I often compare life on the island to living in a stereotypical small town where everybody knows everyone, everything, and every misstep. If you’ve never experienced what it’s like to live somewhere like Mayberry, allow me give you a briefing so you have an idea of what I’m referring to.
You Know You Live in a Small Town When…
- You have been in the town parade
- Loitering isn’t a bad thing, it’s the only thing
- You refer to THE stoplight
- You measure distance in minutes
The similarities here on Tortola to small town living haunt you sometimes – like times when you can’t find anything open on a Sunday, or times when it feels like the sidewalks have rolled up at 5pm, or times when you just want to be anonymous but will inevitably run into someone you know. Generally, I just shrug it off and accept it as a fact of island life, however, there are two situations where it goes beyond basic acceptance and living in a small town setting can either make or break you.
Small Town-Island Survival Tip #1 : Secure a Reliable Gossip Source
When you go away for a couple of weeks, you’re bound by Small Town Code to come back and immediately catch up on all the gossip you missed while you’ve been away. This is critical: you must have a reliable source to come back to! In Tortola, very little changes with the landscape and businesses and what does can usually be summed up in a sentence or two even if you’ve been gone for months; what can’t be summed up in a sentence or two is the bemusings of the people in Tortola… my equation works out to roughly one drink per week you’ve been away. Without a solid source to come back to, you could mistakenly walk into a minefield of foot-in-mouth situations which have the potential to spread like wildfire. I repeat: always have a reliable gossip source to come back to!
Small Town-Island Survival Tip #2 : When Dating, Hope for the Best – but Prepare for the Worst
If you come to this island single (or single-minded), chances are you are going to end up dating someone and with that, is the chance that you will end up not dating that someone (read: The Dreaded Ex). When dating in your small town-island, it is wise to hope for the best, but prepare for the very worst. Best case scenario, you fall madly in love, spend your days here in bliss, and maybe even take your love with you beyond the island someday. Second choice best case, you break it off amicably and continue on with your separate lives, saying hello in passing and otherwise being unobtrusive. If only it were always that simple…
Enter worst case scenario (the best of the worst), which you can expect to play out in several ways:
- You work in the same office as The Ex and still have to see them everyday
- You attend the same gym as The Ex and even when you vary your schedule, 9 times out of 10, you run into one another
- You start dating someone new and, on your first date, end up being served by The Ex (yes, it happens!)
The other worst case (worst of the worst) combines the small town-island inability to not run into the same person over and over with a case of rock fever (read: uncontrollable crazy behavior) – trust me, you will recognize this situation when you see it. It’s when an abrupt spatter of yelling occurs on an otherwise pleasant Friday night out, or when laser beam eyes start burning a hole in the back of someone’s head when they’re chatting with someone new, or when one person is constantly showboating to whoever will watch to appear as though they are the superior being, or, my personal favourite, when all of the above are combined (with multiple drinks) into one giant explosion of WTF ?! All I can say is, always hope for the best but prepare for the VERY worst.
– – –
With a profound positive outlook on life, I can see the the good side of these small town quirks. When the foot-in-mouth situations occur, or the almighty WTF ?! moment just happened, the good news is that at least you’ll never have to repeat the story yourself; Small Town Code dictates that within the hour, the majority of the population will have already caught up with their source and be fully apprised of the scoop!
Disclaimer: My sincere apologies if this offends anyone but please, use some common sense.
Around 50% of the BVI’s economy is obtained from tourism. That’s right – half of this territory’s money comes from those newly-wed, over-fed, really-red, nearly-dead folks from overseas. Those four categories are typically used to describe cruise ship passengers, but we mustn’t forget the various corporate Vice-Presidents, CEOs, doctors, and other well-placed members of society who grace our shores and our offshores with their presence and put bread on the Government’s table. Those of us who have been here for a long time have taken to grouping all visitors of a certain genus into one subcategory of fauna that we call Tourons.
The word touron is a completely fictitious noun and serves to combine the words “tourist” and “moron” into a jovial juxtaposition of jargon. In terms of expression, it can be used with the same tone of disdain as when using “moron” when witnessing someone doing something idiotic from a distance. Hence, the definition of touron is: a tourist doing (or saying) something idiotic. Sadly, this is most often right under our noses, rather than from at a distance.
While we may still shake our heads, we have long ago forgiven them for their “Caribbean holiday outfits” that they have so carefully chosen for their trip. Hawaiian shirts, socks worn with sandals and pulled up to the knees, fanny packs, bee-keeper type hats, and a raging sunburn are no longer causes for surprise. They’ve given in to the various Caribbean stereotypes acquired subconsciously over time via television shows, advertisements, and movies, and show up looking like weatherman Joey Stevens. All that’s missing is the puppet parrot on their right arm. But it’s fine. They thought this was the Caribbean norm. They thought it was quirky and fun. They didn’t know any better.
Complete and utter ignorance as described above is laughable, and just about forgivable. It’s when some tourists arrive, decidedly devoid of common sense, that we tend to start muttering “touron” under our breath. It’s as though, when faced with the issue of overweight baggage, they decided that removing their brains and leaving them at home would allow more carry-on room for their jelly shoes and zinc. That’s about 8lbs right there, and besides, I won’t be needing this in the blissful waters of the BVI, right? Wrong. Showing up here without your noggin is far from forgivable…it’s downright inexcusable.
Upon experiencing the words and actions of a touron, stunned silence, widened eyes, raised eyebrows, uncontrollable bursts of laughter, a face-palm or pursed lips (and schtupsing) usually ensue. In hindsight, however annoying they may be at the time, all of them are downright hilarious. I’ve compiled a few of these incidences below, which I have either experienced myself or which have been shared with me by friends and family.
THINGS THAT MAKE YOU GO… HUH?
- Walking in the middle of the road.
Ok, not a huge deal, but…why? It’s clearly a road. There are two lanes, with cars going up and down it in either direction. Would you walk in the middle of the road at home? No. I rest my case.
- Walking around town in a bikini/with their shirt off.
Again…why?! Surely not something that’s encouraged upon the shores of home. I can only assume that this stems from the stereotypical view of “No Shirt. No Shoes. No Problem.” Well, guess what: no shirt? No shoes? Big problem. Walking around half naked for all the world to see is considered culturally offensive in the BVI. You can’t blame the heat either…if I can survive in a work blouse and trousers, you can handle it. Put your Hawaiian shirt back on!
- Referring to the locals as “indigenous.”
?!?! Really, I have no words for this one.
- When asked to provide picture ID with their online credit card purchase: taking a selfie with their computer webcam and emailing it through.
Hmm looks like sometimes their brain is stored away before they even board the plane.
- Asking how long it’s going to take them to get back to the ship from where they are…when they can see the ship, big and bright as day from where they are.
You’d be surprised how often this happens.
Yes, people really said or asked these things.
- “How do you keep the islands from floating away?”
Magic. We’re not quite sure but it has something to do with mermaids and giant anchors.
- “What do you do with the islands in hurricane season? Do you have to tie them down?”
See above. They work overtime.
- “How long do you think it would take me to swim under the island?” [Blank stare.] “I’m not stupid; I know I couldn’t do it all in one breath, but hypothetically, how long do you think it would take?”
Why don’t you give it a try and find out? We’ll give the mermaids a heads up on your arrival.
- A lady’s response when she was asked why she was carrying multiple small vials with her: “I want to collect the different shades of blue in the ocean.”
Good luck with that.
- When sitting on board a sailboat in BVI waters: “What’s the altitude here?”
Seriously? You’re sitting on a boat. On the ocean. You know, the sea?
- Having met a crew member on a cruise ship in the middle of a stairwell: “Excuse me, Miss, do these stairs go up or down?”
- How many sunsets do you have?
Just the one. Everyday. About the same time. You see, the Earth revolves around the…oh, never mind.
- What are those weird dark patches moving over the mountains?
It’s that same deadly fog that’s in Lost. Yeah, we’re going to be stuck out here for a while. Or at least until the clouds move…
- After using the head (toilet) on a sailboat: “The colour of the ocean is so blue you can even see it in the toilet bowl!”
It’s fucking Fabuloso.
And on and on it goes. It’s quite scary to think that these types of people are responsible for half of our economy.
Some of these questions are posed by more than one set of tourons (perhaps they go to conventions, or interbreed), but you can guarantee that by the end of the tourist season each year there are a slew of new touron-isms being relayed to us year-rounders for our audible pleasure.
Many of the stories make us laugh so much our bellies ache. All of them make us shake our heads and mutter: “tourons.”
Feel free to share your own experiences in the comments!
I was talking to someone recently about how frustrating it is that everything over here is constantly breaking. But then I began to wonder whether things actually did disproportionately break on this rock or whether the truth was that it simply took a disproportionately long time to repair anything, hence giving the impression that everything is constantly breaking.
It’s a double edged sword of gloom and doom. When something breaks, your first hurdle is that everyone moves in slow motion and tradesmen tend to address most issues “in about a year”. The second hurdle is that “you need a part”.
My car has needed a new radiator for quite some time but I quite simply couldn’t be arsed to deal with it. So I diligently drove around with a gallon jug of water in the car at all times for topping up. Sadly, I eventually reached the point that I couldn’t actually complete my 5 minute slide down the hill to work without the radiator completely emptying. I was still in denial until the boys at the dock in the morning starting talking about gaskets blowing and $$$$$$ being spent. They drove the point home – I had to buy a freaking radiator.
With car repairs here you have three options: they have it in BVI; they have it in the USVI (and will put it on the ferry – a truly exhausting experience); or you have to ship the part in from Miami (which takes so long you have lost the receipt by the time the shipping agent needs it). Fortunately for me, I drive the car of the islands – a Suzuki – so parts can normally be found over here. The Rastaman drives a Dodge, which might as well be a spaceship for the teeth sucking and head shaking that goes on when that thing needs a part.
So I got lucky. Not only did they have a radiator over on Tortola, but one of my boys volunteered to pick it up for me. I felt like a princess. Add to this the fact that my next-door neighbour is one of the best mechanics on the island and he volunteered to fit the bloody thing. For the first time in many months, I felt like a winner.
The radiator was duly delivered to my house by my boy. The Rastaman duly opened it. So near, yet so far….. a beautiful radiator without a radiator cap – ergo, totally freaking useless.
How long could it possibly take to buy a radiator cap on a Saturday, you ask? Nine hours, my friend. NINE HOURS for a $13 cap.
From previous experience, I decided that the safest thing to do was to take the radiator with me to ensure that by the end of the day I had the right cap. So the radiator and I left home at about 9 am and spent about an hour on the corner trying to hitch a ride. We made it to the car parts shop at the other end of the island, only to discover that it is closed on Saturdays. The helpful man that I hitched a ride with told me that he assumed I knew that the shop was closed on Saturdays and that I had other reasons for carrying a car radiator to this destination. Arsehole! This detour meant that I missed the ferry to Tortola. So, at 10:15 am, I cracked my first Heineken. Bring it on. If this is the way this day is going, I’m going through it half-cut.
By 12:15 pm (only three and a quarter hours since I left home), I arrived at the car shop on the next island that had sold my boy the radiator.
Me: “My boy bought this radiator yesterday but it doesn’t have a cap.”
Salesman: “Of course it doesn’t have a cap. New radiators never come with caps.”
Sweet baby Jesus. I am not sure if I was more annoyed with radiator maunfacturers for selling their products without the only vital part or with this charming assistant who had failed to share his in-house knowledge when we bought the radiator in the first place. Would it not be helpful to have a large sign on the box like “batteries not included”, as they do for kids toys? Men/Kids, Cars/Toys, you get me?!
Approximately one minute later, I am the proud owner of a natty cap for my radiator.
Now, because I am a self-confessed idiot, I thought I should try to make this pointless morning more worthwhile by squeezing in a much needed haircut. I figured the next ferry was at 2:30 pm, so I had enough time. Sadly, the hairdresser was fully booked – it was Saturday afterall. So I mooched off to the nearest bar and hit the liquor to drown the sorrows of my pointless day off. I drank another Heineken, a couple glasses of wine, a piña colada, and a shot of cinnamon whiskey. I felt a bit ill.
Suddenly alarmed by the time, I staggered/ran to the ferry dock, clutching my now very cumbersome radiator and was delighted to find that I had arrived ahead of time. Yet 2:30 pm came and went with no ferry in sight. I had an overwhelming desire to sleep now or simply lie down and possibly pass out. I mustered the energy to enquire as to the whereabouts of the 2:30 pm ferry. It transpires that the 2:30 pm ferry is a figment of my imagination. I was now looking down the barrel of a two hour wait for the 4:30 pm boat.
I sat under the pathetic shade of a dying tree and felt the sun burning my pasty white skin with the knowledge that my lunchtime hangover was in the post, guaranteed delivery before nightfall.
When I finally made it back to my island, some poor blind man who couldn’t swim managed to step off the ferry into the gap between the ferry and dock. The ferry workers reacted as if someone had dropped a piece a paper. The next man to disembark reacted like a normal human and dove into the water after him. I, on the other hand, could only focus on one thing – HOME. I was half-cut, sweaty, dirty, sunburnt, and clutching an uncomfortably large box.
I hiked up the road and waited at the prime hitch-hiking corner. The wind blew my radiator into the road. I left it there. I figured I would pick it up when I got a ride. I finally arrived at home after 6:00 pm.
The Rastaman was sinking a cold one on the porch.
“Hello, Princess. Have you had a nice day off?”
Every once in awhile I get the notion to create a Virgin Islands nature photo series that includes the litter. Curiously, you don’t see this particular point of view among the postcards, calendars, watercolors, and fine prints already for sale. I suppose this project wouldn’t fall under the category of commercial art. It would be more like my own little PSA campaign.
Visit our pristine tropical paradise!
Because as much as the water—with its multiple hues of turquoise—dominates the island landscape, the garbage is undeniably part of it too. We’re surrounded daily by stunning natural scenes of the sort that most people use as desktop backgrounds, a little in-cubicle motivation toward that one annual week at the beach. And yet, plenty of island residents soil the beauty of their home by littering with absolute abandon.
Thus, the vistas are a mosaic of verdant hills speckled with brightly-painted houses, vibrant flora, and the green and brown shades of beer bottles. The beaches, with their white sand and crystalline water, are bordered with a mix of coconut palms, sea grapes, and washed-up trash. Detritus that resembles the innards of a junkyard piñata, cracked open to release a confetti of partly-broken-down plastics, mixed with more substantial prizes: work boots, for instance, and empty dish soap bottles.
Our dishes are cleaner than some of our beaches.
Waste Management consists of a series of dumpsters scattered throughout the rock. Extremely limited truck service is offered only in “urban” areas like Cruz Bay and Charlotte Amalie. So one must take their trash to the neighborhood dumpster. Yet this proves too taxing for some, who find it simpler to fling their trash bags into a roadside ditch or an abandoned lot.
This despite several signs encouraging people not to litter, a few that even threaten fines. Which of course makes no difference to those for whom it’s essential that the inside of a moving vehicle be completely free of debris at every moment. Immediately after a water bottle has finished serving its purpose, out the window it must go. Reflecting upon the live-grenade-like haste with which it’s abandoned, one might wonder if, perhaps, an island legend claims that the Snickers wrapper will self-destruct ten seconds after the candy is consumed.
I’ve started using walks with my dog, Hershey, as an occasion to pick up trash in my neighborhood. I don’t do it every day, I’m no saint. But, if the mood is right, and if he voids his bowels in a considerate location, I use the (evil) plastic, doubled grocery bags I carry with us for litter.
It’s mostly Heineken and Vitamalt bottles that I come across, mixed with a smattering of Fanta cans and plastic cups. Sometimes the beer bottles have been hillside long enough to now be considered erosion control. Those are left untouched; I’ll be damned if I’m going to dig them out and cause a landslide.
Oh, the things we could build with beer bottles if only we put our minds to it!
I see my share of picnic forks and Vienna Sausage tins left from the lunches of laborers. When the utility company has been in the neighborhood, in addition to the decimated landscaping left behind, are remnants of job site meals: chicken bones (biodegradable, yes, but gross and my dog remains obsessed until they’ve composted into oblivion), scraps of tin foil, to-go boxes, beverage containers, and more plastic cutlery.
At one house, I finally picked up a large plastic child’s ball bat and a pair of toddler shoes I’d often passed with no motivation to grab. How many times have these people walked from house to car, stepping over their own garbage, without feeling moved to collect it? I mean, if the three minute drive to the dumpster proves too laborious, you’d think they’d at least deposit their rubbish in the abandoned lot down the road.
A few days later, I picked up several old car parts outside the same house that I didn’t have room for when grabbing the kid things. Last weekend when passing, I saw that they had started another auto repair. The parts boxes strewn on both sides of the street were what tipped me off, that combined with the collection of freshly-extracted auto guts lying adjacent to the vehicle.
Do they notice that someone has come along and picked up trash that’s languished outside their home for who knows how long? And if so, what do they think? Are they pleased that someone has finally removed it on their behalf? Are they pissed at the phantom trash collector for not minding their own business? Embarrassed that their own lack of pride and effort has finally moved a stranger to clean up after them? Although I’m curious, I must admit, I really don’t care.
This particular house also has one of the grossest items I’ve encountered. Namely, an overturned plunger head that’s been re-purposed into a water collection vessel with the apparent function of aiding in the reproduction of mosquitoes and, therefore, the dissemination of dengue fever. Other nasty items found in various locales (and all left behind, like I said, I’m no saint) include dirty diapers, one tampon applicator, and of course, the occasional used condom….At least they used protection?
“Just tuck the Pamper behind the rock where no one will see it.”
Recently, I came upon a man washing a decades-old truck that had long ago lost its color to the sun. A truck I might not bother washing at all. I noticed a small pile of beer cans in the grass next to the truck. And then watched the guy travel from truck to pile, depositing another can. I had enough room in my plastic bag to fit the cans, and had every intention of going home with them. But how to go about it? I mean, the perpetrator being right there and all. I considered the possibility that he was, indeed, planning to throw these cans in a proper trash receptacle when done with the truck. I decided, however, not to take my chances.
I wondered if I should say something when entering the man’s personal bubble to pick up his trash. Something non-threatening yet pointed like, “I’m sure you were going to get these, but while I’m at it, why don’t you just let me,” stated with a smile, of course. Or something more confrontational like, “So do you expect someone to pick up after you or is it that you just don’t give a shit?”
In the end, I said nothing. Just nonchalantly crossed to his side of the street, bent over, retrieved the cans, and put them in my half-filled sack. Not breaking pace, removing my headphones, or even so much as glancing in his direction.
Here’s a fun find.
I haven’t stated what is perhaps the obvious yet, but certainly attitudes toward litter are, in part, a cultural thing.
One day Magnum and I were outside a St. Thomas shopping center when a Cheetos bag swept across our path like a millennial tumbleweed. I followed my instinct, which was to race down the trash and deposit it in the closest outdoor garbage bin.
When I returned to his side, Magnum’s glare held a mixture of embarrassment and disgust.
“When we together in public, you never pick up trash. Understand me?”
“Bullshit,” I told him. “I’m not letting this stuff end up in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. You don’t like that ’bout me, then we shouldn’t hang out.”
“But you taking somebody job.”
“Nobody picks up litter, you kidding me?” I sucked my teeth. “Maybe downtown where the tourists go the government pay someone to do it but not out here by the mall.”
“The kids do it in summer.”
“You full a’ shit, man. I never seen anyone picking up litter on the side a’ the street down here.”
“Well, outside dis business, dey pay someone to pick up trash. You takin’ dey job. Plus, you ain’t no dog, Miss. Why you need to go messing wit dah trash?”
Because someone has to give a shit! And it might as well be me.
It’s sort of therapeutic, anyway. And I can’t completely squash the idealistic hope that if people see me picking up litter, they’ll be less likely to create it in the first place. Although, I admit they’re more likely to throw it out with greater glee, knowing that some white girl has taken it upon herself to act like the dog she’s always walking and mess with other people’s trash.
Hey you. You with the aluminum spray can of sunscreen. Yes, you. Stop right there. Just stop. Please. Can we talk about this?
You’re killing me softly with your prolific use of The Mist. And by you, I definitely mean the collective “you”; I’m starting to worry that I’m edging towards the minority, as more and more people adopt The Can each year. Now is the time to act people – we must join forces to stop the madness. Can’t we all just agree that aerosol sunscreen is the WORST? I hate it more than I hate the sound of people eating bananas, which is to say, a lot.
Believe me, I realize the spray option is super convenient. I venture there’s not a soul in the world who actually enjoys slathering on the thick white shellac that is regular sunscreen. It doesn’t blend well, it leaves you with greasy palms, and it makes you crave diet-destroying piña coladas (No? Just me?) I get that. I hate sunscreen, specifically and in general. I prefer to never have to wear it, but I realize I am lucky, having dark skin and all. I sympathize with those of you with pale porcelain doll skin that burns to a crisp when you visit our islands, dangerously close to the Equator as they are. I know sunscreen is your cross to bear, but might I beseech you – use it if you must, but just say NO to the spray version.
I despise aerosol sunscreen with every fiber of my being and you should too. In my personal quest to send this concoction to the same place the noodle guard lies in rot, I’d like to share with you some compelling facts that may aide you in escaping its abominable seduction.
AEROSOL SUNSCREEN IS SOCIALLY OBNOXIOUS
Every time I see someone pressing down the nozzle and releasing a blast of sunscreen, I feel as though I’m transported into one of those cold medicine commercials depicting a germ-filled sneeze polluting the air in freeze frame. Except in this case, it’s not just snot bacteria mucking up the atmosphere, but suspicious, unpronounceable chemicals that I’d rather not have on my person, let alone ingest. While the goal is to mist your individual body (or that of your child’s – God help him), the actuality is a fogging of a roughly 20ft circumference around you, depending on wind conditions. Your sunscreen particles have now managed to create a film on my sunglasses, find their way into my drink, and yes, they have now entered my breathing orifices. The artificial plastic aroma now perfuming the air is an added olfactory offense. Sunscreen in lotion form is an unobtrusive individual affair. By taking things to the spray level, you have now managed to turn your sunscreen application into a group activity, involving a beach of strangers who had no intention of playing as a team in the first place.
AEROSOL SUNSCREEN IS AN ENVIRONMENTAL BULLY
I’m no Al Gore, but this flagrant mist can’t be doing the environment any favors. Regular old sunscreen does enough damage underwater, bleaching our coral reefs, but the haze of the spray one ups it by spreading its toxic minions above the sea as well. Human, plant, animal – we’re all inhaling Octylacrylamide Copolymer. I have no actual facts here (isn’t my intuitive hypothesis enough?) but I’m sure we’ll all find out in a few years when palm trees start dying of sunscreen-related “treephoma” cancer. Mark my words.
AEROSOL SUNSCREEN IS WILDLY INEFFECTIVE
It’s commonly ignored knowledge that spray sunscreen offers comically less protection than its creamy peer. I hate to be the one to break it to you (ok, I don’t actually hate it that much), but you’ve been duped. Remember those clear bra straps that were all the rage 6 summers ago? The ones that looked like women were walking around with Scotch tape holding up their B-cups? Well, in the same way that those did not act as a magical Harry Potter invisibility cloak bra, spray sunscreen is just another sham masquerading as a convenient solution to your greasy palm problem. No matter how much you spray, it’s never going to compare to the thorough application of lotion. Even a gentle breeze steals away 1/3 of your mist before it even hits your skin. I see more than my share of sunburnt tourists and the ones who use aerosol sunscreen are unmistakable. Jagged pink stripes covering their body and airbrush-esque puffs in uneven patterns are the no-fail tell. If you want full coverage protection, don’t get all spray-fancy – just go with the lotion.
AEROSOL SUNSCREEN WILL MAKE YOU EXPLODE INTO FLAMES
If none of the above makes any difference to you, know this – spray sunscreen will potentially cause you to explode into flames. Do you catch me? It is important that you do, so I will repeat myself – YOU COULD EXPLODE. INTO FLAMES. That’s pretty high up there on my list of things I’d like to avoid, how about you?
Speaking from direct experience, Brett Sigworth describes the horror: “I went into complete panic mode and screamed,” Sigworth told ABC news. I’ve never experienced pain like that in my life.”
He was having your standard issue BBQ, decided to “protect” himself from the sun with his handy little aerosol sunscreen, and… BOOM. The “vapor trails” that were attached to his body, errant remains from the spray, set the man on fire. Don’t believe me? Read this.
Look at those burns. From spray sunscreen. I rest my case.
If you insist on continuing your reckless use of the loathsome Devil’s Mist and either a) burst into flames or b) get punched in the face by someone because you lubed up his/her beer, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Aerosol sunscreen user/abuser, I will still love you, the world will still love you, but like a dad in tight, neon short shorts, don’t be surprised if people/me refuse to be seen in public with you. Please – join the fight against aerosol sunscreen. This stuff kills*.
*sometimes/probably hasn’t. Yet.
P.S. I’m having rally buttons made, just FYI, if anyone’s interested.