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Baseball: Sitting in the sun with your dad
There are many milestones in a young
man's life: your first day of school, your first car, and one that I thought
should be shared with every father and son - a boy's first major league
baseball game.
Growing up in an Oakland, Calif. suburb, I have great memories of seeing the A's play, and memories of watching the greats - Reggie Jackson, Rollie Fingers, and Catfish Hunter - but the best memories didn't happen on the field. They were of spending a sunny afternoon with my dad.
I got to do that again recently, but from a whole different perspective when I took my 2 ½-year-old to his first major league baseball game in the Valley, where we watched the Giants play the White Sox.
He's a little young yet to care what the score was or even who won (Giants 2, Sox 5), but he knew when to cheer and he's definitely old enough to appreciate a ballpark dog.
I hope to take him to more games over the years, but I realized something. It didn't matter that we were at a big league park, watching grown men play a game. What mattered was that we were together, sitting in the sun on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.
We didn't have to travel 100 miles to do that. Right here in town the Cougars are 11-1, the hot dogs are just as good, and the tickets are a whole lot cheaper- free.
It made me realize something very special: baseball was, and always will be, about sitting in the sun with your dad.
Growing up in an Oakland, Calif. suburb, I have great memories of seeing the A's play, and memories of watching the greats - Reggie Jackson, Rollie Fingers, and Catfish Hunter - but the best memories didn't happen on the field. They were of spending a sunny afternoon with my dad.
I got to do that again recently, but from a whole different perspective when I took my 2 ½-year-old to his first major league baseball game in the Valley, where we watched the Giants play the White Sox.
He's a little young yet to care what the score was or even who won (Giants 2, Sox 5), but he knew when to cheer and he's definitely old enough to appreciate a ballpark dog.
I hope to take him to more games over the years, but I realized something. It didn't matter that we were at a big league park, watching grown men play a game. What mattered was that we were together, sitting in the sun on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.
We didn't have to travel 100 miles to do that. Right here in town the Cougars are 11-1, the hot dogs are just as good, and the tickets are a whole lot cheaper- free.
It made me realize something very special: baseball was, and always will be, about sitting in the sun with your dad.
A few rules for you single guys
I haven't been a bachelor for many
years now, almost 18 actually, but for the past two weeks I've been flying solo
after my family took a little trip to California.
The past 14 days have reminded me, that while I love my family and miss them very much, the single life can be a much simpler life.
With that in mind, I would like to offer these few words of advice to any of the young fellas out there who might be thinking about leaving the comfort of their parents' home and branching out on their own.
• Making the bed - this is a highly overrated custom and completely unnecessary, especially if you make it a practice of falling asleep on the couch and/or recliner.
• End tables and coffee tables - these pieces of furniture can be your best friend, especially end tables that are small enough to easily move around the room, yet large enough to cover Kool-Aid stains on rug that were caused when falling asleep on couch to avoid making the bed.
• Doing dishes -much like making the bed, highly overrated. I find that using one dish (or Marie Callender's pie tins to be exact) really saves time in the kitchen. Use one dish, one fork, one plastic cup for every meal, and you only have three things to wash, therefore freeing up more time for sleeping on couch.
• Cooking - much like the dishes issue, simple is better. Keep in mind, everything tastes better as a sandwich or rolled up in a tortilla, and when eaten directly over the sink, no need to break out the pie tin. And remember, popcorn is and always will be an entrêe.
• Shopping - again, simple is better. I have a rule: don't shop until the refrigerator is empty. This makes for some very creative meals. But a word of caution: a spaghetti omelet is much better than it sounds, but a tuna, asparagus, and corn chip omelet - not so much.
• Look before you eat - what APPEARS to be cottage cheese may not necessarily BE cottage cheese.
• Laundry - again, very old and out of date customs aren't always the best. The need to separate lights and darks doesn't really come into play if you only wear various shades of gray. Or better yet, multi-colored Hawaiian shirts. If the colors bleed into each other, just say it's part of the pattern.
So while the past two weeks have brought back to mind my simpler, younger, single days, I can't wait to head down to Sky Harbor to pick up my wife and son.
But not before heading over to Goodwill for a couple extra end tables.
The past 14 days have reminded me, that while I love my family and miss them very much, the single life can be a much simpler life.
With that in mind, I would like to offer these few words of advice to any of the young fellas out there who might be thinking about leaving the comfort of their parents' home and branching out on their own.
• Making the bed - this is a highly overrated custom and completely unnecessary, especially if you make it a practice of falling asleep on the couch and/or recliner.
• End tables and coffee tables - these pieces of furniture can be your best friend, especially end tables that are small enough to easily move around the room, yet large enough to cover Kool-Aid stains on rug that were caused when falling asleep on couch to avoid making the bed.
• Doing dishes -much like making the bed, highly overrated. I find that using one dish (or Marie Callender's pie tins to be exact) really saves time in the kitchen. Use one dish, one fork, one plastic cup for every meal, and you only have three things to wash, therefore freeing up more time for sleeping on couch.
• Cooking - much like the dishes issue, simple is better. Keep in mind, everything tastes better as a sandwich or rolled up in a tortilla, and when eaten directly over the sink, no need to break out the pie tin. And remember, popcorn is and always will be an entrêe.
• Shopping - again, simple is better. I have a rule: don't shop until the refrigerator is empty. This makes for some very creative meals. But a word of caution: a spaghetti omelet is much better than it sounds, but a tuna, asparagus, and corn chip omelet - not so much.
• Look before you eat - what APPEARS to be cottage cheese may not necessarily BE cottage cheese.
• Laundry - again, very old and out of date customs aren't always the best. The need to separate lights and darks doesn't really come into play if you only wear various shades of gray. Or better yet, multi-colored Hawaiian shirts. If the colors bleed into each other, just say it's part of the pattern.
So while the past two weeks have brought back to mind my simpler, younger, single days, I can't wait to head down to Sky Harbor to pick up my wife and son.
But not before heading over to Goodwill for a couple extra end tables.
The little old man that lives down the hall
Confession time: at the risk of
having DES come knocking on my door, I'm pretty sure I am endangering my son.
Not in the physical sense, he's well provided for, reasonably healthy, has shoes, that kind of thing, but I think I might be slowly robbing him of his childhood.
My son's just shy of three, but when I watch him going about his day, it's a lot like watching a tiny old man move around the house.
When he was born, I was well into my 40s and his mom was, um, younger than me.
He's our only child and other than my wife and me, his best friend is his grandmother who's, well, older than me.
The other day I heard someone say that parents are like wet paint- as kids spend time with their parents, a little parent rubs off on them.
So his turning into an old man? Yep, my fault.
While some of the toddlers his age that we know can name every flashy cereal on the shelf, he likes to start his day with a nice warm bowl of oatmeal while thumbing through the paper. Somehow, that just don't seem normal.
Before he was born, I was told by new parents we know - all at least a decade and a half younger than me - that I'd better get used to unending replays of every Disney and Pixar 'toon ever made.
I was worried, because not being too hip (is that still a word?) on pop culture, by the time I've even heard about the hottest new show or sitcom out there, it's either in syndication or featured on Nick at Night.
Boy's favorite TV show? After dinner, which is around 4:30 p.m. (early bird special), he likes curl up on the sofa and watch "his programs" - Ozzie and Harriet, Andy Griffith, and if he's feeling really crazy, Get Smart- not the movie from a few years back but the old Don Adams version.
I'm not sure if it's funny or sad watching a toddler try and make a phone call with a wingtip.
When it's time to get into a good movie, you'd think Cars, Toy Story, or Finding Nemo.
Nope.
Anyone remember Hatari? The John Wayne flick from '62? Fifty years ago? Yep- that's his favorite. He likes to sing along with Red Buttons.
I know 30-year-olds who don't know who Red Buttons is.
No high tech toys for this one - no robots, flashing lights, or buzzers. His favorites are his big rubber ball, Wiffle ball and bat, and his new fave - an old school wooden truck.
His one and only techno vice is a small, kid's version laptop computer, but I'm pretty sure he's pretending it's an old Underwood typewriter.
I'm afraid one day I'm going to come home from work and he'll be sitting at the table with a highball, waist band up around his rib cage, playing canasta with his cronies from down at the senior center.
And to be honest, I'm not sure I want Harvey Jones hanging around my house that much.
Not in the physical sense, he's well provided for, reasonably healthy, has shoes, that kind of thing, but I think I might be slowly robbing him of his childhood.
My son's just shy of three, but when I watch him going about his day, it's a lot like watching a tiny old man move around the house.
When he was born, I was well into my 40s and his mom was, um, younger than me.
He's our only child and other than my wife and me, his best friend is his grandmother who's, well, older than me.
The other day I heard someone say that parents are like wet paint- as kids spend time with their parents, a little parent rubs off on them.
So his turning into an old man? Yep, my fault.
While some of the toddlers his age that we know can name every flashy cereal on the shelf, he likes to start his day with a nice warm bowl of oatmeal while thumbing through the paper. Somehow, that just don't seem normal.
Before he was born, I was told by new parents we know - all at least a decade and a half younger than me - that I'd better get used to unending replays of every Disney and Pixar 'toon ever made.
I was worried, because not being too hip (is that still a word?) on pop culture, by the time I've even heard about the hottest new show or sitcom out there, it's either in syndication or featured on Nick at Night.
Boy's favorite TV show? After dinner, which is around 4:30 p.m. (early bird special), he likes curl up on the sofa and watch "his programs" - Ozzie and Harriet, Andy Griffith, and if he's feeling really crazy, Get Smart- not the movie from a few years back but the old Don Adams version.
I'm not sure if it's funny or sad watching a toddler try and make a phone call with a wingtip.
When it's time to get into a good movie, you'd think Cars, Toy Story, or Finding Nemo.
Nope.
Anyone remember Hatari? The John Wayne flick from '62? Fifty years ago? Yep- that's his favorite. He likes to sing along with Red Buttons.
I know 30-year-olds who don't know who Red Buttons is.
No high tech toys for this one - no robots, flashing lights, or buzzers. His favorites are his big rubber ball, Wiffle ball and bat, and his new fave - an old school wooden truck.
His one and only techno vice is a small, kid's version laptop computer, but I'm pretty sure he's pretending it's an old Underwood typewriter.
I'm afraid one day I'm going to come home from work and he'll be sitting at the table with a highball, waist band up around his rib cage, playing canasta with his cronies from down at the senior center.
And to be honest, I'm not sure I want Harvey Jones hanging around my house that much.
Bat in the yard? Thanks, I'll just sleep in the car
The other day my wife informed me that
we have a bat living in the front yard.
I think she said in a tree, but I couldn't hear her too well after I went to hide in the closet.
She seemed happy about this, maybe even a little excited, but ever since she agreed to marry me her judgment has been in question, so I asked her why this was a good thing.
"Relax, he'll eat all those bugs flying around our porch," she said, knowing I hate all those little, pesky guys that hover around our porch light.
That's a little like saying "Hey, take this medicine for your headache, the only side effects are internal bleeding, blindness, and sudden death. But your little headache will be gone."
Some of you may know I'm a city boy at heart. Aside from the last several years living in Paulden and Chino Valley, I spent the majority of my life in a fairly big town where the only bats we had were re-runs featuring Adam West.
She could see that I was a little squeamish about having to walk from the car to the front door dodging a flying rat, and this, oddly enough, seemed to make her very happy.
Happier than I think she needed to be.
She told me not to worry; I would be able to hear the bat because it makes a high pitched squeaking sound.
Much like the high pitched squeaking sound I will make if I ever see it.
So I have decided I have two options.
Option No. 1 - If I get home after dark, sleep in the car. I have now packed the back seat with a pillow, blanket, some granola bars, bottled water, and an empty water bottle to ... well, ... just to have. You never know when you will need an empty bottle.
Option No. 2 - Carry my son as a human shield.
I know. You're thinking: "That's horrible. Using a poor, innocent child as a human shield."
First off, he loves animals. Me? Not so much.
Besides, he's not all that innocent. He's got a little bit of a mean streak, believe me.
As for that whole bats-eating-bugs and being-a-good-thing-to-have-around thing, I did a little research on the Internet, and as we all know, if it's on the computer it must be true.
Here's what I found:
1 - Contrary to public opinion, bats are not blind. Therefore, they can see me and will attack me given the chance.
2 - Bats will not get stuck in your hair. Translation? They will attack your head directly, bypassing hair. And since I have no hair I am without protection.
3 - Not all bats have rabies. Not all, just most. Like the one in front of my house.
4 - Bats are not rodents. Obviously a misprint. Will have to contact the author and point out his typo.
5 - Bats are currently 47 and 73, and return home to play Columbus on the 18th ... oh, wait. Wrong site. That's the Louisville Bats, Triple-A affiliate of the Reds.
I think you get my point though.
Bats are terrible, terrible things that should not be living in my front yard.
I wonder if Dominoes will deliver to a parked Toyota?
I think she said in a tree, but I couldn't hear her too well after I went to hide in the closet.
She seemed happy about this, maybe even a little excited, but ever since she agreed to marry me her judgment has been in question, so I asked her why this was a good thing.
"Relax, he'll eat all those bugs flying around our porch," she said, knowing I hate all those little, pesky guys that hover around our porch light.
That's a little like saying "Hey, take this medicine for your headache, the only side effects are internal bleeding, blindness, and sudden death. But your little headache will be gone."
Some of you may know I'm a city boy at heart. Aside from the last several years living in Paulden and Chino Valley, I spent the majority of my life in a fairly big town where the only bats we had were re-runs featuring Adam West.
She could see that I was a little squeamish about having to walk from the car to the front door dodging a flying rat, and this, oddly enough, seemed to make her very happy.
Happier than I think she needed to be.
She told me not to worry; I would be able to hear the bat because it makes a high pitched squeaking sound.
Much like the high pitched squeaking sound I will make if I ever see it.
So I have decided I have two options.
Option No. 1 - If I get home after dark, sleep in the car. I have now packed the back seat with a pillow, blanket, some granola bars, bottled water, and an empty water bottle to ... well, ... just to have. You never know when you will need an empty bottle.
Option No. 2 - Carry my son as a human shield.
I know. You're thinking: "That's horrible. Using a poor, innocent child as a human shield."
First off, he loves animals. Me? Not so much.
Besides, he's not all that innocent. He's got a little bit of a mean streak, believe me.
As for that whole bats-eating-bugs and being-a-good-thing-to-have-around thing, I did a little research on the Internet, and as we all know, if it's on the computer it must be true.
Here's what I found:
1 - Contrary to public opinion, bats are not blind. Therefore, they can see me and will attack me given the chance.
2 - Bats will not get stuck in your hair. Translation? They will attack your head directly, bypassing hair. And since I have no hair I am without protection.
3 - Not all bats have rabies. Not all, just most. Like the one in front of my house.
4 - Bats are not rodents. Obviously a misprint. Will have to contact the author and point out his typo.
5 - Bats are currently 47 and 73, and return home to play Columbus on the 18th ... oh, wait. Wrong site. That's the Louisville Bats, Triple-A affiliate of the Reds.
I think you get my point though.
Bats are terrible, terrible things that should not be living in my front yard.
I wonder if Dominoes will deliver to a parked Toyota?
$300 for sneakers seems a tad pricey
Sometimes I find it hard to believe what
I read.
I saw a Wall Street Journal article this past week that said Nike will be releasing a new shoe - the LeBron X, to honor LeBron James, the Miami Heat superstar.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for a good pair of kicks. But my fashion sense on footwear stops at the tried and true Chuck Taylor All Stars of my youth, at about $7.95.
Black low tops, a classic like that will never die.
But the LeBron X? Nike announced that these will list at around $300 plus - but don't fret, they have an "un-hyped" version that only will set you back $185.
One hundred and eighty-five dollars for a shoe!
My most recent pair of sneakers set me back a whopping $14 at the big box store, and my most recent pair of non-sneakers, a pretty sturdy work boot, somewhat more, but I was still able to pick them up without talking to a loan manager.
Not bad on a reporter's salary.
But 300 smackers?
Lets put that in perspective:
My first car? $150. It was a fine looking Toyota Corolla wagon, a beautiful red number with an even snappier green door. It came with some great features, like the removable steering wheel, the combination stick shift-billy club, and the passenger seat that doubled as a flotation device.
I actually got a chance to test it out on a little trip to, or more precisely into, the San Francisco Bay one night in 1983.
That night I lost my watch, my wallet, and my best friend Bob.
He waded into the marina a few days later, no worse for the wear, carrying the passenger seat and a flounder.
I betcha a $300 shoe wouldn't have lasted three days in the bay.
The front bumper also worked great as a bottle opener, but that's another story and may have played a part in the salt-water fiasco.
I rented an apartment one time that didn't cost $300.
It was a nice place near the corner of Turk and Taylor in San Francisco that was underneath a really nice bar.
I don't mean downstairs, but more of underneath.
You had to go into the bar, lift a trap door on the storage room floor and climb down a ladder to get in, but it was really nice.
It had a lot of what we liked to call "character."
By "character" I mean some really interesting smells.
And textures.
Maybe we should move on.
I once bought a motorcycle for less than three hundred bucks, and aside from missing a wheel, half a handle bar, and the seat, it was a classic.
I'm sure if I ever found the piston, I could have whipped it around for a pretty hefty profit too.
I bought it from the guy that owned the bar.
My first camera? A Kodak 126 mm cartridge model that I used for my intro to photography class, freshman year of high school.
Total cost? $1.80 at a thrift store.
And look at me now, a professional photographer who can't afford new tennis shoes.
So, I guess my point is, save your $300 and look for a smart investment instead, something that will last for years to come.
Like the lawsuit that comes from trying to sell a one-wheeled, seatless Yamaha.
Which brings up another shopping tip. If you're going to pay top dollar for something, make it your lawyer.
I saw a Wall Street Journal article this past week that said Nike will be releasing a new shoe - the LeBron X, to honor LeBron James, the Miami Heat superstar.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for a good pair of kicks. But my fashion sense on footwear stops at the tried and true Chuck Taylor All Stars of my youth, at about $7.95.
Black low tops, a classic like that will never die.
But the LeBron X? Nike announced that these will list at around $300 plus - but don't fret, they have an "un-hyped" version that only will set you back $185.
One hundred and eighty-five dollars for a shoe!
My most recent pair of sneakers set me back a whopping $14 at the big box store, and my most recent pair of non-sneakers, a pretty sturdy work boot, somewhat more, but I was still able to pick them up without talking to a loan manager.
Not bad on a reporter's salary.
But 300 smackers?
Lets put that in perspective:
My first car? $150. It was a fine looking Toyota Corolla wagon, a beautiful red number with an even snappier green door. It came with some great features, like the removable steering wheel, the combination stick shift-billy club, and the passenger seat that doubled as a flotation device.
I actually got a chance to test it out on a little trip to, or more precisely into, the San Francisco Bay one night in 1983.
That night I lost my watch, my wallet, and my best friend Bob.
He waded into the marina a few days later, no worse for the wear, carrying the passenger seat and a flounder.
I betcha a $300 shoe wouldn't have lasted three days in the bay.
The front bumper also worked great as a bottle opener, but that's another story and may have played a part in the salt-water fiasco.
I rented an apartment one time that didn't cost $300.
It was a nice place near the corner of Turk and Taylor in San Francisco that was underneath a really nice bar.
I don't mean downstairs, but more of underneath.
You had to go into the bar, lift a trap door on the storage room floor and climb down a ladder to get in, but it was really nice.
It had a lot of what we liked to call "character."
By "character" I mean some really interesting smells.
And textures.
Maybe we should move on.
I once bought a motorcycle for less than three hundred bucks, and aside from missing a wheel, half a handle bar, and the seat, it was a classic.
I'm sure if I ever found the piston, I could have whipped it around for a pretty hefty profit too.
I bought it from the guy that owned the bar.
My first camera? A Kodak 126 mm cartridge model that I used for my intro to photography class, freshman year of high school.
Total cost? $1.80 at a thrift store.
And look at me now, a professional photographer who can't afford new tennis shoes.
So, I guess my point is, save your $300 and look for a smart investment instead, something that will last for years to come.
Like the lawsuit that comes from trying to sell a one-wheeled, seatless Yamaha.
Which brings up another shopping tip. If you're going to pay top dollar for something, make it your lawyer.
Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking, and... me
I would like to thank all of you, those
who have supported me, who believed in me, and encouraged me to be all that I
could be.
Oh, wait - let me back up a little bit. Over the weekend I got some great news. I found out that I'm a genius.
I know, many of you are saying to yourselves, "No surprise to me. Why, just look at the pearls of wisdom that man dishes out each and every week."
And that is why I would like to thank all of the little people with whom I have rubbed shoulders on my way up the ladder to geniusdom.
So how did I realize I was in possession of such a gift?
Online testing, of course.
I was singled out, by way of an exclusive email campaign, to take an IQ test, and as I've mentioned on these pages before, if it's online, it must be true.
Contained on this website were several versions of the test, the longest of which was more than 300 questions long.
I decided on this version for two reasons. First of all, more questions obviously means more brains are needed to finish it, and two, I get paid by the hour.
The first series of questions dealt with trains, passengers, and clocks. Oh, and miles.
Obviously, this was a trick question as anyone that concerned about what time they are getting to Chicago no doubt would have taken a plane. So I, of course, left that one blank. A clear sign of thinking outside the box and a demonstration of advanced intellect.
Speaking of boxes, the next series of questions were a series of shapes - boxes, triangles, circles, and those stop sign-ny things.
I'm fairly sure the object was to find the difference between the blue shapes and the red shapes. Yep, aced it.
Next up was word association, followed by an inkblot test where everything looked liked squished bugs, so I think this also doubled as the science portion.
Next was the math test. The questions were based on a man who had some apples, then gave some away, then got some more, and then ... well, at that point I got a little hungry and ran over to Safeway for some fruit.
When I got back, the test had timed out, which meant that I must have already answered enough questions for the company to determine that I ranked high enough to reach genius status.
I scored in the top 1 percent. Yep, right there in the middle of the screen was a big flashing "1%."
I really shouldn't have been too surprised. Even in high school, one of my teachers told me that I had already surpassed her learning expectations. On several occasions I could hear her saying, "I can't teach you anything."
As you may have guessed, with my new geniosity comes, not just great power, but great responsibility as well.
What will I do with my vast knowledge? What great things will I accomplish with my obvious advanced abilities? World peace? Global warming?
Soon after completing the test and sending over the cashiers check for the Certificate of Genius - it must be some fancy certificate, it cost a bundle - I began receiving emails from an African prince who needs my help with some sort of financial problem.
Maybe I'll tackle that world-banking crisis.
Oh, wait - let me back up a little bit. Over the weekend I got some great news. I found out that I'm a genius.
I know, many of you are saying to yourselves, "No surprise to me. Why, just look at the pearls of wisdom that man dishes out each and every week."
And that is why I would like to thank all of the little people with whom I have rubbed shoulders on my way up the ladder to geniusdom.
So how did I realize I was in possession of such a gift?
Online testing, of course.
I was singled out, by way of an exclusive email campaign, to take an IQ test, and as I've mentioned on these pages before, if it's online, it must be true.
Contained on this website were several versions of the test, the longest of which was more than 300 questions long.
I decided on this version for two reasons. First of all, more questions obviously means more brains are needed to finish it, and two, I get paid by the hour.
The first series of questions dealt with trains, passengers, and clocks. Oh, and miles.
Obviously, this was a trick question as anyone that concerned about what time they are getting to Chicago no doubt would have taken a plane. So I, of course, left that one blank. A clear sign of thinking outside the box and a demonstration of advanced intellect.
Speaking of boxes, the next series of questions were a series of shapes - boxes, triangles, circles, and those stop sign-ny things.
I'm fairly sure the object was to find the difference between the blue shapes and the red shapes. Yep, aced it.
Next up was word association, followed by an inkblot test where everything looked liked squished bugs, so I think this also doubled as the science portion.
Next was the math test. The questions were based on a man who had some apples, then gave some away, then got some more, and then ... well, at that point I got a little hungry and ran over to Safeway for some fruit.
When I got back, the test had timed out, which meant that I must have already answered enough questions for the company to determine that I ranked high enough to reach genius status.
I scored in the top 1 percent. Yep, right there in the middle of the screen was a big flashing "1%."
I really shouldn't have been too surprised. Even in high school, one of my teachers told me that I had already surpassed her learning expectations. On several occasions I could hear her saying, "I can't teach you anything."
As you may have guessed, with my new geniosity comes, not just great power, but great responsibility as well.
What will I do with my vast knowledge? What great things will I accomplish with my obvious advanced abilities? World peace? Global warming?
Soon after completing the test and sending over the cashiers check for the Certificate of Genius - it must be some fancy certificate, it cost a bundle - I began receiving emails from an African prince who needs my help with some sort of financial problem.
Maybe I'll tackle that world-banking crisis.
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