It’s The Wrong Anniversary, Gromit!
Today is May 25th, the anniversary of the original premiere of Star Wars in Los Angeles. This comes only three weeks after the designated Star Wars day, May The Fourth, and only a few days after what was, this year, the thirtieth anniversary of the release of The Empire Strikes Back. However, there is some friction in nerd circles because the 25th of May is unofficially established as Towel Day, a day to memorialize Douglas Noel Adams, despite not having much of a substantive connection to Adams’ birthdate, the number 42, or various other potentially relevant dates.
It’s a muggy, hot New England day as I type this, and the heat is trapped inside my walls, wilting the the room and rendering any faint, hesitant climate controls (and perhaps my editing abilities) almost completely ineffective. It’s the kind of day where a towel to wipe down perspiration would not go amiss, and a beach towel would be even more advantageous, providing it came with a beach and a pleasingly cool ocean to go along with it. Despite being spoiled for choice when it comes to commercially available memorial towels, I’m not flying my terrycloth colors today. No, I provide you with this conurbation of links not just to close tabs on my browser, but also to muse on this nerd nexus of dates, observances, and inspirations all in close proximity.
It felt even more packed with inspiration that it ought to have due to two articles that filtered through my feed yesterday and made me wonder if it was Wrong Trousers Day as well. The first was an epistle to Feathers McGraw’s highly technical, inventive, and efficient casing of a locked, security-laden museum, and the second was that the astronauts currently aboard the space shuttle Atlantis were woken by NASA playing the claymation duo’s theme tune.
Not wholly unusual as coincidences go, but sufficient to make me wonder if maybe I’d marked down the date for Wrong Trousers Day — ahem — wrongly (I hadn’t, it’s still on June 25th this year), and that all of these geek favorites were all, in fact, cheek by jowl in May competing for some small slice of the fanboy love. I simply wasn’t sure that Hitchhiker’s, Star Wars, and Wallace & Gromit could all demand attention so close to each other and not result in fractious behavior. But I needn’t have worried. Aardman, Adams, and Alderaan all get their due space for recognition, allowing us not to have to worry about which allegiance (or Alliance!) to choose for our tweets, status updates, or the like. There is enough room in our hearts and enough room on our calendars.
But that calendar keeps ticking on. Today is still one more anniversary: that of Frank Oz’s birth, and he’s no spring chicken (or blue eagle) anymore. But then again, if Empire came out thirty years ago, not even most of its fans are that young any more, let alone its creators and performers. As Harrison Ford recently said, “I thought [Star Wars co-star Alec Guinness] was an old man: an old, wonderful actor. [But] I did the math. I figured out how old he was in Star Wars, and he was about six years younger than I am now.” Ford is 67, a mere year younger than Frank Oz. Alec Guinness was 86 when he died, Jim Henson was 53, and Douglas Adams was 49. It may all have been a long, long time ago — whether in a galaxy far, far away or in a field in Innsbruck — but we carry these men and their fantastic creations with us still. A hoopy frood always knows where his towel is, sure, but I’d prefer simply to know where my youthful inspirations are, and that they’re still here with us, always.
Text Recognition
The website Autocomplete Me trades on the humor generated by Google’s recent innovation of showing what other popular searches have been that began with the same keywords or letters. Said humor is mostly randomness, and a variation on the old hilarity where people would type in things like “I think [your name here] is” and then see what random internet people thought of other people with the same first name. Thrilling!
Well, perhaps not thrilling, but trifling, and trifling is what the post-MTV generation, digital natives apparently want: thirteen seconds of distraction and a link to something else. Breadth without depth.
Which is why it surprised me that so many of the screen-capped searches on Autocomplete Me are pop culture references that someone has failed to recognize and thought were gleeful randomness. Aha and haha, someone thought, it is so totally weird that anyone would ever search for that, let alone for enough people to persuade Our Google Overlords to allow an algorithm to display it as a suggested search! And then — click, click, click — it’s on display on a website that’s part of the I Can Haz Cheezburger network. Yes, I also would have thought that people as meme-aware as the LOLcats folks would catch some of these references, but apparently not.
So, for no real edification, I present a short list of Autocomplete phrases and their respective sources that I recognized. Which may well say more about my own pop culture obsessions than the limits of the site in question. Still, it should at least provide a quizzical raised eyebrow at how lack of context creates a false appearance of surreality.
- “I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How’ve you been?”, which is from the John Cusack assassin comedy Grosse Point Blank
- “Never have children, only grandchildren”, which is a relatively well-known quotation from the slightly generationally obscure Gore Vidal
- “I mistook my wife for a hat”, which is a clear variation of The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat by noted doctor of neurology Oliver Sacks, popularized by his many books and his fictionalization in Awakenings with Robin Williams
- “Turtles are nature’s suction cups”, which is one of the many throwaway gags in the Raul’s Wild Kingdom segment from Weird Al Yankovic’s UHF
- “The bed that eats people”, which is a reference to the film Death Bed, made infamous by the stand-up comedy of Patton Oswalt
- “I’m so bored I’m drinking bleach”, which is from the Dead Milkmen song “The Bleach Boys” off of the 1988 album Beelzebubba
- “My hovercraft is full of eels”, which is from the “Dirty Hungarian Phrasebook” sketch from Monty Python’s Flying Circus
- “Who can keep his head in a chicken coop the longest”, which was a challenge recorded on the television show Kenny Versus Spenny
- and, most surprisingly, “Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies”, which is perhaps one of the most-quoted lines from stand-up comedian and television personality Demetri Martin
- EDIT 22/3/10: And again today! “Without a violin playing goat” is from Notting Hill, in a scene I’ve previously remarked upon. If this keeps up, I may need to stop reading Autocomplete Me, in order to keep myself from starting a blog that’s the equivalent of xkcd sucks.
BRIEFLY: Nog
Many of my northeasterly friends posted Facebook or Twitter updates this afternoon that were variations on the following: “What? Snow! Interrobang?! Nooooo! Not yet, it’s too early; I’m not prepared! Argh!” Stuff and nonsense along those lines.
I looked out my window this midmorning to see a slow descent of slush mixed in with a moderate amount of rain. It hardly had the fortitude to be called “snow”. It was wet and barely corporeal whilst falling, and when it hit the ground, it quickly was indistinguishable from the liquidity of its more prevalent falling companions. The ground has absorbed it, and unless there’s a truly tumultuous temperature drop tonight, I expect to see no ice nor snow nor even frost upon the morn.
But as people bundle themselves againt the oncoming onslaught of cold, I choose to warm myself with this: for the next eleven weeks, until right after New Year’s Eve, there will be egg nog once again available for purchase in my local supermarket. That will warm the cockles of my heart for a while, the eventual actual accumulation of snowfall be damned.
BRIEFLY: Don’t Take Maine For Granite
Dear Tony Scott, and the producers, writers, and FX team for Enemy of the State:
If your second-tier bad guy is going to be a conservative Republican from New Hampshire — and why not? There’s a fine pedigree of inspiration to justify the characterization — don’t have a scene where your ex-NSA tech genius pulls his address off of his phone records and shows his residence as being in Maine. MAINE! That’s an outrage!
Oh, and I see that the IMDB points out that the zip code for Maine on his address is for Washington, DC. And as the screencaps below show, his name changes from “Sam” to “Steven”. Last I knew, Samuel wasn’t a derivation or nickname of Stephen, as one is Hebrew and one is from the Greek. Well done, everyone. Well done, indeed.
Bloom County: Michael Jackson
Bloom County was an extraordinary comic strip during its storied, hilarious, multi-year run. If I were to list the most important influences on my sense of humour and language, right after Walt Kelly’s Pogo would come Bloom County, which had a similarly sprawling anthropomorphic cast, political bent, and a strong sense of word play — centering particularly on the way words simply sounded. Despite two revivals in the Sunday funnies, some animated specials, a couple painted gift books, a line of greeting cards, and an iced tea flavor, Bloom County has not successfully established itself as a fixed, indelible part of day-to-day pop culture. The fact that it continues to be referenced and resurrected in one minor way or another is testament to its cult belovedness, but that it’s not a referential throughline, not a cultural touchstone is frankly beyond my reckoning.
A woman approximately my age just confessed on a public social networking board (gasp!) that she’d never heard about the whole Michael Jackson Pepsi commercial where his hair caught on fire. My first reaction was to be startled, until I realized that my knowledge of it came not from the event itself, not from the incident, but from the cultural commentary that followed. Specifically, I remembered the way in which it was satirized in Bloom County. A brief internet search produced similar memories on various people’s blogs, but no reproductions or scans of the strips themselves.
While we still wait for the IDW collection of the entire Bloom County library, we can at least partake of Andrews McMeel’s online offerings. Since this archive isn’t searchable except by date and user-created keywords — and then only by members — I don’t claim to present a comprehensive collection of every one of Berkeley Breathed’s Michael Jackson references, here’s what I’ve been able to piece together (Remember other Jackson/Bloom crossovers? Mention them in the comments). For those of you not inclined to wait for IDW, most of the following can be found in the classic 1985 assemblage, Penguin Dreams and Stranger Things:
+ March 18, 1984: Steve Dallas sings “Billy Jean” to an imaginary audience. (one strip)
+ March 22, 1984: In a satire of the Pepsi commercial accident, Steve Dallas burns off his chest hair while making a rock video. (three main strips, but a segment of about a 20-part ongoing story)
+ May 2, 1984: Oliver’s mother gives him a Michael Jackson makeover. (two strips)
+ June 25, 1984: Oliver’s mother wallpapers his entire room with Michael Jackson’s face. (three strips)
+ August 17, 1984: Opus visits Neverland, and he and Michael reenact The Prince and the Pauper (15 strips)
+ September 27, 1986: Interestingly, this is reprinted in the Billy and the Boingers collection with the punchline, “..Don’t you think it’s high time Michael Jackson got interested in girls?” A sliiiight alteration there. (one strip)
Michael Bay Shout Out
Well, after three weekends with the top box office results, Transformers 2: Racist Boogaloo has finally been knocked out of the number one spot by Brüno. I’d like to say, “by Brüno, of all things…” but I still recall the mysterious favourable fervor that surrounded the first film. I figured the gay angle would cancel out middle America’s post-Jackass love of Sacha Baron Cohen’s antics, but he’s still riding the crest of that bizarre gestalt of reality programming, schadenfreude, and our tendency to laugh when we become uncomfortable (q.v. The Office and Fawlty Towers) for lack of any better response. Or he’s got a post-Borat curiosity factor buoying him up temporarily. I mean, there’s no way he’ll still be there next week when (500) Days of Summer the newest Harry Potter comes out.
(A brief note on box office records: some nerds are understandably upset at Transformers 2: Transformener! creeping close to The Dark Knight‘s nigh-toppling of the classic Titanic record. I don’t put much stock in box-office records — despite having once written to a newspaper to set them straight about Spider-Man‘s domestic gross — but it was still gratifying to read that someone had finally done an inflation adjustment for the top-selling films, to find out exactly how much blocks are really being busted by all these spidey-come-latelies. And while Titanic is still in the top ten (Star Wars is at number two, but I can’t tell if that includes the 1997 special edition re-release), Spider-Man, as the Guardian puts it, is “nowhere to be seen.” Makes one feel like someone suddenly turned the gravity back on, and realigned magnetic North.)
I don’t particularly care what succeeds instead of Transformers, so long as something does. People talk about Michael Bay as a spirited visionary, someone with a good sense of populism and energy. I begin to grow tired of this particular paean. It seems to me that this is a kind of shorthand for “charismatic, improvisational egotist.” The same sort of tribute was paid to Peter Berg’s Hancock, and that was a dreadful mess. Good moments, but incoherent overall. Other films that don’t stand up to any sort of logic test, but which people adore for a few catch-your-breath, coolness moments: Bad Boys, Bad Boys II, Armageddon (referred to as “Armageddoon” in my household because of the fortuitous happenstance of a mislabeled free-HBO-weekend VHS dupe; fortuitous because it more successfully creates the sound of the utter doofishness of its contents), and The Rock. You may notice a laser-like focus in this list. Yes, I do feel that Bay’s films are most accurately characterized by a certain stylish lack of narrative intelligence, and his other films — The Island, Pearl Harbor — don’t even have the cool moments to make us forget their mawkishness. In general, there is an exuberance in each of them that is relentlessly macho and completely slapdash, which ultimately means his films have stood or fallen on the inadvertent charisma or professionalism of his key actors.
Since all films are the happy accidents of their creative committees, I am perhaps unfair to lash out at Mr. Bay. But I am weary of machismo as spectacle, and his specific hair-band video aesthetic. So it was pleasing to find that in addition to confusing “You know… for kids!” with his own unconscious racism, that the man is simply inarticulate. The ever-marvelous Vulture pays people to read drek like Ain’tItCoolNews and TMZ so that I don’t ever, ever, ever have to, and they gleefully cribbed a collection of typographical and grammatical inanities from Bay’s irate correspondence with Paramount marketing. These help enormously in beginning to understand my reaction to his body of work, as it clearly demonstrates a passion-over-coherence dynamic that I reject personally and professionally.
Fittingly, Bay rejects me as well. In responding to the accusations regarding his potentially unintentional sambots, Mr. Bay said, “Listen, you’re going to have your naysayers on anything. It’s like, is everything going to be melba toast?” The Vulture assumed he meant “vanilla“, while Andrew Wheeler more correctly assumed he meant “milquetoast“. Me, I look forward to a day when everything is a little more melba toast, thank you very much.
N.B., the above image is from an NHPR story about a psych experiment about whether New Yorkers would help a happy, defenseless robot. Is there anything more vanilla? Sheesh.
Happy Birthday, Uncle Bert
Shamelessly stolen from Paul Hornschemeier, I wish to celebrate the birthday of the great 20th century humanist philosopher, Bertrand Russell (no relation). I do this by stealing an image that I peered at and poured over whilst visiting Boston’s Fine Museum of Arts, as we used to call it in high school.
It’s difficult to see if this small reproduction, but as Russell lights his match in the darkness, he and the flame are both out of focus. What is in focus are his spectacles on the table in the left-hand foreground. I have no idea what this says about the photographer’s take on the subject, or why he chose this image out of the undoubtedly innumerable other shots of the famed thinker, but I found it to be supremely fascinating as an aesthetic choice, and perhaps one of the more subtly profound works in the exhibit.
It can be hard to appreciate an exhibit of 20th century celebrity portraiture. It’s all too easy to say, “Oh, yes, I have a postcard of that image of Audrey Hepburn” or “Huhn. So that’s what Nikita Khrushchev looked like…” and to simply move on. Once one recognizes Paul Newman or Ernest Hemingway, what further is one supposed to look for in the image? Karsh tried to portray them as powerful in their own right, and in their own sphere. I liked to look for the incidental details that revealed both the passage of time and the humanity of the sitter. Thin, gold wristwatches with the unmistakable slimness that accompanies fine internal clockworks. Thick cable sweaters with worn holes and slipped stitches. A fine network of lines around the eyes and knuckles, so much easier to examine in black and white. How even the meticulous banzai topiary of a moustache or beard always has errant tendrils. How many of the subjects smoked. How many didn’t. And whether the smoke was conceit of the photographer, who surely acknowledged if not encouraged the wisps and curls which do so much to both catch light and contain shadow.
But even all that observation and catalogue of detail still doesn’t encompass the artistry that is portraiture. To do that, one must paradoxically see what is unseen, or perhaps only seen with the self and not the eyes. Which is part of what I love about the Russell image… a photograph that hardly shows the subject at all.
Further Reading
+ MFA exhibit page
+ Time magazine slideshow of featured images
+ Boston Phoenix article about the exhibit
A Long Day’s Journey Into Silence
Well, it’s been forever since I’ve posted anything. And since I’d prefer to say something instead of just chronicling every Batman-related news story that crosses my field of vision, I find that my blog is dwindling again. Despite my previous plan to jot down some quick notes and links, and throw them — gelatinous and unformed — into Blogger’s gaping maw, I find myself reluctant to clack out anything that I haven’t thought about, mulled like fine cider, and weighed in the palm of my hand, to get a small measure of its relevance and universality. Unfortunately, this means that I usually find it lacking, particularly as my internal Bureau of Weights and Measures is as slow and bureaucratic as its civic counterpart, which removes much chance of any relevancy right from the offset.
One might think that microblogging would be the answer, then. And, as you can see, I have incorporated a Twitter feed into the sidebar, publishing my running list of songs that have gotten stuck in my head long enough for me to do something about it. But I’m not convinced that Twitter or, say, Tumblr would provide me with the answer. It’s become clear to me that blogging really is about comments, about a call and response relationship with the void. I’ve long held that, for me, this is supposed to be more like a column, a collection of aggregated observations that should amuse, but should stand on their own. It should not rely on knowledge of me, nor be designed to shine a light into my personal life and internal workings. However, I have largely failed in that last aspect: the column has become more of a diary, more of a LiveJournal as time has withered on. In part this is because I have lost my trust in my ability to be universal, in my ability to write openly without an intended audience. I would write with more surety, and therefore more frequently, if this had a focus, a topic, a row to hoe. But since it doesn’t, since it is just a feature for my peregrinatory whims, it really has to be simply about me, and therefore simply be a journal after all.
I heard about a study recently (not sure where… I assumed in the Sci/Tech news I accumulate in my RSS subscriptions, but a series of searches reveals nothing, so now I’m guessing it was a one-line item in Wait, Wait… Don’t Tell Me) that indicates that blogging makes one happy. Researchers claim that individuals who blog feel
“a sense of greater social integration, which is how connected we feel to society and our own community of friends and others; an increase in social bonding (our tightly knit, intimate relationships); and social bridging — increasing our connectedness with people who might be from outside of our typical social network.”
The article I link to above claims, if I’m reading this right, that this comes about because of an internal sense of satisfaction that comes from journaling about one’s internal feelings, and the increased sense of self-acceptance that comes with the external articulation of this. What is not said is whether this greater sense of self is dependent upon external reinforcement from comments, hits, or other exchanges. Is the writing sufficient unto itself, or does it really need to be “blogging”, with the subsequent back-and-forth that seems to be a requisite part of the definition.
Also, does microblogging bring micro-satisfaction? How much happiness can be spun and how much self-concept can be reinforced in 140 characters? If anything, I wonder if the micro-format, being such a virtual amuse-bouche, leaves both the reader and the writer impatient for and anxious about more. For every person who wonders why someone would even join Twitter anyway, I wager, there’s someone using the service in anguish over what to say say next, in order to always have one’s account fresh and new and interesting. And I do not envy this hypothetical (read: straw?) person’s regular bouts of status panic.
One last note on Twitter. A few people in conversation have sought out my editorial on the whole phenomenon, and one of the points I like to drive home about its appeal is the celebrity aspect of the whole thing — there is a potent allure in providing a service that encourages the illusory notion that one is connected with someone famous. I fully understand why creative types like singer/songwriters have been firmly embracing the web, as it allows them to use technology to regularly reinforce their audience, and in the fractured commerce that is the music business, a core of devotées is acutely necessary. I’m less sure why, say, an actress like Kat Dennings needs a homepage, a YouTube channel, and a Twitter account. That is to say, I understand why she would want or need them as a person — after all, I have all these same things — but not so much as a celebrity. If one uses the singer/songwriter lens above, to have all these one-way outlets for communication feels like brand-building, and I find it hard to believe that either Ms. Dennings or her publicity staff would feel that she needs to be a brand. Even in the mayfly world of starlets.
The flip-side of this is the fake Twitter-account, which is almost invariably associated with a celebrity. I’m not sure I understand the appeal of pretending to be a celebrity… is there really a frisson that comes from having thousands of followers when they’re not really interested in you at all? How is it that the fake Zooey Deschanel has thousands of followers and no posts, while the real one has but a pittance? (EDIT, 10 Aug 2009: actually, both seem to have been fakes, and have been summarily deleted. Ms. Deschanel can be found here.) My favourite spambot/spoof, however, is the rather baffling “StephenFryJohnCleese“, who apparently decided that pretending to be one famous British comedian wasn’t enough, and so he’d grab more followers by being two! Or something…
BATMAN: and Friends
I’ve played around with the new Brave and the Bold cartoon, as I’m always willing to at least try a new spin on the Batman character, but come away dissatisfied. It’s not just that the character is bright and poppy and has a permanent cowl shadow more reminiscent of Adam West’s mask than the effects of actual light sources — after all, I don’t begrudge the Batman that smiles over in DC Kids‘ Super Friends. No, cuteness is not my problem, it’s just not being written for me, despite the presence of Blue Beetle, Plastic Man, and a bat-utility belt that comes with a frickin’ lightsaber! My friends with children seem to enjoy it, so it’s clearly reaching some demographic that simply doesn’t overlap with my little Venn radius.
No, my Batman-related joy has been almost entirely British in the recent past. I stumbled upon an announcement that Lily Allen was releasing a song on her new album called “Guess Who, Batman?”, which had a marvelous campy Riddler quality to the whole thing. And when I heard that Allen felt that she was “becom[ing] a character in a comic” and two songs off the new album, I became quite excited about this whole thing. The first single — if pre-release internet buzz-leaks can be called “singles” — “Everyone’s at it” was quite catchy, and the interesting Madonna-parody ironic self-awareness of “The Fear” definitely intrigued.
This was all well and good because after seeing Ms. Allen on both Never Mind the Buzzcocks and The Big Fat Quiz of the Year, I had given her variety show Lily Allen and Friends a try and found it to be the dullest collection of pseudo-hip tripe I’d encountered in quite some time. The BBC told me it was boffo with the kidz, and I was relieved to discover that this was merely so much spin. Not that I wanted a charming young person with glasses to fail utterly, but it was so, so, so dull, that I just wanted to chalk it up to overenthusiastic marketeers and forget all about it.
It turns out that, reviewing my iTunes data, that I don’t have much by Ms. Allen, and that what I do have, a) I only repeatedly listened to a very select few songs, and b) I may have confused her frequently with Kate Nash. Embarrassing and predictable, I know. Still, it does make the fact that I enjoy the first two “singles” from It’s Not Me, It’s You that much more of a nice surprise. Check out this post from Pretty Much Amazing for a vast sampling of tracks from the record, including the vulgarity-titled one, which is the song rumoured to be the Batman track. I don’t hear it myself, which may be why the Caped Crusader’s name no longer graces the track list. Which sort of makes this entire thread a bit moot.
So let me close with this, instead: if you really loved me, you’d be bidding to get the naming rights to a recently discovered species of bat. Sure, the current bidding is at five thousand dollars, but isn’t it worth it to have the name rhogeessa batmanueli forever ensconced in the Museum of Natural History? What price nerd infamy?
Obligatory Birthday Post
It’s November 30th. Yay me, and all that.
Okay, now that’s out of the way, let’s talk about AT&T. Upon purchasing the iPhone this summer, I was told by a sales representative (consider the source and caveat emptor and all that) that AT&T would have extended its 3G network into southern New Hampshire by November.
I’m not saying that this was a selling point for me, as I was already going to pony up for the damn thing, but it was a nice bonus. All reports about how much using the 3G network burns up the iPhone’s already limited battery, while I was looking forward to being able to do a little web-browsing whilst in remote and portable locations, I was not looking forward to loading tiny, tiny images at dial-up modem speeds. So the future existence of 3G, with all its drawbacks, was a definite hatch mark in the plus column.
Well, November is officially over, and there’s not so much of a sniff of 3G in NH according to my antenna. Peter reports that if he’s standing in a particular corner of one of his flatmate’s bedrooms, he can sometimes get 3G… but basically the evidence is not there. So I turned to the official AT&T portion of the world-wide web to see what they had to say about their services in my little corner of the world. A billboard adjacent to I-93 outside of Boston trumpets that “New England is AT&T Country“, a marvelously funny little bit of trumpeting considering that it was only recently that iPhones were officially available in Vermont considering that there was absolutely no AT&T wireless coverage available in the hidden valleys of the Green Mountain State.
Dan Frommer posted a well-Dugg map of AT&T coverage areas dated July of 2008, and XTI9.com had an additional, more popular map dated October of that same year. But AT&T has an online map of their own, that allows you to search down to street level how good the coverage is in your area.
The darker the orange, the better the reception. The blue on the right-hand map indicates 3G availability. And it’s an astounding piece of fiction. There is no 3G in Concord that I can find, and certainly a big swamp of it surrounding my apartment. And I’m bloody lucky to get three bars anywhere in my building, and to see that lovely deep orange right on top of my thumbtack indicating the “best” coverage is eye-rollingly inaccurate. The previous links to the Digg maps may be out of date, but they are more consistent with my experience on the ground, holding my phone towards the sky, squinting and hoping for a signal from above. Maybe some day the reality will match AT&T’s claims, maybe… Perhaps by next November 30.
EDIT: By sometime in mid-to-late December, which is to say, within a couple of weeks of writing the above, I did indeed have 3G in most, if not all of Concord. So the map was just a little ahead of the actual schedule of implementation. Not bad, AT&T… not bad.
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