The Bathrobe Maneuver
Neither of us was emotionally equipped for this sort of thing.
From this rich tapestry of material harvested from scientific conferences, I bring you a story begins with an aching ass and ends with a disheveled Asian man averting a possible race riot.
It all began innocently enough with a seemingly innocuous injury. While training for a triathlon, I had developed an unusual problem: Roughly a mile into training runs, my left glute would suddenly tighten. This pulled my left leg out of alignment and made running non-negotiable. It was crippling; when the problem flared up during the final running segment of a race, I wound up hobbling ten miles to the finish. Rest did little to alleviate the problem. My runs continued to suffer, while I felt absolutely fine when walking around in normal life. It was a bizarrely persistent injury, and it had me worried about some sort of permanent damage that would end my nascent athletic career.
Despite its magnitude, this ailment was far from my mind when I paid a visit to our University’s graphic design center with Grant (not his real name) to pick up a couple of posters we were presenting at a conference later that week.
The printing center was run by Roger, who oversaw the production of the giant posters of research data generated at the University of Florida’s College of Medicine. Grant and I ducked into his office, intending on picking up our posters and giving them a final once-over before packing them into tubes for the coming trip. We were preparing to spread them out when I noticed an unusual contraption in the corner. Roger revealed that it was a massage chair and shared that he’d recently finished massage school and was looking to make the move to being a full-time masseuse.
Hoping to pick his brain, I mentioned my recent troubles with running. Roger considered the information. “Want me to take a look?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied. The fact that we were in a professional environment did not occur to me.
“Come with me,” Roger commanded. Leaving Grant behind, I followed him down a narrow hall that ended in a large dimly-lit room dominated by a huge table that was apparently used to cut and inspect printed posters.
“Go ahead and lay down,” Roger said breezily as he swept several posters off the tabletop.
The questionable appropriateness of the situation finally clicked with me. This was magnified by some personal reservations I had about Roger. He was a nice guy who’d never done anything, but he nonetheless emitted a vibe that I found Michael Jacksonesque.
However, my hip was in such excruciating pain that I ignored every vestige of common sense. Defying every fiber of my being that screamed for me to run, I laid face-down on the table and waited for this strange man to touch me.
Roger drew alongside. I did my best to keep him in my peripheral vision while simultaneously straining to hear what he was doing. I made a pact with myself: I would not remove my pants under any circumstances and I would immediately flee the room at the first whisper of a zipper being detrundled.
Roger prodded at my left leg, periodically hmm’ing to himself and asking me if it hurt when he did this or that. Inexorably, his hands approached the distressed area. I realized I had no idea what the etiquette was in this situation. I began to seriously second-guess my decision to do this. Roger said he did sports massage, right? He wasn’t trained in anything… erogenous?
From a face-down position, Roger asked me to raise the lower half of my leg to vertical. After I’d done so, he abruptly extended my lower leg laterally, swinging my foot out 90 degrees as he bent my leg towards the table. Deep in the back of my hip, something wound so tight it nearly twanged. “Ahhh!” I cried involuntarily.
“Piriformis,” Roger said. “That’s what I thought. Want me to release it?”
I was torn on the matter. On one hand, Roger had exceeded my expectations by rapidly identifying the source of my pain; I was desperately curious to see what he could do actually fix the issue. On the other, the problem area lay deep within my left asscheek and, if creepiness were radiation, I’d have two heads by now.
Again, my aching hip won out. “Do it,” I acquiesced softly. As the words left my mouth I heard a noise from the doorway leading to the hall. Grant stood there, no doubt drawn by my involuntary cry of pain. He appeared EXTREMELY concerned by my apparent predicament. We made eye contact. He pointed to himself and the exit. Should I leave? I violently shook my head no.
Before I could say anything, Roger seized my ass and delivered a piercing finger into the enflamed muscle. It felt as through he had jammed a rusty screwdriver soaked in kerosene into my hip. I screamed in a combination of agony that abated into an odd sort of relief and, for the next thirty seconds, my backside was violently fondled by a graphic artist-turned-masseuse while Grant looked on in horror.
Fortunately, the show was winding down by now. “You all loosened up?” Roger asked.
Why did you have to say it like that? I wondered, while truthfully admitting that I felt better.
“Great,” Roger said. “You guys done checking your posters?”
“We’re good,” I said, before Grant could say anything that would prolong the interaction.
“I didn’t finish checking my poster,” Grant said, as we walked back.
“It doesn’t matter; there’s not enough time to print it again anyways. Besides, you checked it before you sent it in for printing, right?”
“Yeah,” Grant said. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
It all began innocently enough with a seemingly innocuous injury. While training for a triathlon, I had developed an unusual problem: Roughly a mile into training runs, my left glute would suddenly tighten. This pulled my left leg out of alignment and made running non-negotiable. It was crippling; when the problem flared up during the final running segment of a race, I wound up hobbling ten miles to the finish. Rest did little to alleviate the problem. My runs continued to suffer, while I felt absolutely fine when walking around in normal life. It was a bizarrely persistent injury, and it had me worried about some sort of permanent damage that would end my nascent athletic career.
Despite its magnitude, this ailment was far from my mind when I paid a visit to our University’s graphic design center with Grant (not his real name) to pick up a couple of posters we were presenting at a conference later that week.
The printing center was run by Roger, who oversaw the production of the giant posters of research data generated at the University of Florida’s College of Medicine. Grant and I ducked into his office, intending on picking up our posters and giving them a final once-over before packing them into tubes for the coming trip. We were preparing to spread them out when I noticed an unusual contraption in the corner. Roger revealed that it was a massage chair and shared that he’d recently finished massage school and was looking to make the move to being a full-time masseuse.
Hoping to pick his brain, I mentioned my recent troubles with running. Roger considered the information. “Want me to take a look?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied. The fact that we were in a professional environment did not occur to me.
“Come with me,” Roger commanded. Leaving Grant behind, I followed him down a narrow hall that ended in a large dimly-lit room dominated by a huge table that was apparently used to cut and inspect printed posters.
“Go ahead and lay down,” Roger said breezily as he swept several posters off the tabletop.
The questionable appropriateness of the situation finally clicked with me. This was magnified by some personal reservations I had about Roger. He was a nice guy who’d never done anything, but he nonetheless emitted a vibe that I found Michael Jacksonesque.
However, my hip was in such excruciating pain that I ignored every vestige of common sense. Defying every fiber of my being that screamed for me to run, I laid face-down on the table and waited for this strange man to touch me.
Roger drew alongside. I did my best to keep him in my peripheral vision while simultaneously straining to hear what he was doing. I made a pact with myself: I would not remove my pants under any circumstances and I would immediately flee the room at the first whisper of a zipper being detrundled.
Roger prodded at my left leg, periodically hmm’ing to himself and asking me if it hurt when he did this or that. Inexorably, his hands approached the distressed area. I realized I had no idea what the etiquette was in this situation. I began to seriously second-guess my decision to do this. Roger said he did sports massage, right? He wasn’t trained in anything… erogenous?
From a face-down position, Roger asked me to raise the lower half of my leg to vertical. After I’d done so, he abruptly extended my lower leg laterally, swinging my foot out 90 degrees as he bent my leg towards the table. Deep in the back of my hip, something wound so tight it nearly twanged. “Ahhh!” I cried involuntarily.
“Piriformis,” Roger said. “That’s what I thought. Want me to release it?”
I was torn on the matter. On one hand, Roger had exceeded my expectations by rapidly identifying the source of my pain; I was desperately curious to see what he could do actually fix the issue. On the other, the problem area lay deep within my left asscheek and, if creepiness were radiation, I’d have two heads by now.
Again, my aching hip won out. “Do it,” I acquiesced softly. As the words left my mouth I heard a noise from the doorway leading to the hall. Grant stood there, no doubt drawn by my involuntary cry of pain. He appeared EXTREMELY concerned by my apparent predicament. We made eye contact. He pointed to himself and the exit. Should I leave? I violently shook my head no.
Before I could say anything, Roger seized my ass and delivered a piercing finger into the enflamed muscle. It felt as through he had jammed a rusty screwdriver soaked in kerosene into my hip. I screamed in a combination of agony that abated into an odd sort of relief and, for the next thirty seconds, my backside was violently fondled by a graphic artist-turned-masseuse while Grant looked on in horror.
Fortunately, the show was winding down by now. “You all loosened up?” Roger asked.
Why did you have to say it like that? I wondered, while truthfully admitting that I felt better.
“Great,” Roger said. “You guys done checking your posters?”
“We’re good,” I said, before Grant could say anything that would prolong the interaction.
“I didn’t finish checking my poster,” Grant said, as we walked back.
“It doesn’t matter; there’s not enough time to print it again anyways. Besides, you checked it before you sent it in for printing, right?”
“Yeah,” Grant said. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Uncomfortably accurate reproduction of the title in question.
Three days later
The Roger incident was already a fading memory by the time the second day of the conference rolled around. Grant and I had arrived two days earlier. Today, Grant was supposed to present during the morning’s poster session. Just before the event was scheduled to open, we walked into the expansive hotel ballroom that served as the main poster hall. Imagine row after row of dense scientific posters on a thousand different subjects, like a shopping mall of knowledge. I noticed Grant had been lucky; his assigned spot was by the main entrance, a high-traffic area that would ensure a tremendous amount of visibility.
Putting up a proper conference poster is a two-man job: Grant and I each held an end, fussing over whether it was perfectly level before pinning it into place. I stepped away as Grant drove the last pushpin into place and surveyed the twenty-four square feet of science for the first time. It took me less than three seconds to spot what could charitably be called a MAJOR FUCKING PROBLEM.
Like me, Grant was a neuroscientist. His focus, however, was on Parkinson’s disease. In this case, he was presenting work examining the integrity of the nigrostriatal pathway, the dense bundle of midbrain neurons affected by the disease.
On his poster, the third word of Grant’s title was ‘nigrostriatal.’ Or at least it was supposed to be. There was a typo. A Houston we have a typo kind of typo. Towering above his data in six-inch-tall letters, ‘nigrostriatal’ had been misspelled badly; the ensuing typo contained a rather incendiary racist term. Trust me when I assure you that the only way things could have been made worse was if the ensuing abstract referenced watermelon and collard greens. Immediately below the offending word were our names and addresses of everyone who’d participated in the project.
The two collaborators I was most worried about were Grant and I, considering we were wearing giant laminated badges advertising our names presence. There was good reason to think people would notice - the conference printed an abstract book with the title of every presentation. If Grant's misspelling had made it into that publication, it meant that 3,000 copies advertising the racial epithet were swirling around the hall at this very moment.
“Grant,” I called out, striving to sound calm.
“Hang on,” Grant said, hopefully enjoying the last good part of his day. “OK, what?”
I pointed.
The Roger incident was already a fading memory by the time the second day of the conference rolled around. Grant and I had arrived two days earlier. Today, Grant was supposed to present during the morning’s poster session. Just before the event was scheduled to open, we walked into the expansive hotel ballroom that served as the main poster hall. Imagine row after row of dense scientific posters on a thousand different subjects, like a shopping mall of knowledge. I noticed Grant had been lucky; his assigned spot was by the main entrance, a high-traffic area that would ensure a tremendous amount of visibility.
Putting up a proper conference poster is a two-man job: Grant and I each held an end, fussing over whether it was perfectly level before pinning it into place. I stepped away as Grant drove the last pushpin into place and surveyed the twenty-four square feet of science for the first time. It took me less than three seconds to spot what could charitably be called a MAJOR FUCKING PROBLEM.
Like me, Grant was a neuroscientist. His focus, however, was on Parkinson’s disease. In this case, he was presenting work examining the integrity of the nigrostriatal pathway, the dense bundle of midbrain neurons affected by the disease.
On his poster, the third word of Grant’s title was ‘nigrostriatal.’ Or at least it was supposed to be. There was a typo. A Houston we have a typo kind of typo. Towering above his data in six-inch-tall letters, ‘nigrostriatal’ had been misspelled badly; the ensuing typo contained a rather incendiary racist term. Trust me when I assure you that the only way things could have been made worse was if the ensuing abstract referenced watermelon and collard greens. Immediately below the offending word were our names and addresses of everyone who’d participated in the project.
The two collaborators I was most worried about were Grant and I, considering we were wearing giant laminated badges advertising our names presence. There was good reason to think people would notice - the conference printed an abstract book with the title of every presentation. If Grant's misspelling had made it into that publication, it meant that 3,000 copies advertising the racial epithet were swirling around the hall at this very moment.
“Grant,” I called out, striving to sound calm.
“Hang on,” Grant said, hopefully enjoying the last good part of his day. “OK, what?”
I pointed.
Pitchfork mob, anyone?
“How did-“ Grant began, before lapsing into befuddlement. “How could I have missed-" I could see him replaying the events surrounding our aborted quality check 72 hours earlier. He took it like a man. “Cover it up,” he ordered, before briskly jogging away.
Well he ain’t coming back said the little voice of common sense that speaks to me on occasions like this. I stared at the bright yellow hate crime in front of me. Cover it up, Grant had said. I wondered how quickly laminated paper would burn.
A news crew turned the corner and strolled by. The camera operator lazily glanced in our direction, his eyes flickering across the poster as he took in the title. Fight or flight kicked in: Instinctively, I leaned into the poster and did exactly what I was told to do, covering up the title by putting my hand directly over the offending word. This not as casual as I'd hoped – I literally pressed my palm into the board, as though attempting to shove the words into the particleboard behind them.
Great job Noah the little voice intoned sarcastically. You’ve literally got your fingers in the dam. The room was starting to fill up as more and more scientists arrived. A future employer could be walking by right now. Where the hell was Grant?
My palm was barely large enough to cover up the offending portion of the word. I hastily adjusted. And waited. Seconds dragged by as I realized that I looked like an idiot. I repositioned myself, angling my torso away from the sign and crossing one leg over the other so that it now appeared I was casually leaning against the poster.
The new position was more organic, but still terribly strained. I looked like an ultra-low-end male model striking a pose for his amateurish Facebook portfolio. Or maybe it just looked like my hand was glued to the poster. I wondered, if someone came up to chat, could I take them through the poster without moving the hand?
At this point, I am comfortable saying I too considered running. The only thing that was kept me there was my bro alliance; Grant had stood there during the uncomfortable Roger massage, the shock value of which had likely led to his oversight of the poster’s unfortunate titling. I resolved to man up and try and cover up this mess, no matter how bad it got.
More people were pouring in. Moving deliberately, I checked whether the poster could be untacked. I quickly discovered it was impossible to reach the thumbtacks on the opposite side without moving the hand that now was glued to the poster. That wasn't an option, considering the sea of people who now filled the hall. I was truly and surely trapped.
Well he ain’t coming back said the little voice of common sense that speaks to me on occasions like this. I stared at the bright yellow hate crime in front of me. Cover it up, Grant had said. I wondered how quickly laminated paper would burn.
A news crew turned the corner and strolled by. The camera operator lazily glanced in our direction, his eyes flickering across the poster as he took in the title. Fight or flight kicked in: Instinctively, I leaned into the poster and did exactly what I was told to do, covering up the title by putting my hand directly over the offending word. This not as casual as I'd hoped – I literally pressed my palm into the board, as though attempting to shove the words into the particleboard behind them.
Great job Noah the little voice intoned sarcastically. You’ve literally got your fingers in the dam. The room was starting to fill up as more and more scientists arrived. A future employer could be walking by right now. Where the hell was Grant?
My palm was barely large enough to cover up the offending portion of the word. I hastily adjusted. And waited. Seconds dragged by as I realized that I looked like an idiot. I repositioned myself, angling my torso away from the sign and crossing one leg over the other so that it now appeared I was casually leaning against the poster.
The new position was more organic, but still terribly strained. I looked like an ultra-low-end male model striking a pose for his amateurish Facebook portfolio. Or maybe it just looked like my hand was glued to the poster. I wondered, if someone came up to chat, could I take them through the poster without moving the hand?
At this point, I am comfortable saying I too considered running. The only thing that was kept me there was my bro alliance; Grant had stood there during the uncomfortable Roger massage, the shock value of which had likely led to his oversight of the poster’s unfortunate titling. I resolved to man up and try and cover up this mess, no matter how bad it got.
More people were pouring in. Moving deliberately, I checked whether the poster could be untacked. I quickly discovered it was impossible to reach the thumbtacks on the opposite side without moving the hand that now was glued to the poster. That wasn't an option, considering the sea of people who now filled the hall. I was truly and surely trapped.
At this point, I would have settled for this guy.
What I needed was a distraction. For reasons unknown, my prayers were answered. By coincidence, I was looking at the bank of elevators that stood just outside the hall’s entrance when it happened.
Salvation arrived in the form of a rotund, balding Asian man. He wore a conference badge on a lanyard around his neck and carried a poster as he strode confidently into the conference hall. He was also practically undressed, clad in a hotel robe that billowed open to reveal a bright pink pajama top. It was unclear whether or not he was wearing pants at all.
As Asian bathrobe man drew closer, I could see sleep creases on his face. A muffin peeking from the pocket of his bedclothes indicated he'd paid a quick visit to the continental buffet on the way in. He squinted through thick glasses as he consulted a scrap of paper that evidently contained the coordinates of his poster board. With the pronounced waddle of a middle-aged man, the gentleman cozied up to a berth exactly two spaces down from where I stood.
As he fussed over his poster, a growing crowd of scientists were drawn to the bizarre spectacle of a bedraggled Chinese man setting up shop. Lost in his shadow, our racist title went blissfully unperused.
Meanwhile, having now hung his poster, Asian bathrobe man energetically whirled around to catch approximately twenty hovering PhDs, whose goggling he misinterpreted for genuine interest in his work. “Question?” he bellowed at the nearest person. “You have question?”
Caught unprepared, Asian bathrobe man's quarry (an oh-so-dapperly dressed European chap) managed a halting inquiry which was met with a heartily enthusiastic response in pidgin english.
Something interesting happened. Scientific poster sessions work like this: The majority of the attendees mill around in areas that contain posters relating to their fields of interest. Individual agendas are thus determined as much by browsing as prior planning. Often, this creates a sort of momentum, where a crowded poster is likely to remain crowded by virtue of the fact that it is crowded now. It’s not unlike the phenomenon seen in Disney World where visitors join a line only to discover it goes nowhere.
This was exactly what was happening: Asian bathrobe man had drawn a considerable amount spectators before the session had even officially begun. As other scientists arrived, they were drawn to the crowd as moths are drawn to flame. Within minutes, a sort of critical mass had been reached: new arrivals beelined to the crowd, thinking they'd gathered around the latest and greatest discovery in the field. By the time they realized it was a trap, it was too late. In the center of the maelstrom was Asian bathrobe man, frantically walking the new arrivals through his work, still clad in only his bedclothes and showing no signs of leaving.
For my purposes, the spectacle created a welcome effect: As the crowd around Asian bathrobe man’s presentation ballooned beyond the intended space, people on the periphery were left standing in front of our poster, futilely craning their necks towards the new hotness. In effect, these unlucky latecomers provided a human picket line that shielded our shameful presentation for as long as Asian bathrobe man chose to remain in place.
While I was preoccupied with this revelation, Grant returned from parts unknown. “What’s the situation?” he asked, having spotted the swelling crowd and assuming the worst.
Salvation arrived in the form of a rotund, balding Asian man. He wore a conference badge on a lanyard around his neck and carried a poster as he strode confidently into the conference hall. He was also practically undressed, clad in a hotel robe that billowed open to reveal a bright pink pajama top. It was unclear whether or not he was wearing pants at all.
As Asian bathrobe man drew closer, I could see sleep creases on his face. A muffin peeking from the pocket of his bedclothes indicated he'd paid a quick visit to the continental buffet on the way in. He squinted through thick glasses as he consulted a scrap of paper that evidently contained the coordinates of his poster board. With the pronounced waddle of a middle-aged man, the gentleman cozied up to a berth exactly two spaces down from where I stood.
As he fussed over his poster, a growing crowd of scientists were drawn to the bizarre spectacle of a bedraggled Chinese man setting up shop. Lost in his shadow, our racist title went blissfully unperused.
Meanwhile, having now hung his poster, Asian bathrobe man energetically whirled around to catch approximately twenty hovering PhDs, whose goggling he misinterpreted for genuine interest in his work. “Question?” he bellowed at the nearest person. “You have question?”
Caught unprepared, Asian bathrobe man's quarry (an oh-so-dapperly dressed European chap) managed a halting inquiry which was met with a heartily enthusiastic response in pidgin english.
Something interesting happened. Scientific poster sessions work like this: The majority of the attendees mill around in areas that contain posters relating to their fields of interest. Individual agendas are thus determined as much by browsing as prior planning. Often, this creates a sort of momentum, where a crowded poster is likely to remain crowded by virtue of the fact that it is crowded now. It’s not unlike the phenomenon seen in Disney World where visitors join a line only to discover it goes nowhere.
This was exactly what was happening: Asian bathrobe man had drawn a considerable amount spectators before the session had even officially begun. As other scientists arrived, they were drawn to the crowd as moths are drawn to flame. Within minutes, a sort of critical mass had been reached: new arrivals beelined to the crowd, thinking they'd gathered around the latest and greatest discovery in the field. By the time they realized it was a trap, it was too late. In the center of the maelstrom was Asian bathrobe man, frantically walking the new arrivals through his work, still clad in only his bedclothes and showing no signs of leaving.
For my purposes, the spectacle created a welcome effect: As the crowd around Asian bathrobe man’s presentation ballooned beyond the intended space, people on the periphery were left standing in front of our poster, futilely craning their necks towards the new hotness. In effect, these unlucky latecomers provided a human picket line that shielded our shameful presentation for as long as Asian bathrobe man chose to remain in place.
While I was preoccupied with this revelation, Grant returned from parts unknown. “What’s the situation?” he asked, having spotted the swelling crowd and assuming the worst.
I considered explaining what was happening but decided against it in favor of expediency. “Stable, but I don’t know for how long. What’s the plan?”
Grant held up an X-acto knife.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“Borrowed it from the hotel Kinkos,” he answered distractedly. “Time for surgery.” With surprising deftness, Grant excised and rearranged the offending letters into an ugly-but-benign title. No sooner had he scotch-taped the last letter in place than the first visitor for our poster arrived. I gratefully melted into the crowd, leaving Grant with a reasonably-well-salvaged presentation.
Four hours later, the morning session was ending as I returned to catch the tail end of things. Grant stood in front of his hastily-repaired poster, dealing with one or two lingering visitors. Exactly fifteen feet away, a crowd of no less than twenty onlookers was gradually melting away as the session's emcee repeatedly reminded attendees that the hall would be closing soon. As I helped Grant take down the poster, I glanced to the crowd down the row, which had only now thinned sufficiently to allow a glimpse of the presenter. Asian bathrobe man was there, furiously gesticulating toward his charts and figures, still clad in all his terryclothed glory.
“Is that dude wearing a bathrobe?” Grant asked, catching a view of his savior. “That’s weird.”
“It is,” I agreed.
I’ve thought about what lessons could be taken from that fateful day (other than “don’t get massages from strange men”). The most poignant of these comes from our sleep-creased benefactor, who held sway over a crowd using a technique that was both surreal and oddly brilliant. More to the point, the events that transpired had the distinct feel of deliberate actions taken by a marketing genius, the entire production a well-practiced device to publicizing his work. If it was, Asian bathrobe man, I bow to salute thee.
Grant held up an X-acto knife.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“Borrowed it from the hotel Kinkos,” he answered distractedly. “Time for surgery.” With surprising deftness, Grant excised and rearranged the offending letters into an ugly-but-benign title. No sooner had he scotch-taped the last letter in place than the first visitor for our poster arrived. I gratefully melted into the crowd, leaving Grant with a reasonably-well-salvaged presentation.
Four hours later, the morning session was ending as I returned to catch the tail end of things. Grant stood in front of his hastily-repaired poster, dealing with one or two lingering visitors. Exactly fifteen feet away, a crowd of no less than twenty onlookers was gradually melting away as the session's emcee repeatedly reminded attendees that the hall would be closing soon. As I helped Grant take down the poster, I glanced to the crowd down the row, which had only now thinned sufficiently to allow a glimpse of the presenter. Asian bathrobe man was there, furiously gesticulating toward his charts and figures, still clad in all his terryclothed glory.
“Is that dude wearing a bathrobe?” Grant asked, catching a view of his savior. “That’s weird.”
“It is,” I agreed.
I’ve thought about what lessons could be taken from that fateful day (other than “don’t get massages from strange men”). The most poignant of these comes from our sleep-creased benefactor, who held sway over a crowd using a technique that was both surreal and oddly brilliant. More to the point, the events that transpired had the distinct feel of deliberate actions taken by a marketing genius, the entire production a well-practiced device to publicizing his work. If it was, Asian bathrobe man, I bow to salute thee.