Would Clint Eastwood Make a Movie About Clothes?

              As you know I pride myself in always looking my best regardless of the circumstances.  I have stuck to this mantra until very recently and under extreme circumstances.  Anyone who moves to Southern California and questions the lack of central air in most homes and apartments is told, in a ridiculously condescending manner, “It doesn’t get humid enough to need air conditioning.”  Lies!  Lies and vicious rumors!!  These past few weeks have been New Orleans humid and Mississippi hot and I am not happy about it.  Homophobia is only 30% of why I left the South; the other 70% was attempting to escape the humidity and that whole ‘gravy as a beverage’ lifestyle.  I was fat, y’all. 

                Due to this unfortunate weather change, I have resorted to wearing shorts and polos each weekend, except at church.  I am all about inclusivity at church, but I would rather not see the knees and toes of my fellow worshippers, some of whom appear capable of climbing trees like a sloth.  And I am referring to the animal, not the deadly sin.  I don’t like my toes, much less anyone else’s but I feel I should give a shout out to the women who keep their toes ‘did’. 

                This change in my wardrobe and my Bible Study ‘homework’ of being less focused on ‘things’, has me dressing more like the average person and while I am dealing with those issues, it has started to impact my life in unexpected ways.  I have shared with y’all how I am treated when I am dressed in my normal manner and there are many upsides to it; however, there were downsides as well and I never realized it until I became much more relaxed in my wardrobe choices.  I will share with you forthwith:

The Good:

1. I always get better service while shopping.
2. Strangers often ask me for fashion advice.  Sometimes I offer my advice if I feel they need it, either to give a vote of confidence to someone unsure of their new look or to avert a disaster in the making.
3. I have been offered an interior designer’s discount while shopping for home furnishings at places like West Elm.
4. More than 20 years after graduation I am still consulted by friends and fraternity brothers on wardrobe questions and I gladly offer my advice.  I appreciate the fact they care enough to ask.
5. People have told me a compliment from me means more to them than one from someone less, shall we say, fashion forward.

The Bad:

1. Upon my initial visit to any new doctor’s office, the staff thinks I am a drug rep, and one without snacks, so I am not necessarily greeted in a timely manner.
2. If I wear my fire engine red chinos to Target I am mistaken for a manager.  I’ve stopped correcting the shoppers who stop me and simply answer their questions or take them to the appropriate aisle or hand them off to customer service.  I guess I’m a Target volunteer at this point.
3. If I go directly to a mall after work wearing my suit, I am mistaken for a jewelry store employee, which is either an insult or a compliment depending on the jewelry store.  Tiffany’s, I’ll take.  Zale’s, not so much.
4. If I go to Starbucks directly from work, without my suit jacket but still wearing my tie, I am often mistaken for a bank employee and was once caught up in a Wells Fargo/Bank of America shouting match in the parking lot of a Starbucks. 

The Ugly:

1. Many people assume I am constantly judging, which is not always the case.  TO be fair I am always judging the sharing of the toes, but otherwise not so much.   To be clear, I am constantly assessing, but I am not always critiquing and I typically share my opinion only when is it is solicited.  I try to never be rude; my mother raised me better than that.

          The moment I can retire these shorts and polos and return to my glory days as a fashion plate, I'll be sure and let you know.  Maybe I'll post photos.  And that is all I'm saying for now.

Uncle Dusty's Guide to Business Savvy

           Over the course of my career in the public and private sector I have met many people who are unhappy in their jobs.  I’ve tried to give them an opportunity to talk about what they dislike and what they hope will change and most of their issues are with people (boss, co-workers) more than job duties.  There are ways to lead up and lead sideways in order to establish a more conducive environment.  However, if the behavior exhibited by bosses or co-workers is illogical, I try to help them see sometimes you have to just let it go, like Queen Elsa, but without that whole frozen kingdom thing.

                I present to you Uncle Dusty’s Guide to Business Savvy.

1. When someone shows you who they are by their actions, pay attention.  Maya Angelou taught us many things; this is one of the most important. 
2. You cannot reason with an unreasonable person.  Stop trying.
3. Adapt, adopt, abandon is not just for business processes.  Improve it, use it or get rid of it.  What ‘it’ is depends on you. 
4. Abandonment is not a failure; it is a decision to stop participating in an activity which offers no sustained value.   
5. You should LOVE your job or you should get a different job.  Someone else is out there waiting to LOVE your job but you’re in it.  They may be in yours. 
6. Leaders should be talent scouts, always on the lookout for the next generation of leaders and thinkers. 
7. Don’t be afraid to poach talent from another department, agency or business.  It’s up to their boss to try and keep them.
8. Don’t automatically promote star employees. Some people are meant to be a star on the front lines.  Critically evaluate their ability to lead and manage. 
9. Blame processes, not people, but verify the people are following the processes.
10. When someone presents you a weak idea, have them walk you through their thought processes.  In the subsequent conversation, you can lead them to an improved idea and better critical thinking skills.
11. You cannot achieve anything meaningful without a plan.
12. Teach anyone who is willing to learn. 
13. Highly effective people are lifelong learners; be willing to be taught.
14. Demonstrate passion for your work regardless of whether or not people are watching you.  Be aware people are always watching, even when you think they aren’t, especially if you are the boss.
15. Socializing is one of the best methods to introduce new ideas and concepts.  Chat about your idea before you formally submit your plans.

           These ideas have been road-tested and I have the scars to prove it.  I don’t always learn

things easily but I usually learn it the first time around.  And I share because I care about you people.  As ardent fans of ol’ Uncle Dusty, of course you will commit these to memory and practice with the quickness, right?

          And that’s all I’m saying for now.

          

An Angry Inheritance

               Anger is a badge of honor for my father.  It is included in his version of what a real man is and I carried it with me.  Why was I angry?  So many reasons.  Righteous anger is being angry at what angers God .  We as a society feel pretty sure we have the right to this particular type of anger, but we are usually wrong with this assessment as we are usually wrong about what angers God.

                When I was born I looked very much like my father, chubby with short legs.  I would love to say I outgrew both of those, but sadly did not.  Growing up I tried to be like him, even going so far as to state my desire to be a welder in a sixth grade class report.  The very next year when puberty hit, a lot began to change and I realized how unlike him I was.  Still I tried to mimic him, to make sure he liked me.  Love is unconditional, I thought.  Like is a whole different story. 

                I now realize one of the few traits of his I was able to master was anger.  I have the characteristic temper from the Thompson family genes, mostly Irish with a supposed smattering of Native American but not enough to get scholarship money or casino dividends.  My temper was held mostly at bay by the guiding hand of my exclusively English and devoutly Christian mother, until I left for college.  Once there I began to explore the temper and companion salty language of my father’s people with almost as much passion as I pursued academics and social acceptance.  My temper ran parallel to my achievements and both increased at a surprising rate, considering I was a closeted, chubby nerd and life is not an after-school special.

                I assumed anger was my inheritance as nothing else in the way of property, money or mixed securities existed.  Mixed insecurities I had by the carload, which exacerbated my anger.  Often, for me at least, anger had its root in fear.  Fear of actually being gay.  Fear of being outed.  Fear of not fitting in.  Fear of rejection by family, friends, fraternity.  Fear of overstaying my welcome in any context including friendships, dinner or even talking to my academic advisor. My friends had no clue how often I fretted, worrying any glimpse of the real me would ruin my strategy to become a “regular guy”.  Truthfully, my feelings were mostly anticipatory fear which is much more toxic as it is based on imagination not reality.  My imagination is strong, y’all, and I can come up with all manner of terrifying scenarios, some of which unfortunately have come true; most, happily, have not.

                As this anger slowly seeped into my personality at work, it began to impact my career path.  I was known for results.  I could walk into a department, assess it fairly quickly and turn it around in a relatively short amount of time.  The success was career-enhancing but the psychological toll on some with whom I interacted was an unfortunate side-effect.  The casualties left in the wake of my leadership style were simply the costs of being awesome, I felt.  I found out later these costs were unnecessary. 

                God placed into my life two mentors who were brutally honest with me and encouraged anger management counseling.  It was marginally helpful from a management perspective but it provided excellent insight to the root of my anger.  I tried to heal, turning to God for relief and redemption.  I had decided in 2004 to leave behind the “gay” and return to church as I felt I had to choose.  When faced with the options of career or eternal damnation, I chose career.  Through prayer, support and leadership training I began to make solid progress.  I learned the difference between leadership and management.  I recognized I had been an occupant of a leadership position, not a true leader.  An uncomfortable truth but one I used to better myself.  I realized I had placed unrealistic expectations on myself and when I invariably stumbled, I was furious with myself.  I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I was none too happy about it. The anger I felt at myself was often misread by my peers and subordinates as anger with them.  I had been too pre-occupied to notice my effect on them. 

                Fear of failing at my experiment of being someone other than the white trash person I felt I was, caused disproportionate reactions to minor set-backs.  I was promoted from a GS-4 to a GS-14 in seven and a half years but felt I could have done it faster.  I wasn’t falling into the typical bad habit of comparing myself to anyone.  I was comparing myself to an unattainable ideal and punishing myself for failing to meet this artificial, self-imposed standard.

                Servant leadership training taught me to be confident in my abilities and unafraid to fail.  Once I started to practice these traits, my sense of calm returned and my anger dwindled.  When The Dad moved in with me, I was working to turn around a failing department in a new facility and it was a demanding job on good days.  When he would question me about my day and I would talk about encouraging people to excel and coaching them to improve, letting them share their opinions and valuing their perspectives, he would mock me and tell me about “when [I] was a boss…”  He only enjoyed the old stories of where I was the governmental equivalent of Charles Bronson.  When I would talk of collaborating with a problem employee, he would say, “You’re gonna look weak.  They’re gonna fire you” or “I can’t believe you let them get one over on you.  I thought you were gonna do something when you became the boss.”

                It would be easy to blame his generation but it’s more likely his attempt to pass down the only inheritance he received from his father, angry until his last breath.  When he tells me I’ve forgotten where I’m from and who I am, I don’t disagree, but it’s not the way he means it.  There are things I retain and cherish like common sense, an appreciation of fried foods and a quick joke.  But there are other heirlooms (holding grudges, closed-minded thinking and anticipatory stress) which are best left behind. 

I move on quietly, purposefully, attempting to go unnoticed to ensure I leave these permanently behind.  I don’t want to look back even though I realize my actions are certain to be misinterpreted.  I know this will be part of my legacy and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it, but I do know I’m not angry.

Could you outrun a Samoan on roller skates?

                Anyone who grew up in the 80s knew one of the most popular forms of recreation was roller skating.  We could not get enough of this sport.  We loved wearing pictures of them on our jeans, t-shirts and the backs of our satin jackets.  And roller-skating rinks were the place to be.  I celebrated my 9^th birthday at The Big Wheelie across the river in Vicksburg, MS.  I have always had my finger on the pulse of what’s happening, even while wearing husky-sized Tuffskins on a dirt road, y’all.

                Many small towns had their own rink and Bogata, Texas, was no different.  It had a rickety wooden floor, scandalously shaky walls and a clientele of every socio-economic level, hence my semi-regular attendance during holidays prior to our move to this fair burg.  A week or so before the fateful event I had thoroughly enjoyed skating in a circle with all of my new friends.  I did not, however, enjoy the couple’s skate as I was solo and not in a cool way.  I have never been cool by even the broadest definition.  Awesome, sure.  Cool, no.

                I decided I would ask Marty Burns (and I apologize if I just totally embarrassed you) to skate with me during the allotted time.  My cousin Kendra heartily approved and the stage was set.  Unfortunately, the stage did not factor in inclement weather or my father’s definition of masculinity.

                One the night of the roller rink rendezvous, it began to rain, heavily.  As the rink had a reasonably sturdy ceiling, the downpour did not affect our plans.  As we were exiting the trailer to pile into the Suburban, I slipped and fell, the top step hitting me in the middle of my back, knocking the breath out of me.  When I recovered, I began to cry because it hurt.  I was 11 years old, cut me some slack, people.

                Well, no slack was cut for the oldest son of “Big Red” Thompson.  I was "big" and red but machismo is something I have never shared with my father.  Once I was returned to an upright position, I was informed I was to stay behind as the others left for fun on wheels.  The reasoning was, I guess, crying boys don’t get to do fun things.  I shouldn’t have cried, was punished for crying and then cried as a result of my punishment, which made the punishment even worse. 

“Men don’t cry” was his response when asked why he was punishing me.  No one bothered to ask his opinion on boys crying.  As the oldest son and scion to the family fortune, which consisted of a plaid couch and used station wagon, I was expected to carry on the Thompson name with masculinity to spare. My age was irrelevant. 

I grew up with a skewed view of what is meant to be a man.  Most of my uncles on both sides of the family were blue collar, farmers, carpenters, welders, mechanics and laborers.  I just wanted to be indoors reading, in clean clothes.  There are so many characterizations of masculinity, but I experienced none of them.  The one uncle who was typically in a good mood (and of whom we were not usually frightened) was handy when it came to fixing all things plumbing or electric, so again it was pressed home, this blue collar definition of masculinity.  My Dad’s characterization was specifically rooted in girth and stoicism in the face of physical pain. 

I know there are many facets to masculinity and myriad placements on the spectrum of what is means to be male.  I have learned to define being a man by my actions, not by my father’s opinions.  However, as I talk to him every Saturday (or rather I listen to him complain), I have to manage the reality of his designations.  One of them has been on-going since my weight loss. 

For those who don’t know, at the height of my weight (and sickness) I weighed 422 pounds.  Having lost 200 pounds and kept it off for 7 years, I am what I would consider a normal-sized person.  I am 6’ and weigh 220 pounds.  Due to our divergent opinions of big, my father often expresses concern about my safety.  He truly feels I am now “too skinny” to take care of myself.  He worries I will be attacked in the parking lot of the grocery store due to my tininess.

I’m not sure where he thinks I purchase food, but the only people who consider me tiny would be residents of American Samoa, some pro football players and possibly the stage crew for those hair metal bands squeezing every available dollar from their one power ballad.

And each weekend I assure him I am able to care for myself and remind him I haven’t been attacked, other than by a pigeon, since the one time in a bar by a lesbian during my delayed rebellion at age 25.  And I remind him I was victorious in that particular interaction.  Trust me when I tell you I am not proud of this fact.

And while I am still solo-skating through life, I am content and unafraid, coral chinos and all.  I don’t consider myself a target but I continuously promise him I’ll keep my eyes open for Samoans in the parking lot of my grocery store or The Dollar Tree. I feel fairly certain I could at least outrun someone that size should it be required.  Maybe I should keep some roller skates in the car.  You know, just in case.

Cute Clothes, Comfort Zones and Jesus

               I’ve been asked to serve as a fashion consultant this week and I am excited.  I was approached by someone at my church to assist in something called a ‘Glam Closet’ and you know I was intrigued.  It is for the Trans Pride celebration in Orange County.  I’m as surprised as you are as this is something far, far outside my comfort zone.  But I am reminded those who don’t leave their comfort zones, never grow and I am all about growth, y’all.

                I never knew a transgendered person before I moved to Long Beach back in February.  I have long held a particular grudge against this part of the LGBT continuum as I blamed them for making society think all gays are weird.  Drag Queens and those people who dress in leather were bad enough but those were costumes, not day-to-day reality.  I’m just trying to be honest.

I have never been outwardly rude to anyone and I have mentioned this opinion to very few, but deep in my heart of hearts I was not supportive and didn’t want to talk about it.  Transgendered people, I simply did not get as I have never had any issues with my gender identity. But it isn’t my job to get it.

I wanted society to let me be me even if they didn’t understand it but hypocritically I never offered this same understanding to the transgendered community.  Prior to meeting the young man at church, my only information about this population was via Chaz Bono and I pitied him as I assumed the root of his identity crisis was mainly Cher was his mother.  I adore her as an entertainer; I don’t know if I would want her as a parent. 

I never gave my prejudices much thought, mostly because it wasn’t required.  My line of thinking was I don’t know any trans people, so who cares what I think about them.

My church family is studying a book series called “The Good and Beautiful God”.  The subtitle of the series is “Putting on the Character of Christ”.  I have been doing a lot of soul-searching and praying and trying to get myself more in line with the way God really is, not necessarily the way I was taught when I was growing up in the church.  And I’m not picking on Southern Baptists; many denominations give us false narratives about who God is and what He cares about and how He feels about certain populations in our society.  Baptists are just my frame of reference as I attended Southern Baptist churches from birth until 2009, including while I lived in Alaska, Ohio and Massachusetts.  There’s Southern Baptists all up and through this nation, people.

The transgendered man at my church is a happy person, smiling, laughing and just a joy to be around.  Full disclosure, I wasn’t truly aware he hadn’t always been a man when I first met him.  I never really engaged with him and his wife but I also didn’t avoid them either.  We’ve chatted outside church but never really had an actual in-depth conversation.  Several weeks ago he asked me if I could help a friend of his who had just come out of the closet and was in need of a makeover.  Makeover?!   Yes, please!  I am all about helping someone look their best.

One of my spiritual gifts is encouragement.  I love to build someone up to ensure they feel a part of a group of which I am a member.  Knowing what it’s like to always be the new person and what it’s like to feel ostracized, I always make sure I speak to those to whom no one else speaks.  And while I have very specific, vocalized opinions about fashion, I would never tell someone their outfit was unacceptable.  If I am asked for my input I am honest but I try to temper it with kindness.  I’m not a mean person.  But if someone is soliciting my opinion, well you know how much I love to share, right?

I have been paring down my wardrobe of late, shedding items I don’t wear and was looking for some place to donate them as I want to spread the wealth and Goodwill and Salvation Army have already benefitted from my significant downsizing. 

Just last week, I was trying to figure out a way to put a face to a population as this is how I have learned to let go of my prejudices.  I'm glad he approached me because when he told me the activities were part of the Trans Pride Event on July 30 in Orange County, I had to smile.  What a happy coincidence, you might say.  Coincidence is when God doesn't take credit for maneuvering us to right where we need to be.  I told him I would be honored to help men and women learn how to develop their style and properly dress for their chosen gender and body shape and also learn their colors.  My church is also sponsoring an outreach booth at the event.  I am proud of the way we are showing God’s love in Southern California.

One thing I have learned through my spiritual journey is my opinion about a topic should have no effect on my goal of being kind to one of God’s children.  I don’t have to understand the transgendered community to show them God's love.   I don’t have the right to tell them what to feel or whom to love.  Those things are between them and God; they’re not my business.

What is my business, you ask?  To quote Jesus, the first and greatest commandments are to love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength and to love your neighbor as yourself.  Period.  There aren’t addendums, codicils, postscripts or caveats, y’all.  It is an imperative sentence.  It is a command.

Everybody needs to know God loves them and everybody needs a cute outfit. 

And that’s all I’m saying for now.

The Persnickety State of Jones

                In response to what they considered inept and indifferent leadership among the Confederate officers at the Battle of Vicksburg and afterwards, a group of men from Jones County led by Newton Knight left the Confederate Army and subsequently seceded from the Confederacy.  They renamed their county the State of Jones and refused to further participate in a war they did not support and into which they had been involuntarily drafted.

                When I came across this bit of information, I was intrigued.  There are those who feel the Civil War was an act of treason by the South.  There are those in the South who believe the war was about States’ Rights, not slavery.  I will not bore you with my opinion; however, I wonder what I would’ve done had I been alive then.

                My maternal grandfather’s family was from Mississippi, moving to Louisiana only after losing most of their fortune during the Depression as they had prosperous cotton farmers.  According to family lore theirs had been among the wealthiest families in the state.  If true, this would have had a major impact on my opinions and stances about the war.

                As in many wars before, wealthier men could pay someone to serve for them, unless they were trying to establish credentials for political reasons.  Those who agreed to serve were automatically given officer rank and were therefore not in the most immediate danger as they were not necessarily among those on the front line.  There were officers who fought bravely beside their men, but it wasn’t necessarily a requirement.

                I have never been a coward, but I do find it difficult to feign energetic support for a fight I didn’t start or truly believe in.   I don’t know what my feelings about the war would have been if I were living in Mississippi in 1864; however, knowing me, I imagine they would have been very different from those of my family and neighbors.  “Just your average Joe” has never been a descriptor for your humble narrator.  However, if family money were involved, I may have kept my opinions to myself.  One of the few advantages of a lack of any facsimile of an inheritance is the absence of anxiety attached to being disinherited due to disagreements over matters political, spiritual, food/animal-related or otherwise.

                I have made my life’s stance to only fight when I feel passionately about something and/or I feel I have a chance of winning.  This has caused me to engage in fisticuffs only on three occasions in my 44 years on Earth; once in junior high, once in high school and once in 1996, the year of my delayed rebellion.  Well fisticuffs aren’t the best descriptor.  What do you call pushing and/or throwing someone really, really hard?  Throwing something out a window is called defenestration, but there were no windows so I am unsure of the proper verbiage. 

               I assure you I did not pick these fights.  I don't want to fight...I want to sing!  Not really, but my bark is much worse than my bite.  Like most people I see at The Wal-Mart, my bite has few, if any, teeth.  And to be honest, I don’t have much of a bark these days, unless you drive too slow or treat service people poorly in my presence.

I have learned how to feign enthusiasm for something about which I am not jazzed, but it is difficult.  And for this reason alone, I feel as if I might have joined those frisky Jones Countians in their stance.  This attitude of independence still lingers amongst the denizens of the geographic area just north of Hattiesburg. 

Case in point, when the junior colleges in Mississippi decided to change their names to community colleges in 1988, Jones County refused.  They were known as JCJC (Jones County Junior College) and did not want to alter the flow of their acronym.  And to this day they remain JCJC.  I guess the spirit of old Newt still lingers in the Piney Woods. 

And that’s all I’m saying for now.

The Repercussions of Vocabulary

                The first time I remember purposefully making a statement solely to gauge the reaction was in 1979 or so.  My family and I were traversing the Louisiana highways somewhere in the vicinity of Ferriday, home of those musical cousins Mickey Gilley, Jerry Lee Lewis and Jimmy Swaggart.  We may or may not have been lost.  As my mother’s brain was the precursor to Siri, I feel fairly certain she knew exactly where we were.  I however, did not and felt the timing was right to use a new phrase I had recently learned.  “God’s Green Earth”.  I don’t remember from whom I heard it or the context of why it was uttered, but I had a need to use it, y’all. 

                Testing the waters, I cried out in a plaintive voice, “Where on God’s Green Earth are we?”  Rest assured my mother was less than impressed with my question.  My sister looked at me with a mixture of condescension and pity.  Truthfully, she looked at most everyone in this manner, so her reaction was not a part of the equation.  My mother’s reaction was one with which I was familiar.  And it wasn’t good.  I swear I thought ‘taking the Lord’s name in vain’ was something altogether different.

                The look she gave triggered a memory which caused me to involuntarily shudder.  As a child I wasn’t particularly ill-behaved.  I do, however, remember making several serious errors in judgment.  The one that always pops to mind was when I was a lad in 1977 and was enjoying the summer twixt first and second grade.  My sister and I have shared a reliable relationship since childhood.  I loved her always; she did not particularly care for me until she became a mother. 

                We were living in the last of our three houses (Front Street) our gypsy family rented in Winnfield, Louisiana.  I remember being psychologically injured in a grievous way; she may have insulted my Lego house or merely told me I was stupid.  My typical response was to tell my Mother.  For some unknown reason I took leave of my senses and decided to handle this situation myself.  Having no physical advantage, I used the only tool in my arsenal, my vocabulary.  I felt I was superior to her in this respect, as I was a member of the Gifted and Talented class, people.  It’s true.

                Her reaction to my response immediately offered proof I had chosen poorly.  I won’t repeat what I said but it stopped my sister dead in her tracks.  She immediately recovered, smiled maliciously and said, “oooh, you’re gonna get it!”  Unfortunately the voice that allowed me to lead cheers in college without a megaphone caused the words to reverberate down the hall to the kitchen where my mother was cooking and singing.  She stopped suddenly and asked in a tone signifying doom, “Dustin Terryll Thompson, what did you just say?”  My first response was “My name is Dustin?” 

                You see I had never seen my name written down and had been called Dusty for all seven of my years on the planet.  I never knew my actual name was Dustin.  I relished the new-found knowledge.  Additional knowledge gained that day was what Lava Soap (with pumice) tastes like as Mother decided on a creative punishment for a creative turn of phrase.

                Lava Soap was what my father used to get the hard to remove grease and dirt off his hands after work.  Never have my teeth felt so shiny and gritty and free from all verbiage which is considered vulgar and unacceptable by one Catherine Waynette Thornton Thompson.  I guess it made sense.  The colorful phrase was one The Dad had used on a number of occasions.  Needless to say the words I uttered never crossed my lips again, even when stuck in traffic in DC or Los Angeles.  Synonyms for some of those words, maybe, but definitely not those particular words.

                And that’s all I’m saying for now.