PICTURE THIS

 Most of the updates for my previous phone were unremarkable. Which is why I'm going to remark about my current phone's updates. And oddly, they have nothing to do with what a phone was originally designed for, viz, talking to people. These updates are all about what today's phones are primarily for, viz again, taking photos.

Wait, let me re-viz that viz. The updates can now turn photos into pictures in four styles: 1) Interesting, 2) Is That Me?, 3) No Way Is That Me, and 4) This Is Bullshit. But one constant is that the warning you receive when the art is generating, Results May Be Unexpected, means Nothing Like The Real Thing. I use myself as exhibit number one. 

First, let's examine the selfie used in the experiment:

What a serious-looking fellow! And so well-dressed. Why isn't he getting background work these days? Would the casting agencies prefer an A.I.-generated sketch?

Say, that's a darned good drawing... of someone else. Is my facial hair so white that it's invisible? Jeez, even if it were there, this wouldn't look that much like me, although it possesses a very vague resemblance to my father circa 1970. Let's see what the anime style does for me.

Outside of the jacket and tie, this is remarkably inaccurate. If someone's casting Perry White for the next Superman movie, they've got their man. Otherwise, I'm still out of work. Can I see something a little different please?

Gotta admit, this software captures my inner dullness splendidly, seeing that there's barely any difference from the previous picture.  Still, this particular style tries jazzing me up by including a pocket handkerchief. Got the color of my shirt right, too, so bonus points there. 

Hey, I know what to try next -- what about that "realistic" A.I. style you see in so many YouTube avatars?

Damn, I keep getting older with this thing. It keeps missing the goatee, a well. And it still looks absolutely nothing like me!  In fact, this resembles the unassuming manager of a Men's Warehouse who moonlights as a serial killer.

I'm not sure what the point of this software is if it's going to turn you into a different older person. It reminds me of the episode of The Twilight Zone about a camera that takes photos of what will happen one minute into the future, only this goes a decade beyond. 

Now, there's a very good chance I really do look as old as these faux-fellows, and I'm not picking up on it. If so, I'm starting to believe the cliche that my phone knows about me than I do. To paraphrase Chico Marx, who am I going to believe -- me or my own Android?

 

                                                            **************

MEDICINE FOR MY SOLE

Or, if you're Errol Flynn, dating a 16 year-old girl
when you're 50 and look 80.

There are moments a man realizes he's reached another plateau in the aging process. Disliking every Top 40 song he hears. Dreading the first prostate exam.  Women with gray hair flirting with you.

I've experienced all these and more. And last week marked my latest step into life's final chapter, as I added yet another specialist whose job is to keep me alive -- or in this case, able to walk without wincing. 

I now have my very own podiatrist. 

"You cannot cut or injure the foot"? Trust me,
I'd find a way.

Is there anything more embarrassing than having to visit a podiatrist, the doctor whose occupation is synonymous with "orthopedic shoes", i.e., ugly sneakers? Well yes, "chiropodist" comes to mind. A quick look shows they're essentially the same thing, the term "chiropodist" being the more old-school word. But both folks are still concerned with senior citizen-affiliated afflictions like bunions, corns, and, in my case, plantar warts. 

Until fairly recently, I though the word was "planter" -- y'know, gardeners who are on their feet all day planting. Which is why I didn't at first believe my wife (the nurse) who explained what they were after one thoroughly disgusted look at my soles. Not to be confused with other women who did the same thing looking into my soul.

With a combination
like that, I'll pretend
I've got corns instead
of warts.

Early on I tried getting rid of them by erasing them with a pumice stone. The only thing that did was make me feel like I was working at a prehistoric mani-pedi spa. I tried freezing them off with Compound W, which acted more like Compound Z (as in Zero). 

Rather than suffer in silence, I decided to do it out loud. So between my obnoxious moans with every barefoot step and my wife's disgust with the warts -- which was weird because she insisted on looking at them -- I made an appointment with a nearby podiatrist who was well-educated, had great reviews on Zodoc, and most importantly accepted my insurance.

Entering the waiting room was a shock. I'm technically a senior citizen, but the guys -- and they were all guys -- who were seeing other podiatrists in the office were old. Even when I visit my hematologist, there are some patients who weren't alive yet to see the Bicentennial. But the podiatrist's joint? Some of them looked like they around to celebrate the first 4th of July. 

Like father, like Stooge. 

In an effort to distract myself from being surrounded by a roomful of Piltdown Men, I studied the obligatory celebrity photos one finds in New York doctors' offices (and barbershops). What impressed me most was a vintage picture of Paul Howard, which he helpfully captioned "SON OF MOE". If you had told me when I was a seven-year-old fan of the Three Stooges that over 60 years later I would be at a podiatrist's office visited by Moe Howard's son, I wouldn't have understood what the hell you just said. (My friend Leo thought the guy should write an autobiography just to title it Son of Moe.)

It didn't take long to be ushered from the Methuselah Room and into the
doctor's office. She put me at ease pretty quickly; this was someone who enjoyed her job, which was not only a good thing but very unusual. Who wants to get out of bed every morning looking forward to working on the feet of total strangers? Old strangers at that.

Before I had a chance to ask her that question, she started slicing off the warts and dabbing the skin with some kind of acid. Expecting a footful of pain -- she was slicing stuff off my feet and dabbing them with acid -- I was relieved to feel nothing. 

"How many more times?!"

So when it was time to hit them with a laser? Bring it on, it's only a light! 

Sure. A light with the power of a thousand suns, hitting the areas of my feet that were still raw from being sliced. Gripping the chair's armrests until they were on the verge of snapping off, twisting myself into a shape worthy of Lon Chaney in West of Zanzibar, I put up with the minute of zapping until the job was done.

Wait, did I say "job done"? I meant "job to be continued", as I was informed we needed to go through this again every two weeks up to 12 times.

I even had homework! After folding a kidney-shaped pad, she cut a half circle from its side and, unfolding it, stuck it on the sole of my right foot -- which had the biggest wart -- and gave me a dozen or so more. I was to do this routine at home and keep it there all day except in bed or the shower. And no walking around the apartment in my bare feet! 

Next week I'm visiting the dermatologist to get a few things sliced from my face, jawline and possibly scalp. This happens on a fairly regular basis. Between the dermatologist and podiatrist, there might not be much of me left in six months, but at least I'll be smooth as a baby's bottom. Or foot.

                                                   ***********************

GET YOUR KICKS ON ROUTE 101

 After attending a wedding in San Luis Obispo last week, my wife and I drove Route 101 through northern California and into Oregon. I took some snapshots, some the usual kind everybody does, and others that only a guy like me would. So, strap on your seatbelt and settle in. Be sure to watch out for falling rocks. 

While driving up the California coast, we made a stop at the Hearst Castle, the Mar-A-Lago of its day only classier and much, much larger; our guide pointed to a mountain peak that marked the end of its land, which was 35 miles away. This must be the only place where a groundskeeper would need to attach a portable gas pump to his John Deere. Check out the Castle dining room. Pity the poor guest who wanted to chat with the person at the far end of the table. 

These are elephant seals on the beach across the street from the Castle. No matter how many times you've seen them on TV, nothing prepares you for how bizarre they look in person with that big flap bouncing up and down in front of their mouths as they drag themselves around like living water balloons. Note the one passed out in the sand, looking like his skin is peeling from a sunburn. Did I say "bizarre"? Maybe I should have said repulsive. 

If you're ever in the mood to pay $15 for the silliest bragging rights you can think of, go to Leggett, California's Drive-Thru Park and drive through the Chandelier Tree. Like the elephant seals, looks can be deceiving when you're just looking at a photo. Cars must have been a lot smaller when the tree was mutilated in 1931 for the pleasure of travelers. Our Hyundai rental just about made it, while the car in front of us had to back out after just a few inches. Fifteen bucks, down the drain. Or is it chandelier?

After two days of relentless driving, we finally made it to Oregon. Every morning, its coast looks like a window shade that hasn't been pulled up all the way. While New York was sweltering in a heatwave, we had highs in the 60s during the day and lows in the 50s at night. I wore a puffy vest over a sweatshirt over a t-shirt and it still wasn't enough. Wind, fog, clouds low enough to touch... why did we do this again?

Nobody in Oregon actually "goes to the beach" the way the rest of us do -- not even in the middle of summer. Instead, they bundle up in as many layers as they can get their hands on, and trudge on the sand in 40 mph winds for no reason other than to look at the huge rocks. Which isn't much of a reason.

On the other hand, there's always a chance you'll get lucky and see a small, dead octopus that's washed up on the shore. Speaking of beaches, all the signs excitedly list the kinds of birds that hang out there, but the only one you're guaranteed to see are seagulls no different than what you're used to. 

And the ornithologist who named the birds must have run out of ideas when it came to one particular breed that's black and catches oyster. It's called a Black Oystercatcher.  Never saw any of those. Maybe they moved on after catching all the oysters.

What's over 100 feet tall, is several centuries old, and has eight limbs but no trunk? Behold the Octopus Tree (no relation to the octopus corpse), the pride of Cape Meares. And if you're wondering how it got to looking like this, keep wondering. Nobody can agree if it was shaped like this by Native Americans or it just grew wacky on its own accord. I prefer one of its alternate names, The Monstrosity Tree, just because. 

You like lighthouses? Hoo boy, you'll get more than your fill, especially if you're married to someone who has to visit every single one of them, making what should have been a two-hour drive last three times as long. This is the Cape Meares Lighthouse, just a ten-minute walk from the Octopus Monstrosity Tree. And at a proud 38 feet, it's the smallest lighthouse in the U.S. As with almost all the other lighthouses we visited, it was decommissioned many years ago and replaced by a new one somewhere else. And as with the others, it now stands as a tourist stop/gift shop. 

While most motel rooms have a list of nearby restaurants and must-sees, our final stop offered a tsunami evacuation map. This almost came in handy since our area was expected to get slammed after the 8.8 underwater earthquake in the Pacific. Not only was our street an evacuation route, but the official safety gathering spot was just around the corner. Neither of these mattered because it was an 80-foot drop to the beach across the street, and the tsunami turned out to be a tsunothing. Still, a tsunami would have been an interesting way to wind up our Oregon visit instead of just driving to Portland and dropping off the car at the airport. 

Hope you enjoyed this little trip up Route 101. Just remember to dress for winter if you go in July and bring a life jacket if your overnight stays are near the beach. You never know what surprises are in store.

                               *******************************************************

HOT OFF THE PRESS

As the first, brutal heatwave of the summer descends on New York like King Kong
falling from the Empire State Building, my creative synapses are gradually shutting down. But just to hold you over -- like you've been begging for another piece -- here's a link to my latest piece on Next Avenue for you to read, enjoy, and cheer. Send the link to friends and relations -- they need cheering up, too:

Old Ears, New Music | Next Avenue

                                                                       **************

THE GAME THAT DARE NOT SAY ITS NAME (IF IT HAD ANY SELF-RESPECT)

I tell you what it is: another chance
for people to buy stuff that will
wind up in the back of the closet in
six months.

 About eight weeks after purchasing the proper equipment and sneakers, my wife and I finally played pickleball. Well, not exactly. We just smacked the ball against a backboard (read: wall) in a nearby park for 30 minutes. 

And just to make it harder, we accidentally used the "indoor" pickleball ball rather than the "outside" version. And by "accidentally", I mean I brought the wrong one. Just what the difference is other than the number of holes is a mystery. Wait, no it's not. It's to make you spend more money on a piece of plastic resembling a round slice of Swiss cheese. 

It's that kind of persnicketiness that appeals to the kind of players you see around the neighborhood. The people who actually take seriously a game called pickleball. 

... Before moving on to the 
cocaine craze.

That's right, I said "game", not "sport". If the local players are any example, pickleball is for people who never played tennis, but now consider themselves on the same level as Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, Naomi Osaka, or any other name they can't pronounce.

Pickleball is what jogging and rollerskating were in the '70s: an athletic fad that "everybody" loved until realizing they didn't love it. The only reason I agreed to take up pickleball at my wife's request was because I knew that if I did, sooner or later she would change her mind. 

The champ prepares to massacre
all opponents.

So how did I wind up in John Jay Park on a humid Sunday morning slapping the "wrong" ball on a tan wall? Well, I had to do something to justify the cost of the paddles, balls, and the white Adidas sneakers that I thought made me look like Jerry Seinfeld circa 1997, yet impressed my daughter because they're supposed to be hip. Meaning, I guess, rappers are paid to wear them.

My wife had gotten a head start on me, having played a few rounds with a friend at an athletic center near the lower West Side during the spring. I was initially concerned that she would have an unfair advantage over me -- after all, while she was practicing, I was home watching B-movies starring actors you wouldn't recognize. (At least that gave me an advantage if I ever quizzed her about Arthur Hohl or Paul Cavanaugh.)

Having the co-ordination of a sloth at naptime, I was concerned about making a fool of myself. Yet once we started to hit the (wrong) ball to each other by bouncing it off the wall, I got the hang of it fairly quickly. 

This was the grand slam that put a crack
in the wall.

Note I didn't say "well". For every bullseye shot, there was one that went over the wall or rolled on the ground. But over time, I became more selective about the hits to take; too, I somehow figured out how not to send the ball flying two stories up into the air.

By the end of the half-hour, I had to admit that this pickleball outing was not just a lot of fun, but felt good. Other than my daily walks (which get slower as the humidity rises), this was the best exercise I'd gotten in a while. Is it possible that I wanted to repeat the pickleball experience?

With nod of my head and a raise of the eyebrows, I answer, Yes. Not the real pickleball, mind you. Y'know, playing doubles against the self-deluded "pros" who get mad if you miss a shot or hit outside the lines, or bring those damnable inside balls. The people who take it seriously. 

The kind that my wife now also wants to avoid. 

I knew it would happen eventually! Keep that wall standing. We're going to be seeing a lot more of it this summer with whatever ball I bring (unless my wife corrects me).

                                                                *****************

QUARTER-MILESTONES

 Several years ago, I took part in a Central Park picnic with a handful of my college alums, one or two I actually remembered. In doing so, I was put on the school mailing list, thus allowing me to receive their quarterly magazine. 

The publication seem to exist for two reasons: 1) To show how our donations are improving the students' education (and, more importantly, dorm life -- wouldn't you have loved an app to let you know when your laundry was done?); and 2) To rub it in your face how well your classmates and the others after you have done since graduation.

Since I blocked my phone number from the school's annual beg-a-thons (and I use the kitchen timer to alert me to my laundry activity), only the second is really useful to my life. And boy, does it do the job! From publishing to politics, art to acting, marketing to moviemaking, I am bombarded with people who can't do enough to remind me what I haven't done with my life in the last 44 years. 

Some people -- and you know who you are -- believe this is the devil's flag of self-pity. Hardly! In fact, never. This is an observation made possible only by a lifetime of refection, wisdom, and bottles of red wine. 

Yesterday, I received the Fall edition of the magazine, which ought to be called Hey, Look At Me!. And for the first time I noticed that nobody from my class shared the 911 regarding yet another big deal move up the professional ladder. It took just a moment for me to realize it was not because they were dying off (although some have), but that they're at the stage of their lives when they've already made their mark on society, and are now enjoying their well-earned retirement.

Well, bully for them! Meanwhile, I'm still in the trenches, ready to add another bronze medal to my already-studded occupational uniform. Just to give you some passing examples:

• Yesterday, in addition to the upscale business casual clothes I was already wearing for background work on Succession, I brought along a suitcase of alternate items  -- even though I didn't need to!  Oh, and I did a superb job pretending to eat oatmeal, sip cold coffee and hold a conversation during take after take. 
• Whenever I need to get up at an ungodly hour for my "acting" work, I sleep on the Murphy bed in the living room rather than force my wife to put up with my tossing and turning as I wonder, Will the alarm clock stop in the middle of the night?
• Just this morning, while on the self-checkout line at the grocery store, I went the extra mile and asked one of the "associates" if she could work her magic on the machine so I could get the Tuesday senior citizen discount.
• And speaking of grocery shopping, I saved a few bucks on dinner by thawing out the cod I put in the freezer last week instead of buying something else. Can somebody give me an "Amen"?
• I've been making it a point to cut those long white hairs on my chest, neck, and throat. Sure, I could let them grow past my shirt collar, but I go the extra mile.
• I empty my Gmail inbox with the ruthlessness of Genghis Kahn.
• Rather than be surprised by my American Express bill every month, I pay the darned thing off every week -- sometimes twice a week. They're not gonna catch me unawares!

I could continue the list ad infinitum -- or, more accurately, ad nauseum -- but I need to add that my biggest accomplishments have been being happily married to a wonderful wife for 30 years, and somehow being a good enough father to produce the best daughter a parent could have. Funnily enough, those were the two things I never saw coming. 

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to take yet another dagger to my inbox. Woosh! Slash! Hahahaha! Did it again to the little buggers!

                                                                          ****************

LIFE AFTER LIFE

In costume at my home away from 
home.

WARNING: Egocentric essay ahead. Proceed at your own risk.

I spent last week working on the finale of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. Having been in its very first episode, it was nice to be there for the end. 

It was also the first time since getting laid off from my previous job a decade ago that I worked five straight days. Most of the week I was up so early it was still dark upon getting off the subway in Brooklyn. My typical time for coming home was roughly 10:30 or 11:00 p.m. The big exception was Friday, when I tiptoed in the door at 3:00 in the morning. The glamor of show business!

This left my wife Sue in the extremely unusual position of having the apartment to herself most of the time. Seeing that I do the shopping, cooking, and, usually, the laundry, and operate the Blu-Ray player and the DVR so we can zip through the commercials, AND know which streaming platforms for the other series and movies we watch, I was concerned for Sue's wellbeing. Or, rather, my job security as chef/electronics whiz/shopper-in-chief.

It brought back memories of the first year or two of background work, when, working late, particularly in the wilds of, say, Tuxedo Park, I would receive  concerned calls and texts from the little lady, along the lines of How are you? Are you coming home soon? I miss you!

How can I get him out of the house for
another week?

How times have changed! Last week, when texting from the set at 9:00 p.m., I'd ask with great concern, "How was your day?" As in, Have you eaten anything? Are you wearing clean underwear? Are you still alive?!

Not only was she doing just fine, it turned out she was having the time of her life without my presence. In fact, it sounded like she preferred living the quasi-single life. 

How well was Sue getting along? She not only figured out how to place an Amazon order for her mother, she knew enough to use the right credit card. So much for job security! 

Don't believe that Howdy Doody smile.

I suppose it's good to know that if something were to happen to me, Sue would be able get along just swell. What concerns me now is that she might be looking forward to it. It reminded of when Katie Couric took up with a younger man a year or so after her husband died. Her friends, who knew her when she was married, were all quoted as saying, "I've never seen her so happy!" 

This is not what the ghost of a man wants to hear about his still-breathing wife. And here I was getting a similar message while still walking the earth! 

Looks like it's time to buy all new electronic equipment and immediately throw away the operating manuals. Even if she misses me only for not being able to skip commercials, I'll rest in peace.

                                                                ****************

YOU HAVE ENTERED... THE COMFORT ZONE

Who needs a hobby when
you look like this?

 Hitting retirement age is kind of strange. And I’m not talking about how the cashier at the grocery store knew to offer me the senior discount when I was masked.

 No, we’re led to believe that retirement allows us the time to indulge in what we really want to do. Then before you have a chance to binge watch The Three Stooges, a gaggle of self-appointed experts decide that we really should be up to is taking up new hobbies lest our mental and physical health diminish like our IRAs this year.

 The hobbies they suggest never include mine – making snide comments under my breath at young people in saggy jeans, for instance, and fantasizing what I’d like to do to the guy across the street who insists on practicing the trumpet-playing out his window.

 These perfectly harmless diversions apparently aren’t going to give me the heart rate of an Olympic javelin thrower or the mindpower of Watson, the Jeopardy-winning computer. The marching order always barked out is “Get out of your comfort zone!” So much for retirement being the time for, you know, being comfortable.

To me, it's silly in any language.

Now, I’m perfectly open to engaging in the usual activities we seniors are expected to pursue. Pickleball seems like fun, even if the word “pickleball” is too embarrassing to speak aloud. Day-long bike rides are always a good idea, too, if it includes a beer break or two along the way. And a weekend drive in the country? Count me in. Just make sure the radio doesn’t drown out the Google Maps guide as she leads me straight to my destination without any uncomfortable detours.

 These undertakings, unfortunately, don’t earn me brownie points from those supposedly in the know. And once again I’m given a list of recreations that I not only have no interest in but will likely have the effect opposite of their intention.

I blame Pres. Bush.

 Skydiving, for instance. I can’t go a week without reading about someone age 90 and above deciding it was time to jump out of a flying airplane. Does this make any sense at all to you?

 And somehow this person is hailed as a role model. Sure – if by role model you mean for an extended stay at the psych ward. Give me credit for just being in a 220-ton contraption flying eight miles up in the sky at 600 miles an hour.

 Another thing allegedly guaranteed to make my brain a decade or two younger is learning a new language. Forget that I barely averaged a C in French at an age when our minds are supposed to be receptive to such things. You think I’m going to memorize an entire language when I need a shopping list to purchase anything more than milk? Bonne chance, mon ami.

 “But what if you want to travel to another country?” the true-believers wail. To which I wail back, “That’s what guided tours are for!” Heck, I’m not entirely onboard with my wife’s idea of us traveling by ourselves to Scotland – and they speak English over there (more or less).

Speaking of vacations, the absolute worst thing my wife and I could do that’s all the rage is traveling in an RV. Before going further, I need to emphasize that we’ve been happily married for 30 years – almost half our lives – and couldn’t imagine what our lives would be without the other. It was only when we met that we realized what love really meant.

Now this I'd drive.

 All that goes flying out the sunroof once I get behind a steering wheel. That’s when I’m put in the impossible position of being expected to drive, yet not the way I do. Meaning, the way my wife drives.

 For the life of me, I can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong. I stay in the proper lane, avoid going too much over the suggested speed, and avoid hitting the stray deer that wanders onto the highway. Sure, I might tap on the brake a little too hard from time to time, but at least I don’t slam into the car in front of us.

 Still, it’s a rare jaunt where I don’t make a mistake and the next thing I know, we’re trying to remember the 800-number of the divorce lawyer who advertises on the morning news. Experiencing this kind of expedition in a vehicle the size of strip-mall drugstore can only shorten my life.

 My mother spent the last 20 years of her life doing nothing more strenuous than driving to the bank to cash her Social Security check, listening to hours of  talk radio, and stocking up her freezer with cheese. She lived to be 96.

 With genes like hers, I figure just a good bike ride now and then will allow me to live long enough to take part in the colonization of Mars. Martians don’t practice trumpet playing out the window, do they?

                                                               ***************

GRATUITOUS PLUG

Sunset in Seattle -- just like I always
pictured it.

 Thanks to a busy work schedule, an inability to write funny things about dreadful news, and visiting our daughter as she embarks on grad school in Seattle, it's been three weeks since my last update. And you'll likely have to wait for another one. 

But for those who miss my jocular missives, here's a link to my latest piece on Next Avenue, regarding our recent kitchen renovation. They thought it was funny enough to pay good money for. You might think so, too. Checks, cash, and Venmo happily accepted:

https://www.nextavenue.org/a-newer-kitchen-for-an-older-couple/

                                                             ****************

ANATOMY OF A KITCHEN RENOVATION

 

As you can see, the track lighting on the ceiling still hasn't been installed yet. (Maybe next week?) Nor do you see how the rest of the one-bedroom apartment looked, where the new appliances were parked in the living room, and everything was covered in plastic like a haunted house attraction at a particularly cheesy amusement park.

Here's a close-up of the floor when the boards were pulled up.

The previous renovation was done in 1932. We know this because of what the workers found down there.

The pack of Twenty Grand was copyrighted 1932; the cap from the bottle of Ruppert Knickerbocker Beer was right next to it. Cork is glued on to the inside of the cap, a technique still used when I was growing up. These two items might explain way our subfloors had been slightly crooked. The workers 90 years ago were too busy smoking and drinking to do the job right. 

When the cabinets were brought in, I opened the door as far as I could. Due to the covering on the floor in the entryway, I really had to pull hard. So hard, the bottom hinge came off.

As Fred Mertz would growl, "Oh, swell!" Luckily, our superintendent knew a fixit guy who came over within a half hour. He are the original 1880s screws he pulled out.

The guy was kind of blown away by their size; screws in door hinges are no longer this small. In fact, he replaced these four with five of these monsters:

A guy could get hurt handling these things. At least I could. 

I hope to resume semi-regular blogging when my mind has fully returned to life as it now is: a clean kitchen with new appliances, cabinets, and a solid floor that doesn't squeak and creak like it does in the rest of the apartment. 

Does that mean there's another renovation for the living room and bedroom in our future? Only if you pry this six-inch screw from my cold, dead hand first. 

                                                                   ************