So, I (and a friend) go a little crazy with our event rider…

The Traveler: 

Hell week.

Every day it’s up at 4am, fly out at 6 to another city, press conferences all morning, switch hotels in the afternoon for client dinners. Present, smooze, and chit-chat till 11.. back at hotel by midnight, 2 drinks and a benzo, out for four hours… wash-rinse-repeat.

It was the kind of trip that made logistical sense only in the mind of MC Escher. And yet there it was, and by the time we hit Munich, co-presenter & traveling partner: CXO-Something for a software company you’d recognize (hereafter “bob” – only because I’m in a Jay and Silent Bob kind of mood) – we decided that it was time to turn the tables and start torturing the wedding planner-like host in whose mind all this perversity was exacerbated.

-MUNICH- START OF NIGHT’S EVENT

Me (to WeddingPlanner): “Hey you… we have some requests…”

WeddingPlanner: “What can I do for you guys?”

Me: “Well for our next event I want white rose pedals trimmed in red laid out on the tables with a single blue skittle laying in them.”

Bob: “No wait dude.. they got those!”

I looked sure as shit, there were white rose pedals trimmed just slightly in red. Bob tore one off, and arranged it on the table.

Me: “That's a wasabi covered peanut, not a skittle.”

Bob: “It’s still pretty fucking close.”

Me: “Goddamnit.”

Wedding planner looks satisfied, that he’d anticipated this. Bob wasn’t giving up.

Bob: “I want a pony. I want to ride a pony on stage”.

Wedding planner cocked an eye, time to double down.

Me: “Stuffed with a donkey--.”

Bob: “--A miniature donkey.”

Me: “That’s stuffed with a rabbit.”

WeddingPlanner: “What?”

Bob: “A Podonkit, it’s like a Turducken”

WeddingPlanner: “A what!!?”

Me: “A Turducken, is a turkey stuffed with a duck, stuffed with a chicken. They’re very popular in redneck land.” I whip out my phone to prove to him we weren’t making it up.

The notion of a turducken blew WeddingPlanner’s inflexible Swedish mind.

Me: “We want a Podonkit, a pony stuffed with a donkey –

Bob: “-Miniature donkey-“

Me: “-Right -miniature donkey, stuffed with a rabbit.”

Wedding Planner: “A PodonkEN?”

Bob goes mental: “I do not – DO.NOT. – want a fucking PodonKEN you fucking asshole.”

Me: “If there are feathers sticking out the ass of our Po-donk we will fucking end you.”

Bob: “What are you some kind of fucking pervert? A god damned PodonKEN – It’s a PO-DONK-IT – Fuzzy cotton tail”, bob shook his head, “jackass.”

Wedding plannr: “Why?”

Bob: “We’re going to ride it on stage and then cook and eat it”

Me: “it’s a team building exercise.”

MUCH – MUCH – MUCH – LATER – IN PARIS

Narco sleeping pills and 16 hours sleep in 5 days. I am seeing Podonkits everywhere. It’s like an acid trip. It’s all Bob and I can talk about. We have since decided that they’re quasi-stuffed, quasi grafted. Like a medieval culinary creation, the front half is a pony with the back and 2 additional legs of a donkey (to make it more of an all terrain vehicle – 6 foot drive!) with a fluffy white rabbits tail.

I look over at bob, my head swiveling with the world trailing slowly behind it like from a scene in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. “you know what I want Bob?”

Bob: “What”

Me: “A podonkit with orangutan arms – you know a orangpodonkit – porangudonkit – podon-u-kit?”

Bob: “I think its just ‘Podonkit with Orangutan arms’”

Me: “okay.”

Bob: “*Why* do you want a podonkit with orangutan arms?”

Me: “For hugs.”

This is the first time I’ve seen Bob even slightly shocked. Have I managed to go to far?  I clarify quickly: “Not for like sex, dude, don’t be – just don’t. You know it’s just for --you know intimacy. It gets lonely on the road.”

Bob: “you wouldn't still eat it would you.”

Me: “You’d have to be a right cold bastard to eat a creature that just wants to give you a hug”

Bob: “Dude. Can you imagine the action you could get with the ladies if you have a pony that could hug them back”

Me: “Exactly.”

Bob: “You should be a cartoon super villain.”

So, uh…

The Traveler: 

I’m sorry I’ve been absent, I’ve been dealing with some personal drama that has kept me from writing**. 

That doesn’t mean that things haven’t been happening… just maybe that too much has been happening for me to be able to write about it all. Whatsmore my rabid orangutan says that I should blog about more than travel, that the crazy shit that happens to me right here at home is worth writing about… I couldn’t begin to tell you, or write all of it. Maybe we should just make a list, and let folks tell us what y’all want to hear:

So, I take 2 autistic kids and a future cartoon super villain on Christmas vacation.  

So, it turns out I’m exactly like Anne Frank: persecuted and strangely sexually aroused by it. 

So, according to the TSA, there is one circumstance where a heart-felt “I’m real sorry” doesn’t quite cut it. 

So, I dishonored the Honor Bar at Oxford University 

So, it turns out that a Pit Bull in heat is exactly how it sounds

-- and there’s more god there’s more I’m forgetting most of what’s come up and gotten jotted in my little notebook (which I’ve left home this trip). 

But for tonight, tonight we have to go with: 

So, it turns out you might actually be a douche

No, not me… I’m an unapologetic asshole, and maybe a little bit of a narcissist, but you, sir… you are a douche. 

BACKGROUND: People --ordinarily civilized, church going folk, respectable, parents, grand parents, leaders in business – loose their mother-fucking minds when they travel – and not just to Las Vegas, I’m talking everywhere – tonight in Indianapolis – some middle manager in a polo and mom-jeans is talking way too loud and acting a damn fool –count on it.

And apparently that’s okay, because what happens in Indy stays  --what – on your HR record forever or at least until you’re fired or quit because most companies are too pussy to actual say you were fired for cause on reference checks. 

--makes me wonder why I don’t start putting: “Former Emperor of Belize” on my resume, and just mother-fucking double-dog-dare some litigation fearing HR department in my former employer to dispute that. 

Have you ever been to Belize?

No 

Were you ever elected, or granted any plenipotentiary powers in Belize?

No

Is Belize an imperial power, ruler of subject nation-states, or holder of remote protectorates?

No 

And, yet, you were the Emperor of Belize?

Yep. The Suba diving is awesome.

And that’s how it goes. Everyone nods and all is good. Just don’t lie about your past earnings, because HR people will fucking check that because I believe they get to keep 50% of ever dollar they don’t have to pay you. 

Anyway I digress. 

Douche, in the bar… here are some rules for living gently and not getting sued, from those of us who travel for a living, for whom this bar is sort of like a second home – that you seem to feel entitled to shit all over.  

1. After your Blood Alcohol Content (BAC) reaches a point where it would be illegal for you to drive – you need to go back to your room
2. You are neither clever, insightful, charismatic, or sexually attractive pretending that you are only increases your general Douchy-Quotient (DQ)
3. Your female co-workers are not sexual artifacts for your amusement.  It is totally not okay to walk up to them stand one inch from their face and encourage them to “c’mon have another drink”. 
4. Do not, absolutely not, under any circumstances attempt to touch, or engage, me or one of my “fellow travelers” in conversation.  I will make it my mission to make you cry. Promise. 
5. Rule number three (women <> sexual artifacts) applies also to bartenders, waitresses, actresses, models, musicians, booth-babes, and redheads. 
6. Should you heed rule #1, and just go to your room, playing porn at full volume is not considered a thoughtful gift for your neighbors. 

**(not you thinly veiled blackmailing romantically inclined valentines homosexual stalker)

So, I’m not dead, just been in Columbia

The Traveler: 

There is a ‘Field of Dreams’ joke there, I’m sure. Is this Hell? No, It’s Columbia.  And there’s not corn fields, but traffic and coca, and all sorts of sights to see. 


But basically, you can assume that I’ve been on what you might want to call my best behavior on account of not wanting to be found (or not found) dead.


Some random thoughts:


•if you’re a US Traveler, even with your super awesome get into the country free card like I got, leaving Columbia is something you should be prepared to take a while. Several hours.  My bags were opened no less than five times trying to leave the country. 


•Bogota has bad traffic & terrible smog, but really, really cool people. Everyone was so happy that I didn’t assume they were narco traffickers, that the typical Latin hospitality and warmth shone through, even through that TERRIBLE SMOG. 


•All Libertarians should have to visit Columbia to see what life is really like without all those pesky laws and government regulations. Theory in practice. Go for it, and report back.


•Medellin is one of the most beautiful places on earth. Good good, hot women, beautiful scenery. Next time I’m renting a motorcycle. 


•Spirit Airlines is like riding in a used car dealership with a lower class of passenger. I describe their passengers as falling squarely into 1 of 3 groups:

• People wanting a super economical ticket to someplace exotic and thankful that the plane didn’t crash
• people wanting a super economical ticket to someplace exotic and who enjoy bitching about how everything on the airline is an extra charge
• me. 

I had the misfortune to be around a large group of people in group 2. their exchange about how there’s add on seat fees, they charge for coffee, they charge for carry ons, and etc went on forever.  To the point that a little me had to slip out:


“why did you pick Spirit?” I asked. 


“Because American Airlines was going to charge 1200 bucks for my ticket” he said. 


“I paid about three hundred for mine… “ I said.


“Yeah, me too.” He said, not sure where I was going.


“So, you ever hear the phrase: there’s no such thing as a free lunch?”


There isn’t. my add ons probably totaled another 500 bucks. But so there you are 800 bucks to go to Columbia. Not bad. And the people at spirit are nice enough though they come across as a soulless version of Southwest. But they didn’t deserve the constant shit they were taking from a bargain hunter. 

So, I Promise Nobody on This Side of the Airplane is going to Have Sex Tonight.

The Traveler: 

Strangely I don’t really know where I am… I’m so spent from a long Euro tour, something like London, Amsterdam, Brussels, Luxembourg, Helsinki, Paris… and then I forget.  I do know that this boarding pass in my hand says: DFW and that’s a good thing. I’m boarding business class on an AA 777 and that too is a good thing. And I have 10 hours of peace, quiet, and not being on stage, and nobody asking me question… and that is an Amazing thing.

I look forward to long airplane rides for the peace they bring me.

Anyway, talking on the phone with the Orangutan as I board the airplane someone says loud enough for her to hear: “I like your jeans”. I nod and say thanks… I don’t look around. I’m frankly sorta flummoxed by this, even being ‘The Ho Whisperer’, I’m wretchedly inept at picking up when girls are hitting on me.

The Orangutan thinks this is amazingly funny. She gets all breathless, “Oh… I like your Jeans…” and rolls laughing.

“Dude…” I try to explain, but I’m way too tired.

“Those jeans do make your package look amazing”. She said.

“Thanks.” I said, still… I’m totally out of words. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do in this situation. There wasn’t a primer for it in kindergarten.

“So, I know you gotta run… but can you do me a favor?” She asks.

“Sure.” I say.

“If it’s at all possible, can you avoid having sex with anyone on the flight home?”  She asks snarky.

I consider her request for a long moment. “Sure, I guess so, if it means that much to you…”

We say our good byes, hang up.

I get to my seat.

In the seat next to me, is this amazingly hot, 20 something red hair’d girl, who apparently likes my jeans a whole lot. 

I smile. She smiles. She must have designed the jeans or something because, seriously, I’m old enough to be the younger guy her mom is dating.

I sit.

She smiles, again.

Getting myself situated, she looks me dead in the eye and says deadpan: “Do you want to be on top or bottom?”

I am, at this point, totally out of my element.

Now lets be clear. I’m reasonably good looking. I’m reasonably fit for a man my age. I’m in a job that puts me on stage, I am what someone might call charismatic. And those skills have come in useful a few times with the opposite sex… but I am simply not so good looking, fit, or rich enough to get this aggressively hit-on without having said a word yet.

Now, I’m sure some of you are thinking I need to be reaching for the brass ring with both hands here, but seriously guys, I’m going to be sitting next to this girl for the next 10 hours. This situation could easily turn into the worst first date ever, with no possibility of escape.

While I’m busying myself trying to think of something suitably charming to say, she points at the cubbies between out seat. The cubbies hold the vanity kits American is kind enough to supply to business class passengers, they are situated one on top of the other. 

Oh. I smile and nod. I get it. The clever-cute-tease. I got your number baby. I figured out how to deal with that well before you were born, I think.

“Doesn’t really matter to me.” I say flatly. Hoping to shut this down. Now, I could try and see how far I could push this thing, just for it’s entertainment value, see exactly what she’d be willing to do in an 777 forward lav, and pull the plug at the last minute. But guys, I’ve got a perfectly nice Orangutan waiting for me at home who wouldn’t appreciate even a ‘harmless’ tease game, and more than that, I am fucking tired.

“I prefer to be on top”. She says.

Of course you do, I think. I shrug. “Go for it,” I say.

She looks at me like 10 minutes after the lights go down she intends to do just that.

I pull out my hot-girl-canceling-headphones, plug in my iPod, put on my sunglasses, and surrender to the Acid Jazz.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her sorta shrug, like: fuck you then. And start to play Teris on the inflight entertainment console.

That being exactly the response I was looking for. I can almost feel Mother Earth’s “Jesse” start to pull me away into a preflight nap.

“Hey Cole!” I am jostled. A couple of late arrivals are trying to man handle their plethora of trinkets and knickknacks into the overhead.  It is a couple, dad in his fifties, and step mom about my age. Hot red-haired girl is theirs.

Dad is talking three notches too loud, right through me to his daughter. I pull off my shades.

Dad locks eyes with me. He absolutely does not like what he sees. 

I try to smile and put my shades back on.

“Hey Cole,” He shouts as if in an especially loud nightclub. “Do you wanna switch seats with me?”

Please, Cole, for the sake of my tired old bones. I implore quietly. 

“Nope. I’m good.” She says, smiling at dad, and then at me.

My tired head lolls to the side, to see dad’s reaction. That was not the answer he wanted. He looks at me for a long moment.

He considers asking me if I’ll switch with him, but before the words leave his lips, he looks over at reasonably hot step mom, and he realizes that no matter what, this dude in these amazing jeans will be sitting next to at least one of his females.

He hates that fact, and his hatred for me is palpable. 

For a moment, I can tell he’s thinking about asking me to switch with reasonably hot step mom, and move from my isle seat to the only damn middle seat in business class.

Sunglasses off. I look at him coldly, like: Are you motherfucking crazy?

He is caught between a rock and a hard place, and succumbs to his fate.

But he does not go quietly.

Sunglasses back on. Preflight Champaign in each hand, Mother Earth on the iPod, I lean back.

“Hey Cole! Did you see the pictures your mom took.” He shouts past me

“She’s not my mom.” Cole says to me only.

A few moments later, as my body is on the verge of surrender.

“Hey Cole! Did you see the crystal statue your mom got at that shop.”

She doesn’t respond or if she does, I don’t catch it.

Two minutes later, “Hey Cole! They have salmon on the menu tonight.”

They always have salmon on the menu, tourist.

“Hey Cole! Did you see anything you wanted on the inflight duty free?”

This is clearly a chimpanzee territorial display. And I try to suck it up, because Dad is just engaging in a biological response to an obvious predator in the company of one of his females. It's rude, yes, but also a biological imperative, so he treads the line of my finely tuned since of politeness. 

But. It. Keeps. Going On.

The plane takes off, he just gets louder. I get it dude. She is Your female. I’m just trying to sleep here.

He. Will. Not. Stop.  

Every single sentence starts with, “Hey Cole!” If I hear that one more time, I will lose my fucking mind.

“Hey Cole! Did you—“

I sit up so rapidly, it actually interrupts him. Sunglasses off. 

I twist in my seat aggressively.

I look him dead in the eye.

“Hey Cole’s Dad!” I shout. Now everyone is looking, Great. The flight attendant’s ears perk up, on full terrorist incident alert. Maybe I said that a bit too loud.

“Listen, I understand my sitting next to your daughter makes you uncomfortable. But how about we make a deal… What if I PROMISE that no one on this side of the airplane will be having sex tonight. Not just on the airplane, but even after they get home. No Sex, I absolutely promise. I’ll make it my personal mission to enforce that. Okay? So could you please, please, dial it down so I can sleep?”

In a moment of emotional honesty he doesn’t even look apologetic. He looks at me like, ‘That sounds like a fair deal, partner.’ And turns back to his book.

And shuts the fuck up.

Cole, does her damnedest to turn herself invisible under a pile of pillows and covers.

Thank god.

The Alert flight attendant, stops by a few moments later, she presses an unordered Vodka Rocks in my hand, leans down and whispers, "Those are great jeans."

Afterward:

At about 1 hour to landing, Cole and Cole’s dad switch places. She’s sick or sexually frustrated or something. I really don’t care. He feels the need to address our “incident.”  He hems and haws, trying to figure out some way to start the conversation.

“She’s gotten motion sick.” He says.

“Listen, “ I say. “I have a daughter. I get it. But seriously. I kept my end of the deal, Nobody got laid last night, so no talking, okay?”

So, the Air Marshal Service Breaks Up an Impromptu Reunion

The Traveler: 

The Brunettutan and I are on the same flight from LHR to DFW! The thought hit me like a lightning bolt.  We’d been apart for 2 weeks, and worse yet one of those weeks was her in Israel, utterly without phone service. So my only means of contact with her  were her Facebook updates that were frequently things like:

“Hey look at me, pressed with 16 different points of body contact up against a NASCAR driver… He’s so Awesome… I think I wanna marry him...”

or

“out in the middle of the desert at an Rave… they bussed in hot guys to dance… I don’t know why I’m the only hot girl here… woot!”

And so on.

Needless to say, I was missing her stupid monkey face, and feeling ever so slightly out of sorts with my apparent position in the pack order when I noticed her last Facebook Status update:

Packing going to the airport…

But it’s Saturday, I thought… I’m traveling home on Saturday, she was supposed to be coming home until Sunday. Then I remember, that she said she arrived at 730… which is the same time I arrive, but a day “earlier”.

Her simian self was clarly confused… you lose a day going to EMEA… you gain time coming back. She had it backwards...

Now knowing that we were on the same flight… I began to scramble. Her company, which sucks because it’s populated by testosterone fueled middle aged frat boys and wireless engineers, and … -- wait that’s not why it sucks… it sucks because she has to fly back of the bus, toilette class.  Why I fly business… So I scramble, trying to get her upgraded, before I leave Lisbon.

That was a solid hour on the phone, to no avail. I can’t upgrade her with miles… but I learned there were “lots of seats” available… so just buy them at the airport. And it would probably be cheaper.

Now of course I was also seriously late getting to my gate. And mate later because Portugal apparently like Poland, also insists you go through passport control when you LEAVE instead of when you enter. WTF?

3 hours later – LHR. I connect with The Orangutan at the AA lounge… Kiss-kiss hug-hug we got 20 minutes before the flight boards… she’s terribly surprised, but we gotta hustle. I work the club desk. “Hey… look, so I’m stupid, because I didn’t know we were on the same flight… but I was hoping”.

Those words escape my lips and I look behind me at the line forming and I want to kick my own ass. This is the kind of lack of preparation and forethought that usually causes me to want to humiliate other people pretty dramatically. I hate that I’m that guy right now.

I’m told of course that there are not “lots of seats” in business. Business is in fact sold out. There aint nothing anyone can do about it.

I look at her sad brown eyes, eyes that almost regret two solid weeks of partying, and status updates that drove me seven different kinds of crazy – almost – but not enough to actually – you know – stop…  I shrug… Hey… you know babe… I tried…

She looks at me like: “You could always downgrade…”

I look at her like she just shit a unicorn.

The desk lady calls, “Oh wait, good news, Sir.”

We both turn excited.

“Because business was oversold, we’ve bumped you up to First.”

“Both of us?” I ask.

“Uh, No…” She said.

That’s all right; First class on an American 777 is one of the nicest ones out there. They have these private pods that are nearly 7 feet long by 3 feet wide. Where the seats not only turn away from each other but also lay flat into beds… What’s more, when upright the pod can actually be 2 seats! What is the foot rest half of the pod is actually bigger than a coach class seat, and has it’s own seatbelt… and the table can fold out between them -- for if you and a colleague wanna play scrabble or something.

So kiss – kiss – bye, bye, I’ll go work my magic on the purser and get her up front after take off –

I explain my tale of woe to the purser… I share with him the photos of her pressed up against a NASCAR driver, like, Hey common; yes I’m an idiot, and I should have planned better, and had I this would be a non-issue, but I haven’t seen the girl in a couple of weeks, help a brother out here, huh?

Sympathetic he said usually they don’t allow people to cross classes of service but he’d do some checking at let me know.

I’m pretty hopeful, I got good game with flight staff.  But he came back 5 minutes later shaking his head.

“Sir, ordinarily, I’d be happy to accommodate you, going back to the United States, it’s a security issue – I checked with our security staff, and the Air Marshals won’t have it.”

Fate is funny. If I hadn’t been upgraded, we probably could have connected at the boarder between business and coach… but now there was a whole class of service between us.  And while the purser was standing there, as if for effect, one of the other FA’s announce that under no circumstances, due to security measures was anyone to cross any classes of service on flights back to the USA.

The purser looked at me: “The seat next to her is solo, I could certainly convince that passenger to trade with you.”  Meaning downgrade me two classes of service.

I look back at the photo of the orangutan and the NASCAR driver. He couldn’t have been even a very good driver, what with his job being driving tourists around a test track…

“Uh.. yeah… no.” Enjoy coach, bitch.

So, I think we need to introduce predators into airports

The Traveler: 

London Heathrow. I love England. I get around good, the cab drivers are the best in the world. The people are generally pretty cool – EXCEPT – They have this bizarre habit of simply stopping where they are, forming a little social circle, and having a chat / smoke / drink / or whatever the fuck right in the middle of an otherwise active walkway.

You’ll be walking along, and all of a sudden, like in some video game, one of these pods of people will suddenly stop and become an obstacle you have to navigate around. And for all the presumed politeness of the British, there seems to be a distinct aura of don’t give a fuck, that they’ve just disrupted the flow of foot traffic.

Nowhere is this worse than in Airports. Airports are for the most part poorly designed, anyway. I mean if you put the information sign 5 feet in front of an entrance door, you have to expect that people will stop and look at it. It’s as if someone internationally designed –as a security measure— little attention grabbing do-dads to utterly fuck up anyone’s ability to move about the premises freely.

So here’s the plan. We introduce predators into airports. Maybe if navigating the airport had an element of danger to it, folks might be more mindful of staying on the move, walking with purpose, knowing where they want to go before they step off.

Of course we can sprinkle in safe zones, so that folks can hop from one to another… do their duty free shopping in safety and then back out into the breech. I’m thinking something akin to a daily commute in Sarajevo back with it was front lines in the Yugoslav civil war. Run-Dodge-Break-For-Cover.

Now, I know what the humanists are saying… but it doesn’t have to be dangerous predators… just a bunch of really pissed off cats with maybe a few Jack Russell Terriers thrown in for variety –just something to get folks to step-off with purpose.

P.S. as an added measure, how about we also get rid of the Arrivals Displays inside of the secure area… it’s been 10 years since folks have been able to get through security to meet people at the gate –so their really just something else for stupid people to stop and look at.

So, an Indian waiter learns the value of a decimal point

The Traveler: 

London. Real quick, just now me and a friend were finishing dinner. I flag the waiter over to pay my tab. In London, like much of Europe, they use these portable credit card machines, but in London, like in most places in Europe, Tipping is exceptional not standard, so there is no line on the receipt to add a tip after it’s printed. I tell the waiter, “Add six pounds tip for your self”.

“You do it.” He said. I didn’t really understand, but once he ran my card, he handed me the machine, and said, “You can approve the charge here. And add the tip if you want.”

Fine, cool.  So I hit the green button, okaying the base charge, I go to the next screen, selecting, Yes I’d like to leave a tip, and I start to enter the amount. It’s like one of those old calculators, where each digit you enter moves the decimal place to the right, (starting with 6 cents, then you add a zero to make sixty and so on).

Well I got to .60 cents, and for some reason the waiter snatched the machine out of my hand… I guess I was taking to long or something. Cause he snatched it up, looked at the screen.

“I wasn’t done… I need to finish”.

“I’ll finish” he said.

“No I mean the amount isn’t right.” And I try to take the machine back, I get it just in my hands and ready to add the final zero, and he snatches it back.

He completes the transaction, prints my receipt. He looks at it carefully, “Did you mean to leave sixty cents tip?” he asks.

“No,” I said. “I meant to leave you six pounds, but you snatched the machine out of my hand before I could finish, and you wouldn’t listen to me that the amount was wrong.”

He looks at me like suggesting I could leave cash, I look at him like there is no way in the world I was going to do that.

“Sorry dude. But now I guess you know the value of a decimal point.”

(and of not snatching shit out of my hands, I thought.)