Invincible in the wind

Invincible in the wind,
On the stairs, by the road,
Passerby glance,
Bewildered,
Can’t sense the afterglow.

Doughty lad towel clad,
True in tension, blood below,
Darkness embalms,
Aloneness,
Can’t see for the afterglow.

When the bus overtakes,
Diving whale, stabbing crow,
Hurricane tunnel,
Laughter,
Can’t strip the afterglow.

Neptune is naked

The fragrance of chlorine pervades the hall, reaching the front desk where you acquire the key to your second-floor "cabin." You're handed a towel, robe, some inexplicable variety of place-mat. And then you enter the hall. From above, one's tempted upon first impression to be reminded of a Sultan's harem: blue ceramic tiles, imperious pillars, small cafe tables, and naked bodies frolicking about in a large pool on the ground-floor. But there's no odalisque here, just naked men in the lanes, swimming vigorously one-after-the-other around in circles, like ducklings, pale asses cresting.

I'm at Yrjönkadun uimahallii, Helsinki, Finland, apparently the oldest swimming hall in the Nordic region. Built in 1928 in the classicism style (whatever that means), it was renovated in 1997-9 to retain its original appearance. In late 2001, bathing trunks became optional.
Nonetheless, what the deuce? Well, first of all, the exquisite classicist architecture is something in which to revel. Second, visiting the hall is about getting in touch with (figuratively speaking, c'mon now!) one's natural nude male species being. Third, there are off-the-chain saunas: steam, electric, and, best of all, wood-heated. And all for 6€ (student price), it cannot be beat!

The first surprise was that the female assistant led me to my "cabin," on the second floor, past naked or toweled men, overlooking the pool. It turns out mostly ladies, but some men, meander about cleaning, organizing, and serving beer and food to the patrons. It makes sense: the pool switches between male and female days, evincing something of a femme or feminist bias in that there are four of the latter to three of the former. I wonder if the male workers are here on lady days?

The "cabin" itself was like a curtained off corner in a hospital room, a curtained cubicle along the wall. It was outfitted with bed, locking drawer, and clothes hooks and coat-hanger. The second surprise was that the front-facing curtain was gossamer. In fact, this surprise was not a surprise, because the hall is or has been known for its gay activity. By publicizing the private, the see-through curtain maneuver stamps down on covert sex. All for the best, all for the best.

Naturally, the first thing was to take advantage of the sauna - steam then wood - and only after that, to go for a swim, and finally to repeat the double sauna in the same order to finish off. This procedure is time-tested and mother-approved. The steam sauna was crowded in the cheek-to-cheek kind of way where buns are not exactly touching, but a quantized distance is achieved in which an undeniable magnetic or gravitational sensation is palpable. The steam soothes the throat and relaxes the body but is not quite hot enough to bring about the indispensable sauna cook. Wood-heated wins the cake as my favored sauna because it gets maximally hot without what can be the harshness, or singing touch, of the regular electric.

After the initial steam soak and burn, I hit the pool. Finding myself stranded directly behind an exceptionally slow fellow, and therefore his buttocks and free-floating private bits, I deduced that I was in the turtle-speed lane and decided to hitch myself to the hare line. I found that more agreeable but slightly too fast, like a race, the Goldilocks just-rightness eluding me. But alas, beggars can't be choosers, and I settled in for a hard swim in order to earn my final steam and roast in the saunas.

All in all, it was an experience in the same way eating lutefisk is an experience (somebody make sure I do this before I leave the Nordic north). I do not risk controversy in proposing that Americans are more naked-averse than Finns (or Europeans more generally). I believe this is slightly unfortunate. At the same time, the Yrjönkadun uimahalli experience is foreign and slightly out-there even for most Finns. Nonetheless, it is a traditional, relaxing, social, and idiosyncratic past-time with a lot going for it only limited by vague awkwardness and Puritan prejudice.

Economic pessimism - a polemic

(Note: This article is in response to a preponderance of pessimism which culminated in the US some two weeks ago, but may be re-ignited by the budget super-committee's epic fail, and which is just reaching an apex in Europe.)

Nouriel Roubini was retroactively awarded the appellation "Dr. Doom" for purportedly predicting the global financial crisis (I attack Roubini and the author of this article, from the International Business Times, below). In 2010 he was 12th of 100 top global thinkers in a list by Foreign Policy. Other maverick economists also recognized, again retroactively, for anticipating the crisis are Robert Schiller and Raghuram Rajan.

While these thinkers deserve plaudits for their foresight and originality, and Roubini specifically impresses me with his erudition in this interview with the grill-master, Tom Keene, I think the wailing and gnashing-of-teeth have gotten out of control. Public discourse has jumped from excessive, pre-crisis optimism and faith in the market to apocalyptic dread. I, for one, am sick and tired of the crisis fetish.

Take Roubini's claim, from this interview with the Wall Street Journal, that "Karl Marx had it right. At some point capitalism can self-destroy itself. That's because you can not keep on shifting income from labor to capital without not having an excess capacity and a lack of aggregate demand. We thought that markets work. They are not working. What's individually rational ... is a self-destructive process."

Well, one should not reject academic-historical claims out of hand, but this is almost certainly going too far. What does it mean, first of all, that capitalism can self-destruct or that individual rationality is self-destructive?

Perhaps nothing, but in essence, it's an emergence claim. When phenomena at one level causally relate to those at another level, there is said to be a relationship of emergence. Economists typically aver a necessary relation of higher level effects to lower, individual level causes, which is explanatory reductionism. In this (cherry-picked) quote, Roubini assumes that causal individuals act rationally; behavioral economists, such as Schiller, would tend to disagree. Nonetheless, even in this simplified case, the aggregate, macro, system-level society-economy may crash. The emergent effect may be decidedly sub-optimal even given micro-level optimality conditions (generally guaranteed by perfect rationality among other things). Economists axiomatize rationality such that individuals maximize utility subject to preferences and a budget constraint. Alternatively, Ian Hacking (1983) holds that rationality does little explanatory work, but irrational does. For him, irrational means nutty, unsound, vacillating, unsure, lacking self-knowledge, and so on.

According to Hacking's definition, some people are irrational a lot of time time and all people are irrational at least some of the time. But it doesn't really matter, or so says Roubini. Even in the perfect-rationality limiting case, the economy can implode because it may have its own adaptive or path-dependent logic or be subject to radical and rapid changes, tipping dynamics, or system-internal defects, the seeds of its own destruction, à la Marx.

Now we're back on track with Roubini. He says that companies, during hard times, are incentivized to stockpile and reduce employee payouts, and their employees in turn are incentivized to stockpile and reduce consumption. A typical Keynesian stagnation spiral, but not what Marx was talking about at all. And Roubini claims that the stimulus was too meager, but that's what Keynesians always kvetch. Furthermore, just because the economy can self-destruct doesn't mean it will. And self-destruct? That means, what, exactly? Teleology has gone out of favor for good reason. For Marx, the end of the road is Utopia; for Dr. Doom, it's Dystopia. And for the world or humanity as a whole, perhaps it's self-annihilation. But even if that's the case, who really cares?

Suomi

So I live in Suomi, also known by its Swedish name, Finland. I get paid to study and research vector X of interrelated intellectualities. X? A farrago. I embrace obscurantism. There are many things which deserve to be buried and left unexhumed.

Specifically, I am studying the philosophy and methodology of social science. Most people have no idea what this means (perhaps I will attempt to explain in upcoming posts). I also twiddle from time to time with down-and-dirty methodology, such as Bayesian probability and statistics, Markov chains, and evolutionary game theory. Most people have no idea what these mean either. Nor should they. One doesn't need Bayes' rule to deduce that I am most likely to jettison or fail out of all of the above (this has already come to pass!). Above all, as a rule of thumb, one should avoid becoming impressed.

Nonetheless, I am grateful to everyone who has helped me. Ant hills are really cool.

Certainly my least noble but most eccentric Finland moment was attempting to cross the Vantaa river by bridge at Pikkukoski beach in Koskela. As banal as that sounds, in fact, I attempted to cross by hand: that is, hand over hand along one of the lateral I-beams (see image below for clarification). Queerly, the beam got progressively fatter towards the middle until it was truly obese, and my arms were swinging widely beyond the shoulders. I happened to attempt this feat the day before Halloween. The water met me chilly.

I am also guilty of turning the duvet cover on my bed into a pumpkin for the aforementioned October festivities. If I may say so myself, it turned out passably well. Pillows rounded me out. Some industrious friends cut out a face with black felt so I was a jack-o-lantern rather than merely an unmarked gourd. I set forth in company with Lyndsey Hoh and Lyndsey and John Helling. We made a jolly and bizarre quartet: pumpkin-face, the gnome, the mime, and the greaser. On our long haul from Koskela to a  party in city center, we witnessed not a single other costumed crusader.

Fortunately, I have multiple contingents of industrious friends. Some Sergeis - one Russian, one Ukrainian - were kind enough to host a kind of Russian night. It all started in the sauna, which is apparently Slavic as well as Suomalainen. However, we (John Helling and Felix Horns also being present) were to discover that the sauna rites vary from place to place. As it turned out, the Ruski had harvested birch branches from the motherland (St. Petersburg), which were liberally moistened during the first 45 minutes of sauna in the hot water bucket. Throwing this water onto the coals not only generated the familiar heat-sensation humidity but also, imbued by the birch, a lovely fragrance. Eventually the time came for ritualistic scourging: unleashed with the branches upon the back, buttocks, legs, and soles of the feet of a person laying stomach-down on the upper bench. One could call this sensation refreshing.

After cleaning up the carnage of birch leaves, we headed upstairs (nearly every Finnish apartment building has a sauna on site) for the second course: vodka. There were some other things thrown in, such as chicken legs and salami, potatoes, home-pickled cucumbers and mushrooms (thanks to the Russian Sergei's mother!), olives, raw garlic (actually I'm the only one that ate this) and, last but not least, chunky lard slices on bread. Salty and delicious!

These are highlights characteristic of a blessed existence here in the upper latitudes. Other nice things include but are not limited to: superlative office, bike, bucolic urbanity. About time Suomi is naked and unbounded.

Who for?

It's mine, not yours
For me, not you

Twas cathartic to be a creator
Demiurge without a care
To tryst my willing paramour
In my screen-illumined lair

I'd bang away frustrations
On her cacaphonic keys
Reveling in ministrations
Let me count the ways

Then at some point declined
Innocent purge and delight
Occluded by dross and grind
A tale as sad as trite

Thus underswept the symbiotic world
Connections strained and wavering
Lovers taken by virtiginous swirl
Separate currents braving

Mercurial winds dash and reunite
Old oscillation eternal
But it is possible to reignite
Disclaimed sentiments fraternal

Over this micro-land
I reign gatekeeper creator
But resides here more than planned
Life which transcends the mirror

I have returned to this earth so sere
To huddle with my entities
I hope the time is near
To reclaim the nursery

It's ours, not mine
For us, not me

Pop music

Of a sudden, I am strangely and ashamedly enamored with pop music: Rihanna. Katy Perry. Lupe Fiasco. Taio Cruz. etc. The culpable parties are "fireworks" and "exercise." Allow me to explain.

On the 4th, I watched New York City's Macy's-sponsored fireworks display on television, with my parents, in my basement. Evincing incredible cleverness, the producers jammed Katy's "Firework"  and Taio's "Dynamite" during the show. All in all, it was an impressive set-up. I immediately downloaded the songs.

Subsequently, they infiltrated my exercise mix and imposed hegemony. Over time, the population of nakedly poptastic singles procreated and diversified. Madonna is represented.

Most bizarrely, I find that I hanker for Rihanna's "Rude Boy," which is among the most sexually explicit and, to be fair, super-sexy tracks I know. The video may partly explain my interest.

This is a drastic reversal. See, I have a memory of this song. I was in a work van, listening to the radio, on my way to tutor at a downtown Syracuse city high school. The track came on and literally disturbed me, I had no idea who the artist was, and I recall later describing it to a friend in exasperation, disgust, and befuddlement. "This is what we've been reduced to!?" It was cataclysmic. And now it's on repeat during exercise sessions.

This interest in base pop music is paradigmatic of an overall shift towards consumptive anti-gourmandism. I'm embracing my intellectual roots: Jeremy Benthamite utilitarianism (cosmo-consumption) but with a bit of the garbage disposal thrown in. From a certain perspective, it will seem that all is going downhill, down with the Bradstreet.

Actually, what's transpiring is ancient. It's my life story. Octopus hands all on me, multidirectional tugging.

Lupe puts it proper: "One day we're listening to N.W.A, the next day we're listening to Ravi Shankar." One day, it's goat utilitarianism, the next, it's Cartesian dualism... well, not really, but y'all get the point.

Steam punk sculpture

feminine graces
supple corporeal chalice
not to be taken

Sculpture from Pierre Matter

Cosmo-consumption: liking “everything” and meaning It

You will have noticed how counterproductive it has become to ask, “So, what kind of music are you into?” Invariably the respondent – as sick with this question as you are – answers, “You know, like, everything.” And they’re ingenuously and more or less correctly representing their preferences. There’s nothing wrong with this answer; the inanity is in the query itself.

Allow me to approach this question of “everything” from an analysis of “a little less than everything.” Despite my claim above, sometimes the respondent feels like reducing the field. Thus, to “everything” they might add, “… except country and/or rap and/or electronic and/or some other type of music.” By arguing that this sort of categorical reductionism is questionable, I hope to show the utility and veracity of the “everything” answer.

There are two reasons why I think eliminating whole genres of music from one’s repertoire is foolish: (1) ignorance and (2) hybridization.

Clearly, no person can catalog, interrelate, and understand the wealth of music that exists today. Yet, when someone claims that they dislike a certain genre, it is assumed that they know the genre. Consider quantifying “knowledge.” On a rule of thumb basis, how many artists from a genre would you expect somebody to “know,” before you would certify them knowledgeable about that genre? I think a lax lower-bound would be twenty artists.

Now try to list twenty artists belonging to a genre you like. This can be as vague and prodigious a category as Rock, Funk, Hip-Hop, Jazz, or Electronic – the genres I chose. When you have completed this challenge, try the same exercise for your ambivalence or punching-bag genres. For me, completing the first five was less than effortless, but I failed Country (miserably) as well as Soul (which I adore; see results below). Obviously, people  know less about genres they claim to dislike than those they claim to like. But, how can you dislike a genre you don’t even know?

My claim is that when people decide to narrow their field of musical preference with a categorical exception, they almost always do it in a state of ignorance. If the former experiment does not convince you, test the next person that evinces this behavior. Take them to task. Undoubtedly they’ll complain: there’s no incentive to know about a genre that you dislike; they’ve heard the music, they just can’t produce names; and it’s common knowledge, after all. Everybody knows what Hip-Hop, Country, and Electronic music more or less sound like, don’t they?

The answer is a radical “NO!” No, they do not! Even a person cognizant of twenty artists in a genre does not know the genre. Any umbrella category such as the ones discussed here is best characterized as vastly heterogeneous. There may be recognized pioneers, paradigmatic artists, and common technical elements, but there is no representative sound. Knowledge is scarce, and rejecting a musical genre from a state of ignorance is preposterous.

My second reason for rejecting genre reductivism is also illustrated by the exercise above. When you list twenty artists according to genre, you inevitably find boundary-stretchers and outliers. These are more often than not some kind of hybrid. Artists almost always represent more than one genre. Sometimes, they hybridize so weirdly that they do not seem to fit anywhere (this is common: I suggest The Books and Matmos & So Percussion).  In any case, all genres significantly interpenetrate and overlap. There is no purity. One cannot limit the contagion of an unliked genre by will alone.

If you follow my argument thus far, you should be convinced that reducing your field of “liked” music from “everything” to “everything but…” is a dubious and somewhat arbitrary practice. If you’re like most of the people I’ve queried about their musical tastes, you are probably much closer to liking a little bit of everything than you are to responsibly amputating swaths of the spectrum. 

This, I think, is one of many idiosyncratic and positive features of the past couple decades and the modern cosmopolitan, aesthetic outlook. Of course, it’s not without its controversy – it’s caught up in debates about the authentic, cultural imperialism, inequality (because ‘cultural’ range and sophistication are usually predicated on wealth), and a whole host of unmentionable post-isms. In short, lots of stuff to think and write about in the future.

If I am dogmatic about expansive tastes, well, one has to stand up for something. I am a fan of liberal draughts of trying and tolerance. Of course, I concede that one can be rationally picky or dislike something through relative disinterest. Nonetheless, I beg you, be wary. Explore a genre patiently, expansively, and with an open mind before you write it off. You may find that what you thought you knew was just stereotype and caricature and that what you thought you liked can be nourished and grown almost without bound.

See expanded text for "Super fun game!" and my results.

Words to live by

I recently noticed how much of my prosaic philosophy corresponds to innocuous song titles and lyrics (and a Movie quote). Although the implications of this are deep, in this article, I will not expound on how our identities are formed by the constant buffeting of structural variables. Instead, I will lay out a couple examples of this phenomenon for your perusal, and allow you to draw your own conclusions. As always, I invite you to share your own experience and comments.

1.”Todo cambia” – Mercedes Sosa “Todo Cambia”

I begin with a bit of banality. It is well known that everything always changes. Big deal. I agree, but don’t let the banal obscure the profound. It can be enriching, from time to time, to ponder the fact that everything we know is mutable and transient – perpetually shattered and recombined into new forms. The human order slides towards discord. Furthermore, one might note that what we conceive of as precious is invariably fragile, transient. To some degree, love emerges from fear.

2. “Everything In Its Right Place” – Radiohead

In stark contrast to the first quote, this lyric is about my personal quest for order. In my petite studio apartment, I obsess over tidiness and harmony, not in a feng shui way, but in a Stalin way. It’s not about energy flow, it’s about control: I’m a totalitarian about my body and environment. On occasion, jeans slip down to one or the other side of the hanger; anarchic socks and shirts scatter across the floor; food sours in the fridge; fingernails rebel intrinsically. In short, everything needs to be put in its place – it’s right place. And I go on organizing, battling fruitlessly as the dust accumulates with ambivalence, sure of its inevitable glory.

3. “I Need a Woman!” – Federico Fellini’s Amarcord

I know I’m not the only one who, when single, feels like roosting in a tree and yelling out an impassioned but fruitless, “I need a companion!” (VOGLIO UNA DONNA!) This is at least what the “mad” Uncle Teo does in Fellini’s slow-moving, autobiographical memory flick. I find his words appearing on my lips from time to time.

4. “Get it Together” – Tm Juke feat. Bread & Water from Maps from the Wilderness

TM Juke is a UK-based producer of hip-hop, soul, and electronica music. Bread & Water is ostensibly a rapper or hip-hop group about whom I have no information. The track speaks, to me, about the failure and insecurity that stalk all of us at one time or another – about times of despair when you feel  you just “need to get it together.” The song conjectures that we’re all prone to such moments on occasion, and counsels modesty, detached self-appraisal, and eradicating sources of negativity. Without abandoning hope for advancement , Bread & Water recommends being cool with the status quo. Although this is obviously easier said than done, this song helps soothe the demoralized ego.

5. “I Feel it All” – Feist

Far from a Buddha-like detachment, I routinely find myself walking on affective embers. At such times of emotional super-sensitivity, I may yearn for an emotional tranquilizer or an effective distraction. Of course, I would never actually dope away my sensitivity. I’d rather “feel it all” than “feel nothing.” Which leaves us with one of those ubiquitous Goldilocks conundrums: Not too hot, not too cold… just right! But that facile formula doesn’t take away the pain during the down-in-the-dumps days. Neither does Feist, but her message does contextualize emotional stress and control in the locus of sensitivity.

Acts of stupidity

Those who know me will agree that I am quite frequently full of tomfoolery. I'm late for engagements, I forget about commitments, I misplace precious belongings, and perpetrate an ever changing assortment of blunders. As much as I've actively and self-consciously pursued higher levels of focus and efficiency, acts of stupidity continue to be my M.O.

For your entertainment, here are some of my recent snafus and idiocies:

-Because I have deficient kitchen counter space, I do not own a microwave. Because I prefer to make my coffee in a French press, I regularly have cold half-pots of coffee sitting around that I'm too poor to allow to go to waste. Because I happen to have an aluminum camping mug from Ecuador, I heat up my coffee in the cup on the stove. It is a recurrent blunder of mine to leave the mug toasting on the stove until and after the coffee starts to boil violently. This truly stupid mistake was once compounded when I outright left my apartment, stove on, coffee cooking away to sludge. Luckily, before I had gone more than four blocks down the street, I ran into my buddy Don Everhart. During our courteous exchange of palaver, I recalled the mug, and ran back to extinguish the burner. By that point, I was appreciably late for class.

-Keys are like little parasites that have you by the balls (or ovaries, depending on the physiology) - you just cannot do without them. Unless, of course, you are willing to be robbed while never being able to access your mail. Despite how often I carry and use my keys, I am strangely little inclined to losing them. Instead, I leave them in the lock of my apartment, on the outside, for any random predator to purloin. This only happened once, but c'mon, for the love of god.

-The other day I ran to "the bean" - the "Cloud Gate" sculpture in Millennium Park, the Loop. Although it might have been 10 degrees out and snowing, that's neither here nor there. The asinine aspect of the trip was that I hadn't bothered to bring either transit card, credit card, or cash. I could have run back, but I wasn't planning on it, plus I was meeting with a friend for lunch (Harold's fried chicken, obviously). Luckily my running companions were more prepared than I was, and they paid for my one-way on the bus.

-In Santiago, Chile, I used to have a habit of getting on the wrong trains, going the wrong directions on the right trains, or missing stops. In Chicago, I've had limited reappearance of this phenomenon, but today I was heading uptown, and I needed to make a transfer. Two stops ahead of time, I galumph out of the train and then peer all about shortsightedly searching for the transfer tunnel. Of course, by the time I realize I'm on the wrong platform, the doors have shut forever, and I'm stuck, in the cold, waiting for 10 minutes. The kicker is that the reason, the sole reason, I was dumb enough to emerge so early was music. I was so getting jiggy with Yin Yang by Jarabe de Palo that I was exited out of over-excitement. Clearly, I'm a buffoon.

The eternal oscillation

From Jeffrey Gerres

Smiling is sexy

Smiling is sexy, but it's hard to grin,
When you've got an extra appendage,
Disconnected from its foundation,
By consensual sacrilege.
Intangible, parallel to the earth,
Full of memory, bereft of berth,
A bridge to nowhere, disused
Function, no longer fused
To another, it decays with haste.
The cthonian vole and sprightly
Chrysanthemum contribute imperceptibly
To its demise, reprocessing without waste
Once-merged soul soil now expired,
Reveling in love and life inspired.

IOU for borrowed music

Who actually pays for music any more? What are the ramifications of the free-marketization of contemporary music? I've always felt in my gut that obtaining music by Napster, Limewire, Soulseek, Bit Torrent - even potentially by interpersonal transfers - is wrong. Everybody knows that artists, musicians included, have to make that bread and butter. Downloading produces little to no direct revenue for the artist. It's stealing.

There are regular rejoinders to this argument. For one, artists find other ways to make revenue. Back in the day, artists would play shows to get people to purchase their CDs. Now that the latter is a no-go, do they disseminate their music for free or on the cheap, or look the other way because it is beyond their control, hoping that more people will pay to attend their concerts? Personally, of all the bands whose music I have downloaded or been given free of charge, I might have been to concerts for about 1% of them, or less. I don't know about you, but I think this is a pipe dream, an illusion, and a rationalization.

In another vein of complaints, it is claimed that artists do not receive revenues from CD sales; record companies do. This may be true for the big concert blockbusters and/or indentured servants of some of the bigger and more predatory labels. Yet, even before the proliferation of independent gigs and artist-generated and -managed labels, it is fallacious to say that artist's received little to no profit from record sales. Some did and some did not. Either way, both bands and record labels serve artistic and economic functions which deserve market remuneration.

Then there was the "I'm just trying the music out, man" argument, which really was always bunk, and which has been definitively nullified by Youtube, Last.fm, Pandora, Spotify, and listening stations at Best Buy and other music shops.

Finally, there's a technological determinism argument: free music or novel, internet-particular ways of dissemination are the way of the future and should therefore be accepted. If everybody's doing it, and it only seems to be becoming more rife, why not me?

I'm putting more work into convincing you that free downloads constitute theft than I had initially intended. I am myself one of the most prolific thieves on the interweb. I feel perpetually guilty, understand the moral cost of these violations, and hope to one day make amends. In fact, the intended point of this post is: artists should have remuneration drop boxes. Ideally it would work something like this: while poor, we steal. When we make money, we pay back. It's like an honor code IOU system for art and music consumption.

This makes sense given the current and recent historical inadequacy of protections on intellectual property, especially music.

Here's one of my recent acquisitions. Rest assured, the artist - Portico Quartet - is on my IOU list. I hope that by the time I've obtained an income flow, my drop-box remuneration idea will have caught on. Otherwise, I hope snail mail is still operating: I'll send my contribution to these Brits in the post!