Geronimo

I once jumped out of a plane. I had a parachute on ( I guess I don’t really need to say that). I had signed up for a full day of skydiving lessons, which would culminate in a type of beginner’s jump, called Accelerated Free Fall. I know you must be thinking, how or why would one accelerate a free fall. Isn’t terminal velocity fast enough? Do you strap Wiley Coyote rockets to your feet, point yourself downward and zoom toward a collision with the planet resulting in a small puff of dust? (If you are a fan of Roadrunner cartoons you know what I am talking about. If you are not such a fan, you are seriously missing out on an important life experience.) No, accelerated free fall means that you will experience free fall on your first jump. Of course you will do this while being held in correct position by not one, but two experienced instructors, who will be falling with you. You have certain skills to perform in the thirty seconds you will be falling, then you pull your own rip cord and you are snatched away from their firm grasp, to glide down to a soft landing.

After several hours of ground training, as we walked toward the plane with a crowd of serious sky divers, I started to have second thoughts. The plane looked like something you wouldn’t want to board even wearing a parachute. The other jumpers were all young and fit in their brightly colored jumpsuits, all pretty much into themselves. The men were hard and the women were just as hard, and here I was, middle aged and very soft, walking toward the plane with two nefarious guardians who would take me up and drag me out of the plane with them. The day was bright, and very warm, and I was sweating but not from the heat. The plane’s engines were on, noisy suckers, and my instructors were making idle chatter. I kept walking because the alternative, running away screaming, “Take this fucking thing off me,” would have been just too embarrassing. How’s that for self awareness? I would rather actually die than die from embarrassment. I understand I’m not alone on this.

So I climbed aboard, squeezed in with the others, and off we went. Almost everything after that on the plane is kind of a blur. I know I was feeling nauseous as we climbed, and that my instructors kept talking to me, probably because they could see my green skin and wanted to keep their very expensive gear vomit free. I do clearly remember that there was an old geezer on the plane. I had noticed him on the ground because he looked as out of place as I did. I call him a geezer because he fit the qualifications. He was short, with a scruffy beard, old jump suit with visible repairs, and he walked with a distinct bow legged gait. But I could tell from watching him that he had a gazillion jumps, and probably had made his first jump from out of necessity from a burning bi-plane that had just been shot from the sky by the Red Baron. Shit, he probably was the Red Baron. Now, as I sat across from him on the plane I noticed he had a hole in his left ear. I’m not talking about a hole for an earring but a hole you could slide a pencil through in the top part of his ear. Probably a bullet wound. I found myself staring at the hole, noticing that I could see out of the other side of the plane right through it. For the rest of the flight to altitude that’s all I remember, I could not stop looking at the hole. I kept looking at it even as he yelled something as he leapt from the plane. It wasn’t “Geronimo,” as I had half expected, but a cry of inarticulate joy like “Yee Hah!” or something like that as he fell away toward the ground, tumbling wildly, seemingly oblivious to the need for a controlled free fall.

Then it was my turn. My instructors guided me to the door where I held on to the frame just as I had been taught. I looked down, and noticed that being high up is so very much more compelling when there is not so much as a rope between you and 13,000 feet of nothing. At that moment my nervousness crossed over into anxiety and was rapidly approaching the land of fear and terror. But there comes a point in any dangerous endeavor that you cannot stop yourself from continuing, even if death seems a very real possibility. My instructors were hanging outside the plane grinning like they were about to play an enormous joke on me, and it was my time to count to three as I rocked forward, back and then just stepped into the void. The void in this case was not soft, or hazy. Time did not stand still, nor did I see any dead relatives. This void was chock full of things I did not like. I must not have leaned forward enough because I was falling backward looking at the plane shrink at an incredible rate. I was flailing to turn over, and I think my two attached guardians were doing the same. As we finally turned to face the ground and get stable, I noticed what had been bothering me even more than the prospect of death. It was the noise, incredible, terrible wind noise everywhere, crushing my mind and freezing my body. Sky diving is not silent. It’s as if every air molecule rushing past you at 120 MPH has something to tell you and they scream it in your ear all at the same time and all you can make out is this loud roar that drives everything else out of your head. Well, not everything exactly. I think I did my required maneuvers. I have no actual memory of all that, but I do remember that my instructor signaled to me to check my watch, which told me IT WAS TIME TO PULL THE CORD NOW, NOW, NOW!!! I did just that, and was very rudely yanked up and out of their grasp. And now everything moved in slow motion. I don’t mean some kind of cliché mental perception of time standing still, I mean actual slow motion. I’m floating toward the ground, very quiet, very peaceful. I check my chute, looks good. I calmly put away my rip cord in it’s special pocket and I’m at one with the sky. I do all my turns like I’ve been taught. I’m in complete control. I even try to make a fast 360 turn by pulling hard on the left control line. Bad idea, as I go into a very fast spin that has “here comes lunch” written all over it. Hokay, enough of that.

Setting up now for my landing. My instructor comes on the radio with final instructions. He’s already on the ground, probably sipping a beer, while I am setting up to land about a quarter of a mile away from the drop zone. I guess they don’t want to take the chance of a newbie crashing into the classrooms, or into the propeller of the jump plane ready to take off with another load. Bad for business. So I glide in, flare for landing (that’s skydiver lingo), and go in for an easy stand up landing. Perfect. Except that my knees, bathed in adrenaline as they were, have turned to Jello, so they buckle and I go kerplunk on my ass. Oh, I forgot to mention that my skydiving experience, from beginning to end, is preserved on video tape by the flying video guy who, for a significant fee, jumps along with you and shoots the whole experience from a camera mounted to this incredible camera helmet. For really cool gadgets and gear, I’ll put skydiving up against any other sport/activity, including scuba diving and rock climbing. To get more gear and gadgets, you have to become a fireman.

So I’m sitting there in this field on a very warm Summer day in Lake Elsinore, California. I’m not yet sure I can stand up so I decide to lie down and reflect on the experience I just had, and all I can think of is the old geezer with the hole in his ear, screaming with the pure joy of being alive and tempting death, while I, felt no exhilaration whatsoever. Such different life experiences brought us together for a brief moment in time in that plane, and I think that maybe he has had the more exhilarating journey. I have played life safe and secure without taking risks and never once have I braved true jeopardy -- no war, no swimming with sharks, no mountain climbing. And no duel, pistols at 20 paces, with a jealous husband, where we stand back to back then pace, turn, and fire. My aim is true and he falls mortally wounded, while I believe I am without injury. But the blood flowing down my neck says otherwise. Miraculously, his bullet has passed clean through my ear without even nicking any other part of my head, but it leaves me with a bullet hole in that ear, proof of my courage and bravery. Yes. From that point forward every day would be a glorious adventure on borrowed time. One “yee hah” moment after another, and now, I would be sharing a beer with those others who live life on the edge, instead of laying in a field wondering why no one has come to rescue me from my boredom, and saved me from dying. Well, not from dying, but certainly from a long, parachute laden hike back to the jump site.

Maybe I can call a cab.

Trying to Escape Valentine's Day and Failing Miserably

(This isn't really about Valentine's Day, but darned if that damn holiday didn't just jump up and bite me, so it seemed a good time to publish this piece.)

Love Like a Woman

A while back I viewed a photo of some soldiers having just gotten off a troop transport, and in the foreground was a woman, with her two children in tow, running across the tarmac to get to her man. The woman was moving away from the camera, so you couldn’t see her face, but you just knew that at that moment, her whole world, her whole reason for existence, was to love her man. And if she didn’t get to hold him and crush him to her at that very instant, that she would not just die, but cease to exist. What it must feel like to be so consumed by love that loving engulfs you, takes away your heart, soul, and very breath? It must be like turning into pure energy, as if that woman was about to burst into a brilliant light, a bolt of lightning, a heat seeking missile locked on his heart. What a lucky guy.

I want to love like a woman. Men don’t love like that. Yes, we love, we feel it kindle inside but rather than succumb to the pure experience of it, we contain it, control it, hide it, use it to our own advantage, twist it, warp it, inflict wounds with it, especially the self-inflicted kind, and then we stand back and watch in disbelief as it dies. Oh, how strong we are, we men. We stand powerful and solitary, and live and die weak and lonely.

I want to love like a woman. I have been loved like that once in my life of 61 odd years, but it was many years ago, and not recognizing it for what it was, in my youth, ignorance, and imperfect manhood, I killed the very thing I longed for and did not know how to hold. It may be possible that I could know again that fire and oh so lucky to burn in it’s awesome heat. I didn’t believe it could happen twice, but I am starting to think I was wrong. A few months back, I looked in a lover’s eyes and saw in her the glory of possibilities, the joy and pain of an all-consuming passion, and I thought that if only I can nurture this thing, hold it safe from the harm that only I am capable of inflicting, that maybe, just maybe, I would be worthy of it, worthy of her.

Or maybe not.

What I discovered was that there is a flip side to loving unconditionally. The person you think you love might just not be ready for you. My guess is that any woman reading this is now saying, “Duh?” But for me, this was a painful lesson, and it caused me to pull back to my customary manly boundaries.

But having felt the singular joy of flying without a net, I am greedy for that experience again. Only maybe the next time I will ease my way to the edge of the precipice, dunk my toe in the water before plunging in, crawl before walking, walk before running, or any other metaphor you can think of for taking things slowly, yet still end up at some point flying across that tarmac. Yes, I want to love like a woman, but I might just have to sneak up to that point of no return.

So now I’ve met someone new, and as they say, we are an item. We are both bearing the burden of each other’s losses, and helping each other heal. We are good together, that much is certain, and I suspect that she has moved a little faster than I, and is patiently waiting on the launch pad for me to catch up. I’m not all that far behind. I am hopeful that someday soon I will be ready to let this woman climb into my heart, where she will reach me, touch me, burn me, and send that same heart soaring along with hers. Now that would be something to write about, to sing about, to scream out to the universe of my joy and redemption.

Yes, I want to love like a woman.

I want to love a woman like that.

My Field of Dreams

I was going to write about procrastination. I am a black belt. But the fact that I am finally at this computer puts an end to my latest go round. I wish I could just get past it for one time in my life, but then again, life may be just my way of procrastinating until I die. I think I’ll write more on this later – if I find the time.

I have several favorite movies, but there are only two that if I come upon them while channel surfing, I’ll stop and watch them till the end. (Channel surfing is the number one weapon of the master procrastinator.) The first one is “Casablanca.” It’s a wonder of script, acting, scenic design, camera work, directing, and the most romantic movie of all time. It’s not sappy romantic like “Ladyhawke,” but tough guy romantic. The hero gives up the girl for a noble purpose, and goes off into the moonset with his buddy. (If you even think there is any latent homosexuality in that, I will punch your lights out.) Of course, by saying goodbye to Ingrid Bergman, Humphrey Bogart knows damn well that he will be up to his eyeballs in gorgeous women from that moment on – e.g: Lauren Bacall.

My other, stop-me-in-my-tracks movie, is “Field of Dreams.” I just got done watching it while I was not writing this. Damn, what a story. It mixes fact and fantasy, present and past, new and old; but what it’s about at its core is fathers and sons, and their connection through baseball. I don’t know if women get this film at all. I don’t care. They can have “Sleepless in Seattle,” I’ll take “Field of Dreams.”

Baseball. Having a catch with your father. Having a catch with your sons. I have no idea why that is such a gut grabber. I’ve written about it before, but seeing the movie brings it back to me every time. You see, even though I have seen it at least 20 times, when it gets to the end where Ray Kinsella meets his father, I choke up every time. And when Kevin Costner says, “Dad, you want to have a catch,” I lose it completely, every time. If I’m alone, the tears start flowing. If I’m with another guy, I go get a beer and wash my face. If I’m with a woman, just enough tears to show her my sensitive side and get me in her pants.

By the way, say what you will about Kevin Costner’s acting, but his reading of that last line of his, is an all-time classic, right up there with, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Next time you see the movie, watch how full he is when he says that line. I like to think he did it on the first and only take. Every actor should have one moment in his career like that. Perfect.

I miss my father. I wish I could just visit with him one more time. We’d talk about stuff. Not important things, just stuff that comes up between fathers and sons. You see, women know how to talk about important things – about love, and how they really feel. Men love too, but we just don’t like to talk directly about it. I wish it could be different, but it’s not. We’re just not wired for it. Instead, we do things together and connect in sort of Bluetooth, wireless fashion. So, my dad and I, we wouldn’t have to have a catch. We’re both too old and it’s too muggy outside. Maybe we’d sit by the TV and watch a Yankee game together. We did that when I was little, and I would give anything to do that with him just one more time. He’d smoke his cigar, and now I’d smoke one with him. And my mother would not be allowed to come into the room waving her arms and complaining about this smoke like she used to do. Ok, I take that back. She should be there too, flailing away and yelling about the smoke, as if that would make a difference. And my boys would be there too -- the four of us, all grown up now, drinking beer, smoking up a storm, and watching young men playing a perfect game. That would be a moment to remember.

Perfect.

Somewhere on Craigslist

So it's 10:06 PM, somewhere in the Near Valley, and a tallish, “some say attractive,” woman sits down to make an honest plea for an honest man. Sure, she's doing it on Craigslist, with it's clientele of men unwilling to take the time and/or money to invest themselves in a more traditional online dating service. CL is easy, quick, very cheap, which is good because that's what most of them are looking for in a woman.

This woman sits at her screen, in a dimly lit room. It's warm tonight in the Near Valley, and she's wearing her comfy sleep wear, maybe a tee shirt and panties, maybe sweats and bunny slippers. She's weary from the search, from the wanting for what she has always wanted, for what most of us have always wanted, but which now is, in our "middle" age, so elusive -- someone to love. It's very quiet now. She has turned off the TV or the stereo, which is her usual prairie home companion, and has decided to tell her truth to an anonymous group of strangers, most of whom will not even click in to read anything that a 57 year old has to say tonight. For some reason tonight is different. She's more than a little angry about the shallow men who are looking for women too young, too gullible, and too easily impressed by lies and half truths. But as I said, tonight is different. Tonight, she will speak from her heart, without anger, as much to herself as to the CL audience that isn't there.

She pours out her plea for honesty, for substance, for reality based self-appraisal, for a man of passion who, like her, is looking for a friend, partner and lover. She doesn't care if he's won the lottery (although that would be nice). She wants to hear from a person who, like her, is more than a little disappointed in the race for love, now that it's in the home stretch, but still willing to put himself on the line and say, "Here I am. Take a good look at me the way I am (although it would be ok if you don't wear your glasses). Listen to my story, look in my eyes, take my hand, my body (including the 20 pounds too much of it), and my heart. Maybe you and I can be a we."

Tonight is different. It's 3:00 AM in a mobile home right above the beach in Pacific Palisades, and a shortish, intelligent, hard working, and pee in your pants funny man sits at his computer and decides not to go back to bed. He has been sleeping, but as men of his age tend to do these days, gets up now and then to pee, maybe drink some cold milk from a chilled glass bottle, and give a quick look into his cyber window to check for that one email which could lift his spirits and set his heart stirring. It's not there. He's written more than a few women of Yahoo, women his age, who say they are seeking a man like him, but do not respond to his contact. Ok, his white horse limps a little. Some of his once thick, curly hair has moved on to wherever hair goes when it tires of life at the top. The ones left behind wave the white flag. But the person he once was, still is, and he wonders why these women aren't at least a little curious.

He sits on his Swopper, listening now to the waves down below, on the beach where he actually does take walks, although not as many as he would like to. He is also wearing his comfy sleep wear, his furry skin, which keeps him warm and has, on many nights, done the same for another. These days, it's a dog who shares his bed, but the dog understands that he's only holding her place. Whose place, who knows? And on this different night he goes on Craigslist. He's looking for a small dresser to put in his guest room closet, and maybe some bargains in potted plants. Oh, and as long as he's there, he might as well shop for love. This won't take long. Nothing much in the way of drawers and pots, and only young and younger women, who still believe they will find Mr. Right on Thursday, just in time for the weekend.

And there she is, this woman of the valley, and he reads, and doesn't go back to sleep. It's 3:30 now. He writes slowly and carefully, because he wants to answer her well, to let her know that there is at least one man, probably not even the right one, who understands her. And so he does. Sleepy now, he finishes by tellingl her that if she wants to know the details of whom she is hearing from, she should go on Yahoo and search the personals. He won’t be hard to find, he’s 60, his name is Milt, and the lead line of his personal profile is, “Still Frisky After All These Years.”

Two days later she writes back and thanks him for his kind email, but declines the possibility he offers. He sits there shaking his head.

A Short Film

(not that short, not all that long either, sort of an average length film)

FADE IN:

(The scene opens on a shot from above of a car speeding and weaving dangerously on PCH. The person driving is either running from or to someone. We watch as the car careens into a seaside jungle paradise known as Ocean View Trailer Park. As we follow the car up the twisting roads deep into the dark forbidding forest, we glimpse suspicious old people peeking from out of their huts. The car parks and we zoom in on the driver as she emerges sensually from the vehicle. Despite her casual attire, we notice that this is one hot babe. She’s got all the right equipment, in the right places, and from the look in her eyes, we can tell that at some time in the distant past, she knew what to do with it.

She approaches the front door of a palatial manufactured home, passing several women lined up with their Match.com profiles in hand. Obviously, the owner of this place is either an incredible stud, or likes to take long walks on the beach.

As she is about to ring the doorbell she hears the frightening sounds of an angry Welsh Corgi coming from inside. She is trembling, if not with fear, then certainly with anxious anticipation of what is to follow. It’s as if she is being asked to play a part in a movie that has no script, or at least none that she has been given until she walks on the set. Suddenly the door opens revealing Mister M, aka Mr. O, aka Mr. Overweight. He is standing there framed by sunlight shining around his head, wearing an outfit that can only be described as “special.” He is adorable. He smiles that adorable smile of his, and for a moment the woman feels like she is going to faint. As her knees buckle, she vainly tries to hold on to the door frame, but before she can slide to the floor of the porch, M takes her in his incredibly strong, masculine, yet sensitive and gentle hands, and draws her tight, we’re talking really really tight, against his strong, masculine, yet sensitive and gentle loins. She tries to speak, but can only manage a whispered plea.)

SHE: Take me.

HE: Are you talkin’ to me? Well, you must be talkin’ to me cause I’m the only one here.

SHE: I want you to take me . . . take me inside. I’ve been stuck in traffic for a over an hour, and I have to pee something fierce.

HE: Of course. I seem to have that effect on many women. The facilities are down the hall, the first door on the right. Remember, the door on the right, not the left.

(We see a CU of a far off look in his eyes as he recalls countless women who, unhinged by his raw masculinity, have turned mistakenly to the left, become lost in the detritus of the second bedroom and in quiet desperation, pee’d on the carpet.)

SHE: Thank you. I’ll try to remember.

HE: One more thing. You must wear this blindfold. There are things between here and the bathroom that you are not yet ready to experience.

SHE: Blindfold??? Are you fucking kidding me??? Never mind, I’ll hold it in.

HE: I was hoping you would feel that way. Now, take my hand and walk with me towards the sea.

SHE: You mean walk down the deck to the back patio where the dogs pee? Is that what you have in mind for me? Listen Buster, there is no way I’m squatting over that gravel pit of yours. You got some weird idea of romance here.

HE: Would you PLEASE get your mind off your bladder. I’m trying to weave a tapestry here. Work with me on this, ok?

SHE: (realizing how fragile her dream of finding that special someone has suddenly become, and suppressing her gag reflex) Oh. Yes, my darling. Take me to that place where only you know how to teach me how to see the sea through the eyes of love.

(They walk together out to the patio, where there is a magnificent vista of the pure blue sea, and a virgin white sandy beach, speckled with municipal trash cans. The only sound, is the insistent rumble of the Harleys on PCH, their riders on PCP.)

SHE: It’s all so beautiful. (Noticing the table set before her,) Is that what I think it is? Oh God, tell me this isn’t all a dream.

HE: No, it’s not a dream, and yes, it’s for you, and you alone. Please, take a seat. Whoops, I’ll take those. Imagine that, my neighbor leaving his panties on my patio.

(Quickly, he snatches the crotchless undergarment from the chair and shoves them in his pocket. Luckily she is so wrapped up in absorbing the view, she doesn’t notice a thing.)

(After a long period of quiet between them, they begin to enjoy what is set before them)

HE: How do you feel? You seem a bit anxious.

SHE: Oh, never mind the tee tee dance. This is just so perfect.

HE: Great, whatever you say. Let’s move on. I’m going inside now. This timer here is set for 3 minutes, exactly. When the time is up, you may enter and follow your heart. In case your heart is on a break, follow the road to paradise. (He starts the timer.)

SHE: I’m not sure I understand. You want me to go back out on the road?

HE: (stopping the timer) No. What are you talking about? It’s a metaphor, a metaphor for Christ’s sake. Just walk in and . . . and . . . oh, you’ll figure it out. Try not to trip. (He re-starts the timer.)

SHE: Why would I trip? Do you think I’m clumsy, is that what you’re saying? Or do you want me to wear that stupid blindfold?

HE: (Stopping the timer as he sighs heavily, his thoughts visible in a little balloon over his head.) [Why does she do this to me? I’m busting my hump here and all she wants to do is bust my chops. Women! The old saying is so true, “If it wasn’t for that little thing between their legs, there’d be a bounty on them.”] No, my sweet. I want you to enter with eyes wide open to the possibilities before you. “Legs too,” he thinks lasciviously, forgetting the thought balloon over his head. He notices her squinting to make out the words suspended in the air. Luckily they are written in Italics and she isn’t wearing her glasses.)

(Once again he re-starts the timer, aware of the precious seconds he has lost, and hurriedly exits into the house, parting the drawn vertical shades he purchased from 3-Day Blinds, just enough to allow him to slip through, but not enough to allow her inquisitive gaze to follow. Soon after he enters, we hear the sound from inside of someone falling down followed by muffled curses)

(During the following moments as the camera zooms in for a CU of the timer, we dissolve to a montage of her memories: getting drunk and holding hands at Home Depot, her first time at this unbelievable paradise, soaking up the view along with a whole lot of wine, running for her life across PCH, then a quick long walk on the beach then back to his bed for that first drunken embrace. We are suddenly snapped back to the present by the rather annoying chirp chirp of the timer.

SHE: Ready or not, here I come.

HE: What?

SHE: Is it ok to come in now?

HE: WHAT? I can’t hear you. What is that noise?

SHE: It’s the timer.

HE: Well, why don’t you shut the thing off?

SHE: How do I do that?

HE: You push the button marked “Off.”

SHE: Don’t snap at me! I just woke up from a montage, mister big shot romantic! Ok, button . . . button . . . ah, here it is.

HE: So push it already.

SHE; I did. It’s not working.

HE: Well, do something. That sound is driving me crazy.

(She grabs the timer and throws it about 20 yards down to the street below where it hits the asphalt and explodes into a million pieces.)

SHE: Ok, that did it. Coming in now.

HE: What did you do? That’s a very expensive timer.

SHE: Never mind, I’ll tell you later.

(She enters the house and as her eyes adjust to the dim lights she beholds something wonderful and unexpected. She is struck dumb with awe and admiration for this man who has gone to so much trouble to make this happen.)

HE: (from the bedroom) Hello?? Anyone out there.

SHE: You are so fucking adorable!!

HE: I know. I’m also adorable fucking. Ok, now follow the trail and find the envelope. Inside you will find the clues to your next adventure.

SHE: (She finds the envelope and tears it open. Inside is an even more wonderful surprise.) I don’t know what to say. I don’t deserve all this.

HE: Sorry, I think you do. Ok, now continue following your heart, till you come to where you will find what you are looking for.

SHE: (Following the trail down the hall.) Oh, you mean the bathroom? I don’t know about my heart but some part of me is really grateful. Just a sec.

(As she exits into the bathroom the camera holds on the empty hall and slowly zooms towards the closed bedroom door. After what seems like a long time to take a leak, even for a woman, we hear the sound of a toilet flushing. She then slowly emerges from the bathroom, wiping her hands on a towel of course, and walks towards the bedroom door. This happens in slow motion to emphasize the importance of her physical and symbolic journey to where she is destined to be. We watch as she opens the door and softly closes it behind her. The camera does not follow her, as we dissolve to stock footage of a very large train going into a tunnel that some joker in the set department has painted pink on the inside. Ok wait, it’s not a very large train. It’s an average train, certainly not a small train. I’ve seen a lot of trains and I know what I am talking about. It’s definitely not a small train. The picture then becomes hazy, and for a few moments the train looks like some kind of wiener, Oscar Meyer, Hebrew National, who knows exactly what kind of wiener, and for a moment the audience will worry if a soft limp wiener will make it into that tunnel. Not to fear. It’s a frozen wiener, and then it’s back to being a train and then we fade to Black.)

THE END

(As we roll the tail credits, we hear loud moans and oooohs and ahhhhs signifying that someone is either having a very good time or doing a damn well good job of faking orgasm. It hardly matters. Women are so easily fooled.)