -- that was a hard one -- and if it should raise the minimum wage to six-dollars-and-change. There was no place to write in a higher amount.
But I did write in a felon for sherrif.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
I went to see the Bollywood film Umrao Jaan at the Des Plaines Cinema last night, after learning Friday night that I can review it for the Backwards R if I can get it in first thing Monday. I drove to the hinderlands instead of cycling downtown to 600 N. Mich because it was windy and freezing and late and I'd just had a veryintense massage and couldn't deal with the wind and cold.
I was famished when I arrived at the rundown suburban theatre. I'd just ordered popcorn from the handsome (Abishek Bachchan-meets-my-ex, Devdutt) counter-guy-cum-projectionist when I noticed a pile of warm samosas sitting near my right elbow. I ordered some of those instead and took a seat front and center.
But there were technical problems that peaked twenty minutes into the period epic -- a remake of a 1981 film that takes place in 19th century Lucknow. Just as the 12-year-old girl who grows up to be Aishwarya Rai was bedding down for her first night at the brothel, the audio got very loud and disappeared -- and then so did the image. Wow , I thought, What an understated rape scene.
But the picture never came back; apparantly the projector was hungry too, and had eaten the film. After some time the lights came up and everyone made for the doors. Entire families were there, including infants with black spots on their cheeks to ward off the evil eye and western-dressing Indian hipster tweens. I was the lone Windian. About a third of the crowd went over to see Don but having seen it I opted for the refund and drove back home.
An hour round-trip for nothing, and money lost on top of it. But at least I'd gotten to eat those samosas.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
A CHICAGO MOMENT
We were checking our e-mail at the SoHo Apple Store a la Bob Eisen.* Yes, it's free, but apparently you can catch a lot of germs by checking your e-mail there. I had the hand sanitizer on me and wasn't worried. Besides, I'd just taken the two-hour class at Dharma Mittra's followed by massive amounts of greens at Temple in the Village chased down by dark chocolate nonpareils. I was in New York City. It was sunny. My feet didn't hurt. I felt good.
School had let out and the two-story behemoth was wall-to-wall with geniuses, nincompoops and all the rest. Most were male (as were most of the students in Dharma Mittra's class. What's up with this? Oh who cares -- I likes it!).
And then there it was -- an e-mail from a fitness coordinator desperate for a sub for a Wed. 7-8:15 AM Yoga Basics class. So desperate in fact she was willing to pay time-and-a-half. I thought, "Well, I'm flying in Tuesday night and I have to teach at 9AM anyway... My practice will be f---ed either way....Why not?". So I agreed to do it.
Cut to the Wednesday morning 7-8:15 AM Basics class. It's 7:30. The sun streams in. Fourteen people are on their backs, not putting their hands on their thighs in supta padangustasana -- despite the protestations of the teacher, who says, in desperation, "If your hand is not on your thigh, take a moment and examine why it's not there." Suddenly, seven hands shoot onto seven thighs. And she didn't even have to say, "And now ask yourself why this would not apply to you."
But at 8AM 11 people get up, put on their shoes, collect their mats, and walk out of class -- without doing savasana. Not hiding her shock, the teacher tells them that their minds will be restless for the remainder of the day if they don't do savasana (corpse pose). An empty threat. Instead of listening they head even more quickly towards the door.
Was it something I said? she wonders. Or is there a new type of silent fire alarm that only the affluent can hear?
Desperate, she asks, over the confusion and din of the mass exodus, "DOES THIS CLASS END AT 8 OR 8:15? BECAUSE THEY TOLD ME IT WAS 8:15.
One of the remaing three students (probably a stay-at-home mom) says, "Oh no, everyone always leaves at 8. The other instructors have all given up and just stop the class at that time."
"Well. No one told me," she says, miffed. "Maybe they should put it on the schedule that way."
Nonetheless the determined instructor sticks it out til the bitter end....
....and winds up being late for her 9AM lesson.
*Bob is both smart and frugal, and knows how to make the most out of that which can be had for free. We all stand to learn a lot from him.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
We were having tea and toast at the Soho home PSG, the Glasgow-born writer and director of musical theater. The sun was streaming in through the window, the conversation was animated, and the tea, as usual, was exquisite. At a one point PSG was asked if there were any good shows to see in NYC, either on or off Broadway.
He fetched the day's wrinkled newspaper from the couch and returned to the table. Standing, he noisily paged through it until he found the entertainment section. He scanned it a moment and then pulled his head back. He jabbed his finger at the paper with each word and declared, in his thick Scottish accent:
"Shite, shite, shite and shite."
Apparently the only good theater in town was being performed off-off-off (and off) Broadway -- for a very exclusive audience indeed.
And I have video of it.