On the top of the hill, the President had dinner with a Hollywood Producer of children's programming. A man that had not tried to change the world, just make a lot of money.
The Producer had invited the President to a fundraising event at a great big house on the tip top of Beverly Hills. There was a catered dinner and expensive bottles of Champagne. The reception was at the house of Magic Johnson. The other guests, while some less known, were no less influential. Dress was formal. Tickets ran $16,200 per person.
The Producer was a billionaire. The 144th richest person in America. Over the years, he had donated millions of dollars to politicians like the President. Clinton had described him as a “very good friend and supporter.” In the 2000 election, he was the 5th largest individual donor to the Democratic Party, and in 2002 he had spent seven million dollars to buy them a shiny new Democratic National Committee headquarters. The next year, perhaps in the spirit of bipartisanship, he had donated to the reelection campaign of George W. Bush. Any politician, Republican or Democrat, who used their political power to the Producer’s pleasure was sure to find his campaign much, much richer.
And any politician who did something that displeased him could be sure that they would hear about it. As in 2008, when he, with many other influential donors to the Democratic Party, composed and signed a letter to Nancy Pelosi warning her not to seek the Democratic nomination, or lose her funding (the donors were upset over some earlier comments she had made concerning the party’s superdelegates).
It’s not every man who could make a credible threat to the third most powerful person in the world. The Producer wielded his vast fortune like a hammer. Politicians either used it to crush their opponents or were crushed under it. So needless to say, the President wisely accepted his invitation.
He lived in the great big house on the tip top of the hill, in Beverly Park. From there, he looked from his bedroom window down over the lights of the vast American city of Los Angeles.
Life was good.
=-=
On the bottom of the hill, a small crowd gathered in Roy Roger’s Memorial Park. They were black specks from the Producer’s window. Were they people? They could have been anything. Dust stuck to the glass, perhaps.
And in the hands of these little specks were white, square pieces of confetti of some sort. Their significance was indiscernible from the top of the hill, to the President or to the Producer. But if we moved outside of the great big house, and out the gate of Beverly Park, and winded further and further down the meandering streets of Beverly Hills, and went past the Beverly Hotel, and out into the park,
until we were down in the streets with the specks—so that the Producer’s house was lost to our sights,
far behind and above us--then we might see what they were.
The white, square confetti were, in fact, protest signs. They were of all shapes and sizes. Most were the typical handmade variety, of some sort of heavy cardstock and fastened onto long wooden stakes, slogans written in cheap marker in messy block letters. These had a variety of slogans, “kill the TPP,” “TPP GTFO” “TPP kills democracy” and the like. Others were nice and laminated, clean computer- designed banners that said “ban fracking.” These had nothing to do with this particular protest whatsoever. They were from last week’s protest, apparently. A latina woman with cherry-red hair, buzzed short on the sides, explained that it had been “her cause for the last 4 months.” She was the leader of this event, and she carried a megaphone in her hands and passed out sheets of paper with the lyrics for the evening’s chants. Protesting was, it would seem, how she spent her spare time. Then there was the centerpiece, and most impressive of the signage. A cardboard train reinforced by plywood that was worn like a sandwich-board over a protestor’s entire body. “It took us 2 weeks to make this,” said a man with grey hair pulled back into a ponytail. I wondered silently to myself what the Producer would have been able to accomplish in as much time.
The Protestor’s mission for that evening was for the President to see their signs and hear their chants. “We’re going to make so much noise he can hear us all the way up the hill!” promised one of the organizers, triumphantly.
Since 2010, lobbyists from 12 countries had met in secret to discuss laws that would affect the food these protestors ate, the freedom of the internet they used, their rights to freedom of speech, the medicine they would have access to...just about every facet of their daily lives. These laws would, according to the document, supersede the local laws of each constituent country, including the United States, and they would be passed without going through the usual legislative process of the Congress, undermining its democratic system. They would also put even more money into the pockets of media emperors like the Producer. No one was meant to have known any of this, of course. It was reported that something called the TPP was being discussed, and that was about as far as anyone could know. It was only after Wikileaks released the part of the document concerning intellectual property rights that anyone had any idea what this document would mean for the citizens of any of the 12 nations.
And so that is what brought these people here to Roy Rogers Park, right across from Beverly Hills, down the hill. Word had spread to them, somehow, of the scheduled fundraising meeting above, and they hoped that the President’s motorcade would pass by their little white squares and hear their chants and cries as he made his way up to the party on top of the hill.
Originally, as was explained to me later, they had planned on a much more formal meeting with the President. Apparently, they had managed to raise the few thousand dollars necessary to attend the Producer’s event. But when they had taken their money and gone up to the tip top of the hill earlier that week to try to buy their ticket, they discovered that their money was no good there.
“They kept asking us for our name,” they explained, “the name was worth more than the money.”
The white, square confetti were, in fact, protest signs. They were of all shapes and sizes. Most were the typical handmade variety, of some sort of heavy cardstock and fastened onto long wooden stakes, slogans written in cheap marker in messy block letters. These had a variety of slogans, “kill the TPP,” “TPP GTFO” “TPP kills democracy” and the like. Others were nice and laminated, clean computer- designed banners that said “ban fracking.” These had nothing to do with this particular protest whatsoever. They were from last week’s protest, apparently. A latina woman with cherry-red hair, buzzed short on the sides, explained that it had been “her cause for the last 4 months.” She was the leader of this event, and she carried a megaphone in her hands and passed out sheets of paper with the lyrics for the evening’s chants. Protesting was, it would seem, how she spent her spare time. Then there was the centerpiece, and most impressive of the signage. A cardboard train reinforced by plywood that was worn like a sandwich-board over a protestor’s entire body. “It took us 2 weeks to make this,” said a man with grey hair pulled back into a ponytail. I wondered silently to myself what the Producer would have been able to accomplish in as much time.
The Protestor’s mission for that evening was for the President to see their signs and hear their chants. “We’re going to make so much noise he can hear us all the way up the hill!” promised one of the organizers, triumphantly.
Since 2010, lobbyists from 12 countries had met in secret to discuss laws that would affect the food these protestors ate, the freedom of the internet they used, their rights to freedom of speech, the medicine they would have access to...just about every facet of their daily lives. These laws would, according to the document, supersede the local laws of each constituent country, including the United States, and they would be passed without going through the usual legislative process of the Congress, undermining its democratic system. They would also put even more money into the pockets of media emperors like the Producer. No one was meant to have known any of this, of course. It was reported that something called the TPP was being discussed, and that was about as far as anyone could know. It was only after Wikileaks released the part of the document concerning intellectual property rights that anyone had any idea what this document would mean for the citizens of any of the 12 nations.
And so that is what brought these people here to Roy Rogers Park, right across from Beverly Hills, down the hill. Word had spread to them, somehow, of the scheduled fundraising meeting above, and they hoped that the President’s motorcade would pass by their little white squares and hear their chants and cries as he made his way up to the party on top of the hill.
Originally, as was explained to me later, they had planned on a much more formal meeting with the President. Apparently, they had managed to raise the few thousand dollars necessary to attend the Producer’s event. But when they had taken their money and gone up to the tip top of the hill earlier that week to try to buy their ticket, they discovered that their money was no good there.
“They kept asking us for our name,” they explained, “the name was worth more than the money.”
So, having gathered in a large mob led by their Leader, the woman with the megaphone, the protesters
took their signs and marched towards the entrance to Beverly Hills, chanting as they went.
“Hey TTP, you can’t hide! We can see your corporate side!” “We want to—“
“Stop the TPP!”
“We need to—“
“Stop the TPP!”
“Hey TPP, whatayasay how many lives have you ruined today!” And other such refrains.
The police, who at times have not always been on the best terms with protestors, showed no signs of resistance, By all appearances they were actually quite helpful. The officer gently escorted the mob to their designated destination. On the way, as they all turned the corner past the Beverley Hotel, a grey hair stopped where he stood, “Wait! Wait! Hey!”
A few people turned their heads and asked for an explanation.
“Fuck the police! They’re leading us the wrong way man!” he shouted, “The Beverley Hotel’s that way!” “We’re not going to the Beverley Hotel.”
“We’re not? But that’s where the President’s staying!”
“No, he’s not. He’s going to a fundraiser on top of the hill.”
“Oh.” he said, disappointed.
The Protestors arrived at their destination and chanted some more. The residents of Beverly Hills were quite supportive for the most part. Those passing by in their Lexuses honked in support. Other residents came outside to see what all the fuss was about and talk to the protestors. Others used the demonstration as a civics lesson of sorts, grabbing their kids and gesturing towards us, explaining something inaudible.
The Protestors arrived at a street corner near the entrance to the top of the hill and waited for the motorcade. They chanted and chanted on the streets of Beverley Hills. They wove their signs and they banged on drums and blew whistles.
After quite some time, as the sun started to set, I asked “When is the President coming?”
“Hey TTP, you can’t hide! We can see your corporate side!” “We want to—“
“Stop the TPP!”
“We need to—“
“Stop the TPP!”
“Hey TPP, whatayasay how many lives have you ruined today!” And other such refrains.
The police, who at times have not always been on the best terms with protestors, showed no signs of resistance, By all appearances they were actually quite helpful. The officer gently escorted the mob to their designated destination. On the way, as they all turned the corner past the Beverley Hotel, a grey hair stopped where he stood, “Wait! Wait! Hey!”
A few people turned their heads and asked for an explanation.
“Fuck the police! They’re leading us the wrong way man!” he shouted, “The Beverley Hotel’s that way!” “We’re not going to the Beverley Hotel.”
“We’re not? But that’s where the President’s staying!”
“No, he’s not. He’s going to a fundraiser on top of the hill.”
“Oh.” he said, disappointed.
The Protestors arrived at their destination and chanted some more. The residents of Beverly Hills were quite supportive for the most part. Those passing by in their Lexuses honked in support. Other residents came outside to see what all the fuss was about and talk to the protestors. Others used the demonstration as a civics lesson of sorts, grabbing their kids and gesturing towards us, explaining something inaudible.
The Protestors arrived at a street corner near the entrance to the top of the hill and waited for the motorcade. They chanted and chanted on the streets of Beverley Hills. They wove their signs and they banged on drums and blew whistles.
After quite some time, as the sun started to set, I asked “When is the President coming?”
“The motorcade is supposed to pass by at 5,” they said
“It’s 5:15 right now. Guess he’s running a little late...”
“Any minute now, any minute...”
Hours passed. More chanting. More drumming. More bell ringing. But still no sign of the President. They chanted and chanted all the more, and dusk passed into nightfall.
Cars began to pile up, due to police blockades further down the road. As the night grew darker, fewer passersby continued to care about the TPP. They cared more about getting out of traffic and going home to their families.
“Aw, look at all the poor rich people stuck in traffic,” said a Guy Fawkes-masked protestor behind me, “Fuck the bourgeoisie.”
The people in traffic might have lived in Beverly Hills, but they lived at the bottom. They were professionals, most likely. Separated from the Protestors only by slightly nicer clothes, slightly nicer cars, slightly nicer houses. Personally, I did not think they owned the means of production.
The night crept on. It quickly became clear that Mr. President was not coming. Some of the protestors, content that they had done their part to raise awareness anyhow, left. Others stayed at the corner to chant through the night.
The Leader with the megaphone, however, rounded up a close group of followers for a special mission. They were going to track down the President, one way or another. Even if they had to march all the way up to the top of the hill.
And so the hunt for the President began.
=-=
The elite team included me, the Leader with the megaphone, two Guy Fawkes masks: the one who hated the bourgeoisie and another in a jester’s hat, and a dozen or two of the old grey haired hippy types.
We wandered through the winding streets of Beverly Hills, Leader still chanting through the megaphone. Police with headlights flashing followed close behind, half escorting us and half keeping an eye on us.
We climbed higher and higher up the hill.
“C’mon guys, we’ve got to make it to the very top! That’s where the President is! That’s where the media is!” said the Leader.
“It’s 5:15 right now. Guess he’s running a little late...”
“Any minute now, any minute...”
Hours passed. More chanting. More drumming. More bell ringing. But still no sign of the President. They chanted and chanted all the more, and dusk passed into nightfall.
Cars began to pile up, due to police blockades further down the road. As the night grew darker, fewer passersby continued to care about the TPP. They cared more about getting out of traffic and going home to their families.
“Aw, look at all the poor rich people stuck in traffic,” said a Guy Fawkes-masked protestor behind me, “Fuck the bourgeoisie.”
The people in traffic might have lived in Beverly Hills, but they lived at the bottom. They were professionals, most likely. Separated from the Protestors only by slightly nicer clothes, slightly nicer cars, slightly nicer houses. Personally, I did not think they owned the means of production.
The night crept on. It quickly became clear that Mr. President was not coming. Some of the protestors, content that they had done their part to raise awareness anyhow, left. Others stayed at the corner to chant through the night.
The Leader with the megaphone, however, rounded up a close group of followers for a special mission. They were going to track down the President, one way or another. Even if they had to march all the way up to the top of the hill.
And so the hunt for the President began.
=-=
The elite team included me, the Leader with the megaphone, two Guy Fawkes masks: the one who hated the bourgeoisie and another in a jester’s hat, and a dozen or two of the old grey haired hippy types.
We wandered through the winding streets of Beverly Hills, Leader still chanting through the megaphone. Police with headlights flashing followed close behind, half escorting us and half keeping an eye on us.
We climbed higher and higher up the hill.
“C’mon guys, we’ve got to make it to the very top! That’s where the President is! That’s where the media is!” said the Leader.
But the media was not there. And where they were hardly mattered. For all I could tell, they might as
well have played hookie. They had been somewhere, doing something, but what exactly was impossible
to tell.
Three of their vans had been parked on the side of the road from the very start of the protest, when we were still assembling in the park across the street. And there they sat off to themselves: one for ABC7, one for KTLA, and one for RT. And they sat and they sat. In them, there was a camera and two reporters, and all I had seen any of them do, for hours, was sit in the car and play on their iPads. Out from one of the vans, the one from RT, someone finally emerged to interview a representative from the Electronic Freedom Foundation. But the other two, KTLA and ABC7, interviewed no one. They sat in their vans and played on their iPads all day long, savoring the slow news day.
Later, watching the story on the news, I saw the full extent of their coverage. The headline was: “Traffic ‘Snarled’ In Los Angeles Due To Obama's Fundraising Trip.”
They showed maybe a second of footage of the protestors, without going into any detail about what the protestors were going on about. Then they explained in great detail, complete with graphic illustrations, about when the President would come riding through different areas of the city, so that motorists could avoid those areas and not be late going to or coming from work.
On and on, the Protestors winded upwards, to the top of the hill. It seemed much bigger from the inside, and the more we walked the more the bigger it seemed to get.
The residents came out to the street to see why people were marching through their neighborhood after sundown, chanting and shouting and waving around signs. They stood on the curb, husband wife and child, staring at us like people passing by a car accident.
“Did you know that the government is operating in secrecy?” cried the Leader at one of the residents, a man who looked like he had just gotten back from walking his dog, standing leash in hand in the driveway.
“No. How’s that?” he asked.
But before he could respond, the Leader had already passed up the road and gone back to cheerleading: “When healthy food is under attack, what do we do? Stand up fight back!”
The other Protestors shouted back in the general direction the question had come from.
“Don’t drink the water!” shouted one.
“Turn off that TV! I highly recommend!” shouted another.
“Don’t drink the water and don’t breathe the air!”
Three of their vans had been parked on the side of the road from the very start of the protest, when we were still assembling in the park across the street. And there they sat off to themselves: one for ABC7, one for KTLA, and one for RT. And they sat and they sat. In them, there was a camera and two reporters, and all I had seen any of them do, for hours, was sit in the car and play on their iPads. Out from one of the vans, the one from RT, someone finally emerged to interview a representative from the Electronic Freedom Foundation. But the other two, KTLA and ABC7, interviewed no one. They sat in their vans and played on their iPads all day long, savoring the slow news day.
Later, watching the story on the news, I saw the full extent of their coverage. The headline was: “Traffic ‘Snarled’ In Los Angeles Due To Obama's Fundraising Trip.”
They showed maybe a second of footage of the protestors, without going into any detail about what the protestors were going on about. Then they explained in great detail, complete with graphic illustrations, about when the President would come riding through different areas of the city, so that motorists could avoid those areas and not be late going to or coming from work.
On and on, the Protestors winded upwards, to the top of the hill. It seemed much bigger from the inside, and the more we walked the more the bigger it seemed to get.
The residents came out to the street to see why people were marching through their neighborhood after sundown, chanting and shouting and waving around signs. They stood on the curb, husband wife and child, staring at us like people passing by a car accident.
“Did you know that the government is operating in secrecy?” cried the Leader at one of the residents, a man who looked like he had just gotten back from walking his dog, standing leash in hand in the driveway.
“No. How’s that?” he asked.
But before he could respond, the Leader had already passed up the road and gone back to cheerleading: “When healthy food is under attack, what do we do? Stand up fight back!”
The other Protestors shouted back in the general direction the question had come from.
“Don’t drink the water!” shouted one.
“Turn off that TV! I highly recommend!” shouted another.
“Don’t drink the water and don’t breathe the air!”
“Washing the vegetables still won’t help!”
Good, we were raising awareness.
For everything anyone could possibly complain about in the world, some protestor or another had a slogan to shout. The man looked back at us with a confused look on his face. One of the Guy Fawkes masks--the one with the jester’s hat--walked by him waving his “Stop the TPP” sign enthusiastically.
Eventually we reached a point where the sidewalk ended, and the police informed us that we could not legally walk in the middle of the street, and now needed to turn back home. The Protestors were not happy with this. They had a right to assemble. They had an important mission to personally deliver their message to the President.
“They do it on purpose!” said one of the grey hairs, “It’s not our fault there’s no sidewalk! They do it on purpose!”
“I’m not telling you that you can’t be here to make your point, I’m just telling you that the safest place to do that is down at the bottom of the hill,” said the cop.
But the protestors did not want to go back to the police-designated protest zone. They started to get angry. Shouts of defiance periodically rang out at the officer. For a fleeting moment, the only time during the whole ordeal, I felt the power of the mob. Sure, the cops might have all had pepper spray and clubs and even guns. But there was just something so intimidating about an angry mob, on an almost instinctual level. It felt as if they sat just on the edge of some scary powerful chaos and anarchy, boiling just below the crust of civility, capable of spilling over at any moment and for any reason, like a pack of angry gorillas in Occupy Wallstreet T-shirts. If there were more of us, if we were younger and angrier, it would have felt all the scarier. It would have put us on a much more level playing field with the authorities. We might have been in a position to negotiate, pepper spray and guns nonwithstanding.
And as it happened, we did negotiate. Another one of the grey hairs, who had just retaken her driving test, pointed out that it was perfectly legal for us to walk in the street where there was no sidewalk, so long as it was against traffic. So we all crossed to the left side of the street and marched on. The cops didn’t seem to care to press the point. They continued to cooperate.
“Happy protesting!” they said, in that voice that cops have, as if talking to children. A few of them parked their cars beside us and smiled wryly as we passed by, as if they knew something that we didn’t know.
It seemed like we were wandering for hours. But the houses never ended. The motorcade never appeared. We just kept wandering and wandering. Looking for the President. Trying to be heard. Trying to change the world for the better. Trying to have some control over our lives. Trying to do something. Anything.
“How much longer to the Producer’s house?” I asked the man next to me.
Good, we were raising awareness.
For everything anyone could possibly complain about in the world, some protestor or another had a slogan to shout. The man looked back at us with a confused look on his face. One of the Guy Fawkes masks--the one with the jester’s hat--walked by him waving his “Stop the TPP” sign enthusiastically.
Eventually we reached a point where the sidewalk ended, and the police informed us that we could not legally walk in the middle of the street, and now needed to turn back home. The Protestors were not happy with this. They had a right to assemble. They had an important mission to personally deliver their message to the President.
“They do it on purpose!” said one of the grey hairs, “It’s not our fault there’s no sidewalk! They do it on purpose!”
“I’m not telling you that you can’t be here to make your point, I’m just telling you that the safest place to do that is down at the bottom of the hill,” said the cop.
But the protestors did not want to go back to the police-designated protest zone. They started to get angry. Shouts of defiance periodically rang out at the officer. For a fleeting moment, the only time during the whole ordeal, I felt the power of the mob. Sure, the cops might have all had pepper spray and clubs and even guns. But there was just something so intimidating about an angry mob, on an almost instinctual level. It felt as if they sat just on the edge of some scary powerful chaos and anarchy, boiling just below the crust of civility, capable of spilling over at any moment and for any reason, like a pack of angry gorillas in Occupy Wallstreet T-shirts. If there were more of us, if we were younger and angrier, it would have felt all the scarier. It would have put us on a much more level playing field with the authorities. We might have been in a position to negotiate, pepper spray and guns nonwithstanding.
And as it happened, we did negotiate. Another one of the grey hairs, who had just retaken her driving test, pointed out that it was perfectly legal for us to walk in the street where there was no sidewalk, so long as it was against traffic. So we all crossed to the left side of the street and marched on. The cops didn’t seem to care to press the point. They continued to cooperate.
“Happy protesting!” they said, in that voice that cops have, as if talking to children. A few of them parked their cars beside us and smiled wryly as we passed by, as if they knew something that we didn’t know.
It seemed like we were wandering for hours. But the houses never ended. The motorcade never appeared. We just kept wandering and wandering. Looking for the President. Trying to be heard. Trying to change the world for the better. Trying to have some control over our lives. Trying to do something. Anything.
“How much longer to the Producer’s house?” I asked the man next to me.
“30 minutes,” he said, staring at his iPhone like it was a Geiger counter.
“...how long is it really?”
“30 minutes,” he said, face to phone, giving a readout, “we’re going at a very slow pace...”
“I can’t walk that far! My car is going to get towed in 30 minutes!”
I guess I had expected that we would be there a few hours, the President would pass by, woo hoo mission accomplished, and we’d all go home. I hadn’t planned on a hike all the way up the hill.
“I don’t think the President’s coming this way, anyways.” “Why not?”
“Earlier, this place was full of cops blocking off these roads. Just dozens of them. Tons of them. Now there’s only the handful that are trailing us. We changed the course of the Presidential motorcade. They had to change the course of the Presidential motorcade for us!”
He was so excited.
Well, at least we had made a difference.
After another half hour, I was forced to give up on them and made the long trip back down the hill. I left them to wander. The presidential motorcade had to be in there somewhere, and when they found it, he would have no choice but to see their signs and banners and hear their chants. I wished them luck.
What would happen after he saw them, and how this accomplished anything, nobody explained to me. But at least we were “out here, doing something about it instead of sitting at home in front of the TV!” a fact they took great pride in repeating to each other.
What exactly we were doing, I still don’t know.
The Protestors never did find the motorcade. After walking for about two miles, the police finally succeeded in making them turn back down the hill.
=-=
At the top of the hill, the President sipped champagne with the Producer. “Sorry I’m late. We had to take the back road.”
Media helicopters flew overhead, getting aerial shots of the Producer’s mansion for the evening news.
Down the hill, remnants of the protest slowly dwindled.
Its members broke apart, and little by little they scattered up and down the streets aimlessly, like pieces of rubbish caught in the wind. The lights of Los Angeles towered above them, oblivious and uninterested in the people at the bottom of the hill.
“...how long is it really?”
“30 minutes,” he said, face to phone, giving a readout, “we’re going at a very slow pace...”
“I can’t walk that far! My car is going to get towed in 30 minutes!”
I guess I had expected that we would be there a few hours, the President would pass by, woo hoo mission accomplished, and we’d all go home. I hadn’t planned on a hike all the way up the hill.
“I don’t think the President’s coming this way, anyways.” “Why not?”
“Earlier, this place was full of cops blocking off these roads. Just dozens of them. Tons of them. Now there’s only the handful that are trailing us. We changed the course of the Presidential motorcade. They had to change the course of the Presidential motorcade for us!”
He was so excited.
Well, at least we had made a difference.
After another half hour, I was forced to give up on them and made the long trip back down the hill. I left them to wander. The presidential motorcade had to be in there somewhere, and when they found it, he would have no choice but to see their signs and banners and hear their chants. I wished them luck.
What would happen after he saw them, and how this accomplished anything, nobody explained to me. But at least we were “out here, doing something about it instead of sitting at home in front of the TV!” a fact they took great pride in repeating to each other.
What exactly we were doing, I still don’t know.
The Protestors never did find the motorcade. After walking for about two miles, the police finally succeeded in making them turn back down the hill.
=-=
At the top of the hill, the President sipped champagne with the Producer. “Sorry I’m late. We had to take the back road.”
Media helicopters flew overhead, getting aerial shots of the Producer’s mansion for the evening news.
Down the hill, remnants of the protest slowly dwindled.
Its members broke apart, and little by little they scattered up and down the streets aimlessly, like pieces of rubbish caught in the wind. The lights of Los Angeles towered above them, oblivious and uninterested in the people at the bottom of the hill.
=-=-=-=-=-=-
