The drama all started with an e-mail I received four days ago on a news thread I subscribe to for updates on post-disaster radiation in Fukushima. I read it so I'm in the loop. I'm not worried about radiation in Japan but feel better being informed. I want to be clear on this. Japan is not some radioactive, glow-in-the-dark hot bed of nuclear waste. Certain parts of Fukushima are. Don't assume all of Japan is.
The e-mail asked about the accuracy of a recent post on some corporations-are-evil website stating Reactor 3 in Fukushima was spewing steam and about to blow. This explosion would send clouds of radioactive waste into the atmosphere which would reach the west coast of the United States in two or three days (this was four days ago) and thus everyone should be prepared. The author had suggestions on how to prepare for this impending nuclear fall-out but I'll get back to that later.
I deleted this e-mail because I've seen and heard this all before. Everything coming from Japan is contaminated. (It isn't.) Every bit of tsunami debris that washes up on the shores of the western coast of North America oozes the yellow-green slime of death. (It doesn't.) When I woke up this morning to a message from a friend asking "what do you know about reactor 3?" I decided perhaps this subject warranted another look. I wanted to be clear in how I responded. While clear is good, I most definitely wanted to be accurate. I make my way back to my e-mail trash bin and sort through junk mail to find the posting from several days ago. As I marvel at the amount of crap I receive on a daily basis (most of which gets deleted without ever being opened) I finally find the thread and start reading. The article I mentioned earlier is the one referenced in the thread, and I smile at the reply given to the question of its accuracy. "Pure bullcrap."
This is a well-informed and dedicated group of people who have, since the beginning of the nuclear disaster almost three years ago, followed and researched the truth. I trust the author when she writes the article announcing a doomed west coast is bunk. The sky is not falling, Chicken Little. Chill.
These warnings, if you can call them that, are in my most humble opinion dramatized pseudo-journalism. When too many people cry wolf no one takes real warnings seriously. Postings like these are an egregious public disservice. Knock it off. Please.
Now I will switch gears and contradict myself. My go-to source when there's an earthquake here in Japan is the web site for the Japan Meteorological Agency. If I feel my apartment shaking, I know in a few minutes I can look up where the earthquake hit, how big it was, and whether there is a tsunami warning. This service I appreciate because when it comes to earthquakes I know they will get it right. I trust their numbers.
Tsunami warnings are another matter. When the M9.0 earthquake hit off the coast of Tohoku in 2011, the tsunami warning issued for Rikuzentakata was for a wave between two to three meters. The tsunami that actually hit was closer to sixteen meters. One can presumably ride out a tsunami of two or three meters on the second floor of a building. Sixteen? No. This error is too big to dismiss. On predicting tsunami warnings, I don't trust their numbers.
Similarly, when a tornado hits outside of Tokyo and the JMA holds a press conference after the fact to tell us a tornado hit I have to ask myself, "Really, guys?" We saw the tornadoes on television. They already hit. How is telling us this helpful? Why hold a press conference? Focus on warning us and not on reporting what we already know. Some days the agency in Japan all-things-weather-related is most helpful. At other times I cringe at what I can only call their stupidity.
Back to Chicken Little, or more precisely, the author who wrote the article about preparing for impending doom on the west coast of the United States. Her suggestions on how to survive this act of natural terror were to, among other things buy a TYVEX suit to wear when going outside and, here I quote, "wash obsessively." I almost spewed tea reading that line.
Allow me to make the following observation: define obsessively. Quantify this please. Am I to wash often, or wash for longer? Or, is it both? How often is often enough? How long is long enough? How do I know the water is safe to use? Do I wash just with water or do I use soap? You didn't say, dear author, and I do believe these are key points requiring useful and specific advice. Keep Chicken Littling us and we'll believe you less and less if at all.
Language can be beautiful. The word "warning" contains the point it makes: to warn. Let's allow language to do what it's meant to. Warn me when I need to act. The rest of the time keep you Chicken Little diva shit to yourself.
Showing posts with label March 11. Show all posts
Showing posts with label March 11. Show all posts
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Disaster Escape Stories: "I knew not to but did it anyway."
Lessons learned mostly from the mistakes made on March 11, 2011 still haunt residents living in Tohoku in cities dotting the coastline, some of which resemble ghost-towns. The last time Japan saw this kind of mass destruction was during World War II. Most who were around in 1945 who remember are too old and humble to offer up their opinions. They come from a time where modesty was the norm. I've met only one man who was alive in 1945 who has opinions to share. He's already one of a kind. I consider him a total and complete exception.
This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement. Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help. Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.
Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves." The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people. Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations. Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes. The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you. I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive." Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends? Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren? Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami? Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?
Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing. I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse. I do hope stories about March 11 will be told. Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid. Today I offer one from an adopted family member.
We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me. I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table. I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here. I can picture it in my mind. My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about? I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way. It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands. Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me. Evidently I am wrong. I know it was pointing the other way. I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me. "You're just tired." She goes to the fridge. "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink. These things aren't cheap, but I really like them. I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside. What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle. Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen. Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack. Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls. "Daddy doesn't have to go."
Dad is a volunteer firefighter. Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days. Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened. He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."
The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit. She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit. Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet." I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come. Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given." I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them. They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers. I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too." Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again. "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator." I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says. "My parents aren't rich. Refrigerators aren't cheap. At least my mother wouldn't think so." I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor. My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall." I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs. "But, it's not. Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape. To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible. When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there. Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord." Misa is now laughing out loud. I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."
Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not. Misa's story shocked me. Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item. I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more. What does this story tell me? I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in. If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced. I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion. What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance? Again, I have no answers.
This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement. Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help. Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.
Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves." The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people. Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations. Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes. The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you. I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive." Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends? Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren? Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami? Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?
Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing. I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse. I do hope stories about March 11 will be told. Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid. Today I offer one from an adopted family member.
We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me. I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table. I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here. I can picture it in my mind. My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about? I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way. It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands. Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me. Evidently I am wrong. I know it was pointing the other way. I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me. "You're just tired." She goes to the fridge. "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink. These things aren't cheap, but I really like them. I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside. What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle. Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen. Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack. Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls. "Daddy doesn't have to go."
Dad is a volunteer firefighter. Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days. Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened. He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."
The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit. She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit. Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet." I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come. Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given." I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them. They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers. I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too." Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again. "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator." I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says. "My parents aren't rich. Refrigerators aren't cheap. At least my mother wouldn't think so." I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor. My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall." I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs. "But, it's not. Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape. To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible. When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there. Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord." Misa is now laughing out loud. I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."
Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not. Misa's story shocked me. Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item. I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more. What does this story tell me? I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in. If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced. I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion. What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance? Again, I have no answers.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Mayor Dad
I'm not one to shamelessly plug anything, but I'm always willing to make an exception. If you have a moment and $9.95 to spare, please considering logging onto Amazon.com and look for Mayor Futoshi Toba's (Mayor of Rikuzentakata) book about the days and months post March 11th as he experienced them. Entitled, “Let’s Talk About It: What Really Happened In The Disaster Area” this is book is brutally honest (at times painfully), emotional, real, and a must-read for anyone (politicians especially) who need to understand disaster prevention, relief, and management. That yours truly translated the book isn’t the point. Mayor Toba’s humanity, the decisions he made and now questions, his resolve, and dedication are something to behold.
But this is not why I’m writing about him. At least not solely. In a recent conversation we had, he shared the following story with me. Again, it’s one of these I-can’t-make-this-up vignettes. This one will make you love him all the more.
“So, my son, the older one, comes to me the other morning and says, ‘Dad! My uniform is still wet!’ Not knowing what he’s talking about, I wander into his room where he’s packing for his basketball tournament that he has to leave for in about 30 minutes, and he’s holding up this clearly wet uniforms. I don’t know what to do with this. How do you dry something quickly, as in 30-minutes quickly? Clothes dryer, right? I’m annoyed, but I go into dad-mode, and take the uniform tops and shorts and stick them in the dryer.” He looks at me here. I nod. Yeah. What’s the big deal? I’m not seeing where the drama is in this story.
“Except, I didn’t hit the ‘dry’ cycle. I hit ‘wash’ and not just any ‘wash’ but the ‘long wash.’” I laugh. “Hey!” I stop laughing. Sort of. “It’s not funny!” I swear that’s a mock pout I’m seeing.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny,” I say and know I’m not the least bit convincing.
“I didn’t know what to do. My son’s standing in the bathroom looking at me with this, ‘Daaaad!’ look, and I know I’ve screwed up, and I know I can’t drain the washing machine and get it to spin and dry and all that in 30 minutes. Rather, I don’t know how to.” I’m grinning, but don’t say anything because after all, it’s not funny. Right?
“So, I make some calls to get suggestions on how to dry this right now. The consensus from the mothers I trust not to repeat the story,” and now he’s grinning too (sort of) “was that there’s no way to dry the uniform in 30 minutes. I tell my son to get on the bus, that I’ll deliver his uniform before the game. He’s annoyed with me, but shuffles off and now I’m in pretty much serious panic mode. Can I microwave clothes? Iron them? I mean, they’re soaked. I’ll end up with some major steam bath if I do that, won’t I?” I’m not being asked so I keep grinning. Smiling. Not grinning. Just smiling.
“Long story short, I ironed them. I got all the tops and bottoms to him in time, too. I called the mothers to thank them.”
He pauses. “This is when I miss my wife.” Then, quickly correcting himself, “It’s not just that I miss her when I don’t know how to run the washing machine.”
“I know. I know that’s not what you meant.”
“ I relied on her so much. It’s hard being both mayor and dad.”
We’re both silent for awhile.
“Your sons love you. They respect you. They get it. They may not always like it, but they get it.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
With that, we’re both quiet agian. I bring up another topic in another minute or so, and we spend the rest of our time together working through projects, strategizing, and getting things done. The Mayor or Rikuzentakata, of the city essentially wiped off the map, is an incredible father and dedicated mayor. For his friendship and trust I’m grateful. I hope you can meet him some day, through his book if not in person. He’s one of the good guys.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The Pachinko Problem
Men, or so I'm told, measure much of their worth from how well they are able to provide for their families and loved ones. Not being a man, this is not a given for me. Assuming there is truth in this statement (the fact men derive pride out of how much they make--not the part about me not being a man) there is now a new problem in Tohoku for many of the men there.
The damage done on March 11th can be measured by loss of buildings, property, and lives. Lost also were jobs. Simply put, there is no easy solution. "Go find another job" is neither welcome nor helpful advice. Lack of employment opportunities and what this is doing to the morale of men was one of the topics on hand at a gathering of locals I attended recently.
It is always an honor to be invited and included. To say people in Tohoku value community is the positive spin on what I could just as easily describe as an "insular subculture." Outsiders are just that. We are from the outside. I could live an hour away and I would not be "from here." That I am from outside of their immediate town, prefecture, Tohoku region, and country makes me the ultimate in outsiders. That they let me in holds that much more meaning. I'm humbled.
The dinner party, an excuse to drink really, is held at a local restaurant where we've met before. The usual gang trickles in one at a time. Every time the door opens and another pops his head in, each man with a grin bigger than the one before, the crowd at the table cheers and we argue over who sits where. It's musical chairs, grown-up style.
Settled in, conversations take place between two here, three there. Facebook is the topic of discussion tonight. Who's on, who's not, why, why not, chiding those don't know how to use their Smart Phones to keep up with "the younger generation." The mention of the "young ones" is evidently a sore spot with one, the eldest of the gang, and suddenly the tone and mood at the table changes.
"It's embarrassing," the leader of the group says. "You know, these young guys, they have unemployment benefits right?" Others nod.
"I know what you're going to say." I catch Yoshi-san's eye as he looks first at the leader and then around at the others.
"What?" I don't know where this conversation is going. I can't read him. "What are you talking about?"
The leader looks at me. "Pachinko."
"Facebook is good, all right? It keeps people talking. It's a communication tool. It's not a waste of money or time. We can keep in touch with people like you." Here, he points to me. More nodding. "Pachinko? These guys, these young guys. Who knows. Maybe they know about Facebook. Maybe they don't. I'm all for new technology, see. But, these young guys who hang around Pachinko parlors wasting their money because they can't find work and they feel sorry for themselves because there are no jobs here. It's embarrassing. This isn't who we are. We're not lazy. We work hard around here. These guys. They make us all look bad."
Everyone is silent for awhile. I'm still confused as to how we went from Facebook to the evils of Pachinko and the young men who waste time and money on it, but I know to keep my mouth shut.
"There are no jobs," the leader says. "Right?" He looks around. Everyone nods. I do, too.
"But, Pachinko? Pachinko? It's been seven months. They need to move on. Move away. Go down to Tokyo or Osaka. Get a job there. Sure, it will be hard to be away, but this Pachinko problem." He shakes his head. "It's embarrassing. There are limits, you know? It's been a rough year but to sit in those Pachinko palaces day after day throwing their money away because they don't have a job. This isn't who we are."
There is evidently a real Pachinko problem in various cities and towns along the coast where the tsunami did so much damage. The underlying cause of this new phenomenon isn't truly Pachinko. It's unemployment. It's boredom. It's the fact that men who want to work can't without making large and painful sacrifices.
We didn't solve the Pachinko problem that night. We weren't trying, I suppose. I left the party happy to have seen them, happy to have one more Facebook connection, and profoundly unsettled.
The damage done on March 11th can be measured by loss of buildings, property, and lives. Lost also were jobs. Simply put, there is no easy solution. "Go find another job" is neither welcome nor helpful advice. Lack of employment opportunities and what this is doing to the morale of men was one of the topics on hand at a gathering of locals I attended recently.
It is always an honor to be invited and included. To say people in Tohoku value community is the positive spin on what I could just as easily describe as an "insular subculture." Outsiders are just that. We are from the outside. I could live an hour away and I would not be "from here." That I am from outside of their immediate town, prefecture, Tohoku region, and country makes me the ultimate in outsiders. That they let me in holds that much more meaning. I'm humbled.
The dinner party, an excuse to drink really, is held at a local restaurant where we've met before. The usual gang trickles in one at a time. Every time the door opens and another pops his head in, each man with a grin bigger than the one before, the crowd at the table cheers and we argue over who sits where. It's musical chairs, grown-up style.
Settled in, conversations take place between two here, three there. Facebook is the topic of discussion tonight. Who's on, who's not, why, why not, chiding those don't know how to use their Smart Phones to keep up with "the younger generation." The mention of the "young ones" is evidently a sore spot with one, the eldest of the gang, and suddenly the tone and mood at the table changes.
"It's embarrassing," the leader of the group says. "You know, these young guys, they have unemployment benefits right?" Others nod.
"I know what you're going to say." I catch Yoshi-san's eye as he looks first at the leader and then around at the others.
"What?" I don't know where this conversation is going. I can't read him. "What are you talking about?"
The leader looks at me. "Pachinko."
"Facebook is good, all right? It keeps people talking. It's a communication tool. It's not a waste of money or time. We can keep in touch with people like you." Here, he points to me. More nodding. "Pachinko? These guys, these young guys. Who knows. Maybe they know about Facebook. Maybe they don't. I'm all for new technology, see. But, these young guys who hang around Pachinko parlors wasting their money because they can't find work and they feel sorry for themselves because there are no jobs here. It's embarrassing. This isn't who we are. We're not lazy. We work hard around here. These guys. They make us all look bad."
Everyone is silent for awhile. I'm still confused as to how we went from Facebook to the evils of Pachinko and the young men who waste time and money on it, but I know to keep my mouth shut.
"There are no jobs," the leader says. "Right?" He looks around. Everyone nods. I do, too.
"But, Pachinko? Pachinko? It's been seven months. They need to move on. Move away. Go down to Tokyo or Osaka. Get a job there. Sure, it will be hard to be away, but this Pachinko problem." He shakes his head. "It's embarrassing. There are limits, you know? It's been a rough year but to sit in those Pachinko palaces day after day throwing their money away because they don't have a job. This isn't who we are."
There is evidently a real Pachinko problem in various cities and towns along the coast where the tsunami did so much damage. The underlying cause of this new phenomenon isn't truly Pachinko. It's unemployment. It's boredom. It's the fact that men who want to work can't without making large and painful sacrifices.
We didn't solve the Pachinko problem that night. We weren't trying, I suppose. I left the party happy to have seen them, happy to have one more Facebook connection, and profoundly unsettled.
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