Narcissus and Goldmund

Jan 28 2012
    I have a best friend who Ive known since high school, somwhere down the line I started to call him CeeDee. CeeDee and I have been through what all good friends have been through, I could tell stories that would mostly make you laugh and only one or two that might make you cry. DeeDee went Christian on me a few years after we started hanging out, he stopped smoking pot which was our main thing but he married a beautiful woman and now has two kickass kids.  Over the years of being friends smoking pot and talking drugs we both went through our phases. I somewhere decided that using heroin would be a good idea and he like I said went the God route. CeeDee is a respected artist, father, and husband now. You will all someday be familiar with his work.
 CeeDee and I have so much in common but our beliefs have been like Yin and Yang, constantly circleing eachother but just barely touching. CeeDee turned me on to the book by Herman Hesse called Narcissus and Goldmund which tells the tale of two young men on very seperate trails in life and at the end of the book nothing is clear as there is no clear winner. The yarn always reminded me of our relationship and just as in the end of the book I wonder who took the right path. I still wonder who took the right path.
   We were both having a beer at the bar last night when CeeDee laid something pretty heavy on me. He looked up at me from the barstool and in his own words expressed a bit of jealousy at the freedom that has come with my lifestyle. Being jealous of all the right things he had chose in his life over the years, that someone had for once seen that all the bullshit Ive done and put myself through, my life isnt so unimportant.

chrisdeanmotherfucker@chrisdean.com

  

Christmas Homeless.

Homeless Christmas in Detroit.

Im not a regular on the streets, homeless anyway, Ive had my moments when my lifestyle has brought me to the streets where I’ve had to live in abandoned buildings or abandominiums. This year for Christmas I found myself homeless, at least without a lease or contract saying I have a place to stay. I have a longtime lover that puts up with me for a few days out of most months and another love who puts up with me a little more. This December things were looking good for us and she agreed that I would have a place for the entire month, but after five days of me invading her space I found all my belongings on her back porch. My month was up as far as a warm place to stay with a hot water shower, kitchen, laundry, and warm bed with my one true love. She often bites off more than she can chew.  

     I didn’t have any places to crash for the night so I bagged my stuff up in plastic as best I could and left it in her back yard and headed out to the abandoned across the street from the dope house I frequent. My new crib didn’t have heat or electric but it did have two other friends of mine from the street who stayed there, that I trust enough to not steal my backpack or Gary Fisher bike, but more importantly they had my back if things got serious when someone decided to try and put a coup’de taut on our abandominium.

     While I was out and about showing an intern reporter from Denmark the underbelly of Detroit someone burned down our abandoned, which we called The Clubhouse. The Clubhouse was gone so I made my way down to One Eyed Michelle and her man Deaf. We call him Deaf because he’s almost deaf. A few days there and it was Christmas Eve. We have One Eyed Michelle, Deaf, Cheech, and myself all hanging out in our abandominium. A small room with two space heaters, radio, and a work light served as the main sleeping and living area. Someone had spent $50 on getting a guy who knew electric to hook up the electricity at the pole. Water is brought in by the gallon, the toilet was always a creative endeavor unless you just had to take a pee.

     The day before Christmas was a good one as it usually is. Michelle and Cheech were panhandlers and people tend to be generous during the holidays. Cheech always held a sign on a popular off ramp and Christmas Eve he brought in over $200. Cheech shared and made sure everyone got a blow or rock. We are mainly all heroin addicts so the blows are most important. Crack came second and that was never my game. We spent the Eve crowded in the small room speaking on past Christmases, our favorite all time gifts as kids, where we got out trees from and how, and how much money they would make on actuall Christmas day. The holidays always brought stories of how generous rich folks drove around Detroit giving out $20 bills, $50 bills, even $100 bills wrapped on candy canes and stuffed in Christmas cards. No one had actually seen anyone get a $100 but every year the rumors got bigger. Non the less the holidays always brought excellent panhandling.

     Cheech and I stayed up most of the night bullshitting and by 7am Christmas day he wanted to buy me breakfast at the closest coney island. We searched out the three most likely to be open and found ourselves on Third and Peterboro where White Grove was also closed. As we started to make our way to Cass Park Cheech saw some dealer who owed him $170. Cheech got in his face even though he was a full foot shorter than the shit talking dealer. The dealer offered him a deal on six blows and he took it. Cheech gave me two of them but I had no new points or bleach so mine had to wait. Cheech brought me to a small shelter made of an old camper top where he fixed his heroin in his cooker and shot it in to his groin as he always does.

    Walking down Third to Cass Park a group of homeless gathered around a mini van. A church man was giving out new pairs of socks and cups of hot chili. The chili was delicious but the socks were a little small on my size thirteens but I made them work.

     We mingled for a few minutes with the other down and outs then made our way to another off ramp near MGM Casino. Cheech pulled a hand drawn cardboard sign out of his jacket and went to work. Cheech has a beard which seems to be his good luck charm as he seems to make twice as much as anyone else claims to. He seems to carry an elderly Santa Claus vibe with him and sure enough, as I watch him walk out to the island two cars in a row stop right next to him at the light and roll down their windows to give him a few bills. I wait and watch from a distance and then notice flashing lights are on him. I walk over to see whats up as the cop rolls down his window. Cheech starts to speak when the Sergeant barks “Fuck all that, get your ass up and move on, if I see you around here in 15 minutes your getting locked up” The Sergeant rolls up his window and drives off. We both agree that he’s pissed having to work Christmas morning instead of watching his grand kids open their gifts. We give him a pass and stop speaking of him.

  Cheech counts his $10 and change as we walk back toward Woodward to catch the Mack bus and head back to the new clubhouse. While on the bus I check my e mail on my phone and realize my sister has wished me a merry Christmas and letting me know theres a $100 waiting for me at Western Union. Chritmas is looking brighter. I pick up the money and buy everyone a blow and pocket the rest for the week. Deaf and Michelle had just walked in with a few plates of food from another church. We all eat more chili and nod off into a William Burroughs type holiday nod. We all have our Holliday’s one way or another. One Eyed Michelle, Deaf, Cheech and myself spent the rest of Christmas day together in a small room in an abandoned ouse listening to WJR and Coast to Coast with smiles on our faces. Many folks would be upset that people like us had a chance to smile and enjoy ourselves when we should be out looking for jobs or entering a rehab for drugs and booze. We know that’s not going to happen so we smiled anyway. I was blessed with friends to spend Christmas with, that and a few blows. At the end of the night, Michelle and Deaf crawled into their own beds, I took the swivel chair with my feet resting on a milk crate. Cheech made himself a bed from old cushions and blankets in the room with no heat but we put a space heater on him that I swiped from my ex-girlfriend. I was surprised at what a decent Christmas it was.               

Murder across the street, cops in my abandoned..

    The four of us were waking up and getting our high on and figuring out the days plan. One Eyed Michelle, Deaf, me and a loner from the burbs who had stopped buy to use our house to smoke his crack were all there. Michelle was leaving our abandominium with Deaf when I heard her yell back into the house that the cops were out front. I quickly gathered any obvious paraphenilia and quickly hid them in the back room. By the time I walked back out of the back room the black and white cop team were in the house and barking orders telling us how discusting our way of life was, asking us where the drugs were, where we got our drugs. The good cop bad cop team were in full effect like I was in an episode of a bad tv cop show.  We had nothing to say as you cant really have a conversation with a cop when hes in his zone of kicking ass and looking for the evil drugs. The white cop, the bad cop as he obviously was portraying immediately walked up to me and shoved his hands in my pants pockets. I was now scared, if he poked himself on one of my neeedles I knew I had an ass kicking coming. I straight up raised my voice to him "dude, be careful, I dont want you to get yourself poked" He realized his total rookie mistake and let me pat myself down to make sure I had no needles on me. He again went in my hoodies pocket and found a few old empty lotto packs. Im still not sure if good cop black cop was actually cool or just playing the part, I tend to think he was actually cool. I couldnt help but think about the regulation that had been passed a few years back letting outsiders join the DPD. Years ago you had to be a resident of Detroit to be a cop in Detroit but now they took anyone and there were a load of young suburban  kids who wanted to experience being a badass Detroit cop. They stuck out like a sore thumb. These suburbanite cops just want action while the regular cops who live here tend to be cool. The regular city living cops have seen it all and they dont need any excitement to put under their belt, they just want to do their job and get paid. I love real Detroit cops for that very reason, the suburb living cops, not so much.
    The black cop, being the good cop gently asked me where I got my shit, and how long had it been since Id gotten high. I told him about an old spot I used to cop at about eight blocks away and he seemed to know about the place. I wasnt bout to tell him about where Id been getting my dope that day as I liked my life safe as possible.
  The cops took our IDs and went to the car. Bad cop was always the tough one, his opinions were all he wanted us to hear it seemed. A few minutes later he called me over and gave us our IDs back. Apparently they had another call and we were small potatoes, bad cop wanted bigger excitement.
    I left for most of the day right after that to do some work for a friend. I didnt get back till just after dark and when I rode up there were cop cars, ambulances, and a tow truck carrying away a light brown Ford with its drivers side window broken out. As I rode up another dude on a bike I knew explained that some old dude got two shots to the head right out back of the dopehouse. I didnt want to ride past on my bike to walk in my house which was right acrosss the street, I didnt want to have to talk to cops anymore than I had to while they were on duty. After they had cleaned up the whole mess, took the body away and the car I finally went into my house not 20 yards from where the dude was killed. Michelle was inside sleeping or nodding as you can never be sure. She said the whole thing went down minutes after I had left that day.
   Word is it was an argument over scrap metal, argument was it was over pills, I tend to think it was probably both. The killer is apparently known and has killed before but got off on a techenality(sp) back when he was 18. The dopehouse shut down for two entire days and sent all local addicts into a tizzy while all the nearby bullshit dealers reaped the rewards of the good shit spot being out of business for the moment.
        

The intern.

So Ive been giving some tours of Detroit which Ive been calling Underbelly Tours Detroit. Ive had several young journalists from around the world contact me and hire me to show them around Detroits old buildings and neighborhoods. Depending on what theyre looking for Ill sometimes bring them to houses that have squatters/users who live there. My friends who live at these houses are usually cool with being interviewed and I make sure they get paid a few bucks for their trouble so they can get a blow. I always charge on a sliding scale depending on how much they can afford. generally $50-100 a day will make me happy. Ive had several reporters, photographers, and even a novelist hire me over the past two years. Last week the BBC hired me to give a tour and watch their backs as they were afraid for their safety as well as their camera equipment when they needed to get some video of abandoned schools and other unused city buildings. They paid me very well and also hired a friend of mine just to follow us around and watch the van with their equipment in it while we were exploring the Fisher Body plant, Highland Park police station and Fire Department which had both been abandoned a few years back. Ive always enjoyed giving these tours.

I was recently contacted by someone who didnt know about me giving tours for cash but did want to hang out in the D and ride around. He came from Europe and about a week ago we went out for the day on bikes. I explained while riding that I do this as side work for extra income as I know all the old buildings and the East side neighborhoods as well as a lot of the characters that inhabit my area. We took an extensive tour of the Packard, One Eyed Michelles squat house and shooting gallery, as well as the house I was squatting that week and other places. He didn't offer to pay me anything, didnt offer to buy even lunch or a beer.

We talked a few days later and him being an intern for the biggest paper in his country he wanted to change the story he was writing and photographing to something having to do with Michelle who I had introduced to the week earlier. I explained that I give tours for money and have to spend my time making money for myself and didn't really have time to show him around for free again. He offered me $30 for another full days tour and $30 to Michelle for hanging out and interviewing her. I turned him down, $30 for two days work playing bodyguard and tour guide for a guy carrying a $2500 camera and wearing fancy cloths in the ghetto just wasn't worth it.

A few days went by and the house I was squatting in had burned down so I moved in with Michelle and her friend as well as usually one other random person who needed a warm place and who could spare a couple of blows. We were all living together pretty well and four of us had a great Christmas together. I came home today to find my guy from Europe sitting in my chair talking up Michelle. I didnt have much to say to him as it was obvious he was paying Michelle for her take on homelessness in Detroit. As most any squat there were people coming and going, doing their drugs and what not. I was busy at my computer trying to get a story together and then finished up, jumped on my crappy little bike that my girl had loaned me. My Gary Fisher was in the pawn so I was riding a 1970s girls Huffy. 15 minutes after leaving and meeting my girlfriend I get a call from the intern asking about his bike. It was stolen out of the house while he was interviewing Michelle. I told him flat out I didnt know anything about it and can understand why he would think it was me as I wasn't real happy with his earlier offer of $30 for two days work. He explained it wasn't his bike and if I thought he owed me something I should say so. He didnt owe me anything but we made a few texts back and forth but I have to say I didn't feel real bad for the guy. I had warned him about Detroit, that he should stick with me but it would cost at least a few bucks, he refused and went around my back to a contact and was ripped off in the process of visiting a dope house by himself.

   I can understand that he's just an intern and isn't making the big bucks yet but working for the biggest paper in his country, which tells me hes probably got some pretty fancy college under his belt. The only real bummer to the story is that the bike was borrowed from some chick he was
staying with here in Detroit and I wonder if will she will be reimbursed for the bike he got ripped off.

Poor poor pitiful me

Most of my posts are of old and I've had some comments asking where I'm at now with my life. I'm going to reflect on something more recent here. 
    Ive been accused of glamorizing my life as an addict and maybe this will explain better what its really like, nothing pretty or exciting. 
     I had been planning on a trip out of this years Michigan winter for over a year now. Cambodia was my goal as I know the heroin is cheap and plentiful, the beaches beautiful as the women and the cost of living made it cheap enough for me to live on a small monthly check I receive. The Cambodian government is more like a working anarchy than anything, which meant even if you were caught doing something that might be considered Illegal it would only cost a bribe with the local cops. I had a sponsor who bought me a round trip ticket to Phnom Penh leaving out of Chicago for only $800 in early November and coming back in March, I had my paperwork in order, but in order to get an expedited passport here in Detroit I went downtown and paid $195 which my sponsor also paid and was told by the agency the next day it would be ready for me to pick up in the late afternoon.
   The next morning while on my regular route to pick up my wake up shot I got a phone call from the passport agency here in Detroit. They had passed a law a few years back that I was unaware of. Any past due child support over $2500 would automatically make you ineligible for a passport. The man on the phone telling me this news also explained that I would not be getting my sponsors $195 back for the passport application. There are no refunds once you give them your money even though a majority of the money as itemized is for the actual passport book itself which I never received.
    My heart sank as I talked to the brother on the phone explaining the bad news to me while riding happily on my bike back to my place. I had only a temporary place to stay, my income, my "job" was already terminated as I was leaving for the winter. The house I was staying was not ready for a new tenant. I essentially was homeless, only able to depend on a girlfriend for the new November cold.
    I had been homeless in Detroit before but not without a vehicle. At least with a car you can crawl inside and warm up if need be, get around easy to get to a warm couch of a friend, but all I have is my bike and with no income. I soon had pawned the Gary Fisher bike  to keep myself from getting sick, my computer went next but not before my camera. In the pawn shop waiting in line I kept thinking of the beaches in Cambodia where I should have been, strolling through Angkor Wat, the two young dark haired beauties I imagined sitting on each of my thighs with my arms around their waists in some seedy bar in Phnom Penh while more beauties danced onstage, or my friend who lives there in PP waiting for me to show up ath the airport so we could collaborate on a writing project while getting drunk in the back of a tuk tuk. I walked out of the pawn shop with $50 and no bike. I walked to the spot and got my blows, did them up and then to a  friends house to borrow a small girls bike from the 70s. Try to imagine a 6'4" hulk riding a 17" girls bike around Detroit. I officially felt like a true loser, I wanted my "BORN TO LOSE" tattoo, I felt I had earned it.
    The past month I've been scraping by but just barely. There's an abandoned house I share with two street hustlers who I can trust most of the time. I hadn't been on an exit ramp holding a sign stating I'm homeless and asking for money since I was in a wheelchair five years back after falling down an elevator shaft. Im a big man with a bad back and one working eye but I'm not useless, Ive always hated begging and only in the most dire situations have done it but it was Thanksgiving and the Turkey Day Parade in Detroit brings almost a million people from the burbs and they often feel compelled to help out a guy on the corner asking for it. I swallowed my pride and wasn't to proud to beg. I made $30 while my fellow hustlers made well over $100. Turkey day wasn't a total bust though as a friend asked me to come up to his place in the burbs for his annual Thanksgiving Day dinner and I almost cried when he picked me up. Fuck that dick in the Dos Equis commercial, The Most Interesting Man In the World, my friend is him. He gave me a sweet pair of pants too, loaned me a 20, and fed me Jim Beam and Turkey dinner as well as keeping the bong filled with nothing but skunk.
    Back to poor poor pitiful me, if you ever had a nagging cavity among your teeth, have gum issues that cause pain, especially in the cold of an unheated abandominium then you know what hell is, we piss off the front porch and shit out on the back lawn in the rain, this week anyway. There's a couch and a plastic covered mattress which three of us share. There's no electricity so we take turns buying candles from the gas station down the way so we have light to cook our dope and find a vein by. There's no lock and the smell of money often brings thugs on check day, everyone keeps a makeshift weapon handy. We share tobacco and vodka but rarely will anyone share a pack of dope as thats personal.  I have girlfriends living nearby in the hood who have warm houses but who wants to ask if you can sleep on their couch when you know they know who you are and have the rep of being a junky. The tooth pain spread to my head like a migraine in the cold, its been raining for three days and the nights I do get invited to sleep at their house I feel like I'm supposed to preform for them, and after I do they're ready for me to leave.
   As I write this, the song by CCR is now playing Who Will Stop the Rain, a major song in my trials. Tonight I have a warm bed with my longtime all time love who understandably cannot handle me being around all the time. I have to preform, and in my state its not always easy but I can lick like a motherfucker so I get down. She does love me though and she always will as I do her and always will. Betty has always been a blessing my father sent me.

    I'm thankful for the friends I have but paying them back for what they've done for me seems so impossible. I get paid Thursday and will hopefully be able to rent a warm room for the month.  Things are not so bad but I don't want to be known as the guy who glorifies this life. When someone asks me about using heroin I tell them that its a one way door. 
 

First time using heroin

I had been working at a bar in Ann Arbor as a bouncer. The pay sucked but the benefits were good. Hundreds of women came through every night and many were just there to get laid. I wasnt a bad looking guy so I had my share of fun with the ladies and they had their fun with the big bouncer when they needed a fix. I was on the straight and narrow as far as everyone else was concerned there at the bar. They knew I smoked my nightly joint with Stan the Mad Hatter up in the sound booth when everyone was leaving at the end of the night but I was a bouncer and that crew hung out at the gym and shot steroids, bragged about how badly they beat some unruly patron up one night long ago and how the court case was coming for the assault charge they received. I didnt really fit in with the regular bouncers.
   There was a day crew that cleaned and maintained the bar during the day and I got to know one of them. Riggs as I call him was a tough, he had his ins and out with the law, a devil tattoo on his arm, wore a old school crew cut, drove a white Rivera which he swore was the pimp, and at the time had come into a little money. He and I were soon snorting lines and I was all about buying for a dollar and selling for two. Id buy an eight ball through him at a crazy price and cut the shit with vitamin B just to make a few bucks selling 1/4 grams. At the time it made me feel like a drug dealer and I figured this is how one makes inroads to better connections. After a few weeks he explained he liked to spike his coke. I had always been afraid of needles just like most everyone but after seeing him put that needle in his arm, draw back the blood to the plunger and pump it back into his entire system of veins, heart, and brain, seeing him in the throes of oblivion and ecstasy, seeing him with the look of absolutely nothing touching him, no pain but not exactly joy I got curious. Something in his eyes said he had everything he needed at that very moment and happiness could be attained for a second. I wanted that and was soon shooting cocaine for the first time.  
   I sometimes think about the possible guilt someone might feel turning someone on to shooting drugs. When you shoot a drug there is no going back, you broke a wall down that cannot be repaired. Someone has to show you how to cook up the drugs, how to buy a syringe at the CVS, how to find a vein, how to actually inject it. Every IVDU (intravenous drug user) out there was taught by some other IVDU  addict. I wonder if Riggs feels any guilt over showing me how to inject drugs. I myself have shown friends, true friends how to use a syringe but I somehow dont feel much guilt. As I know myself, I am a drug user who has always experimented and those that want to try shooting drugs will no doubt find an instructor.
   Now that Im older I dont give lessons anymore but there was a time when I did, and I wonder where my karma lies, I wonder about the people who have come through my life that Ive shown heroin and where they are now.
   One late morning I stopped by Riggs place and was knocking on the door but didnt get a response. I started banging with no result. I went from window to window knocking on the glass worried to shit he had overdosed and was lying dead in his kitchen. I went back to the door and started to bang again when he finally opened the door. His eyes were black and blue. "Dude, what the hell, I was worried to shit about you, what the fuck happened to you, did you get beat up, your eyes, they're black and blue" I asked him. Riggs rubbing his eyes barely coherent explained he did some heroin the night before and thats why his eyes were probably a little black an blue. "You did what?" I said to him. I was astounded, I could understand smoking some pot, I could understand snorting some rails, and hell I for some reason could even understand using a syringe for shooting cocaine. Riggs shrugged his shoulders and we went into the kitchen. I started to ask some questions like, what does it feel like, are you addicted right away, and probably within 15 minutes I was asking him if I could snort a little bit.

   That was the moment my life changed, when I decided that I wanted to experiment with something so obviously life changing that its warned about in schools and by parents and even Nancy Reagan. I remember one night at the dinner table sitting with my folks and my little sister, my Dad explaining what drugs can possibly do to someone and how they ruin lives. I was about 11 years old and had never even thought about smoking pot let alone shooting heroin. I nodded to my folks in an effort to explain that I would never do drugs. They seem content with my response.
   Riggs got me my heroin to snort the next day and a week after that, after watching him shoot his heroin and lay back into the couch in an apparent oblivion I asked if he would do me up. We had just eaten pizza and after my first shot I walked outside and gently put the pizza I ate back onto his front lawn.
   Riggs is clean now, working at a rehab for addicts. He was the type that couldn't handle being dope sick. If he couldn't get his fix he would just go to a dope house with a gun and pistol whip the dealer then take his shit and run. Deep down Riggs is a good man and he's proving it working in that rehab hes at now.
   It took me a few years before I got my habit. I chipped for years getting it here and there when it came around. I eventually went to Thailand where I got my first mean habit, the one that never really went away.
  As I sit here writing this Im looking at five nickle packs on the table in front of me. I swore I wouldnt use them until I finished this entry to my blog.

                                     Adios 

   

   

I love this building. The Grand Trunk on St Aubin and Ferry in Detroit.

The last time I saw out of both my eyes was in this building. I had been scrapping late one night in the rain here and was on the 5th floor. I was opening up old valves in this burned and abandoned cold storage unit when I took the bolts off of one valve to see if there was any brass inside it. The valve wouldnt come off so I gave it a whack with the back of my pipe wrench. The valve exploded under the pressure letting out hundreds of pound of pressure of refrigeration grade ammonia. The burst blew me back across the room and filled it with ammonia causing a lack of oxygen. My eyes stung incredibly but I knew the building well and was near the stairwell so I started climbing up to the roof where the rain was coming down. I collapsed on the roof as my eyes, throat, and lungs were filled with with ammonia. As I was finally able to breath in the fresh air on the roof of this building I finally got my breath and realized my eyes were swollen and clouded to the point where I could only see shadows. I had lost my flashlight in the confusion and after I had rinsed my eyes in the rain I felt my way downstairs through the crumbling staircase blind about seven flights of stairs.
  I made my way home that night by feel and streetlights that I knew were close to my house. I laid in bed for about three days thinking my eyes would recover on their own but apparently Im not that smart. My eyes had totally crusted shut and had to peel off the built up eye gunk in caterpillar like strands. I was almost completely blind and extremely dope sick. On my third day of being so sick that I couldn't take care of myself I made my way down to my ex girlfriends house to ask for $10 to get some drugs. She was horrified at the sight of my eyes and face but only would drive me to the hospital. I wasnt willing to go through any more dope sickness so I went down a few doors to Mr Ks house and asked him for $10. The sight of me must have scared him because he gave it right to me. My ex drove me to my dope house where she had to direct me to what house I wanted as I could only see shadows. When we got back to her place she helped me fix my spoon and rig and with some instruction put the needle to the vein I told her to and I plunged it in. It was only then that I would agree to go to the emergency room.  When we got to the hospital the doctor rinsed my eyes for over an hour but told me I may very well be blind.
  In the end and after many daily visits thanks to my dearest ex who drove me daily for three months at 6 am to the Kresge Eye Institute I gained partial vision in my right eye and can now see on a not too bad of level.
  I still go back to the Grand Trunk but with extreme caution and that was the last time I scrapped. I went the other day and shot this video while holding the camera on my bike seat and rolling it down the isle.
  This was one of my three Thanksgiving nightmares Ive mentioned earlier.