JINGLE BELL BALK

Call me crazy, but there’s something jarring about walking into a drugstore to drop off a prescription for antidepressants and hearing Christmas ditties piped through the speaker system.

 

I’m not The Grinch, I swear. I just seem like that this time of year. 

 

It’s nothing pervasive. I go about my days as I do during all the other calendar months. A routine keeps my mood and mind steady. 

 

Visually, I can take all the lights and decorations we slap on eaves, tape to window frames and wear as necklaces. With night creeping in so early each afternoon and hanging around like that clueless last guest at the party each morning, the strings of white lights and colored bulbs are most welcome. I can smile or good-naturedly cringe as people pass by, winter coats unzipped in balmy Vancouver, flashing their ugly Christmas sweaters. (The ugly is intentional, right?) Lawns filled with blown-up Santas allow the decorating-challenged to make a BIG statement and I’m inexplicably amused each morning when I see them deflated, looking more like melted Frosty than jolly Saint Nick.

 

Any seasonal dissociation doesn’t come from my heart; it’s triggered by my ears. Those Christmas songs, everywhere. 

 

Far from making spirits bright, the drugstore onslaught came off as mean-spirited. Neil Diamond, who is Jewish and presumably celebrated Hannukah, with the requisite “Happy” slapped in front of the holiday, sang a festive love-in imploring that “Children all get happy on Christmas Day.” The dude has released six Christmas albums. Ka-ching! Of course, he’s happy. Neil sang on, commanding that we “Sing a song of love” because “Love is all we need…on Christmas Day.” 

 

All I really needed was to get my prescription filled. It’s possible I may have been particularly cranky—er, grinchy—since the paper in my hand had more on it than usual. For the past four years, I’ve only taken one medication, but after last week’s appointment with my psychiatrist, I walked away with four making the list. Presumably, the new cocktail won’t make get “get happy.” I just need to get by. 

 

I tried to tune out Noël Neil. I’d get my anti-depressants and anxiety pills, grab some toilet paper if it’s on sale (no emergency, thank goodness) and head home.

 

Alas, no pills. The pharmacy is busy this time of year. (So it’s not just me!) I’d have to come back tomorrow. Oh, goody.

 

I made my way for the exit and then remembered I needed to pick up something else. I didn’t want to ask for help so I scanned shelves while the Eagles sang “Please Come Home for Christmas.” I was thankful for Don Henley singing the blues: “My baby’s gone, I have no friends.” Dark. I could relax. A range of emotions are okay this time of year. I navigated my way, scanning shelves full of antacids, powders professing to relieve constipation and pills that were supposed to help with chronic pain. Not what I needed, but knowing this didn’t propel me to sing “Joy to the World,” not even the non-holiday Three Dog Night version.

 

But even working through the blues, Henley opted to end the song on a cheery note, conjuring up a reunion with his “baby” when “There’ll be no more sorrow, no grief and pain and I’ll be happy, Christmas once again.” All righty then. Better than Metamucil.

 

Maybe more syrup is all I need.

By now, you’ve probably misjudged me, a bah-humbugging Scrooge if not the Whoville-hating Grinch. While I don’t go all Buddy the Elf at this time of year, I did have fun decorating a tree in a sad little park. I don’t have a tree since turfing all my ornaments in early 2020, anticipating a cross-country move that never happened, but I’m good with plopping my stuffie of Rudolph on a side table, a nice reminder of the 1964 TV production which just so happens to be my favorite show in the whole wide world which I’ve blogged about not once but twice. 

 

Decorating done!

For me, this season is about managing expectations. I’m bipolar and getting too high or too low can be problematic. I don’t like song after festive song telling me to be merry-happy-joyous-cheery because this is without out a doubt The Best Time of Year. I’m all too aware that many people struggle this month, slogging through a rough patch that can’t be conveniently brushed aside by sucking on a candy cane, eating shortbread and drinking eggnog, spiked or otherwise. 

 

I do like a number of Christmas songs, notably Donny Hathaway’s “This Christmas,” Stevie Wonder’s “What Christmas Means to Me” and The Carpenters’ version of “Merry Christmas, Darling.” I’ll stop and smile the first time I hear “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” each December. Even that omnipresent Mariah Carey tune sounds fresh during its first three plays of the season. What I don’t like is being assaulted with the sounds of Christmas when I walk into a store, café or restaurant. If I’m not happy happy in that very moment, I feel like something’s wrong with me. Rocks in my stocking. Blitzen ougtta bite me in the butt. Why can’t I snap into that Christmas spirit on command?

 

A Muppet fave, festive
in his candy cane apron.

Is it weird that I don’t feel like humming umpteen rounds “fa la la la la” while trying to shop discreetly for a personal care remedy? A ghastly thought prompted me to stop lingering. I worried the store would play Paul McCartney’s “Simply Have a Wonderful Christmastime” which sounds like it was written by a second grader or, worse, The Muppets’ version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” which I always feel compelled to listen to all the way through, Miss Piggy predictably singing of five golden rings, the Swedish Chef unjustly AWOL or, worst of all, any rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy.” (Et tu, David Bowie?!)

 

Driven by my unmedicated anxiety, I returned to the pharmacy counter, begging to be pointed in the right direction. Aisle 7, between toothpaste and deodorant, top shelf. A-ha! My exit pass. 

 

Seems I may have picked up athlete’s foot or some other itch-inducing infliction at the public pool. Let an $18 bottle of Funga Soap grant me relief. From burning toes if nothing else.

 

HOLLYWOOD WELCOMES THE GAYS TO THE CHRISTMAS FEAST

I’m not much for TV movies and normally no amount of rum in the eggnog will get me to sit through some schlockly new Christmas movie. “Rudolph,” “Elf” and “A Christmas Story” have all the merriment I need. But this is 2020, a year normal’s been shelved and everything continues to be radically shaken up. (Who would dare send gifts marked FRAGILE?)

In recent weeks, I’d come across a flurry of lightweight news articles about gays and lesbians featured as lead characters in Christmas movies. Groundbreaking, they all said. Really? I’d never really felt anything was missing in terms of seasonal fare since I’ve said here and here that “Rudolph” has long been my go-to for making the Yuletide gay. Still, on Friday afternoon as I wrapped up my week of writing, I stumbled on yet another article a gay Christmas movie...this time, “The Christmas Setup.” If it hadn’t been scheduled to air later that same evening, I’d have forgotten all about it. But after dinner and having absolutely nothing to do on a Friday night—I’ll pretend that it’s all COVID’s fault—I turned on the TV.

As it turned out, the article I’d read had listed the wrong time and I was an hour early tuning in. I was about to turn off the TV, but one of those impossibly good looking model/actors was on the screen, listening as his female Black friend talked about another guy being single...a possibility not for her but for Stunning Actor Guy.

Was I hearing this right? Maybe I should watch a little more, just for clarification.

Then Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine” came on and I put the remote aside. I smile every time she sings, “Anything I do or say better be okay when I have a bad hair day.” Amen! As guy and gal pal joined in some line dancing, I thought I spotted Andie MacDowell whom I always thought was a terrible actress. There she was in cowboy boots and looking like she was finally aging properly, presumably having lost her L’Oréal commercial gig. All of this made for novelty viewing. I retrieved the remote to find out what I was watching. Hark all the heralding angels, it turned out to be another gay Christmas movie, “Dashing in December.” I quashed a surging humbug instinct, dismissed the logical argument that there was no point in watching a movie halfway through and surrendered to fake snow, a gazebo strung up in Christmas lights and more time to ogle the pretty boy playing a somewhat cold character named Wyatt. Was he really that cold or was this actor—Peter Porte, as a commercial break Google search revealed—emoting as best he could, coming from the MacDowell school of acting? (I think it was a bit of both.)

I don’t think I missed much from the first hour of the movie. The plot seemed to keep repeating itself for other latecomers. Family farm for sale. Mother and son still haven’t coped with the death of husband/dad. A studly gay ranch hand is more connected to the land than the commitment-phobic, high-flying son who’s shunned all things about his rural roots in favor of New York City. Will Wyatt have a change of heart and decide the ranch is worth keeping and the ranch hand is worth romancing?

It’s a Christmas movie. There are no spoilers because there are no surprises. Everybody finds love—Mom, son and ranch hand, best gal pal. Candy canes for all!

Okay then.

Wisely forgoing a commercial break, the channel segued immediately into “The Christmas Setup.” Another successful New York gay guy, single of course, with another minority gal pal, Asian this time. Again, it’s a home for the holidays scenario, this time with a New York lawyer heading back with faithful friend in tow to his Milwaukee hometown to be greeted by Fran Drescher who, unlike Andie MacDowell, has never struggled with emoting. Instead of saving the ranch, the focus becomes saving a train station and, instead of a ranch hand, there’s a never-acted-upon high school crush to make our Big City main character confused about where his head and heart should land. (This movie also has a dead husband/dad, but I don’t think that’s part of a Christmas movie formula. I suspect it just keeps the casting budget down.)

No surprises in this flick either. For me, it came off as the cuter movie, the lead carrying an aw-shucks demeanor that seemed very Canadian. (Turns out he is.) There were a couple of added reasons for viewing since I’d read that the two leads were, in fact, a married couple and the movie was shot in locations close to my family cottage in Ontario. Once again, in this movie, everyone gets their Christmas wishes granted. (It seems Fran Drescher’s doting mom character is content enough to have her two sons home for the holidays. No Cupid intervention for her despite the fact that the high school sweetheart’s dad also seems to be unattached. Maybe that storyline got cut to make room for commercials. Or maybe it’s just too hard for any actor to stand out alongside Drescher. Why, oh why, was Charles Shaughnessy unavailable?)

Both movies go down like store-bought shortbread. Did I really need that?! Whether the question pertains to the movies or the cookies, the answer is, “Of course not!” Still, with a shrug and a no-further-logic-required “’Tis the season,” sometimes you just have to surrender to the holidays. Bonus that one of the movies—at this point, I don’t remember which—played a Sara Bareilles Christmas tune.

Three hours came and went and I can say with certainty they passed better than the Friday night office Christmas party of yesteryear. 2020 ain’t all bad.

'RUDOLPH" REDUX

I make sure I watch my favorite TV show in the whole wide world at least once a year. Being as it's "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer", it makes sense to view it now rather than in July. But that doesn't mean it's off my mind in summer. Of course not. I'm not kidding about that Favorite-Show-In-The-Whole-Wide-World designation. (For the record, the runners up are "The Brady Bunch" episode where "something suddenly came up" after Marcia takes a football to the nose, the "Newhart" finale, the "Friends" show where Joey explains what is a "moo point" and the "Seinfeld"—oh, there are so many worthy candidates!—where Elaine hates on "The English Patient".)

I’ve extolled the virtues of my FSITWWW previously and it’s one of my most-read blog posts. (Interestingly, no one has ever left a comment. Perhaps I’ve disturbed my readers.) I’ve decided to add another post after one of the guys I’m dating made some disparaging comments about the show.

What?! Did I just write “one of the guys I’m dating”? As in more than one living and breathing man? Yes. The total is two. And there is a third date in the works with each of them. This would be the time for me to run out and buy a lottery ticket, too.

And a second What?! I’m still dating a guy who spoke negatively of my FSITWWW? Yes. Even with another man on deck, I know how rare encore dates are for me. Clearly, I’m cutting him a great deal of slack.

To be honest, his comments were on point. He is, after all,--oh, what’s the sophisticated term?—a smartypants. Ph.D and all that.

And let’s go on one more tangent, shall we? No, I did not bring up my FSITWWW. Not directly. We were simply sitting in the movie theatre, waiting for the onslaught of advertising to cease before seeing the achingly wonderful “Carol”, when I asked, “Do you have a favorite Christmas movie or TV show?”

“Interesting question,” he said while pensively scratching his chin as smartypants are prone to doing. “Well, not ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ and not ‘Miracle on 34^th Street’. Those Claymation TV shows are interesting…”

Ooh, I tried not to squirm in my seat.

“…Like Rudolph—”

Yes!

“—although it’s so American.”

Saying something is so American is an easy way for a Canadian to toss out a putdown. As in Having a gun in every drawer of your house is so American or Treating the Kardashians as royalty is so American. (Never mind that we’re the country that gave the world Alan Thicke, Pamela Anderson and Justin Bieber. Sorry, sorry and Sorry. I have to admit the Biebs has some catchy tunes out now.)

But smartypants explained himself. “It’s the way the characters talk.” Uh,…okay. I just nodded. His Ph.D is in linguistics, after all. “And it’s all so heterosexist.”

I could not let that go with a nod. I piped up, “Sure Santa is. His chosen reindeer have to be of a certain caliber. And the adult bucks, Donner and Comet, are both intolerant of Rudolph. Furthermore, Donner refuses Mrs. Donner’s offer to help search for the runaway Rudolph with a curt, ‘No. This is man’s work.’”

If I’d had my wits about me, I would have paraphrased instead of offering the exact quote. There is such a thing as Too Much Information on a second date. And then I went on to explain how Santa and the adult male reindeer are subordinate characters, foils even, along with those you-can’t-join-in-any-reindeer-games young ’uns.

“Rudolph” is about the acceptance and triumph of the odd ducks. It’s that classic theme about being special just the way you are. Rudolph. Hermey. Yukon Cornelius. The Jack-in-the-box named Charlie. Even the woefully misunderstood and nightmare-inducing Abominable Snow Monster. (Well, he caused me many a bad sleep.)

The one character that confuses me is Burl Ives’ Sam the Snowman, a solitary figure, a dapper gent—a mature bachelor!—with a well-groomed mustache and goatee and a snazzy plaid vest that sports a chain from which dangles a stylish pocket watch. I had him pegged for gay, but maybe he’s still more closeted than the younger generation of misfits. Sam isn’t very sympathetic of Hermey the Elf and his aspirations of being a dentist. Hermey is ridiculed by the other elves and quits. Sam dismissively says, “Ah, well, such is the life of an elf.”

Donner may be the worst. From the beginning, he is insistent that his son Rudolph will be a normal reindeer, immediately deciding to hide the illicit red nose. Even Sam the Snowman refers to the Donners hiding “Rudolph’s, um…nonconformity.” If Donner is intolerant, Santa isn’t much better. Truth is, Santa comes off badly in the production. The elves seem to irritate him with their singing. When Rudolph outshines the other young bucks, flying through the air, Rudolph’s talent becomes irrelevant when his red nose is exposed. This glaring difference is unacceptable. Santa’s intolerance is clear when he admonishes Rudolph’s father: “Donner, you should be ashamed of yourself. What a pity. He had a nice takeoff, too.”

And, after my command viewing this year, the heterosexism is more evident. (I was always more drawn to all the misfits.) Why, it’s Comet, the adult buck, who takes the lead in excluding Rudolph! “From now on, gang,” he tells the young bucks, “we won’t let Rudolph join in any reindeer games.” And then there’s Sam’s flippant response as narrator after it seems that Yukon (and his dogs which never even get a mention) died going over a cliff: “Well, they are all very sad at the loss of their friend, but they realize that the best thing to do is to get the women back to Christmas Town.” Ugh. Yes, my smartypants date has reason for reticence over “Rudolph”.

1964. The show is a reflection of its time. (I love that it premiered the year I was born!) It’s not that Donner, Comet and Santa are admirable. They represent straight men from fifty-one years ago. Considering the times, it’s even more glorious that Rudolph, Hermey and Yukon stand out. They are special, even as regarded as misfits. These are the characters that outshine the all-too-conventional others. Their “nonconformities” are what help to save Christmas. And again, in an era before all that “It gets better”, gay marriage and magazine covers with Ellen and Caitlyn, these stop-motion misfits helped me through many of my darkest days, whenever they came in the year.

Favorite show, indeed!

CAUTIOUSLY FESTIVE

Do you hear what I hear? I’ve been “fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la”-ing in my head all morning. It has taken me by surprise.

As a middle-aged single guy who regularly faces holidays alone, these are dicey times. Cherished alone time can suddenly meld into solitary confinement as folks around me pack up to visit family and run up their credit cards with gift purchases. Chocolates conveniently displayed by the checkout counter! Clearance rack carves! A second-hand copy of Snooki’s autobiography! (Under the tree filler. Just don’t get too hung up on it’s the thought that counts.)

I tell myself everything is fine. Christmas can be just another day. Or it can be “differently special”—I can make homemade pizza, walk the dog along the beach and through the forest trails, finally watch my DVD copy of “Annie Hall” all the way through, complete a jigsaw puzzle, deep clean the oven. Maybe just different without the special.

So far, everything is fine. I’m even feeling festive. I don’t change the radio station when a Chipmunks Christmas song comes on. I put up a string of lights along the front of the house for the first time in years. I even stood in line to get my dog’s picture taken with Santa. (The helper elf seemed startled when I said I wanted in the photo. You can see for yourself that it meant more to me than my poor pooch. I swear I did not give him a sedative, nor did I load up on rum balls beforehand. Stop the Twitter rumors now.)

I’ve been debating about getting a tree. Probably won’t. I’ve been indoctrinated by Smokey the Bear and firefighters on the news about fire hazards and I’ll be away on my own little adventure for part of the holidays. I’d like to return to a house rather than a pile of soot. Still, even thinking about putting up an askew spruce is a positive step. It shows that Ebenezer and the ghosts of non-Christmas past have been kept at bay.

I’d buy a poinsettia, but it breaks my heart to see it suffer a slow death in the months that follow, leaves dropping rapidly to create a Charlie Brown plant which I finally turf mid-April. Maybe a wreath is the way to go.

Last night I curled up on the sofa with my dog and delighted in every moment of my favorite show in the whole wide world, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”! (Make the Yule-tide gay, indeed!) And I purposely chose the most festively decorated café in town as my writing site this morning. Each time I struggle with a phrase, my eyes look up and are enchanted by the white lights that adorn the pine garlands along the perimeter. Tonight I’m baking shortbread and double chocolate ginger cookies to share with colleagues tomorrow.

Under the right circumstances, I could completely embrace the season. I’m not there yet, but at least I’m not shunning it. I think I’ll head to the pet store and load up on doggy treats to stuff in the stocking I so badly wanted during our office party gift exchange. Everyone else battled for booze. I was totally set on the Santa stocking.

 As the cookies bake this evening, I’ll write a handful of Christmas cards, sparing people the form letter enclosure with news about Aunt Hazel’s shingles and my bird-watching plans for ’14. (Sorry, a holiday Tweet or a Facebook post is not the same.)

Of course, all this tentative merriment could evaporate as the 25^th nears. For now, I’ll keep tapping my toes as José Feliciano sings “Feliz Navidad” and pick up a carton of soy eggnog before hunting down a suitable wreath.

Deck the halls and all that stuff. Fa la la la la la la la la!

YEP,..."RUDOLPH" IS GAY

The rumors are out there. Bert and Ernie. Tinky Winky. Waylon Smithers from “The Simpsons”.

I want them all to be gay. (Somewhere in a red state, an aide for a Republican Congressman is citing my blog as proof that the gays recruit. A clear distortion. I have no affinity for Teletubbies, but if one of them is gay, I welcome him/it.)

Young or old(er), we all like to have people/creatures with whom we can identify. Some celebrities are openly gay, but I cannot relate to this one or that one . (Heck, maybe it's just the name. I cannot relate to this guy or that guy either.) Sometimes I have to settle for making glorified sock puppets my role models.

And stop-motion animated Christmas characters.

Yes, Rudolph. To me, the Rankin/Bass television classic “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” has so much to say about being gay. I watch it every December and find myself referring to characters, scenes and songs even in August. Usually, I have the sense to think in my head rather than out loud. Seems it’s more socially acceptable to constantly quote from “The Wizard of Oz”. I
am one of the friends of Dorothy, but there is room for a reindeer as well.

“Rudolph” is all about being different, feeling different and being misunderstood. And it’s not just our now-beloved reindeer. Early on, Hermey, the only elf at the Pole with thick wavy blond hair, knows the standard elfin life is not for him. (Hermey’s odd name could be a tribute to the ancient god Hermes or to the venerable Hermès fashion house.) He wants to be a dentist, but is told in no uncertain terms that such a path is unacceptable. Elves make toys. He must conform. No break for him. While the other elves presumably drink cocoa and eat Keebler cookies, Hermey is forced to suppress his true self and bang out more toy trains. Hermey can’t do it. Hermey won’t do it! Instead, he sings melodic lines penned by Johnny Marks: “Why am I such a misfit? I am not just a nitwit. You can’t fire me, I quit. Seems I don’t fit in.”

Oh, Hermey, I feel your pain. And, please, I have nothing against elves. Tangential confession: When I was in grade three, I planned to leave home. Nothing against my family (then, at least); I had a higher calling. I decided to stay awake on Christmas Eve until not a creature was stirring and then scurry over to the fireplace to wait for Santa. I had to make my plea for the jolly guy to take me back to the Pole. I wanted to be an elf. No joke. Making toys for nice kids seemed like a noble profession.

Okay, so back to “Rudolph”, Hermey in my mind is clearly gay...and strong enough to break free from conventional expectations. While others admired Superman, Ironman and Batman, Hermey the elf was my hero. I suppose Hermey may be part of the reason I travel sixty kilometers each way to see my gay dentist.

So we’ve got Hermey figured out. How about Rudolph? True, he crushes on that young doe, Clarice. And he becomes gay in the “happy” sense at the very least. Rudy may not be gay, but he would certainly join a gay-straight alliance if they had one at reindeer school. Accustomed to rejection and ridicule, Hermey and Rudy are initially tentative. “You don’t mind my nose?” asks Rudolph, to which the elf responds, “Not if you don’t mind that I’m a—“ wait for it—“dentist.” In a precious part of the script, Hermey and Rudy agree to become independent...together. Rudolph also represents being different and being shunned. He questions himself, singing the same tune as Hermey with a different final line: “Why don’t I fit in?”

Poor Rudolph. Growing up is tough when you don’t feel “normal”. The name calling. The shame that his own parents project. My gosh, they insist that he cover up the part of him that makes him different.

Intolerance comes to a head when Rudolph’s true nose is uncovered at the testosterone-heavy reindeer school, a place where Coach Comet states, “My job is to make bucks out of you.” The coach, in fact, takes the lead in shunning the different pupil, telling his other students, “We won’t let him play in our games.” Even the supposedly benevolent Santa condemns the red-nosed reindeer upon discovery of his uniqueness, saying to the father, “Donner, you should be ashamed of yourself.” As I watch the show now, the behaviors of the elf supervisor, Santa, Donner and Coach Comet are far scarier than those of The Abominable Snow Monster.

I so empathized with the rejected reindeer.

But writer Romeo Muller (adapting the short story by Robert May) drives the theme of being different home with more examples. As a team, Hermey and Rudy set off on their own. They encounter an eccentric by the name of Yukon Cornelius who seeks his fortune in silver and gold. Though rough around the edges, Cornelius does not hesitate to befriend and assist Rudy and Hermey. “Climb aboard, mateys.” Full acceptance. You are who you are.

And to drive home the point about differences, the trio drift onto The Island of Misfit Toys. They meet the unwanted, the unloved, the banished: Charlie-in-the-box, a spotted elephant, a “choo choo with square wheels”, a cowboy who rides an ostrich, and a water pistol that shoots jelly. Rudy and Hermey think they have found a refuge, but they cannot stay. The island is for toys, not living creatures (a seemingly technical distinction since the toys talk, sing, dance and express feelings). They do not even belong among other misfits.

Rudolph sets off on his own in the night, fearing his unique trait will continue to bring detection and danger from the fierce Abominable Snow Monster. Eventually Rudolph reunites with family but he fails to fend the monster from Clarice and Rudolph’s parents. Cornelius and Hermey (yes, my childhood hero!) save the day. Hermey’s dental skills prove essential in reforming the formerly beastly “bumble”.

And because this is one of those happily ever after tales, Rudolph, Hermey and even The Abominable Snow Monster are welcomed back at Christmastown. The adults finally show acceptance (though Coach Comet is silent). Hermey can be a dentist. Rudolph need not cover that distinct nose. The Not-So-Abominable creature can put the star atop the tree. Even the misfit toys are rounded up and delivered to homes where they will be welcomed and loved. Each is needed. Each is valued.

Produced forty-seven years ago, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” was my annual dose of acceptance at a time when there were no openly gay role models. Am I being too egocentric in thinking that Hermey and Rudolph are all about the gays? Other minorities, others who feel they don’t fit in are most welcome to identify with the show and the characters. But I make no apologies for my own interpretation. “Rudolph” continues to entertain while also nudging society to be more open, more tolerant, more loving.

Watch it again. Sing along to the timeless tunes. Most importantly, think about the message.