(Very long post (c. 5,800 words, with 10 fotos), that touches on a bunch of topics brought up by the main narrative.)
I traveled yesterday to 57 West 66th Street to audition for the TV game show Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? This post should give you the flavor of the process in case you are interested in trying out too. The first step is to apply online at millionairetv.com for two dates (first choice and backup) when you could attend a test and interview. The show then sends you an email to say which date and time you should show up for, with an application attached in .DOC format, which you are to print out, fill in, and bring with you to the show. Since it is in .DOC format rather than .PDF, you can type your answers in, using MS Word, Sun Microsystem's free office suite's word-processing program, Open Office Writer, or any other word processor that can edit .DOC files. My customary WordPerfect 11 will convert them, but I used Open Office. My laptop computer came with a 60-day free trial for MS Word 2007, but I don't want to use it.
Fotos today are of the Lincoln Center area of Manhattan, near where the NY tryouts for Millionaire are held. This first was taken thru a glass canopy to Philharmonic Hall. I intended the structural support beam to fall in the gap between the building on the right and the flagpoles, but was apparently not careful about how the camera saw things. Tsk tsk.
I have been to Manhattan a great many times since I moved to Newark (from Manhattan) almost 10 years ago, but lately I have been driving in, at nite, just to meet friends in Greenwich Village. I hadn't taken mass transit in something like two years or more, since I stopped working even occasionally but took full retirement on Social Security, because it's hard for me to deal with all the stairs involved in traveling these old transit systems, which were "grandfathered" under the Americans with Disabilities Act. This means that whereas new transit facilities, like train stations and railway cars, have to accommodate the disabled, the old systems in the Tristate Metropolitan Area are allowed to continue not to provide elevators or escalators. The result is that trying to travel by the PATH and NY subway system is an ordeal of stairway after stairway after stairway. Stairs up. Stairs down. No elevator anywhere, and very few escalators.
To get where I was going in Manhattan (66th Street between Central Park West and Columbus (Ninth) Avenue) from my house by public transit only, I have to take a bus to a train to another train (the #1 bus to the PATH or the much more expensive NJTransit commuter train, to the NY subway. The PATH goes to 33rd Street and Avenue of the Americas; NJT goes to NY Penn Station, also 33rd Street, but near Eighth Avenue. Which service you take makes little difference, since the subway stations on Central Park West are served by trains from either avenue.
So long had it been since I'd gone into Manhattan by train, however, that I forgot key parts of the trip I had planned, including the first train, the PATH from Newark Penn Station. PATH has two lines from this area to Manhattan. One ends at the "World Trade Center" station Downtown. (Even tho the WTC no longer exists, that is the station designation.) The other PATH line ends at 33rd Street and Avenue of the Americas (known to some people as "Sixth Avenue"). I wanted to go to 33rd Street, then take a train to 66th, which I knew I could catch at 33rd. What I had forgotten is that the Newark PATH station accommodates only the WTC line, and to get to the 33rd Street line, you have to transfér at Journal Square, in Jersey City. I frankly don't see why we should have to do that. Surely alternate trains could run to the two different locations. But that's the way things now work.
Getting onto the bus is no problem for me, but we do have "kneeling" buses that can dip low at the door for the disabled. (There are also lifts for wheelchairs on today's buses, but that's quite an imposition on other passengers, so if I were in a wheelchair, I would use NJT's "Access Link" program of parallel minibuses for the disabled.) I got to the PATH area within Newark Penn by escalator. Ah, yes, Newark has escalators. Newark is civilized. I stopped to get a fare card, and saw that PATH will take either its own multi-ride card or the MetroCard, which New York's MTA subways and buses also use. So I bought a $10 MetroCard. There is a $1.50 bonus built into that, but I don't think there is anyplace you can use it that costs less than $2, so that's a lure without meaning, since you can't use that $1.50. In any case, the one card would serve for both transit systems, which is good.
The day was, even after 7pm, brite. I don't know why my camera makes these pix seem much less brite than I remembered the scene.
Once inside the turnstile, I boarded a train that arrived soon after, but noticed that it said "WTC", and I, having forgotten about that irritating transfer thing, got off to wait for the next train, which I hoped would be a 33rd Street train. Once that train departed, a helpful (black) PATH employee asked where I was headed, and when I said Midtown, he reminded me that you have to transfér at Journal Square. So I had gotten off the right train for no reason. He said he saw me standing there, but thought I might be waiting for a friend, as some people do before they board a train. I guess he thought I have friends. He said there would be another train departing in 10 minutes. But, I said, I'm supposed to be at 66th Street at 5pm, and that's pushing it. He conceded that that would be pushing it. All I had needed to do was check, in advance, the PATH website for the service map, and I would have been reminded of that annoying transfer thing. But no-o-o-o. I know the PATH system, so don't NEED to check the website. I have developed a habit of dumping from my memory info that I (feel I) no longer need. Sometimes, as here, I remove such info prematurely. I did not see any PATH system map in the Newark Penn waiting area, nor any prominent sign like "All trains from Newark go directly to WTC/Downtown Manhattan. To go to 33rd Street/Midtown, transfer at Journal Square." Were such maps and signs there, and I just didn't see them? I don't know, and it may be a while before I am back there to check.
In any case, my stupidly lost 10 minutes could have made the difference between being on time and being late. The email that the Millionaire people sent said we should try to arrive 15 minutes early: "We will begin promptly at your scheduled time, and may not be able to accommodate late comers. Please be on time." They don't know whom they're talking to. Me? Be on time? No way in heck. I am SPECIAL. Yes, we do feel that, don't we? Or is it just me? (Just you, Craig. Just you.)
I get on the next train and make the connection at Journal Square. Fortunately, the train is across the same platform, as it should be. Sometimes it is on a different platform, and we have to walk up a flite of stairs (if we don't arrive near the one escalator) and walk quickly across to the other platform and down a flite of stairs before the connecting train pulls away. This is especially common very late at nite on the weekend, when you are drunk and disabled. Or is that just me? Just you, Craig. Just you.
At 33rd Street I realize I don't remember where the stairway is to the IND subway (yes, some of us do still use the IRT, IND, and BMT designations to remember what line runs where). I knew to use the IND because I worked for an ABC News documentary unit 45 years ago, as a clerk messenger, my first job in NYC, so knew that their HQ was in a new building (for me) between CPW and Columbus, tho I was not sure how far over. I find the right stairway and walk down to the station entrance, then a further 2 flites to the platform to wait for the D or B. I check the service signs, and the one on the appropriate side of the platform (Uptown rather than Queens) SEEMS to say that the D, during rush hour (which it now is) runs express FROM 145th Street. I remember having been hijacked and carried all the way from 59th Street TO 145th Street once, decades ago, and I learned my lesson, so checked the sign. Tho I was wary, I thought the sign said the D now runs express above 145th Street, so when the first train on that side was a D, I got on. Guess what.
The Revson Fountain is in low-spray mode, just barely visible in the center of this picture.
At 145th Street, I headed up the stairs, over, and down another flite of stairs to the downtown platform to take the next D train all the way back to 59th Street. I am very late by then, over a half hour past the 5pm start time, which was already 15 minutes later than the recommended arrival time. I debate whether even to go to 66th Street in hopes of somehow being "accommodated", even tho a "late comer" (which should, yes, be one word), or just give up and go to the dentist on 57th Street at AvAmers (Toothsavers, whose very nice founder married a woman from Newark) to see if they could reinsert a crown that came out, or, if not, add a "tooth" to my partial plate, which they did once before; that was the other thing I hoped to accomplish on this trip into Manhattan. (I have mentioned that "Mimi" (Wilhelmina Somebody; I guess I never got her last name), a nice (black) lady I run into often at art events, and who introduced me to Mayor Booker at the Library, has a tooth missing from her smile, which gave me the courage to leave one in my smile when the most recent crown fell out. But if I want to sell real estate, I should ideally have a nice array of fake teeth all across my smile.)
If something causes you to miss your initial appointment, you can go to the Millionaire website and try to arrange another date, if any be available. But the hassle of getting to 66th Street from Vailsburg by public transportation was so daunting that I resolved NEVER to do it again just for an audition. So it was now or never. Alrite. Let's do it now. I'm already here, and I'll kick myself (figuratively, of course; my knees aren't in good enuf shape for me actually to kick myself easily) if I miss out and wonder if I could have made it onto the show. I don't believe in wondering. Despite a spotty high-school record (due to weltschmerz, not dumbitude), I applied to Princeton and Swarthmore, just to find out if I could get in. I couldn't. (The stupid, evil bastards! They'll PAY for this! Eventually.) But I don't have to wonder, pointlessly, if I could have gotten in. I applied. I was rejected. It's settled. I wanted this Millionaire issue to be settled too.
So instead of continuing on to the Seventh Avenue station and walking to Toothsavers from there, I got OUT of the subway onto the street and walked the 7 blocks to 66th Street, which I should have done to begin with.
When I arrive at 57 W 66, I approach a young woman with a clipboard to say I'm very late, and ask if there's some way to take the test today nonetheless. She directs me to a standby line nearby for people who are late. I go over, ask "Late?", and on being told yes, join the line at the end. It is now 5:44. I settle in, and check my fone as something I might as well tend to, in that I have to wait awhile. Gaetano called. So I call him, and he asks if I want to accompany him to a Red Bulls game in the Arena in Harrison, on his second season ticket. I tell him I'm in Manhattan, waiting to get in to a Millionaire audition (which I had told him about, but not perhaps the date and time), and didn't think I could be back in Newark before the game's 8pm start time. So he says he'll call Joe (you know Joe — from Belleville) or somebody else, and we say goodbye. After we hang up, I chat with a young strawberry-blonde woman in line just ahead of me, from Staten Island, and a balding young man from 204th Street just behind me.
She had tried out for Millionaire 13 times! And he had tried something like 5 times, once a year. I say I would have given up after one time, and both say 'No! You've got to keep trying! How do you expect to get anything if you just give up?' Very sweet. Very American? The woman from Staten Island never got as far as an interview; the guy from 204th Street did get thru the interview but was not selected for the show. They both say they think this may be the only time of year that auditions are held in Manhattan, so I lucked out as regards when I applied (two weeks ago or so). As we talk about this and that, including occasional trivia questions to test each other's knowledge, in a playful/helpful way, I find that these young people did not know about the connection between "Newark" and "Riots". Enuf time has passed that the Riots that tarred Newark's reputation for decades no longer have that power. Good. And remember, these are people who like miscellaneous information ("trivia"), or they wouldn't be trying out for Millionaire. While we're talking, a seriously handicapped and unattractive, heavyset young man joins the conversation. He is very hard to understand, because of speech problems. I seriously doubt that he would be selected to appear on the show, despite the producers' best intentions in wanting to accommodate someone disabled, because the audience, in studio and out in the Nation, would be very uncomfortable straining to understand him. But he had the confidence to try out. Good for him.
Plaza to the right of the Metropolitan Opera House leading to the Library of Performing Arts which backs onto Amsterdam (Tenth) Avenue at a lower level.
Around 6:15 p.m., we get in, to a crowded room with perhaps 200 people seated at tables that accommodate four to six or more people each. I and the two people I had been talking to from the outset (the handicapped guy was farther back in line) are seated at the same table, along with a young black guy who was right behind the guy from 204th Street. We listen to the instructions. There is a machine-readable answer card with four alternate spaces per answer, to be filled in by No. 2 pencil, which is supplied. There is also a manilla envelope in which the test resides, and at the top right of which is a number written in black Sharpie. We are told to write that number to the right of our name atop the answer card. Mine is an even 100, which I regard as a good sign. See, even civilized people believe in omens. While we're waiting to be given the go-ahead to take the test out, I ask the time, since I don't have a working watch (batteries had drained) and we were told to turn off all cellfones and such devices before the test starts. The black guy (who turns out to be from Brooklyn) says 6:27. I say,"It's almost time for the news — gotta go!" But I stay. We then chat about evening news anchors for a couple of minutes until we are told to start the test: 30 questions in 10 minutes (20 seconds per question), and you might as well guess because any blank answer will be counted as wrong.
I am surprised by how much I don't know at the very outset, since a lot of the early questions are about pop culture and pop music. I finish before time is up, ahead of the other 3 people at the table, but am not confident. I may not have known much about the things asked, but I knew right away that I didn't know, so didn't linger nor agonize over any question I had no answer for, but just guessed. Then the people in charge tell us to note and remember the number written in black Sharpie at top right of our envelope before returning it to the proctors, because that is how the people who passed the test will be called. (There is a different number, with a letter as well, in lighter color (pencil?), on the back flap of the envelope, which doesn't make any sense.) I ask the two experienced people at the table if the numbers will be called in numerical order; they say no. So you have to listen carefully. There are to be a few minutes during which staffers run the answer cards thru card readers, so we at the table compare notes about some questions we weren't sure about. The guy from Brooklyn didn't know what state Huey Long was from. One of the multiple-choice answers was Louisiana. He said he lived in Louisiana as a very young child — in Baton Rouge, for that matter, the state capital — but never heard of Huey Long! He was 6 years old when he lived there, however, so I guess that's understandable. Staten Island, 204, and I confer about what rock band Condoleezza Rice met, and agreed (from the names of two members) that it was KISS. (Curiously, the episode of Millionaire broadcast late last nite included the Condolezza Rice question, and the answer was indeed KISS.) Then a staffer announces that they are about to read the numbers of people who passed (for some reason they use numbers, not names), so we all fall silent. If our number is said, we are to get up and go to the back of the room for a foto and interview. After perhaps four other numbers, they read "100", and both I and the guy from 204th Street realize that that's my number. So I say goodbye and head for the back of the room, forgetting to take one of the 3-inch round Millionaire logo stick-on patches left at the tables as souvenirs.
Alexander Calder stabile outside the library, and Avery Fisher (Philharmonic) Hall beyond. In 1964, when I first went to interview for my clerk-messenger job with ABC in a building opposite Lincoln Center, Philharmonic Hall (not yet called "Avery Fisher Hall") had not long before been completed (1962). Being from the exurbs, I was astonished to see it just butting up against a sidewalk, because I expected it to be set off on a great big lawn. The central plaza was not yet built, nor any of the other buildings of Lincoln Center, tho the New York State Theater (now renamed the David H. Koch Theater) opened around that time. In researching when Philharmonic Hall was completed, I found that it seats 2,738. Prudential Hall in NJPAC seats 2,750! In any case, I looked for a plaque to identify the sculpture outside the library, thinking it is probably a Calder, but didn't see any. I did see a puzzling monogram, CA, with the C above and to the left, and the lower portion of the C forming the crossbar of the A. So I asked at the information desk if it is a Calder, and the ladies there confirmed that it was (titled "The Ticket Booth" in English, "Guichet" in French — tho why Alexander Calder, who was born in Pennsylvania and graduated from Stevens Institute of Technology in Hoboken, would give a sculpture a French name, I cannot say). I then said I saw a monogram that puzzled me, CA rather than AC. They didn't know why that would be.
I'm a little surprised I passed the test, but pleasantly of course. I am the first from my table whose number is announced, so don't know if anyone else got that far. Everyone whose number was not announced was directed to leave the testing area for outdoors immediately after the conclusion of the announcement of numbers. It sounds cold in print, but just instructions to let us know what to do, at the time.
We are directed to round tables, each with four chairs, and asked to write our name and the date, large, on the back of the application. I tell a staffer that I printed my application double-sided (to save paper, tho I didn't say that), so had no room to write that. The printed application available at the test site has an area in large type for that info on the back, so he gives me one of those to write on. Then a young woman tells us to hold that name-and-date sheet at chest level while she takes a foto of us. Smile. I chicken out, and show a mostly closed-mouth smile, not to reveal the gap between teeth. Fie on me. When I was young, I was quite presentable except that my front teeth were crossed, so I didn't smile widely. There are millions of young people in this country who dare not smile widely because of dental problems the President's health plan won't fix. It wasn't until I was in my twenties, when I managed the expense of having the front tooth that partly covered its pair filed down and replaced with a crown in the correct position, that I was glad to smile widely. And now, with a tooth missing, I'm back to keeping my mouth closed when asked to smile. Of course, there are people who might be glad I have to keep my mouth closed at times, but the people at ABC were not among them, at least not at that particular time.
I was still not entirely sure they had the right guy, since they used a number rather than name. In any case, I get my picture taken very soon after I finish writing my name and the date, and am then directed to a small (2-person) table where a thin blonde lady is to interview me. She introduces herself as one of the producers, glances down at my application, and notes that I'm from Newark, "Not a bad commute." But, I say, I missed a connection and was late, so almost didn't come because they had said there might be no accommodation for latecomers. She said, no, they try to be indulgent. (I suppose if someone was originally scheduled for the last test session of the day and was late, they couldn't be accommodated.) "Indulgent" was not her word. I can't remember her exact words. When I was in the first years of grade school, they told us to "put it in your own words", and I have done that ever since, often obliterating the original words in the process.
This odd, huge, tilted artificial hill covered in grass puzzled me. It was much too steep for me to climb (note the men at the upper left corner).
She then asked something I didn't expect, and rather than being cagy and thinking about what she was getting at, I just answered. The question was, how big a risk-taker are you? I said, 'Not much. My brother's the gambler.' She then became more specific, as to at what dollar level I would walk away rather than risk losing what I had won theretofore. Tho I started to understand that they probably want, for dramatic purposes, big gamblers, I nonetheless admitted that if I got to the $25,000 level, after which there is one essentially free guess, since you would fall back only to $25,000, I would go that far, but after that, I might not risk falling back to $25,000 (a plateau you can't fall back beyond if you get a later question wrong) if I wasn't reasonably sure of an answer. She conceded that $25,000 is a lot of money, so that was understandable. I realize that I may have sunk my chances of getting onto the show with that candor. Perhaps what I should have said is that I probably wouldn't risk losing more than $25,000. That is, if I got the $50,000 question right, the next would be for $100,000. If I missed that, I would fall from $50,000 to $25,000, a $25,000 loss. I might conceivably risk that. But if I got to $100,000 and wasn't sure of the $200,000 question (or is it $250,000 at that point? I haven't seen anybody go that high in a long time), I would be risking $75,000 ($100K minus the $25K fallback plateau), and that I would not do unless I were reasonably certain of the answer. Still, I suppose they'd like a go-for-broke contestant rather than a cautious one. Ah, well, I wouldn't want to lie, even for a chance to play toward a million dollars.
She then asked what I would do if I won the million dollars. I said that I discuss that in my application, but then mentioned publishing a coffee-table book to counter misimpressions of Newark, and that the most important thing I would do (with a million dollars that I might not be able to do without) is create a mobile spay and neuter clinic for Newark, first, and then outward from Newark. It would have two elements: a spay/neuter clinic within a trailer, and a shuttle by means of which animals found to have a medical (veterinary) emergency would be taken to an associated animal hospital for free treatment. She seemed to think that an interesting project, and summed up, "So you're an animal lover", to which I added, "And I have cats that need to be spayed and neutered."
I then asked her for clarification of something that came up in my conversation while waiting in line, as to whether the 12:30pm and 2:06am showings of Millionaire were the same or different (the later being reruns from months earlier). She wasn't sure but thought they might well be different, to which I said "So I could watch two different shows the same day, not necessarily new." Right. She then said they will be sending out postcards to everyone in two or three weeks, to say whether they were or were not selected to attend a taping and possibly appear on the show, and I said I appreciated that they don't just leave us hanging. The interview ended, we shook hands again, and I went on my way, around 7pm.
Henry Moore sculpture in reflecting pool. There appear to be an unsightly (temporary?) white wall beyond the sculpture and other (temporary?) barriers and such by the new tilted grassy area. I don't know how recently that odd structure was created, nor even if the installation is yet complete. But the serenity of the original conception of that space has been marred, at least for the moment. New York just never can let well enuf alone.
I then walked to the Performing Arts Library in Lincoln Center, which is across Broadway at 66th Street, to find a restroom. The Millionaire testing process, astoundingly, does NOT afford access to restrooms. That is more than a little outrageous, and the producers should be ashamed of themselves. I took some pix, walking around Lincoln Center, then called my younger (less-old) sister in California to tell her about passing the test. I also wanted to tell her that I had learned from the people I was talking to that the Fone-a-Friend "lifeline" had been eliminated, probably because people foned were looking things up via fast Internet connections rather than answering from their own knowledge. (They could replace Fone-a-Friend with Skype-a-Friend, so they can SEE what the person called is doing during the call, but they have, at least as of yet, not chosen to do that.) So I didn't have to choose between my two brothers, as I had feared, as to whom to show as a Fone-a-Friend. (The mention by Staten Island and 204 that that lifeline had been eliminated is what led me to wonder about the two showings of Millionaire, because Fone-a-Friend was still available in the episodes shown in the middle of the nite.) After we hang up, I walk across the street to see what people are waiting on a long line for, outside the Juilliard School's Alice Tully Hall. It turns out that there was soon to be a free orchestral concert, probably the students' graduation concert. The two gents I asked suggested I join the line, which should be moving soon, but I said "I won't stand for it" (there were no benches there). They didn't find that funny. Anyway, I said, I'm not much interested in orchestral music, and besides, we have NJPAC, tho it's not free.
I then headed down more stairs into the 66th Street IRT subway station to head for Ty's (a gay men's bar in Greenwich Village), in hopes of meeting up with my friend Don. He wasn't there, tho, nor did he answer his cellfone. After I finished one beer (Budweiser, probably brewed in Newark), when Don had still not called me back, I walked the two blocks or so to the Christopher Street PATH station, then down its 54 or so stairs. I tried an old PATH prepaid card and found that it was no longer valid. I also had an old MetroCard that had expired. Why should prepaid transit cards ever expire? Postage stamps don't expire, but retain their face value until used, no matter how many years down the line that might be. We are being robbed, and must not consent to it. In any case, I had to wait only a few minutes for an NJ-bound train, stepped on to find no seats, and headed back to Newark.
Mormon ("Latter-Day Saints") center opposite Lincoln Center across Broadway.
Once in Newark Penn Station, around 9:30pm, having had to stand the entire trip from Christopher Street, I went to the McDonald's in Penn Station and got a large strawberry shake. I swear, that McDonald's has to be the fastest in the world. Even before I got to the counter, TWO people asked "Can I help you?" And within a minute or so of my ordering, my shake was in my hand. I have been to McDonald's(es) in many states and various provinces of Canada, and the Newark Penn Station McDonald's is far and away the most efficient.
I drank more than half of the shake while resting, but decided not to finish it there because I knew the plastic cup is recyclable but did not know if the trash from McDonald's bins is sorted to separate recyclables. So I took it with me to the bus lane on Market Street. When the No. 1 arrived, I had a tiny mishap when a young woman who had boarded ahead of me walked back toward the front with her tiny dauter walking before her, and I tried to get out of the way so they could sit on a sideways front bench. In doing so, I raised my right arm out of the way and felt my elbow touch something. Just then, a young (black) man said, sarcastically, "Excuse me", then added that I had 'hit' his head with my arm. I said I was sorry, but not soon enuf. He said something like, "How could you not know you hit my head?", and I said I thought I had hit a pole (that passengers hold onto when standing or getting up from their seat). That was not good enuf for him. I didn't mention that he might have been contributorily negligent, because the fact that a mother and child were walking forward and I was trying to get out of the way should have been obvious to him if he had been paying attention, and I wasn't moving very fast. In any case, he was ticked off. I don't know that there was a racial element; I don't know that there wasn't.
Statue of the angel Moroni, copies or versions of which adorn many Mormon temples. I saw the one at the main temple, in Salt Lake City, and did not know that it tops many Mormon temples until I checked
Wikipedia to see if this was a copy of the Salt Lake City statue.
Before the No. 1 arrived, I had seen a small red sign with white block lettering at the stairway up to a No. 31 bus (which I could also have taken, tho it doesn't go as close to my house as the No. 1). It said something like "NO FARE CHEATERS" or "FARE CHEATERS WILL BE PROSECUTED", tho I don't think it was large enuf for all that lettering. I hadn't seen that before, when I used to take the bus regularly, before I inherited a car on my mother's premature passing (at age 90, but still premature, due to a medical error).
We got to Broad Street, the front and back doors opened, and a (black) guy came in thru the back door, then hid behind someone who had paid his fare to sit down in a hurry, before the driver could see him in the inside mirror. It would appear that fare-cheating (an oxymoron in sound) has become a serious problem in Newark, and the police need to crack down. Perhaps a plainclothesman seated near the back door of buses could make appropriate arrests and removals right on the spot. In any case, a (black) guy who had paid his fare shook his head in amazed disapproval at that other guy's gall, but neither of us confronted the b*d. Someday we will get to the point as a society, in Newark and elsewhere, when a fare-cheater entering thru the back door of a bus will be pointed out loudly to the driver, and condemned loudly and universally by other passengers. We're not there yet.
The rest of the trip home was uneventful, and I was home 7 1/4 hours after I left. As to whether this trip was a complete waste of time, I will not know until the postcard from Millionaire arrives. Stay tuned.