One of my best math problems

 My father, Morris Sherman,  died in 1989 -- 85 days after his 74th birthday. He died in less than one day from internal bleeding caused by an aneurism. He was active and healthy and enjoying life until he had one bad day. There are worse ways for a life to end.

During my father's last four years, I was in a detour in my career. Music programs were shrinking in NYC public high schools. To stabilize my employment, I did what I had to do to get certified and began a 12 year long exile from music education as a math teacher. 

My father began his life as a smart little guy who started high school when he was 12 years old because his elementary school skipped him ahead a grade two times. He was a bit of a numbers nerd. I entertained him with birthday cards I made up that pointed out some interesting properties of the number of the birthday he was reaching each year. 

On Morris' 73rd birthday, my card pointed out that 73 was part of a twin prime, and very likely to be the last twin prime number birthday he would live to see. The next twin primes after 71-73 are 101-103. 

Brave reader, indulge me now in digression. 101, 103, 107, and 109 are all prime numbers. This is the first occurrence of a double-twin prime decade. A double-twin prime decade is one in which consecutive odd numbers ending with 1.3. 7. and 9 are all prime numbers. They are exceedingly rare. The next five double twin prime decades that occur after the first one begin with 191, 821, 1871, 2081, and 5651.

We will now proceed with the subject of this essay. Here is the math problem I wrote on the birthday card for my father's 74th birthday:

Pretty nifty. However, what I especially like about this problem is the first sentence. Without the first sentence, 47 would be another possible answer.

                                      (4 + 7)^2  - 74                      (4-7)^3 + 74

                                       11^2 - 74                             (-3)^3  + 74

                                       121 - 74 = 47                       -27 + 74 = 47

You see? 47 works BUT anyone who turned  47 in 1989 was born in 1942 and thus could not be a World War II veteran. Therefore the first sentence was necessary to make 74 the only possible answer.

Geriatric Report

It's January 27, 2025 and I haven't yet written a synopsis of my life in 2024 for wide distribution. When (or if) I do it will be full of good news. To sum it up in 3 words, life is good. I continue to enjoy (almost) perfect health. But if you keep a car long enough, you will eventually have to replace all the moving parts. That also applies our bodies.

At my last routine exam, my primary care physician, Dr. Helen May* referred me to an orthopedist because I complained of pain in my knees.

*footnote: Dr. May joins former major leaguers Pete Rose and Rick Waits in that small group of people whose names are complete sentences. Len, I just recalled that when you played string bass in the MIT Symphony Orchestra, they had a flutist who came over from Wellesley to play there whose name (no kidding) was April Showers. Overlooking for the moment, the cruel sense of humor displayed by her parents, I submit  April, who, if still alive, is in her late 70's, as another person whose name is a complete sentence. To push the malicious fun of April's parents a step further, just imagine that April married a Mr. Daily and that they imposed a hyphenated last name on their children. Oh my. But I digress.

 

So, in 2023, Dr. May referred me to a doctor who is an immigrant from [Jeopardy question] THE COUNTRY WITH THE WORLD'S LARGEST POPULATION.

SCROLL DOWN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did you say What is India? Good for you.  

So Dr. Sanjiv Bansal, sent me to a big Medical Imaging place for an MRI. He then sent me to his own x-ray technician in the basement of his office. (A building on Williamsburg Road in the Bronx that was formerly a funeral home.) He then told me I would probably need knee replacements. He also said that he used to do them, but found he was better off spending all his time seeing patients in his office and referring them to other surgeons when necessary. Finally he said he would try to fix my knees by non-surgical means and from then until today, I must have made and kept at least a dozen appointments. 

That was enough for me to have abundant flirting time with his receptionists. They really enjoyed my shtick. The receptionist Maggie is what I call an age-appropriate woman for me to jerk around for fun. I said "Maggie,  after my knees are repaired, will you be my partner for the Mambo Contest at Orchard Beach next summer?" Maggie smiled with delight and I thought she took my question seriously and was about to say "yes". Instead, she told me that in two weeks she's returning to Guatemala and is saying goodbye for good to the USA. All things considered, I don't blame her.

Each time I saw Dr. Bansal, he stuck hypodermic needles into my knees and withdrew syringes full of fluid which he squirted into his waste basket. Sometimes, he injected cortisone or some other med into my knees. When I went for my appointment with Dr. Bansal today, he threw up the white flag and wrote me a referral to an orthopedic surgeon at Montefiore Hospital named Carlos Alvarez . Bansal told me that Dr. Alvarez does at least 5 knee replacements a week.

Later today, I called Dr. Alvarez's number and spoke to Millie, whom I look forward to meeting. I made an appointment for a preliminary examination and consultation with Dr. A on Valentines Day. (I'm tempted. But I'll refrain from bringing Millie a box of chocolates. That may be pushing my shtick a little over the top.) After the consultation, I presume, I'll get an appointment for Dr. Alvarez to perform what squeamish people like to call the "procedure". It will be done only on my left knee. My right knee is, for now, not hurting.

 

Be patient, dear readers. I want to conclude this already overlong blog post with a commentary on the US Health Care System. Read on at your own risk.

 

As Senator Sanders often tells us, the US Health Care system is by far the world's highest in per capita cost. Yet we do not get anything close to the world's best health outcomes. The World Health Organization ranks the overall health of the US population 35th in the world. Some of the 34 countries ahead of us, such as France, Germany, Sweden, Japan, Canada) won't surprise you, but many others, (eg Cuba, Albania, Tunisia, Costa Rica) that are poorer countries with much lower health care spending than the US, have healthier populations.

Consider my case as an example. I saw Dr. May once, Dr. Bansal 12 times, and I will see Dr. Alvarez two or three times followed by some post surgery physical therapy. For each encounter I make a $15 copayment on arrival. Then, Medicare and Aetna from whom I have supplemental coverage pay more than 10 times my copayment for each service date. Was it all necessary? Of course not. Bansal knew from the start I needed the knee replacement. But if he referred me after one visit, how would he cover the overhead costs of his office in a three story building with 10 or more staff people to pay salaries to? He has to pad his insurance claims. All doctors in private practice do. It's built in institutional waste and it is not serving us well.

The solution is obvious. To provide an entire population with their basic necessities, they all must be removed from the for-profit sector of the economy. Our taxes provide us with police and fire protection, a huge military, a sanitation department to collect our garbage, a water supply system that magically disposes of every poop we flush down. And don't forget free public education from kingertgarten through 12th grade. We have free public parks and libraries. That and more is paid for by our taxes. Some people complain about taxes and sure, a lot of tax money is wasted. But we mustn't forget the essentials that we get from tax-financed services. 

Digression alert . You may skip the following paragraph. 

Homeowners do get a water bill. The bills seem too low to me. Considering the absolute necessity of water, we should pay much more for it. The bill should be high enough to make people consider letting urine accumulate under a closed toilet seat and only flushing after a poop. And the water bill should be high enough to discourage people who take half hour long hot showers. Imagine how much water those two changes in behavior would save. As it is, people shower for as long and flush toilets as often as they like and never give a moment's thought to water conservation.

The basic human necessities that are still in the for-profit sector of the economy are health care, housing, and food. As a result we either see (or avert our gaze from) people who are sick, homeless, and malnourished. As a nation we can easily collect enough tax money from rich people to guarantee all of the necessities  to everyone and compensate doctors with appropriate salaries and benefits from the taxes on wealthy people. 

Pope Francis once said that being a billionaire is inherently immoral. I agree. Imagine a 100% wealth tax on all assets over a billion dollars. I think every billionaire could learn to manage to live fairly well after being left with only $999,000,000 to live on. Oh my. I sound like Bernie Sanders.

That's enough for tonight. If you're still with me, thanks for your patience, dear reader.

Geriatric-Joe

 

 

Baseball is over for me

I've lost it. 

 My intense interest in baseball began on an October day in 1951 when I wondered what all the male grownups I saw were so upset about. That was followed by six years of intense Brooklyn Dodger fandom. 

My father took my brother and I to our first games at Ebbets Field on August 22, 1954 -- a disastrous 6-0, 6-2 double header sweep by the Phillies (Chris Short and Robin Roberts complete game wins). I remember some details of those games to this day. There were many subsequent trips to Ebbetts Field and a few Dodger-Giant games at the Polo Grounds. 

Baseball was so simple then. Your team had only seven opponents and you played each one 22 times in a season. I knew the starting lineups and starting pitcher rotations for all seven opposing teams and saw each of them at least once. That means I saw Musial, Mays, Aaron, Clemente and every other NL Hall-of-Famer of that era. 

 I went through my Dark Ages from 1958 - 1961. My team abandoned me. I even went to some Yankee games to root for the visiting teams. I saw one of Roger Maris' 61 home runs in 1961. I was an ardent Mets fan from their start in 1962. I always preferred radio to television. Bob Murphy's voice had more air time in my ears than my mother's. Since Murphy's death, the dominant voice in my home six months of each year was Howie Rose's. I didn't stay up for night games from the West Coast, but more often than not, for more than 50 years, the radio was on in my house for Mets games. 

 In recent years my interest has faded. Too many teams. Too many players. Too many relief pitchers used. Too many home runs. Too many strikeouts. Too many trades and free agent signings. I cannot even name one player on each of the teams any more with certainty. The pandemic with its 60-game virtual 2020 season was the last straw. I paid no attention to it. 

A couple of weeks ago there was a crossword puzzle clue for a four-letter answer: 2019 World Series winner for short. I couldn't remember it and had to look it up. Oh yeah. The Nats. The World Series in which the visiting team won all seven games. Pretty amazing. 

 Will I rekindle the flame when the pandemic ends? I don't think so. I've gone cold turkey. I don't even look at the sports section now and never listen to sports talk radio. With no intake of information, baseball (and NBA hoops too) has left my world. But any time I want to I can close my eyes and see Carl Furillo take a ball out of the air with his right hand after it bounced high off the weird concave right field wall in Ebbets Field and fire a one-hop strike into Campanella's mitt to nail a runner -- out at the plate!!!

Thoughts on the Death of Lou Brock

Greetings fans. 

 Lou Brock's obit in today's NYT brought about a chain of thoughts that I will offer you. So, as Vince Scully famously said "pull up a chair." 

 Since I cited the great Vince Scully, I will take from the obit an excerpt that ties Brock to the Brooklyn Dodgers: Louis Clark Brock was born on June 18, 1939, in El Dorado, Ark., and grew up in Collinston, La., in a family of sharecroppers who picked cotton. He attended a one-room schoolhouse, but at the age of 9 he was inspired by possibilities beyond the poverty and segregation of the rural South. He was listening one night to a feed from radio station KMOX in St. Louis. Harry Caray was broadcasting a game between the Cardinals and Jackie Robinson’s Brooklyn Dodgers, the summer after Robinson broke the major leagues’ color barrier, a time when, as Brock put it, “Jim Crow was king.” “I was searching the dial of an old Philco radio,” Brock recalled. When he heard about Robinson, “I felt pride in being alive. The baseball field was my fantasy of what life offered.” 

 As a boy, Brock never played organized baseball. Instead of a ball and bat, he swatted rocks with tree branches. But he received an academic scholarship to Southern University in Baton Rouge, La., and played baseball there, catching the attention of Buck O’Neil, the longtime Negro leagues player and manager who was scouting for the Cubs. A coincidental note from the obit: Brock died with multiple myeloma, the same form of cancer that killed my mother. 

 Brock spent his first two years in MLB with the Cubs. My most vivid memory of him is from that period. It was a game in the Polo Grounds against the 1962 Mets -- the losingest team in MLB history. I was a Stuyvesant H.S. senior in 1962 and opted to take a 5-period program for the spring semester because that's all I needed to meet graduation requirements. I finished at 12:30 and on several occasions I headed to the Polo Grounds after school to see the Mets when they had a day game. (If memory serves, the bleachers admission price was 75 cents.) My memory of Brock did not come from one of those games. Brock was NOT a power hitter. In 19 seasons he hit 149 homers. But in a game I watched on TV, Brock hit a home run into the center field bleachers at the Polo Grounds. WOW. What a shot. The bleachers in the Polo Grounds were more 450 feet from home plate and they had a high wall. In about 50 years of NY Giant baseball in the Polo Grounds no Giant slugger ever hit one into the bleachers. It was only done once -- by Joe Adcock, a bona fide slugger for the Boston and Milwaukee Braves. 

 Here's a digression regarding Adcock. He hit unique home runs in both NL ballparks in New York City. In addition to his prodigious poke in the Polo Grounds, he was also the only player who ever hit a ball that cleared the roof above the left field stands in Ebbetts Field. 

 And here's another digression concerning home runs in Ebbetts Field. Adcock was the only one to launch one over the roof, but there were thousands of homers hit into the upper deck during the 44 years of Dodger baseball in Ebbetts Field. One of them was hit by Dodger great Gil Hodges in Game 1 of the 1956 World Series. That ball wound up in the hands of my uncle -- Mac Shapiro -- an NYC Dept. of Health employee who that day got the plum assignment of inspecting the concession stands at Ebbetts Field during a World Series game. During the game, after visiting a hot dog stand under the upper deck, he walked up the ramp to see how the game was going and Hodges homer ball landed right in his hands. Did he catch it on the fly, or pick it up off the ramp near where he was standing? Perhaps his son can clarify this point. Anyhow, good uncle that he was, Mac gave the ball to his nephews, the Sherman brothers Joey and Lenny, to play with. We were 11 and 8 years old and, not appreciating the ball as an historic artifact, we did just that. We played with it and eventually lost it when it rolled into a sewer on 32 Ave. in Queens. I remember that the ball had a brown mark where it was bruised by the mighty blow of Hodges' bat. 

 Getting back to Brock: His bleacher-bound dinger in the Polo Grounds in 1962 made him the second player to land one in the bleachers there. During the following year, Hank Aaron, whose homer-hitting credentials need no introduction, blasted one into the Polo Grounds bleachers off Mets pitcher Roger Craig. Think about this. In about 50 years of Giants baseball in the Polo Grounds there was one bleacher home run. In two seasons of Mets baseball there, there were two more hit by visiting team players. What does that suggest about the quality of Mets pitching during their first two seasons? So there it is. A Lou Brock story from me to you that you will not find in any of his obituaries. 

 Diamond Joe

Saying the F-words

Dear friends,

We live in rough times in which clear English free of gratuitous profanities seems to be increasingly scarce. This is conspicuously true in Bronx County. Overheard conversations on the streets, in parks, and on trains and buses, are filled with the f-word, the s-word, and, sad to say, even the n-word. I will not single out any age group or ethnicity as the prime offenders. People of every classification and of both genders can be heard speaking this way. A few years ago, an experience I had on the #8 bus on Williamsbridge Road proved to be the last straw. It was late afternoon and sitting opposite me were two teenage girls on their way home from high school. The girls were speaking loudly about some of their schoolmates. Every other word they spoke seemed to be "fucking", "shit", or "nigger". They were excited as only teenage girls can be and totally oblivious to the other passengers around them, including two nuns in full habit sitting right next to them.

After that experience on a bus, I decided to create a game called "Say the F-words". You can play the game by yourself. The object is to write sentences that include as many f-sounds as possible. Words beginning with "f" or with "ph" are the main ingredient, but words in which the accented syllable begins with an f-sound are also fair game. You should try to use as many f-words as you can but you may not use THE f-word. The objective of the game is to educate players and make them aware of just how many alternative f-words there are.

You may also play the game in a group using a set of index cards with a previously composed f-word sentence on each one. The players take turns reading a sentence from one of the cards. The other players will listen to the reader and critique the performance. Readers should be rated for the fluency and dramatic intensity of their rendition. A reader who breaks down and laughs gets no credit for that round.

Below you will find a set of f-word sentences that you can use to get you started in the game. Have fun.


For Fall Feast Fridays, Friar Francisco frequently preferred freshly frozen flounder filets and fennel-flavored French-fried fritters.

Foolishly forgetting the flagrant flaws of offensively foul-flavored fast foods, the famished Friar Frances feasted ferociously on Filthy Frieda’s French-fried fritters.

After forgetting the failures of Frederick’s futile affairs with fickle Felicia and faithless Felicity, Felix foolishly forfeited the fond affections of his fiancée Phoebe, to fearlessly face a fragile future with flighty Frieda, whom he found fatally fascinating.

After finding his fraternal twin Felipe affectionately fondling Frieda on Father Farnsworth’s office furniture, Felix informed Frieda she might face a fine future as his former fiancée and facetiously bid her a friendly farewell.

Phoebe felt infuriated following Felix’s fouling of the final phrase of Ophelia’s fond farewell with a five-second fart of such fearsome force that feathers flew off the stuffed falcon on the fireplace.

Frederick and Frieda’s affair fizzled after Frederick’s affluent family from Philadelphia found Frieda frolicking on their foyer floor with five freshmen from Frederick’s fraternity.

On February 15th, 1454, Fodor finally faced the futility of finding Fafner’s faithful friend Fritz in the faraway frozen fjords of Finland.

Felix found a fuming Phoebe frowning furiously after facing Frieda’s false façade of facile friendliness.

Phoebe fainted after forcing open her freezer and finding 44 freshly frozen flying fish frenetically flapping their fins.

A family formation fable: Frances found Fred fascinating. Fecundity followed infatuation. Fred’s a father of four.

After fouling the football field with a phenomenal fifty-five second fart, Felipe was flagged for flagrant, but not fragrant, flatulence.

Fortunately for Phoebe, Felix found Frieda’s freckles offensive.

Phoebe and Felix feigned feeling foolish for finding forty-five fiercely fanatic Philadelphia Phillies fans fantastically fascinating.

Firefighter Phillip, though frightened of furry ferrets, flavorful fondues, and physical fitness fads, faced the fiercest flames fearlessly.

When Phillippe effusively flung forth the full force of his feelings, Francoise, her sang-froid fractured, faced her future with a newfound frisson of affection.

Felicia finally faced the futility of foraging for fresh fruit in February.

Fanny Finkelstein, the fiefdom’s finest flautist, though frequently affable, fell into a funk following the forced forfeit of her favorite fife.

Finnish, French, and Farsi feature differing phoneme frequencies.

In the Fall Fashions Fiesta last Friday in Frostbite Falls, Phoebe Farnsworth’s fox fur fedora found favor with frigid Philistines from Philadelphia.

Fanny felt a fanatical fondness for fancy fedoras with fox fur filigree.

On the fourteenth of February, Felix felt fairly flummoxed on finding his forlorn friend Phoebe feasting on fatty fried foods.

Felix feared the futility of offering his fifty-five thousand frequent flyer miles for full fare on the Fall River Ferry.

Flailing frantically for functional footholds, five fedora-festooned fops finally fit fat fingers into fresh fissures.

Felicia felt fairly flatulent following the five o’clock feast at the Phillipsburg Falls Fava Bean Festival. 

Phoebe feigned fascination with fake flowers fabricated in faraway Fargo’s famous factories.

Phoebe failed to find fallacies in Felicia’s far-fetched philosophies.

Flurry-free forecast favors fun Frisbee fracas at Fresno.

Felicia felt faint from the foulness of Felix’s formidable flatulence.

Felix felt fairly fortunate to find forty-four fanatically faithful friends feasting fastidiously on faster foods every fifth Friday in February.

Felix’s family was fully familiar with his frequent farts. 

Phoebe felt fearful of Felix-the-Fox’s fantastically fierce fangs.

Phillip favored fancy French faucet fixtures for facilities in Finnish farmhouses.

Felix faced a fragile future fearlessly.

Felipe found flawed features of famous faces fascinating.

Franklin fawned over the flawless features of filmdom’s famous faces.

Felicity, a Francophile, favored foreign feature films yet forswore fancy fromage.

After finding Fitzroy’s fabricated falsehoods offensive to Fargo’s fourteen famous pharmacists, Football Federation officials flagged Felix for fifteen flagrant fouls.

Felix found profound feelings of fulfillment from Phoebe’s fragrant al fresco feast of French fries festooned with farfalle alfredo.

Franklin feigned indifference to Daphne’s effusive affirmation of affection.

Felix’s feelings about feasting fastidiously with faithful friends on fairly flavorful fast foods every fifth Friday in February were fully favorable.

From the NYT crossword puzzle:
Flying furry friend from Frostbite Falls formally.
Answer: Rocket J. Squirrel

Flighty flibbertigibbets favor filigreed fences, flip for frilly frocks, and faint for fabulous furs.

Phillip Farnsworth, Phoebe Feinstein, Fred Friedman, and Frieda Fromme, Fargo’s four foremost physicians, found Felix Figueroa’s fractured fibula frustratingly fragile. 

After fashioning a familiarity with Frieda’s fully formed fondness for fast food French fries, Felix failed to find fault with flawed facial features of Felicia’s famously fickle friends.

Fifi Fuentes, the famed Filipino phoneticist and foreign language pheenom, was fully fluent in Flemish, French, Finnish, and Farsi.

After the fatal fire of February fourth befell the Farnsworth family and finished the fiasco of Felicity and Frederick’s affair, Felix’s father finally fathomed the full force of Frieda’s fury.

Felicia finally faced the fact that Phoebe's feigned affection for Phones failed to fool Philip's father.

Following that, the feeble flame of Phoebe and Phineas' affair flickered while Felicia and Philip, affianced, found fair fortune.

Fannie's facelift fell flat from a famous French physician's faulty formaldehyde.....FRIGHTENING!!!

On the fifth Friday of February, after failing to find fault with flawed features of filmdom's famous faces, the famished Felix, facing his fragile future fearlessly, feasted ferociously on fat-filled French fries from a foreign-based fast food franchise.

Frankly, February 4th's festival felt fallow following fundraisers fighting for Facebook followers. Forget phony folks -- "friend" Felix.

The Problem With The American Dream

Here is a link to a Dec. 8, 2016 New York Times article about the American Dream


http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/08/opinion/the-american-dream-quantified-at-last.html?_r=0


Let me start by declaring that I hate The American Dream.

Why do Americans think the world is coming to an end if they don't make more money and live with more toys than their parents had? Too many Americans do not have a sense of community, or a sense that their purpose in life is to help other people or to work towards an environmentally sustainable lifestyle. As the prophetic novelist Kurt Vonnegut wrote 50 years ago in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, the true American flag is the black flag with the white skull and crossbones. The true national motto, which Vonnegut said should be inscribed on the pirate flag, is "SCREW YOU JACK. I GOT MINE."

The obsession with economic growth is common to both of our major parties. That is probably because it is an underlying assumption shared by a majority of Americans. It's a compulsive national drive to always have more that is mindlessly destroying our planet. Is growth in fossil fuel extraction good? Is growth in prison construction good? Is growth in nuclear weapons manufacturing good? Is growth in soft drink consumption or cigarette sales good? OF COURSE NOT! Shrinkage or extinction is a much better goal for all of these things. Growth industries should be strategically selected. Manufacturing of saxophones, or bicycles, or wind turbines and solar panels instead of cars and military hardware are obviously steps in a positive direction.

If the American Dream is disappearing, I say good riddance. It's too bad so many knuckleheads want to hang on to it. Because of it, we've seen white Americans in Idaho and Florida and every state lying in a broad swath between them send a man who is the ultimate personification of Vonnegut's motto to the White House.

This is a sick country and Leonhardt, with all his slick graphs and charts, doesn't seem to understand that.

The future is bleak and this rant is over.

On Projecting an Appropriate Image

What's going on here? Haven't we lost track of something that is worthwhile? I'm referring to the appropriateness of the image that candidates project. Shouldn't a person have personal attributes that are appropriate to the position that he or she seeks?

To illustrate what I'm getting at, try to visualize an ideal principal for a high school that you would want your child to attend. I understand that every job requires specific skills that are necessary for functioning successfully. I am not thinking of the specific skills that the person will use regularly. I am thinking of the kind of person that a high school principal should be.

A high school principal should be a role model for teenagers -- a mature adult who is dignified, learned, well-mannered and well-spoken.

- A principal should be able to engage faculty in informed discussions of the curricula of every subject.

- A principal should be physically fit and maintain a healthy lifestyle.

- A principal should have facility with at least one foreign language.

- A principal should have a deep understanding and appreciation of literature, music, art, dance, and drama.

- A principal should should habitually demonstrate behavior that we would want teenagers to emulate -- courtesy, respect, kindness, etc.

All of this is part of the person's image. I would want to see that all the desired image components were in place before considering a candidate for the position. Only after ascertaining that a candidate is the kind of person we want, should we try to assess his or her job-specific skills.

Image IS important. Do you agree? If so, good.

Let us now extend this concept to another leadership position -- President of the United States. Shouldn't a candidate for President have all the attributes that we would look for in a high school principal and then some? In 2016, we've seen some candidates for President whom I would never consider for a school principal's job because their image is inappropriate. If I can't visualize someone as a good principal for a school, I cannot vote for that person to be president. I hope that you couldn't either. Let's have a little class.