Author Archives: Paul Mullins
The cinder-block walls and windowless offices of IUPUI’s Cavanaugh Hall have aged rather gracelessly over more than four decades. The utterly functional brutal modernist building will inevitably meet the wrecking ball someday, but in the meantime administrators extend the decaying structure’s life with a host of makeshift changes. The most recent renovations have come to a series of women’s restrooms (men’s apparently will undergo similar changes soon), which are now appointed with new tile, another set of toilets, and a slightly different floor plan. None of those changes has prompted more fevered discussion than the installation of a labyrinth entrance; that is, the new bathrooms have no doors. The labyrinth design is intended to minimize germ transmission and make restrooms more secure spaces, and nothing is literally visible from the adjoining public hallway; nevertheless, the absence of doors and the sonic amplification provided by the tile have unleashed a host of anxieties that illuminate the unmentionable, underscore the divisions between public and private spaces, and highlight the limits of functional restroom design.
The definitive study of the washroom is perhaps still architect Alexander Kira’s 1966 masterpiece The Bathroom. Based on extensive research between 1958 and 1966, Kira ambitiously approached the bathroom as an architectural, functional, ergonomic, and social space. Kira pilloried architects’ sloppy bathroom designs and the century of architectural planning that viewed bathrooms as mere afterthoughts. Kira instead ethnographically delved into the “bathroom experience” as a design issue with concrete social and psychological dimensions that needed to be placed at the heart of spatial planning. Among other things, Kira systematically dissected such hither-to unexamined issues as the physics of urine trajectories, the space between urinals, the physiology of seated positioning, the cleaning ineffectiveness of toilet paper (a passage not for those apprehensive of cooties), and the anxieties created by the acoustics of elimination.
Public restrooms have existed for millennia, normally right alongside public elimination and long before indoor domestic toilets were introduced. In the 2nd Century AD the Roman Empire included a vast number of public latrines, often within or next to bathhouses or fountains and accommodating 12-15 people at a time. The first public toilet appeared in Britain in the early 13th century, and it was a unisex facility. The pissoir (a public urinal) was introduced in Paris in 1841, and while they began to disappear after World War II there remain a handful scattered about Europe (e.g., Berlin, Stockholm, and Copenhagen). London’s 1851 Crystal Palace Exhibition included the “retiring rooms,” which were the country’s first public restrooms with flush toilets; 827,280 visitors used the toilets, paying a pence each for admission.
Sheila Cavanagh’s Queering Bathrooms notes that the first gender-segregated public restrooms in Europe appeared at a Paris ball in 1739, but few permanent public restrooms for women appeared before the late-19th century. Andrew Brown-May and Peg Fraser’s analysis of Melbourne, Australia’s public conveniences begin with a street urinal installed in 1859, but women’s restrooms did not follow until 1902. Americans began to informally segregate public restrooms by sex at about the same moment; Terry S. Kogan notes that the first law requiring Americans to segregate public washrooms by sex came in Massachusetts in 1887, and 43 states had the same legislation by 1920.
Many of the disciplinary codes regulating how we view restrooms and elimination have deep historical roots, but in the past 75 years the concrete material realities of contemporary bathrooms may have made toilet habits even more private. In 1940 over one-third of American homes had no flush toilet at all (including a staggering 81% of homes in Mississippi), and while that national average fell to 10% in 1960, eight states still had more than one-quarter of their residents not using a flush toilet. In contrast, around one-third of all homes built in 2013 have three or more bathrooms, a percentage that has tripled since 1988 and means we can nearly always find a place to secretively answer nature’s call (though 1.6 million Americans still do not have complete indoor plumbing, with a toilet, shower/bath, and running water).
Public toilets are distinctively prosaic and unseen spaces outside polite discussion, but the uneasy reception for the new Cavanaugh restrooms confirms Alexander Kira’s counsel that the bathroom cannot be reduced to a merely functional space. More than a half century after Kira championed the bathroom as a space worthy of reflective design, public restrooms routinely remain purely functional spaces in which design is dictated by hygienic considerations rather than aesthetics or social experience. Household bathrooms have perhaps secured somewhat more claim to designers’ attention; the home bathroom has gradually been defined as a comforting “sanctuary,” but this is certainly because the home bathroom defined as a space of recovery and relaxation supports a whole consumer industry of firms hawking toilets, sauna’s, decorative goods, and perfumed soaps.
On the one hand, the absence of doors opening onto a busy hallway illuminates the privacy expectations we have for any bathroom. Labyrinth entrances are designed to reduce the transmission of germs and increase security by transmitting sounds from the restroom, but the door-less entrances have created a host of anxieties. We may silently concede the realities of nature’s call, but we routinely attempt to conceal its most un-ignorable sensory dimensions (for examples of efforts to mask bathroom acoustics, see the Akatu app–which fakes the sound of a shower or water tap–, the Japanese “Magical Water Princess” machine, or Sonic Circuits’ “Music for Restrooms” playlist). Our apprehensions about bodily cleanliness and control are amplified in public restrooms, a self-awareness that has a history reaching well into 19th century bodily discipline codes. The belief that one is potentially offensive in terms of odors, sound, or visibility is often accompanied by an unreasonable desire for strictly silent, odorless, and imperceptible elimination. In 2004, for instance, Oprah Winfrey admitted that she was unable to use the bathroom during her jury duty unless the remaining jurists sang “Kumbaya” to drown out the acoustics. The Gullah spiritual perhaps assumes new meaning drowning out Oprah’s toilet time, but her apprehension is not at all atypical of a desire to conceal one’s own offensiveness while we hope others will restrain themselves as well. Alexander Kira argued that apprehensions about urination acoustics reflected a worry that it mimicked the sounds of sex itself, drawing a link between the privatization of both sexuality and elimination.
On the other hand, there is an interesting material and ethnographic opening to examine how architecture reproduces body disciplines and structures how users experience their bodies. Some anonymous designer developed these new lavatory spaces armed with concrete design guidelines (e.g., the room must meet ADA requirements), cost directives, and some mysterious 21st-century lavatory construction standards, but it likely included little if any ethnographic research in the Cavanaugh hallways. Nevertheless, despite our exasperation with architects and designers, those of us who use toilets remain enormously resistant to changes in restroom design: some observers thoughtfully advocate for aesthetic and social changes to restrooms ranging from signage to unisex facilities to squat toilets, but most users remain firmly committed to the antiseptic public toilet in which our business is transacted within a minute. Apparently our desire to keep our toilet habits subterranean is stronger than our passing desire for a lovely loo.
Kathryn H. Anthony and Megham Dufresne
2007 Potty Parity in Perspective: Gender and Family Issues in Planning and Designing Public Restrooms. Journal of Planning Literature 21:267-294.
Andrew Brown-May and Peg Fraser
2009 Gender, Respectability, and Public Convenience in Melbourne, Australia, 1859-1902. In Ladies and Gents: Public Toilets and Gender, Olga Gershenson and Barbara Penner (editors), pp.75-89 Temple University Press, Philadelphia.
Sheila L. Cavanagh
2010 Queering Bathrooms: Gender, Sexuality, and the Hygienic Imagination. University of Toronto Press, Toronto.
Marisol F. Cortez
2009 The Ecology of Scatology: Excretory Encounters in American Cultural Life. PhD Dissertation, University of California, Davis.
Olga Gershenson and Barbara Penner (editors)
2009 Ladies and Gents: Public Toilets and Gender. Temple University Press, Philadelphia.
Stavroula V. Goutsos
2005 Public Washroom Design: Revealing the (Un)Natural Truth About Gender. Master of Interior Design Thesis, University of Manitoba.
Susan Helen James
1996 “Bedroom Problems”: Architecture, Gender, and Sexuality, 1945-63. Master’s Thesis, McGill University.
1967 The Bathroom: Criteria for Design. Bantam, New York.
Terry S. Kogan
2010 Sex Separation: The Cure-All for Victorian Social Anxiety. In Toilet: Public Restrooms and the Politics of Sharing, Harvey Molotch and Laura Noren (editors), pp145-164. NYU Press, New York.
1966 Blame the Outmoded US Bathroom. Life 20 May:84C-86.
Harvey Molotch and Laura Noren (editors)
2010 Toilet: Public Restrooms and the Politics of Sharing. NYU Press, New York.
2007 The Meaning of the Contemporary Bathroom. PhD Dissertation, University of Montreal.
Maj-Britt Quitzau and Inge Røpke
2009 Bathroom Transformation: From Hygiene to Well-Being? Home Cultures 6(3):219-242. (subscription access)
1980 Differences in Women’s and Men’s Responses to Domestic Space. Sex Roles 6(6):833-842.
Berlin pissoir image from PeterDargatz
Cathays Park public restroom image from Philip Halling
Charles Marville, Urinoir en ardoise à 3 stalles, Chaussée du Maine, ca. 1865 from Wikimedia Commons via State Library of Victoria
There may be no more audacious pursuit of global justice than the Air Guitar World Championship’s aspiration to “promote world peace. According to the ideology of the Air Guitar, wars would end, climate change stop and all bad things disappear, if all the people in the world played the Air Guitar.” It is perhaps difficult to conceive of a host of global diplomats exaggerating the fluid moves of Jimmy Page and Jimi Hendrix, yet last week a legion of the faithful gathered in Oulu, Finland for the 19th annual Air Guitar World Championship’s unique performance of self-aware camp, bold sincerity, naïve optimism, and playful theatre. Air guitar is quite possibly among the most democratic if not egalitarian of all expressive arts. Even the clumsiest person is capable of reproducing the familiar motions of guitar players, and it harbors an interesting politics of community that may not yield world peace, but it is a fascinating and idealistic starting point.
It is tempting to reduce air guitar to shallow imitation of authentic musical performance, but air guitar is not really mimicking as much as it is its own performance. Air guitar playing makes sense to audiences because it invokes physical and musical referents that nearly all of us know. In some ways, this is much like Elvis performance artists, who are not “impersonators” as much as they interpret threads of popular musical consciousness. Where Elvis performance artists do sing, air guitar may be distinguished by its celebration of the pleasure so many of us take in music we cannot hope to play and the optimistic democracy of air guitar. The compelling fundamental attraction of air guitar is that it appears so simple and accessible to all of us with the faintest musical sentiments and a suppressed desire to strut about with Angus Young’s theatrical lack of self-consciousness.
This is what makes air guitar such a rich if surprising foil for the plea for world peace: it is a universally accessible performance of the warm feelings and pure pleasure induced by music. This diverges quite radically from the wave of musical stardom shows like American Idol, which confirms on a weekly basis that singing well is a rare talent. Where American Idol revels in the mean-spirited public humiliation of singers with misplaced confidence, air guitar has an astoundingly good humor about itself, celebrating its self-effacing performance and a common embrace of music.
There are ambiguous criteria for what constitutes a “good” air guitar performance, but there is a scored contest, and Nanami ”Seven Seas” Nagura of Japan was crowned the 2014 world champion last week. It may be that what separates the legion of air guitarists from the elite in Oulu revolves around the performers’ capacity to act out their emotional response to music in a charismatic and convincing way: an air guitarist aspires to induce us to join in their pleasure with the music (compare the 2005 analysis of air guitar by Dan Crane, who has been host of the World Championships since 2006; the creative mindset of air guitarists–and some peoples’ resistance to it–may be nicely captured in the video from the 2003 movie “Air Guitar in Oulu”; and Byrd McDaniels’ blog gives air guitar some thoughtful scholarly respect). Pleasure in air guitar has no especially formal standards; that is, the politics of air guitar and its audacious call to global peace are a quite simple public expression confirming the joy of music and performance in a consciously democratic art we can all share.
Air guitar performance is an enormously clever if unexpected simplification of conflict, idealistically brushing aside all sociopolitical complexities from real world unpleasantness. Key to this enchanting and naïve diplomacy is air guitar’s self-awareness of its insignificance, if not its camp status. Air guitar’s pretensions for the loftiest of goals—peace, cultural understanding, art, community—counter-intuitively come from the least self-important of all arts, a people’s folk expression in which its most prominent performers and their desires seem to be indistinguishable from those of our neighbors. It may be a rhetorical hyperbole to suggests that if the planet is playing air guitar there will be no warfare or violence; nevertheless, it is difficult to refute the sentiment and doing so would only ignore air guitar’s improbable skill cutting to the profoundly consequential emotion, pleasure, and community invested in music, performance, and something as seemingly insignificant as air guitar.
Rolf Inge Godøy, Egil Haga, and Alexander Refsum Jensenius
2006 Playing “Air Instruments”: Mimicry of Sound-producing Gestures by Novices and Experts. In Gesture in Human-Computer Interaction and Simulation, pp.256-267. Springer, Berlin.
2009 The Girl Is a Boy Is a Girl: Gender Representations in the Gizzy Guitar 2005 Air Guitar Competition. Journal of Popular Music Studies 21(3):284–303. (subscription access)
Kathrin Peters and Andrea Seier
2009 Home Dance: Mediacy and Aesthetics of the Self on YouTube. In The YouTube Reader, eds. Pelle Snickars and Patrikc Vonderau, pp. 390-406. National Library of Sweden, Stockholm.
2006 To Air is Human: One Man’s Quest to Become the World’s Greatest Air Guitarist. Riverhead Books.
Final Ceremony image from author
Music has a rather ephemeral materiality rendered in tangible things like CDs, cassettes, records, and perhaps even digital playlists, but its more compelling archaeological dimension is probably the historical landscapes of clubs and music districts that dot nearly every community. Local grassroots music tends to be relatively dynamic, but live music holds a tenacious if ever-transforming grip on the landscape: most communities can point to a distinctive soundscape of clubs, impromptu spaces, and places from churches to schools where music was the heart of local experience.
Music has had a profoundly consequential hold on youth culture for most of the last century, but many places’ local musical heritages are in ruins or razed. The musical landscape is exceptionally dynamic: a parade of fringe styles continually step forward in nearly every place, articulating a host of local, generational, and social experiences. Most musical circles seek some modestly satisfying measure of relevance, creative community, and profitability, and some express broad if not universal anxieties and sentiments while others are simply more ephemeral sounds. Read the rest of this entry
Much of our fascination with ruins—and perhaps some of our uneasiness—revolves around their stark testimony to failure, and perhaps no ruins aesthetically underscore the collapse of modernity more clearly than public housing. Public housing was born from a distinctive marriage of modernist optimism and racist and classist ideologies aspiring to remake the American city (and with many global parallels). Last week Detroit’s Brewster-Douglass housing project went under the wrecking ball, another in a series of 20th-century housing projects—Pruitt-Igoe, Cabrini Green, the Robert Taylor Homes—that are routinely stereotyped as the epitaph for modernity’s over-reaching ambition, xenophobic nostalgia, or the misplaced optimism of state-supported housing. Regardless of their legacy, the ruins and razing of public housing raise interesting questions about gaze and how we see and imagine particular sorts of ruins.
Ruins fascinate us because they energize our imaginations, providing material evidence of lost experiences while simultaneously underscoring the passing of that heritage. Those lost experiences assume meaning through an idiosyncratic mix of popular iconography, mass discourses, and personal spatial and material experiences that shape how we perceive places like Detroit (what Edward Said referred to as “imaginative geographies”). Every ruin fuels a distinctive corner of our imagination and tells a distinct sort of story, and the narrative of public housing ruination is distinguished in modest but critical ways from the tales woven about industrial decline, dead malls, or eroding post-Soviet landscapes. Read the rest of this entry
Detroit’s Brush Park was once one of the city’s finest Gilded Age neighborhoods, a 22-block community of mansions that included a host of high style Victorian homes within reach of downtown. Referred to by one period observer as the “little Paris of the Midwest,” Brush Park was home to some of the city’s wealthiest residents between the mid-19th century and the early 20th century, when it began to gradually decline, transformed into boarding houses during the Depression and subsequently declining along with much of the postwar city. Today, only about 80 of the neighborhood’s roughly 300 original structures remains standing. Some rehabilitated homes stand alongside others that are decaying as forlorn testimony to the neighborhood’s former glory, and the remaining homes are magnets for artists, preservationists, and urbanites re-imagining the life of the city. Read the rest of this entry
In June, 1969 Edward Zebrowski held a massive party at Indianapolis’ Claypool Hotel. The lavish Claypool opened in 1903, distinguished by its gargantuan lobby and opulent meeting rooms and the novel luxury of a private bath in each of the 450 guest rooms. Numerous conventions met at the Claypool, and in its strategic location blocks from the State Capitol the Claypool was home to both the Republican and Democratic parties and hosted a stream of politicians over three-quarters of the 20th century. On June 23, 1967, though, 300 Claypool guests including the visiting Tacoma baseball team were forced out to the street by a fire, and by the time Edward Zebrowski had his party in 1969 the hotel faced the wrecking ball.
That wrecking ball was swung by Ed Zebrowski himself, who ushered his guests outside at midnight to watch the floodlit building meet its end. Such theatrical demolition was Zebrowski’s hallmark: in 1967 Zebrowski erected bleachers and had an organ player serenade the lunchtime crowd watching the dismantling of the 12-story Pythian building. His firm dismantled much of the city’s aging architectural fabric over more than a decade of fascinating destructive spectacles, tearing down the Marion County Courthouse in 1962 (built in 1876), the Maennerchor Hall (1907) in 1974, and the Central State Hospital Department for Women (opened in 1888) in 1975. When Zebrowski was finished, he left a large sign in many of the empty lots proclaiming “Zebrowski was here.” Read the rest of this entry
A variety of ideologues routinely reduce selfies to yet another confirmation of our mass superficiality. Instagram is indeed littered with scores of us primping for our bathroom mirrors and posing at arm’s length for “ego shots”: it seems infeasible to salvage especially profound insight into contemporary society from Justin Bieber’s self-involved posing or Kim Kardashian’s often-ridiculous stream of booty calls. Nevertheless, the countless online selfies register a self-consciousness about appearance that is likely common in every historical moment, and the recent flood of online selfies may simply confirm that we know we are being seen and we are cultivating our appearance for others. After looking in the mirror for millennia, digitization has provided a novel mechanism to re-imagine, manipulate, and project a broad range of personal reflections into broader social space.
Last week a New Yorker article fueled selfie critics who lamented the apparent narcissism of selfies at Auschwitz. The page was removed after a host of media decried self portraits at the concentration camp and rejected (or simply did not comprehend) the page’s clumsy attempt to use irony to assess the holocaust’s social meanings. The Israeli page collected youths’ concentration camp selfies, and the images push irreverence and irony beyond many peoples’ tolerance: the page included typical selfie poses of pouting expressions and stylized self-contemplation, but these selfies were at places like the iconic Auschwitz gates or had sarcastic added descriptions such as “Even here I’m drop dead gorgeous!” Read the rest of this entry
The postwar suburb seems painted in our collective imagination as a White nuclear family standing proudly in front of a standardized tract home and a chrome-accented American car. Fortunately a rich scholarship on postwar suburbia has complicated or utterly unraveled that and many other suburban stereotypes, underscoring the material, social, and historical diversity of suburban landscapes: we know suburbia included a multitude of architectural forms beyond the interchangeable Levittown box; the roots of the suburbs reach well into the 19th century; working-class families predominated; and we are paying increasingly more attention to the suburban experience along the color line.
In 1947 Henry and Della Greer were among Indianapolis, Indiana’s first African-American suburbanites, and in many ways the story of the Greers and their neighbors might be told in many more places. Henry was a former hotel porter who worked as a salesman and real estate agent before opening the Demi-Jon Liquor Store on North West Street in December, 1935 (and eventually selling life insurance). His wife Della was an art teacher at Crispus Attucks High School, where she taught for 20 years beginning in 1936. The Greers blazed a trail into rural Washington Township that would find them neighbored within a decade by a series of African-American subdivisions. That suburban African-American story has been untold in many communities, swept aside in a broader moral narrative that decries suburban conformity and material homogeneity and seems unable to fathom how the suburbs have been so alluring to so many Americans. There is no shortage of outstanding scholarship on Black suburbanization (for instance, Andrew Wiese’s Places of their Own: African American Suburbanization in the Twentieth Century), but as these communities transform and in many cases deteriorate their histories risk being ignored and lost on the contemporary landscape. Despite some wonderful preservation projects in communities like Addisleigh (New York), Berkley Square (Las Vegas), and Conant Gardens (Detroit), many communities seem slow to comprehend the consequence of Black suburban life in the postwar American experience. Read the rest of this entry
Albuquerque’s Rebel Donut is among a wave of doughnut shops offering up a host of novel flavors, seasonal or organic ingredients, and culinary standards that aim to upset the caricature of the conventional mass-produced doughnut. Their donut gallery includes such flavors as Red Chile Chocolate Bacon, Nacho, Water Melon, and their Breaking Bad tribute, Blue Sky. Many of these gourmet doughnut shops go beyond novel flavors alone and embrace a philosophy of food consumption that is rarely extended to the prosaic doughnut. For instance, Seattle’s Mighty-O Donut’s vegan offerings include French Toast, Chocolate Raspberry, and Lemon Twist doughnuts made from certified organic ingredients. Few bakeries can rival Mighty-O’s philosophical assessment of the doughnut, noting that when they started the business “our intention was to make an honest living while being mindful of people and respectful of the environment. We weren’t interested in producing anything that would just end up in a landfill or contribute to the pollution piling up in the world. … We couldn’t find anyone making a donut the way we envisioned. A sweet treat with no chemicals, no genetically modified organisms, and no animal products—something everyone could enjoy.”
As we approach Doughnut Day on June 6th, the artisan doughnut shop has carved a foothold in cosmopolitan marketplaces. Gourmet doughnut shops appeal to a consumer imagination that relishes superior flavor, embraces culinary creativity, and fancies that the consumer has a discerning and educated palate. The gourmet doughnut invokes food as a culinary, political, and intellectual consumer experience.
That vision of food is routinely projected onto products ranging from craft beers to cheese to chocolate. Perhaps the distinction between gourmet doughnuts and a host of many other artisanal foods is the distinctly plebian nature of the doughnut: Doughnuts are routinely caricatured as mass-produced fare that lacks the complex ingredients of gourmet dishes and is beneath the consideration of skilled chefs. Doughnuts are often viewed as violations of body discipline, a conscious (if not conflicted) embrace of desire for a food that seems to possess little or no redeeming quality. Doughnuts are sometimes cast as “downwardly mobile” consumption, an embrace of the common by otherwise bourgeois consumers who see the mass-produced doughnut as a bridge to the masses or ironic consumption. We spend little time questioning the concept of a craft beer, artisanal charcuterie, or organic olive oil; however, because the doughnut is rhetorically constructed as a junk food characterized by its lack of redeeming qualities, the gourmet doughnut is often a target of popular curiosity. Read the rest of this entry
In September 1903 The Indianapolis Journal reported that Oliver S. Clay and his mother Charlotte “for years have lived in their home at 1405 East Sixteenth street, but on account of reverses, financial and otherwise, were compelled to mortgage their property for several hundred dollars, which, on becoming due, remained unpaid.” In many ways, Clay’s story of ill fortune might well be told of many of his early 20th-century neighbors. His father J.H. Clay had been the Pastor of the Bethel AME Church in Indianapolis until his death in 1892. After his father’s death Oliver was an advocate for African-American education and a Black political party, and in the 1902 election he led an African-American movement to vote a blank ballot, telling The Indianapolis Journal that “if the white politicians will give the negroes recognition then he will advocate voting.” However, like many Americans entertaining the American Dream, Clay’s ambition and hard work ended in tragedy as he was evicted, institutionalized, and eventually relegated to a potter’s field. The ultimate fate of his mortal remains punctuate both his unfortunate end and the way contemporary society routinely ignores the unpleasant histories at the heart of American life.
In 1901 the Public Library Bulletin reported on Clay’s aspiration to turn his home into what he dubbed the Claysonian Library. Clay’s collection included “the 315 volumes comprising the library of his father, the Rev. J. H. Clay, deceased, to which have been added by donation a sufficient number of books to make the collection 521 volumes, besides miscellaneous magazines and periodicals. The object is to cultivate a taste for literature among the young colored people, especially of the immediate neighborhood.” Oliver Clay’s neighborhood library was dedicated in April 1901 on what would have been his father’s 51st birthday, and several months later he received a gift of 50 volumes from Congressman Jesse Overstreet. The library subsequently hosted regular events at the Clays’ home and local venues, such as a lecture on the Emancipation Proclamation’s 40th Anniversary in January 1903.
In August, 1903, though, the Indianapolis Sun reported that Clay “has, with the furniture of the institution of which he is founder, been ejected into the street.” Clay moved his things back into the home and told the newspaper that “`You may say, mistah, that the Claysonian will be re-established in other quatahs soon and that the good work started by me will never die.’” In September a realtor returned in an effort to eject the Clays and once again “started to move the furniture out into the street. When he looked up he was gazing into the barrel of a revolver held firmly in the dusky hand of the Claysonian. `Claysonia forever!’ cried Oliver Clay, `and if you dare to move anything from this house you will forfeit your life.’” Read the rest of this entry