Goodness Gaseous

Well, boys and girls, we knew it was coming. But it's a freaking mob scene out there. By the mall today a little after two, gas was at $2.89 per gallon. In that area, it's usually a good ten cents above the cheaper parts of town. But by 5:20, barely three hours later, any place with that price had already been cleaned out by the mobs who then turned to the stations with $2.99.

I was naturally alarmed by this, so I decided to top Harvey off, even though I'd filled him on Sunday. Two depleted gas stations, three mob scenes, 29 dollars, and a quarter of a tank later, we hit full capacity. If you can get to a gas station, most especially if you're in the South, I'd urge you to do it now. But make sure you have something to entertain yourself while you sit in line. Don't wait, cause it's only going to get worse. Brave it, people, you'll thank yourselves later.

Of course, the underlying cause of this mess is Katrina. Please keep praying for her victims- I can't imagine the chaos there- for their homes, heartbreak, and health. And donate to the Red Cross if you can. God be with Louisiana and Mississippi and Alabama.

Could You Do It?

I've long been fascinated by forensics. Body farms, autopsies, stranglings, poisonings, serial killers, accidents, investigations of all kinds, I devour it all. But watching it on TV is undoubtedly a long way from actually experiencing it. I don't consider myself squeamish- OK, so I squealed like a girl and yanked my feet up when Kat's husband pointed out the roaches running around on the porch below- but as a rule. Admittedly, I have only seen one dead person outside of a funeral, but my reaction was not one of horror and disgust. Rather, it was one of sadness that despite the training I was receiving at the time, there was nothing I could do for the family. Nothing, except listen and pray and hope that my presence wasn't making things worse.

So what does it take to work with death for a living? From what I've learned, belief that life goes on doesn't seem to be a prerequisite. Maybe it's because I do believe we go on that this surprises me, but I don't understand how you can have any hope in being around death if all you think will happen is a big dirt nap. Pretty anticlimactic. And obviously, you can't be squeamish, afraid of blood or a few bad odors, but there are different degrees of this. Being a forensic entomologist might horrify some technicians who are content to sit in their labs and play with fibers.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this. I think it started off as a treatise on squeamishness and somehow evolved into how can you bear to do this with your life-type thing. But you can't get away from death; it's all around us, from the turtle you run over with your car to the victims of hurricanes. You can't escape it, but why do we embrace it? Why do we cluster round the TV to hear about the body farm? Why are we fascinated by the many different ways to die? And does trying to answer these questions make us feel better about the eventuality of leaving this earth? I don't believe that's where the answers lie; look to God if you're worried about an eternal fire. But beyond that, maybe it's just comforting to see this gruesomeness and be glad, on a level, that it isn't happening to us. Or maybe emotions have nothing to do with it. Perhaps it is, after all, a purely intellectual exercise...

Sometimes There Are No Answers

If my feet were smaller, would I trip over them less?

How do they get the pizza in the pizza-flavored Cheetos?

Is there no apparent limit to the amount of mucus the human nose can produce?

And if I eat enough of the Cheetos, will mine be orange?

Are ants grateful when you blow them off from the edge of the pool? Or do they just wonder why a giant wind is keeping them from drowning with their brethren?

If you eat enough sour Sweet Tarts, would your taste buds burn off from the effects?

"So the problem is coordination?" "Well, coordination was always a problem, but now with the other problem it's an even bigger problem than it was before. Or, something."

Was the dude who invented blogging the first one to lose interest after a month, leaving the rest of us to our addictions and futile questions?

I'll Meet You There

"I'm not unhappy, but I'd take the train today..." So begins the Point of Grace song, Day by Day; about how sometimes, the Rapture starts to 'look real good right about now'. It's not that I want to leave my life here on Earth. After all, I've had some fun here , and there's still a lot I want to see and do, a lot of living I still have left. And it's not that I'm a student of prophecy- I've done some reading. But I wouldn't even begin to try to pinpoint the day of Jesus's return, when He comes swiftly in the sky to take His followers away with Him. I don't know when it'll be; I don't think any of us does.

But haven't you ever stopped to imagine what it will be like? I know I'll see Kevin again, and my great-grandmother, and meet the ones I never knew, like my great-uncle Wavely. And it's appealing to think of getting away from everyday life's annoyances, away from the being late to work and falling on your face, away from losing things and people and quite possibly your mind. Awesome as that all sounds, isn't there more to heaven than that?

Remember the times where you've been at a weekend retreat, with a great speaker and lots of praise and worship and you're just so filled with God you could burst? Take that feeling, and try to imagine living for eternity with that feeling. What could be better than that? Certainly not lying on a cloud all day eating cream cheese with naked baby-faced angels. No, the heaven of the Bible, the heaven I believe in, promises that "the Lamb...will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes." (Revelation 7:17). So it's more than just a break from our sorrows; God Himself will comfort us. Rocked in the arms of the Lord for the rest of time: heaven.



Will I meet you there?

I'm Not Lazy, I Just Like Memes

Courtesy Better Safe. Hey, isn't there some rule, the rule of sevens or something? Oh well...

7 things I plan to do before I die: *I'd wanted to vote since I was seven years old, so that was a big accomplishment, one I will continue doing. *I want to have kids, since I love them, although some people would undoubtedly wonder why I would subject some poor child to my genetic material. *Go to Central or South America, on a missions trip. *Also go back to Europe, revisit Austria and Italy, and see more- Poland and the Ukraine, as a tourist/student. *I'd love to meet some of my fellow bloggers while here on Earth. *Learn to speak Spanish, which I do a little, and also German. *Be on a game show, hopefully Jeopardy.

7 things I can do: *Sing. *Spout off random bits of knowledge and/or quotes that have only a vague connection to the conversation. *I flatter myself that I'm a good writer. *Make people laugh. *Sell the BBW stuff that I love. *Save money (all right, so I'm cheap.) *Read a 652-page novel in five hours.

7 things I cannot do: *Dance. *I have absolutely no sense of direction, I've been known to get thoroughly lost in my own hometown. *Milk a cow. *Understand the conversion between the dollar and the euro. *Car vault. *Squirt milk out of my eye, which is truly disgusting to watch. *Cook from scratch.

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex: *Um, blond? *I don't know if it's an attraction, but almoost every guy I've been involved with has been shorter than me. *He has to make me laugh, too, cause I'm always the one making other people laugh. *A Christian. *He wouldn't necessarily have to agree with me on all political issues, I enjoy a debate, but at least the important, life-or-death ones. *Around my age, nothing May-December. *A romantic- geez, I hate these romance questions.

7 things that I say most often: *Oh, are you kidding me? *Harvey, do you want Mommy to crash you into that other car? *Yeah, sure, I'll take your shift. *I'm OK! *Do I have candy, what kind of a stupid question is that? *Isn't my nephew just the cutest baby? *Where's my tissues/Sharpie/water bottle/sanity?

7 celebrity crushes: *Josh Hartnett. *Christopher Meloni. *James and Oliver Phelps. *Colin Mochrie. *George W. *Nick Carter...

7 people I want to do this: I'm not in the mood to be cruel, can I have seven volunteers?

This Is The Meme That Never Ends

Y'all know the one- the interview game. You leave a comment asking to be interviewed, then the original interviewee comes up with five questions for you, and you pass it on. And if there's anyone in the circle who hasn't played this, or who's just really narcissistic and thinks they need to be interviewed again, please feel free. Today, the very cool Laurian, from Peas on Toast, interviews moi.

1) Who do YOU think killed JFK? Lee Harvey Oswald. Although I am not a student of history, I've seen a few Discovery Channel specials on the assassination, and I don't think there's enough evidence to suggest a conspiracy.

2) What was the last thing that exploded in your microwave? Well, I have two options for my answer: I can tell of what I exploded all over the kitchen, or I could tell my sister Melissa's exploding-in-the-microwave story. Since hers is funnier, and not at my expense...To be fair, it was a long time ago, and she does know how to cook now, but Melissa learned the hard way that you don't put an unopened can of Spaghetti-O's in the microwave. On high.

3)Who are the four people that you make the most phonecalls to? (maybe on speed dial, etc) Work is definitely number one, since we have certain shifts, called on-calls, where we're supposed to call in on the chance that they might need me. And since I'm a good little BBW associate, I always check. After that, probably my friend Alisha, my sister Janna, and my voicemail, cause I always call people back.

4)Why is your car called Harvey? He told me his name was Harvey, and I listened. Cause when Harvey talks, you listen.

5)Where is the most exotic place you've ever been to? It could be right down the road, it could be in South America... Never been to South America, although I'd love to. But as far as exotic goes, for scenery, I'd pick Austria. It was sooo beautiful there- the mountains, the views from the castles, but of course my classmates were just happy I got to go on the Sound of Music tour so I'd finally shut up about it. As far as culture, probably Italy. Naturally the Vatican is a whole other world, but Italia- the gelatto, the singing on street corners, the graffiti, the gelatto....I love Europe. If for no other reason than it is exotic.

To Be Human

Sounds like this is going to be some big philosophical, theological discussion of what it means to be a person versus animal, whet humanity is coming to, and all that good, deep stuff, doesn't it? Well, you should know better, because it's not. It's about an old, familiar problem- SPAM. And no, not the fake meat product that no one ever admits to eating. To be technical- you don't want it, you didn't ask for it, and yet, it keeps on coming.

Spam isn't a new problem, for me or likely anyone else. I have a Hotmail account that I spend more time on killing friendly messages such as, "Hey, you've won a free $100 restaurant gift card!" (No, I haven't) or, "Your AFC bank account has been breached so click this link and enter your passwords and we'll take care of it for you!" (Nice try, guys, but I've never even heard of AFC bank); than getting actual messages. And when you push the "Next blog" button, you get blogs driven by machines offering cheap deals on cell phones, with a human far far off in the distance hoping someone will fall for it.

That sort of thing, I'm used to. But when they invade MY turf, I get mad. I didn't painstakingly build this thing to end up with comments such as, "I agree with your post, hey check this out, I think you're gonna like it!" Not sure how you can not agree with a post about penguins, but I digress. This is when I decide to do something. The question is, what?

I debated disabling anonymous commenting, but several of my readers don't have Blogger accounts. I created a fake account they could use to sign in on, but that seemed like too much work. And I believe in allowing anonymous comments- if you want to voice your opinion but don't have the courage to use your name, or if you want to play Linky-Do, or whatever, fine. I won't be the curtail your free speech, I believe in expressing your opinion even if it's one I don't necessarily like. But I was so frustrated , I went to the settings to do just that- and then I saw an alternative.

I got so excited about this alternative- word verification- that I went around like Rambo Woman yesterday, suggesting it on every random blog I saw that had been hit by the Spammers. And if you don't know how to do it, I already sent Darlene a tutorial, and who am I to try to beat my own words? Requiring commenters to verify a word works because the spammers are automated, and it takes a human to type in some letters they see. Plus, a lot of the spammers have caught on and aren't anonymous anymore, as I discovered playing Rambo. So until they get smarter than this, you're going to have to type in a few letters- a pretty small price to pay for my sanity. At least, I think so.

Harvey's Story

In case some of my newer readers haven't figured it out, Harvey is my car. He is a 1988 Buick century that I've had for two years, and the inspiration for my web address (the rest of it is that some people call me Nellie, hence Nellie's Harvey, shortened to nellsharvey.) Harvey's part of a lot of my stories, and he deserves to have his told.



My first car was a green Taurus, creatively named the Taurinator by my sister. It was a decent car, but after I, uh, put it out of commission, my grandfather reclaimed the Buick he still owned from my uncle and gave it to me. He thought I'd be safer in a bigger car anyway. Much of Harvey's former life had been spent living quietly in the mountains, never having to use the A.C., getting a brand-new engine, his biggest challenge going up the hill every day. But now, he was mine.

Everyone asks me, why Harvey? And the answer is, I don't know any better than you do. I knew he was a male, but what to call him? I toyed with Vernon, after both my grandfather and uncle, but decided three Vernons would be too confusing. And then one day it just came to me- Harvey. I think that was his name all along, it's just that no none had ever listened. So we settled into a comfortable existence. I got used to driving a behemoth of a car, and Harvey got used to being driven by a girl. But I was soon to find out how strong a character he really was.

Halloween 2003. I'd already promised my friends Katie and Meka that they could go with me to Janna's party. Enter Meka's obnoxious friend Brandon from high school- "No, Meka, y'all can all come and we'll do him a costume." Driving down the interstate to Party City, Brandon in the backseat with Katie, complaining about everything "You drive too slow. Where are we? What kind of music is this anyway?" "It's my car, and I like Christian music." And then the Christian music starts getting louder. Well, maybe it's just a big moment in the song. But then louder...and louder...and louder. Finally Brandon can't take it. "Stop doing that! Why are you DOING that?" I smile smugly and say, "I'm not touching it." Meka chimes in, "Yeah, Brandon, she's not doing it." I repeat, "I'm not touching it. The car just doesn't like you."

That effectively sealed the deal, and Harvey has proven himself to be a fierce defender- heaven forbid someone else tries to drive him. Logic would seem to say that I would want a newer car, maybe with some nice features like a CD player. Or a cupholder. But this one's mine, and anyone who knows me, knows he's mine. And those who don't, well, they probably think it belongs to some old Republican dude and are usually surprised to see a cute innocent girl behind the wheel. But I don't care. Cause as long as we last, Harvey and I, we'll be rolling through life together.

Meet the Spambots

Spambots.
Evil spambots.
They are the en-e-my.
From the town of nowhere,
they don't deserve a place by me.
Let's all think of something to do
so the curs-ed spambots can't get through.
When you see the spambots,
they are really really evil,
spawn of the dee-vil,
let's kill off all the bots!

This Blog Is Brought to You By....

Penguins. Why? Well, that's a funny story actually. I was wandering through Wal-Mart and penguins suddenly leapt into my mind. Why, I don't know, as I was picking out candy at the time, but penguins it was. And I realized the wonderful thing about blogs- that I can blather on and on about any random topic that comes to my mind, and you people listen to it. Heh heh.



So. Penguins. There are seventeen varieties, and one of my many useless talents is naming all of them. Many thanks to Spin for instilling the penguin song into my head during elementary school; apparently it never left. Actually, now that I think about it, penguins were an integral part of my early life. I wrote stories about penguins- a Little Blue and a Rockhopper, now nameless.

And then, of course, there was Scamper. If I close my eyes, I can hear that song, too- "Scamper, the penguin, the most curious one of all..." Not exactly Disney caliber, but I think there was a lesson about environmentalism in there somewhere. The penguins do bring me to a point, though. Not that my formative years were spent in front of the TV learning quasi-liberal lessons, but that I do not hate all birds. I like penguins! After all, penguins are cute and cuddly...and they only live in the Southern Hemisphere. You can see them at the zoo, but nowhere else. With all those advantages, how can I not say- gooooo, penguins!

V-J Day

V-J Day. Sixty years ago today, victory in Japan, and thus, the world. Americans, British, Canadians, Australians, all rejoice, while in the Pacific, the sorrows are beginning. With the power of the atom the Japanese have been annihilated into submission. For it is not just another bomb, it is one that will, indeed, change the world.

Vernon Victor Beacham. Just another of thousands of the boys fighting for their country, drafted but proud to serve. Barely twenty at the end of the war, he is serving on a ship in the Pacific as a radio operator. Wondering if he would ever see his brothers again, wondering would the Japanese ever give in? And on this day, sixty years past, he knows he will soon be going home. Because of that terrible, wonderful invention, that prevented casualties for the Allies, yes, but wreaked its horror on unknowing civilians and soldiers alike. He is not a casualty, and he is my grandfather.

This is truly a war unlike all before it, and this time no one is fool enough to call it a war to end all wars. The participants, I know, are left with a deep love of America, and a penchant to ride to the rescue. And some may never be able to forgive the Japanese, for no matter what they learned and what the Navy gave them, the Japanese are the enemy. They stole time from his life, and indeed, the lives of many of his comrades. He is alive, as is his family, and will live the American Dream. But he will never forget.

Vernon Beacham marries Sonora Divers, has fifty-eight years and counting of the Dream. And one day his granddaughters grow up, and they wonder, "What was it like? How did you survive?" But he cannot speak of it. America gave him an education for his brilliant mechanical mind, and these stories he tells. But of combat, of the things his young mind saw and absorbed, I rarely heard. Until something changed, until perhaps he realized his mortality and began to tell of his experiences.

And now I listen, try to understand all I can. Because I know that without him, and others like him who sacrificed so much, my country would not be what she is today. And perhaps without the atomic bomb he would have been among the many 'further casualties', and I would never have come to be. I don't know what would have happened, but I do know that I am proud of him. He taught me to love America, to be active and do what I can for her, and to believe that through our efforts she can change, become better. So on this day, the sixtieth anniversary of V-J Day, I wan to say thank you, for the veterans of World War II, Europe, the Pacific, the Home Front. Your stories will live forever, and your efforts will not be forgotten. Remember...

Good Idea, Bad Idea

It's time for another Good Idea, Bad Idea.....

Good Idea: Putting a fresh coat of polish on your fingernails.
Bad Idea: Touching your face with said wet fingernails.

Good Idea: Drinking more water.
Bad Idea: Drinking so much water that you have to leave your register three times to "take care of business".

Good Idea: Breaking into acting.
Bad Idea: Getting stuck playing dead victims on Discovery Channel reenactments.

Good Idea: Having a break from classes.
Bad Idea: Not knowing the day of the week, much less the actual date, without an external reminder.

Good Idea: Leaving snarky comments under pseudonyms.
Bad Idea: Forgetting to change the name on Haloscan, leaving the next blogger to wonder, "Why is Nettie a plagiarist? And when did Bubba reappear?"

Good Idea: Moving from Bloggger to a new higly polished WordPress addy.
Bad Idea: Actually, this one's all good. One of my blogging buddies, Mark of Decision '08, has a shiny new place. He's always been supportive of me and Meet the Bloggers. So return the favor and check him out, eh? And as for the rest of the ideas...I know nothing...

Scare Yourself to Death

OK, so I'll admit it. Scary movies, well, scare me. I'd like to say it ended in high school, when I ended up all alone in the front seat of The Sixth Sense theater, my friends snickering somewhere behind me. The whole theater, however, heard me gasp when the boy-with-no-back-of-the-head turned around. But I watched it several years later while home by myself at night and am proud to say I had no nightmares.

Unfortunately, this inability to be quiet followed me to college. I refused to watch The Ring without the lights on. And Wrong Turn, about the inbred West Virginia mutants killing innocent college students? "If you aren't quiet, Nettie, you can't watch the rest of the movie with us!" I suppose it's progress that I'm making a fool of myself in a room with a rented movie instead of a theater. OF course that might be because I'm just cheap.

In spite of this, I continue to scare myself. I love Silence of the Lambs, although I've watched to the point of it no longer being scary. I've discovered Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction, which makes me jump at least twice an episode even though the whole point is that it may or may not be true. So is there some deep psychological significance for why we continue to deliberately scare ourselves?

Is it easier than facing the reality of what truly scares us? Is it at least more exciting than some drama about people whining for their lives or trying to win a million dollars by eating bugs? Does it vicariously satisfy our dark sides like nothing in real life ever can? Comforting to know that we are actually safe and can scream and someone will always come to our rescue? Maybe. Or is it just fun to be scared?

Tell Her About It

This is my sister Janna with her boyfriend Anthony. And if you have a problem with that, you might as well stop reading here. Racism is an undeniably ugly part of the Southern heritage. There is no one left to remember the bloody civil war fought under the name of states' rights but was in reality a pretext to keep our slaves; we are left with the history books and the peoople who think we should still be fighting it. And I am too young to remember the crusades of the civil rights era, the struggles of a people to win what was promised them long ago. I have grown up in a generation that took the rights of others to live as our Constitution guarantees for granted. So why is it that sometimes, the land of the free, doesn't act like everything is so free?

The racism is subtler, now. Walk with them, talk with them, but don’t marry them. It’s still the South and they aren’t like us even though they’re our best friends, and what if they have children? Kept quiet, the devastating lessons passed down with the morning’s milk and cereal, whispered between like-minded children at the playground, fed at dinnertime in between admonitions to keep your elbows off the table and pass the beets, please. Ruminated over at night while the children dream and the parents pray they will stick to their own kind and not fall in love with someone from the different side of the tracks because what will the people at the country club think? Song of the Sordid South.

And then the uproars come- “ How dare Maurice Bessinger fly the Confederate flag and put pamphlets encouraging slavery in his restaurants, we must all boycott him, what a horrible person he is.” All the while thinking, “Maybe he has a point, but I’ve got to go along against what everyone says is evil because it wouldn’t be politically correct not to but please God just let the kids meet a nice WASP and settle down.” But you don’t have to tell the people who choose to challenge the status quo. They know. They know that people are whispering behind their back, saying they are wrong, wrong, wrong. But they don’t care, they are in love, and nothing is going to tear them apart. Especially not racism, didn’t that go out with the sixties?

The secrets are shattering, you would expect them to die with the generations that lived and disagreed through it. But they are passing their legacy down, making sure that even if the KKK isn’t roaming around anymore, that doesn’t mean they weren’t right and we can’t let that die. Someone has to inspire the neo-Nazis who may not be out in the open but are perhaps made even more dangerous by their insidiousness. For by keeping silent, they can deny it ever happened. So do we keep on denying it, too, we who dare to think differently but are ashamed to disagree with what seems to be the status quo? Do we hide it behind pretty words like demographics and culture?

Or do we choose to break the silence, saying, “Yes, if this is who you love, then I support you. If you feel you are to spend your lives together, or not, that’s your business and why would I want to interfere? Because he’s different from you?” Do we stand up, declaring maybe I can’t change the world but if I can do this one thing, for you and for my country, then I will make that choice. For this is my country, and I do love the South. That’s why I want her to change, to say if a man and a woman want to be together as God intended, shouldn’t we as a society support them, and not let the disapproval radiate as we pay lip services to equal rights? Or do we use them, saying they are the victims, anybody should be allowed to marry anybody, twisting the point until they alienate those who might actually agree with the original premise? It doesn’t have to be. My generation, and yours, can break the cycle, here and everywhere. Your silence only encourages those who still want to live in the remnants of the shameful past. Break the pattern, for the beautiful children that will be born. Do it for you, and do it for them, for they are and will be the future.

Yessss

Well, I discovered life outside of blogging. And I didn't like it very much. There was so much I wanted to share with y'all. Things that I was excited about, like the Golden Palace and Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, and the everyday life that makes me cranky, like stupid people at work, and maybe I would have actually gotten serious. But after consultations with my hairdresser's computer guy and the nice people at Office Max, I'm back with a new setup (spent more than I wanted to, but if it keeps working, it'll be worth it). Cause boy, did I miss you all!

I did manage to find a life outside of blogging, though. Actually, it was my sister Janna's life, but whatever. Saturday, she graduated from college with a double degree in International Studies and Womens' Studies. And yes, I was all choked up at the beginning, when they were singing the national anthem and I was thinking, "My big sister's finally graduating!" But then the commencement speaker started, this really boring dude who droned on and on about exercise and the twelve steps for living a healthy life. I spent the rest of the time making snarky comments to my grandmother, who was hissing at me to be quiet while she tried to stop laughing. At least it was a summer graduation; a regular one would have been much longer. Probably would have had a better guest speaker though. Austin spent most of the time being wheeled around and around the coliseum by his dad, but they all made it back in time to hear Janna's name, undoubtedly a big moment in his three-month-old life. I'll try to get more pictures up, but for now, I'm sure you'll be happy enough to know you can stop amusing yourselves in the old comments, eh?

Desperation

Gack. I'm at the library. I must really be desperate. It's sad how addicted I am to this. Not that the library is desperate, I just don't normally use the Internet here. But since mine's still being evil, if that's what it takes to keep in touch with y'all...

I just realized that my title is the same as a Stephen King book. Kind of appropriate in a way. Not just cause I finished It but because it has to do to Maine, the apparent home of clown-like entities and UFOs and pets that rise from the grave. Maine, where our head manager is moving in two weeks. Kathleen may not give me much credit for having common sense (I probably don't deserve it anyway), but she's a really cool person and I hate that she's leaving. I can't get over that it's Maine. The other end of the country, might as well be the other end of the world. What do they eat there? Do they talk funny? Will her new associates be nice to her?

Plus, we just got a new manager. And it's not that I didn't like Candis, the old one, but she just moved to the Augusta store, and Tammy's pretty cool. But Kathleen is different, I guess. For one thing, she's the head manager, and she's a very protective person, always looking out for everyone. And for another, they haven't found anyone to replace her yet, she wasn't actually supposed to tell us until they did. But nobody at BBW can keep their mouth shut anyway. I guess change has to come, but it stinks sometimes. I'll still love my job, unless they get some real fiend, but it's not going to be the same.