Friday, October 24, 2014

We Don't Need No Hippocratic Oath

Definition of Hubris + Stupidity + Cognitive Dissonance:

Caring more about Ebola victims in Africa than your neighbors/cab drivers/fellow subway riders, etc here in NY. Let's travel halfway around the world to help treat Ebola victims, yet potentially expose your neighbors to the very same disease.

You, sir, are a Raging, Red Hot, Grade A Douche Canoe. ‪#‎WeDontNeedNoHippocraticOath‬

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Some Day My (Yoruban) Prince Will Come

I'm envisioning a Yoruban prince inside wanting to scam me for my life's savings 
all for a ten block fare.

Related note: 
Aren't those Nigerian Prince money scams kinda like Wimpy (of Popeye) saying, 
"I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today?" 

Friday, October 3, 2014

What's In a Name?

My middle initial is "D."

It's not a stretch to say it stands for: Disagreeable, displeased, disgusted, discouraged, and disturbed.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Douchebaggery Du Jour

Snapped this a.m. in the parking garage. This asshole sat in his vehicle with his door ajar, talking loudly on his phone, totally preventing me from exiting my vehicle. 

Daily Cognitive Dissonance, #1

Cognitive dissonance = Starting that new aldactone/hctz Rx today, then making a cup of instant chicken noodle soup.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Zero Fucks With Which To Give

Recently, I've come to the realization I'm pretty much unflappable. Not a fucking flap to be found.

This little tale will detail the increasing issue of road rage in the White Plains area. This is the second event of this kind that I've born witness to, and of course, there's not a cop to be found. 

This incident happened in downtown White Plains between the intersection of Main/Mamaroneck and Church Street, an adjacent side street.

So yesterday I found myself at an intersection. Middle lane of three. Left lane would have been optimal, as I was going to make a right then a quick left onto the side street. At the light, I put my blinker on, and as soon as it turned green, I gunned the motor, as the car to my left was lagging a smidge.

In my attempt to get over to the left lane, that driver finally woke up or dislodged his thumb from his rectum and decided he, too, was going to gun it into my blind spot, attempting to bully his way, and afford me zero courtesy to make my left.

Quickly as this is all unfolding, as I approach the side street, it APPEARS as if I can make a left in that lane, too. And I continue with my plan. Meanwhile he's in my blind spot, making his left, only once on the side street, there are cars parked on the street in metered spots, so he quickly made that left, only for it to fuck him up that I made mine.

I come to the traffic light which is red, but my mistake was I did not pull all the way up to the stop line. Sir Asshole sidles up next to me and motions to me to roll my window down. I shake my head no. He's aghast. And angry. Obviously I'm impeding his ability to tell me off.

I roll my window down and say, "I had my blinker on, and thought both lanes were left turn lanes." Of course, he launches into his tirade, and I promptly roll up my window.

Of course, he will not abide this aggression! Oh no! He has to nudge his car up and askew, and PARKS HIS CAR IN MY LANE THUS IMPEDING TRAFFIC, all to come over to my driver's window, which is rolled up and the car locked down tighter than a duck's ass, all to berate me and my driving.

Me and my bitchy resting face are in full effect, full on cool as a cuke mode. Honestly, I don't know how! IS THIS WHAT BEING A GROWN UP IS?

I mean, I could totally predict all the events happening. I could see it happening in my head, and VOILA! HAPPENING!

And, again, cool as a cuke, I roll my window down about 2 inches, and say loud enough for him to hear, "Yes, yes, and arguing about this is ACCOMPLISHING SO MUCH!" and I promptly roll the window up.

He blurts out an impotent,"Bitch!"  And I smile, and nod in agreement!

It was so awesome, but I think I'm going to investigate carrying mace, because "what if" he actually broke my window and tried to assault me, or somehow gained access to my car and tried to assault me?

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Before I forget

This past weekend came and went without a barbeque downstairs. However, at around midnight on Saturday the dipshits started letting off fire crackers and cherry bombs. I repeat: AT MIDNIGHT. 

When I heard the first one go off, I thought, "Did I just hear what I thought I heard?"  By the time I had picked up the phone to call the police, the fifth one was cracking off. Apparently I was not the only one who called in with a noise complaint. A car came by, and all was quiet afterwards.

Now of course, I cannot be totally without a complaint here, can I? The complaint herein is that it took NINE RINGS for the 911 dispatch to pick up the phone. I could only imagine how much more terrifying say, something like a home invasion or rape or domestic abuse would be, waiting not for help to arrive, but waiting to merely SUMMON help. 


I truly do hate humanity, such as it is.

Monday, July 7, 2014

My Shitty Neighbors: Fourth of July Version

Next to Halloween, I detest the Fourth of July. I actually love both holidays, but the garbage wrapped in skin which passes for humanity tends to erode whatever "good feels" I may have about both holidays. 

In our household, we've instituted the tradition of dinner and a movie out, so we can avoid the bulk of trick or treaters. And looks like we have to do something similar for the Fourth of July. Our downstairs neighbors are a drunken, loud, smokey lot. Imagine an ESL version of Cartman from South Park (I do what I want!). Loud, rude, and have zero awareness or regard that, yanno, there are other people in their immediate proximity, who may not necessarily like having a living room full of noxious smoke, and being subjected to the audio equivalent of waterboarding, listening to the same 1-2 CDs on an endless loop for SIX hours, at LABIA VIBRATING decibels with the accompanying assholes all now in a full-tilt chatter yelling OVER the music. SIX-FUCKING-HOURS.
So, imagine my anger, when the first plumes of smoke followed by the tell-tale stink of too much lighter fluid first made its presence known.
Which then of course, prompted me to send the text to our on-site property manager. Please, behold! BEHOLD that STELLAR response time. 

Also bears sharing that once dusk hit, these fuckers didn't limit their open flames to the charcoal and lighter fluid. Once dusk hit, these assholes brought out FUCKING TIKI TORCHES. (Picture also sent to on-site property manager, which went unacknowledged.) 

Mind you: I am an owner. I do not rent. This is not low-income housing. My monthly maintenance fees I pay, PAY THIS ASSHOLE'S PAYCHECK. If he's not going to look into it? OWN THAT. If he's off site on vacation? OWN THAT, TOO. If someone from the condo board of managers should be contacted instead? OWN THAT AND LET ME KNOW WHO TO CALL. Do not DO NOTHING for six fucking hours... DO NOT DO NOTHING FOR THREE WHOLE DAYS OF A HOLIDAY WEEKEND.
So imagine my abject HORROR when, AGAIN. RINSE. REPEAT. IGNITE. AGAIN. WTF? So much for "I will look into it." Obviously, he hasn't.  And again, the above photo was sent on Saturday (now day TWO), which also went unacknowledged. At this point, my  husband took me out for dinner and a movie, just to remove me from the situation, but the reality was, all I wanted to do this weekend was a nice, QUIET weekend at home, which of course implied a weekend of not being for all intents and purposes SMOKE BOMBED out of my house.

At this point, I called the non-emergency phone # for our local fire department, which of course, WENT TO FUCKING VOICEMAIL.  So no resolution on that end. I called the main office for our condo, and again, no resolution.  The husband of course, sent an email to the property managing company's headquarters, but hello, after 5 on a holiday weekend? Yeah,  no resolution on that end either.

When Day Three came upon us, again, I zapped a text. I truly hate being THIS PERSON, but wtf? Should I just do nothing, and let these fuckers potentially light my balcony on fire?
On top of all this, our downstairs neighbors seemed to be hosting their own version of the Fresh Air Fund, and suddenly, out of no where it seemed, four small children were out there running around, making a fuckload of noise, and for all intents this appeared to be the first time they have ever encountered A LAWN.  As they all played and sat and rolled around on the grass, I was in bliss knowing how many dogs shit and piss right in that spot. BLISS, I TELL YOU!

And not to be outdone with the FUCK FIRE CODES, another batch of assholes decided FUCK IT, I DO WHAT I WANT! And decided to park however the fuck they wanted, as if, yanno, we're in the 'hood, and can park however they want, without consequences...
All this particularly chaps my ass when you factor in, when I first moved here ten years ago, on a particularly ideal day to hang gauzy kurtas up to dry, some bucktoothed hag from the condo board appeared AT MY MOTHERFUCKING DOOR to inform me "This isn't Hooterville," and then had the audacity to try to gain entry to my condo "to help take them down," (when I know the only reason she wanted access to my condo was to see OUR STUFF and to gossip about me). 

This IS ALSO on top of the fact that July 2013, I was fined $25 for a fucking plant stand that had a dead plant in it. Yet open flames and flagrant assholeish parking? Yeah, good times. 

Bottom line is, when we bought our condo we were assured that it was going to be nice and quiet, as end units tend to be, and well? In the ten years we've been here, we haven't had a moment's peace. And shit like this only brings out my inner Bruce Banner, "You won't like me when I'm angry. Don't make me angry."  

ETA: 2:30 p.m., FOUR DAYS LATER, finally the manager at the property management HQ replied to my emails, wanted the photos, and said he'll send a letter (a letter, of which, no doubt, will go unread). In the meantime, I have a call in to the Town Clerk's office, specifically, the building department, which oversees fire code enforcement. Waiting to get the call back, to find out how I can report the next BBQ, because you and I both know that is most-definitely going to happen again, letter or no letter.

ETA: 3:43 p.m. FOUR DAYS LATER, I got a call back from the township building inspector who handles fire code enforcement. Apparently ground floor units CAN have grills, provided they are 10 feet from the building (see photo, clearly NOT 10 feet from building, you can see it is immediately beneath my balcony). For future incidents during off-hours, I should call the police, who will in turn notify the fire marshal who will come out to inspect (hopefully AS IT IS STILL HAPPENING). 

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Seriously I Need a New Job

I spend all day plotting, when I should be PLOTZING. Help me find my ZING!

(Seriously, I long for the days of becoming someone useful and integral, respected and valued, kinda like Radar O'Reilly, only with working thumbs!)

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Apropos of something: Twitter

Check out this description and user name of this entity on Twitter. It tickled me.


The philosophy of Søren Kierkegaard mashed with the tweets and observations of Kim Kardashian.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

On Being the Pivot Person In a Workplace Circle Jerk By Email

Mind you, Slacker cannot be bothered to answer the switchboard (she IS after all, the RECEPTIONIST) or put away supplies when they are delivered, or ensure we get our mail from next door, or make sure the outgoing mail GOES OUT, but fuck all, yes. By all means, let's have a circle jerk via email about supplies purchasing. Also worth noting, we only have a staff of THREE of us. Generally speaking the other two of us (non-Slacker) try not to be out of the office at precisely the same time. This, as they say in the vernacular is a NONSTARTER. Fuck her sideways.

Now, the circle jerk in question, I present to you, the email from the Slacker:

From: Slacker
Sent: Wednesday, June 18, 2014 3:26 PM
To: Me (and CC: TheWorkHorse)
Subject: [Left blank]

Should you be out of the office and someone needs to place an order for supply. Who and where should I contact to place the order?

From: Me
Sent: Wednesday, June 18, 2014 3:27 PM
To: Slacker

I believe Mary is my alternate.

From: Slacker
Sent: Wednesday, June 18, 2014, 3:28 PM
To: Me

Okay, should both you and your alternate be out of the office, and I need to place an order, who and where should I contact?

From: Me
Sent: Wednesday, June 18, 2014, 3:29 PM
Forwarded To: Mary

END NOTE: I refuse, on principle, to reply back to the Slacker. Why should I tell her about supplies purchasing? It's not like she actually does any work around here. Just counting down the days until she springs yet another pregnancy on us.

Sunday, June 8, 2014


It's best to under-commit than to over-regret.

Thursday, June 5, 2014

More Musings From the Workplace Shithouse

Picture this: Today. "9:35." I'm in left-most stall of six in a vacant restroom. About to settle in for some serious Rodin action, someone else enters the room and occupies the stall next to mine, which, is an act of aggression the likes of which I cannot abide. Set tazers to STUN. SSGT VINDALOO BBQ REPORTING FOR DOODY!


Portmanteau a la Minute: Halle-BLUE-iah!

A shout of praise, joy and gratitude upon discovering that the workplace shitter is so clean, it still has the blue cleanser in it.

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Workplace What-the-Fuckery: Poo Redux

"Gee thanks for not photographing your dump. I still haven't recovered after the last time you did that." 

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Workplace What-the-Fuckery: Putting the ASS in ASSault Weaponry

Behold, my primary ASSault weapon in my workplace ARSEnal!!! BEHOLD!!!!

Yes. I keep this can of air freshener front and center on my desk, because my sense of smell is assaulted on such a regular basis, it is all I can do to prevent myself from ZOMG RAGEPUMMELING the assholes who insist on either CROP DUSTING as they pass my cubicle, or insist on eating uber-stenchy fish soup in a small, confined workplace. 

Today saw fit for a bonus round of workplace pants crapping by my cube's next door neighbor who sits a scant 18 inches from me, who is preparing for a capsule endoscopy tomorrow a.m., who has been obviously on laxatives and clear liquids since roughly noon today, who has been involuntarily farting (and saying "Excuse me" to herself the entire time, WTF). And by "farting" I mean it truly sounds like she's been stomping the life out of the AFLAC duck.

Dear Universe: Please, for the love of all that is holy, please just make this stop and get me the fuck out of this workplace.

Workplace What-the-Fuckery: Shithouse Edition

Note to self: 

No. Others who use the workplace shithouse were NOT raised by wolves. If they were, in fact, raised by wolves, they would not shit or piss directly on the toilet seat, but "toilet adjacent."

Those Who Hope, Die Farting

How my day's evolving:
7:45 Woke up despairing
9:30 Arrive at work.
9:35 Poop.
10:07 Sudden onset hopefulness(*1).
10:30 Cheese and crackers.
11:40 Back to Despair(*2).
T-Minus 9 minutes until forced, faux-friendliness w/doorman.

*1: Received an email from an interested party in re: my resume. Started email back and forth, wherein I put my top three terms of what I am looking for in a job, clearly stated.

*2: Realization that if I took the job, it would require a $10 per hour CUT in salary. 

Mavenism of the Moment: Friend... or "FAUX?"

Yes. "Faux." Not to be confused with foe. In this context, "faux" would be those people you appear "friendly enough" to skirt the issue that you find them tedious as fucking a mud puddle, but you have to maintain some measure of professional courtesy because they are the first person you see when entering your workplace (for example).  

So it's uncharacteristically disingenuous as fuck for me to "faux-friend" this person, but it'd be more cruel for me to be even more blunt and tell him why. Smile, nod, keep things short, and get the fuck out of Dodge first chance I can get. 

I don't mind long philosophical conversations or even long conversations about slice of life or absurdity--but this drain? I get enough of it from my own mother, I don't need to outsource crazy, abusive, narcissism... and well? TIME WASTER.

For example: 

I've been working here since St. Patrick's Day (roughly two and a half months). One of our doormen is Haitian. While normally I love a French accent and find it continental and sexy and sometimes sophisticated, I've now downgraded this wuss to "faux." 

He is a 40 year old man who whines endlessly about how his mother abuses him and his kindness. While, yes, I *have* informed him,  "NUT UP MAN, YOU ARE IN YOUR FORTIES! NIP THAT SHIT IN THE BUD!" he continues with the whining. Nothing worse than a grown assed man acting like a powerless, neutered little boy. A whining, powerless little boy who pronounces friend as "FWEND."  And this is inescapable, as he starts every interaction with, "My fwend..."

Bottom line is, he's become a drain on me, my patience, my attention span, and has become a time waster.

I have now taken to staggering my lunch hour by a scant five minutes, so when I approach the lobby, people are already engaging him in conversation, and by the time I am done with my soup and ready to head back up to my office at 2:05, he's already progressed onto his next work station elsewhere for the remainder for the day.

Friday, May 23, 2014

Friend or Foe, Motherfucker... Friend or Foe?

I hate "people."
"People" stop being "people" when they become friends. 
Friends stop being friends when they become assholes. 
So to refine my hatred, I also hate assholes.

Friday, May 2, 2014

Scenes From the Salt Mine

A fine counterpoint for those who pooh-pooh or worry about my occasional use of pocket likker for medicinal purposes in the workplace. Yes. This actually has replaced the communal jug of Absolut. 

.oO? Oookay....

Sharing this picture which embodies sufficient WTF to warrant sharing on this blog. 

Yes. a box of books. Roughly 50 books in a 5 gallon Roughneck, which SHOULD have been an easy "hit and run" type of errand, dropping off at Good Will. Only, what's that? Yeah. No. I couldn't drop off the bushel of books because my mother, apparently, was in the habit of dumping her used hypodermics in with her books. Why? I haven't a clue, as she had both, a garbage pail AND a sharps container within easy reach of her recliner. My upper lip snarls up in disgust thinking of it.

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Caveat Bloggum: Blog Reader Beware!

Just a head's up, that if you continue to scroll through my archives, it is quite possible you will come face to face (or face-to-toilet, rather) with a photo my co-irker had sent to my WORK PLACE EMAIL address without a subject line, and without a file name that would belie what, exactly, was in the photo attachment. 

I shall pepper this warning amongst other blog posts, as a warning. I believe I will plant the photo, back dated perhaps as the maiden post of this blog because it demands being documented.

You have been warned.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

So Sayeth The Maven

"Either you can work at getting to my gooey interior, or you can do nothing and continue to get nothing but my crusty exterior. Choice is up to you. I personally could NOT care less. I don't fuck you. You don't pay my bills. Crust, ahoy!" (Yes. Actually said to two co-workers regarding my prickly reputation.)

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

So Sayeth the Maven

Life, by its very nature, is a character building exercise. Some folks choose to be Jiminy Cricket, whereas others can't help but personify Cruella Deville.

So Sayeth The Maven

Relationships are like bank accounts: if you put nothing/nothing but negative shit into them, you’ll get nothing/nothing but negative shit out of them.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

On Dildo Advanced Directives

Channeling my inner Sophia Petrillo:  
Picture this: The Jersey Shore. 1977. A nine year old me, helping my parents empty out my great* aunt's house which we inherited, and I was tasked with emptying out the cupboards in the bathroom. I emerged with an item not unlike this item, and demanded my mother tell me how the hell does one dry their hair with this? 

The memory unearthed in the previous paragraph is no doubt the genesis of the fact that I, in fact, have an advanced directive for my *ahem* adult novelties. Yes. Advanced directive. I've got all that shit in a brown paper sack with the words, "In case of death, dispose in trash directly without looking." And inside the bag has a note that says, "fuck you for peeking. I shall now commence haunting your nosey ass. See you on the flip side, fucker."

*Great? Or is it great great? Or great grand aunt? She was the sister of my dad's grandmother. Even though I'm the family genealogist, I get a wee bit bogged down in this particular distinction. If my great grandmother had a sister, is she my great grand aunt, or just great aunt? Ruminate. Or not.

Saturday, February 8, 2014

You Might Be An Asshole If...

If you work with me, and it's clear to all that I do not have an office, hence I lack an actual DOOR, you might be an asshole if, you interrupt what I'm doing by prefacing your request with "KNOCK KNOCK!" Because I'll tell you what, asshole, it just makes me want to KNOCK KNOCK your big fat bucked teeth right out of your head.


See also: Horsey McBigtooth Edition.

Friday, January 24, 2014

Mavenism of the Moment: Post Traumatic Haiku Disorder

What the fuck IS Post Traumatic Haiku Disorder? Well, it's this weird-assed response I have when I'm repulsed or traumatized by something. And today that "something" is the fetid pit stank of a co-irker.

Super nice guy. And no, he doesn't have a disorder. He doesn't stink like this every day. At least if he did stink like this everyday, I'd prepare myself ahead of time with a swipe of Vics vap-o-rub under each nostril, like morgue workers do when dealing with ripe cadavers.

My point is, he IS capable of goodish hygiene. 
My problem is the CONSISTENCY of said hygiene.

So, this string of haiku is borne out of my olfactory bulb being used as a punching bag by this co-irker's stank glands.

Enjoy! (And by "enjoy" I really mean, "bask in the schadenfreude, bitches.")

How can you not smell
Your stink sticks to everything
Resinous armpit.

At first glance, normal
Otherwise fastidious
Oh! The pungency!

Singeing my nose hair
Nice guy with not-so-nice pits
Set my ire ablaze.

Why are you single?
 No one need ever to ask that.
 Regrettable whiff.

Indoor plumbing, soap
Detergent, deodorant
No excuse for stink.

I've met homeless men
Who did not stink like you do
Do you NOT smell it?

I feel bad. (I do!)
Bu-di-ssy meets All-be-damned! 
Please! Don't wave hello! 

END NOTE: This is all some weird assed, trippy, karmic riddle or joke, along the lines of "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" Corollary: One of life's lessons I was taught at a very young age was, "If you can smell yourself/your stink, OTHERS can, too." Well, here it is OTHERS can smell it, and yet, from the looks of it, he cannot smell his own stink or is otherwise immune to it, or the possibility is he thinks it's normal or he just accepts it.  And sadly, there is NO polite or kind way to bring this to his attention. The object ISN'T to cause him more suffering; however, I *would* like to diminish my own suffering. And since I cannot make him stink less, my post traumatic haiku disorder kicks into high gear.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Life Lesson I've Learned From Ron Effing Swanson

"Never half ass two things. WHOLE ass one thing."

Workplace What-the-Fuckery: Necromance Edition

What do these three items have in common?
  • Used condom.
  • Whole, raw sweet potato (or quite possibly a yam).
  • Fecal pile (definitely mammalian; possibly human, inadequately tucked into a plain brown lunch sack).
All three items were discovered one day (several years ago*) outside the entrance to my office building

Additionally, another day resulted in a brown lunch sack full of fecal material, that appeared as if the originating extruder's diet consisted of nothing but canned pumpkin.

*Unfortunately, sadly, no photographic proof. This was back before I had a cell phone with a camera feature. Inexplicably, I dredged up that memory today, and figured I'd slap the memory herein to share. Because I'm a fucking "giver."

Workplace What-the-Fuckery: Location-Nexus of CrayCray and What the Fuck

Our office should be relocating by mid-March. None-too-soon, if you ask me. 

Yesterday, as I went down to the lobby to sign for a UPS parcel, when I opened the door to the lobby, I was quite literally punched in the snot locker by the fetid stench of urine.

As I signed for the parcel, my eyes darted around to all four corners of the lobby, and I asked the UPS delivery dude, "WTF, did someone urinate out here?" He replied, "I don't know. I've been holding my breath waiting for you to come sign for this package!"

The current location of our office is in a very depressed part of town. Within a 2-4 block radius of my front door there is:
  • A men's shelter, 90% of occupants are on the county's sex offender registry 
  • Transitional housing (aka welfare hotel) for folks transitioning from shelter system to Section 8 
  • The Projects 
  • A methadon clinic 
  • Probation/Parole 
  • Family court 
  • Social services 
  • County and Federal court buildings 
  • TASC (Treatment Alternatives for Safer Communities)
So "downstairs" gets quite a bit of foot traffic, and quite a bit of that foot traffic is chock full of the cray-cray.

Oh, I neglected to mention, right outside our office is a bus stop, yanno, to make it super easy for all the derelicts to come here.

It's a very depressing area. Interestingly, you walk 2 blocks in any direction and the tone changes radically. Two blocks in one direction? Pricey condos. Two blocks in another direction? Hookers and blow (well, not really two blocks, that's further down on Lexington, but still a walkable distance). 

Friday, January 17, 2014

My Shitty Neighbors: Parking Edition

FWP? Perhaps. Such is life in suburbia. Condo Life sucks ass, since we're all packed together like sardines in our development, each person's assholeishness is amplified and felt quite directly.

The person who parks like this, is a certifiable, "Grade A" asshole, the likes of which has bells and whistles on it. We shall hold a parade in honor your ass-i-tude! Seriously, go fuck yourself. CLEARLY, this neighbor has zero fucks for which to give.

Note: The fury is for the KIA to the left, which is parked NOT in a spot, partially blocking the Honda to the right, and the BMW to the left (out of view). Because the ENTIRE WORLD rotates on its axis SOLELY for the convenience of this asshole. 

Note: This is not the only lot for our development. They are just supremely lazy. What would have been utter bliss would have been if it were garbage day, as this would no doubt have prevented department of sanitation workers from accessing the dumpsters. 


Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Workplace What-the-Fuckery: What the actual fuck?

We are a legal office. WTFF? This shit stopped me in my tracks today.