The Links page has been updated.

"Beware, O lord, of jealousy. It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on."
-Iago, Othello

I don't need a romantic relationship right now. I don't have the time, the girl, or the circumstances needed. And yet, my emotions fail to see the logic of the situation. Thing is, several people around me have the potential to form relationships now. My mind envisions relationships with some of these people, and my heart thinks they could be very nice.

Jealousy arises even at the potential for someone else to have something I don't have.

"This, too, is vanity."
-Ecclesiastes

It's foolish to be jealous when you're so well provided for, as I am. Affection, I get. Love, certainly. These are things I am jealous for, yet in all actuality, I have them. I shall have to take stock of things more often when I'm feeling short-changed. It may just cheer me up.

Speaking of which... happy Easter, everyone. The power of Jesus Christ has defeated death. How do you like them apples?

If I had a time machine, I would put on the Pay-Per-View event of the century. Several centuries, actually.

VERSUS.
(In Which Historical and Literary Figures Put the Smack Down on Each Other Because it's Just Too Good.)

Round 1: Josef Stalin vs. Mao Tse-tung. Don't tell me you didn't want to see that one.

Round 2: Nelson Mandela vs. Mahatma Ghandi. Passive no more!

Round 3: Charles Dickens vs. Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Years of oppression have built rather a lot of angst. Time to vent.

Round 4: Leonardo da Vinci vs. Stephen Hawking. The first in our chess series. Watch Gary Kasparov's eyes well up with tears.

Round 5: Niccolo Machiavelli vs. Rasputin. One more step on the rise to power.

Round 6: Alan Ginsberg vs. Jack Kerouac. Winner gets a bag of rare peyote.

Round 7: Dorian Gray vs. Doctor Faustus. Clash of the anti-heroes! Who do you want to lose most?

Round 8: Aristotle vs. Isaac Newton. The second chess game. Root for your favorite set of natural laws!

Round 9: Achilles vs. Beowulf. I don't care who wins. I just wanna see it.

Round 10: Lorenzo de Medici vs. Estella Havisham. Factual versus fictional. A personality clash that will leave the rafters shaking. Of course, if those two get together, it's all over.

Round 11: Raphael vs. Mephistopholes. Paradise Lost and Doctor Faustus have their parallels. Now the two collide like celestial freight trains.

Round 12: Karl Marx vs. Adam Smith. Place your bets, economists and boxing fans alike!

Round 13: Socrates vs. Confucious. An epic game of chess, followed by a round of go. If there's a tie, there may be mayhem.

Round 14: John Calvin & Thomas Hobbes vs. John Locke & Ralph Waldo Emmerson. The main event. A tag team match to settle the fate of all humanity! Philosophically.

He, he.

I should clarify my previous two posts.

I used to be a hopeless romantic. Turns out that part of that deal is being hopeless. Should have figured. For the longest time, I bought into the Romantic glorification of falling in love. I'm done with that, now.

Done.

I have found in a scant few years of mixed romantic experiences that feelings, even strong mutual feelings, fluctuate. They can disappear and reappear. Can and do. So why base a relationship on something so inconsistent? Or a marriage? Yet the expectation, the clich?, is "fall in love and get married." At least, it was.

Marriage has lost its meaning, as far as some people are concerned. It's a promise that's almost expected to be broken. I would suggest that this is because so many couples expected to stay in love forever. No one told them that it doesn't work that way.

More and more often, I realize that central aspects of the world around me are dysfunctional. I think the very institution of dating may be one of them, as we're expected to approach it.

So, I may just be done with that, too.

I'm in the process of formulating an... alternate approach. It will involve lots of prayer, a philosophical discussion or two I'm sure, and much reading of the Bible. Sure, I'll still fall in love from time to time, but I intend to have an entirely different reaction. The romantic in me is protesting loudly, but he's had his say in the past. I think it's time for something new.

As though in answer to my question (thank you, Lord), a copy of The Church Herald appeared in my living room. The front page article: "Courtship and Marriage: Is it All About Love?"

The article puts forth the radical ideas that dating is an artificial construct, romantic love is fleeting and inconsistent, and that for a successful marriage, commitment is a higher priority even than love.

Madness.

Look around for a moment. Think back. Think forward, if you can. Examine your heart, and all that's run through... and over it.

Is it possible that our society's approach to and notions about love are completely backward?

I'd say it's not only possible... it's highly likely.

Twenty-four oceans, twenty-four skies,
twenty-four failures in twenty-four tries.
Twenty-four finds me in twenty-fourth place.
With twenty-four dropouts at the end of the day.

Life is not what I thought it was
twenty-four hours ago.
Still I'm singing 'Spirit,
take me up in arms with You.'
And I'm not who I thought I was
twenty-four hours ago.
Still I'm singing 'Spirit,
take me up in arms with You.'

There's twenty-four reasons to admit that I'm wrong
with all my excuses still twenty-four strong.

But see, I'm not copping out
When you're raising the dead in me

Oh, I am the second man
Oh, I am the second man now
Oh, I am the second man now

And you're raising these twenty-four voices
With twenty-four hearts
With all of my symphonies in twenty-four parts
But I want to be one today
Centered and true

I wanna see miracles
To see the world change
Wrestled the angel for more than a name
For more than a feeling
For more than a cause
Singing 'Spirit, take me up in arms with You'
You're raising the dead in me

-Switchfoot, "Twenty-Four"

Been stuck in my head for a few days. It may take something like resurrection for to me to maintain my current schedule. Busier than I've been in a while, which isn't much by some standards. Still, pretty busy. It would be easy to back out of my classes, and easy enough to justify. But... I want to be through with that.

Because there's a minute possibility that I might just be able to handle this. I know, I'm shocked, too.

Not long ago, I formed a list of songs that were dear to me. The list had long been there in my mind: songs that had - somewhere between the music, the lyrics, and the mood they invoked - inspired me. Some were irrevocably tied to memories. Some had evoked images, or even characters for stories. All of them had a certain underlying drama that gave them life.

I carefully arranged the songs into a CD. It's something of a soundtrack for myself.

1) The Refreshments - Mekong
2) Seven Mary Three - Cumbersome
3) Bush - Machinehead
4) Queensrÿche - Another Rainy Night Without You
5) Stavesacre - Rivers Underneath
6) Stabbing Westward - What Do I Have to Do?
7) Evanescence - Bring Me to Life
8) Skillet - The Thirst is Taking Over
9) Loreena McKennitt - Dante's Prayer
10) System of a Down - Aerials
11) P.O.D. - Satellite
12) Five Iron Frenzy - Every New Day
13) The O.C. Supertones - So Great a Salvation
14) Jennifer Knapp - Faithful to Me (Reprise)
15) [11.11 second silence]
16) Joe Satriani - Mind Storm
17) Bad Religion - Sorrow
18) Five Iron Frenzy - Farsighted

While enjoying a beverage with mom at Starbucks this evening, I composed a few haiku. Of course, being a stupid American, I followed only the syllable structure of the form - 5/7/5 - and not the poetic structure. That said, they were all written within a minute apiece. Thus, I give you:

Six Non-sequential Minutes of Something
(an impromptu haiku series)

caffeine drink buzzing
full of light, nervous power
sixteen ounces awake

ballistic stomach
protesting tasty sausage
slow to recover

closing coffee shop
students in aprons, glaring
at those who linger

blessed ginger beer
ancient brewers’ elixir
Jamaican goodness

advice from the geeks
do not buy a PS2
to play DVDs

dub revolution
we hope you like jammin’ too
turntable reggae

Voila. Fun aplenty. Oh, and check out my previous post (updated just now) for a Jhonen Vasquez trivia contest! Whee.

As my friends well know, I am a fan of modern comics. In earlier years, I read the occasional X-Men, but I tended more towards the various Venom miniseries and the little-known Darkhawk. For a few years, my interest in comics waned. Then I was introduced to Jhonen Vasquez's I Feel Sick. At first glance, I was appalled. The profinity and violence was hardly what I had come to expect from comics, having seen only Marvel works beforehand.

Eventually, I realized that there was a plot in the twisted little volume I held, and quite an interesting plot. Not to mention characters worth... mentioning. Hmm. Yes. Soon after, I read Vasquez's Johnny the Homicidal Maniac, and was hooked.

I have since discovered - through two trips to the San Diego Comic Convention, as well as a browse or three through Carolyn's exceptional stash - discovered several other titles well worth reading. Here's a current list, from left to right, of what's on my shelf:

Creature Tech by Doug Tennapel : A fantastic graphic novel from an immensely talented writer and artist. Tennapel somehow succeeds in combining fantasy, science-fiction, and Christian inspiration with good comedy and an engaging plot. I still have to lend this one to Cody, so wait your turn. Actually, I think I've loaned it out to everyone who doesn't own a copy.

The Red Star Collected Edition by Christian Gossett, et al. : As described on my Links page. I can't wait until the next trade paperback comes out. May just be time to re-read this one.

Lenore: Wedgies by Roman Dirge : This is the second collection of Lenore comics published by Slave Labor Graphics, which also produces Jhonen Vasquez's works. Lenore is an undead ten-year-old girl whose roommate is a vampire trapped in the body of a doll. The book reads, for the most part, like a demented fairytale. I really like demented fairytales. More on that in a second. The almost childish, yet well-drawn art style takes some getting used to, but compliments the story and characters perfectly.

Squee's Wonderful Big Giant Book of Unspeakable Horrors by Jhonen Vasquez : Appropriately placed next to Lenore, Squee! is the manic tale of young Todd Casil, neighbor to one Johnny C, the aforementioned Homicidal Maniac. At times, it seems like knife-toting madman across the street is the least of Todd's worries. Heck, at least the psycho killer likes him. The rest of the world may be quite another matter.

I Feel Sick 1 & 2 by Jhonen Vasquez : The technical third of the three series in the JTHM world, this comic follows Devi, a gothy artist chick whose most promising date in years had been with none other than Johnny. Devi's focus and creative drive are seemingly siphoned away as she works either on commissioned paintings for a major corporate publisher, or a single painting that takes much of her attention. Do pay attention when the painting starts talking. This short story is every bit as engaging as Johnny and Squee! and is not to be missed by fans of the artist.

Y: The Last Man - Unmanned by Brian Vaughan et al. : The premise is quite simple. I wouldn't have thought to do it, and probably wouldn't have done it as well, given the chance. Yourick Brown is the literally the last man alive after every other male on the planet dies suddenly, violently, and without explanation. The comic examines the possbile repercussions of such a strange catastrophe, and is unexpectedly wonderful to read. Unmanned is the first trade paperback.

Fables by Bill Willingham et al. : Take all of Grimm's Fairy Tales. Throw in every nursery rhyme you were ever taught. Now, take all the characters who look human and put them in an underground community in New York City. Take the rest, and put them in upstate New York on a compound called The Farm. Bada bing. Fables. The first volume, Legends in Exile, is a murder mystery; the second, Animal Farm, involves a potential political revolution at The Farm. I really love demented fairytales.

100 Bullets by Brian Azzarello and Eduardo Rizzo : My absolute favorite series. The X-Files meets The Godfather with delicious, snappy film-noir staging and dialogue. A conspiracy story that leaves you feeling accomplished and rewarded with every twist. Currently spanning six trade paperbacks, 100 Bullets is set for a 100-issue run. I intend to own every one.

Semantic Lace by Sherard Jackson : Also, as described on my Links page. Unfortunately, Mr. Jackson has not updated his website for some time, though I belive that his most recent work, Assembly is out. Gotta check.

Hellsing by Kohta Hirano : Loved the anime (animated form), and am just as pleased with the manga (comic form). It is in this series that my friends found an anime character that resembles me in appearance, if not exactly in mannerisms: Paladin Alexander Anderson, the lunatic Catholic vampire slayer. In certain panels in the comic, the resemblance is eerie. Beth did a really good job on the costume.

Everything Can Be Beaten by Crab Scrambly and Chancre Scolex : The two authors of this bizarre little pamphlet are, respectively, Brad Canby and Jhonen Vasquez. The story’s philosophical content is easily missed by the fact that the main character spends all his time whacking things into a liquid state with a large mallet. Each page is a Canby painting with Vasquez’s prose along the bottom in paragraph form. It’s small, cheap, odd, and hey, it’s Vasquez. That’s my excuse.

There are several other series I intend to check out, including just about everything from Vertigo Comics (100 Bullets, Fables, Y: The Last Man, Sandman, etc.). They have a tendency to handle "mature content" with something quite rare these days... maturity.

Know what... contest time. Answer me this: In which Jhonen Vasquez comic, and which scene, does Brad Canby appear? Whoever posts the answer in my guestbook first wins a taco!

"The Grim Man," a story I recently wrote for my Creative Writing class, has been posted in the Storytime! section of Glenn Song's Paradiseworld. In the archives, you can also find "War's End," a collaboration between myself and my most dear friend Amanda, as well as some of her own work. Feel free to leave feedback in the guestbook here, in addition to Glenn's site.

For a moment, if you will, close your eyes to the flashing lights. Shut your ears to the inevitable carols in their innumerable renditions. Put away your wallet and look away from the wrapping paper.

Where did all this come from? Why is it all here? Why all the rush, and light, and noise? Why do we sing of sleigh bells in the warm, rainy capital of California? What are all these relatives doing on our doorstep? How much did we just spend?

Did anyone have to tell you that it was Christmas? And did you sigh when you realized how soon it was?

I pray, for everyone, at least one moment of silence, in which you can ask yourself, "what's behind all this?" I don't have to tell you the answer.

And I pray that the truth, the reason that this day is on the calendar in the first place, will bring you hope.

(and now, a bit of melancholy in the form of prose poetry.)

But those who trust in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
-Isaiah 40:31 (New International Version)

I remember when my love called me Angel. (it seems long ago, but it was not.) As now, I was no radiant being then. My best guess, and hope, is that in my arms was some security. Safety. That I was less a threat than a guardian. Perhaps that is why she called me Angel. Whatever the reason, I loved the name as I loved her.

Since, the word has floated past me, sometimes toward me, perhaps a few times. Angel. Each time, I remember holding my love as though I sought to keep her. She has not called me that in these few years. Angel. If that is what I am now, I have one wing at best. Perhaps I always have. Certainly, I have always borne wounds from the same demons I seek to protect my loves against.

It seems that, even in my most radiant days, I have always been a man with paper wings. So often, I want to be more. What can a man do? Angels fly. Angels strike with divine swords. Angels appear when they are needed, alight with strength. Angels deliver judgement. A man sees an angel and trembles.

What can a man do?

If I were to ask she who was my love, she would tell me, as she has before. There is much a man can do. I have heard the proof whispered thank you, or I love you. I draw in these words as I draw in breath or water. I feel them as I feel the warmth of light. Without them, I begin to panic.

Angels depend on the Lord alone. Men should, but do not. My idols are her smile for me, her head on my shoulder, and her hand in mine. The Lord has made these things good, but He has not made them God. The angels remember this well. Too often, I forget.

I want to learn. To love and not possess. To serve expecting no payment. To desire, and not receive. Humbly. Peacefully. Until I can do these things, I will remain a dim sort of angel. A man in a costume. No less an emissary of God, but less obvious. Less consistent.

I hope that someday my wings will not longer be paper, but cloth.

Why I Like the Shooty-Shooty:
A Nod to the Violence Aesthetic

So I was walking through this mall in southern California, somewhere around Santa Monica, I think. I’m looking around, and I see all these walkways and staircases, nice clean panes of glass, and a nice fountain down by the pretzel stand. And after a moment’s consideration, I realized what a great set this would be for an action movie. Plenty of places to jump from, things to land on, glass to shatter, what have you. I could see men and women with automatic handguns running back and forth along the bridges, taking cover behind potted plants, and generally laying waste to everything.

Amanda looked over at me as we walked. “Man, this would be a good place for a shootout.”

I turned to her, a lump in my throat. “I love you.”

In later days, we would write stories together. They usually featured fantastic fight sequences, most often involving buckets of flying shell casings, preternaturally agile sword fighters, and feats of athletic prowess only the Shaolin would think of attempting. Why all the violence?

Because it’s freakin’ awesome.

Honestly. Watch The Matrix sometime, and tell me the lobby shootout isn’t at least number 5 on the Coolest Things Ever List. Try watching the dojo fight in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon without saying the words dang, sweet!, or whoa at least once. It’s harder than you think. Find someone who owns a Playstation 2 and play Devil May Cry. I still remember the first time I launched an enemy into the air with a whack from my sword, drew my guns, and juggled the poor shmuck in midair with bullets. I cackled in victory.

Some of you may feel a little queasy. Either you’re reading this in a moving vehicle, or you don’t like the idea of someone finding all this violence appealing. Or both. Whatever. I can hopefully address one of these.

Consider my three examples listed above for a moment. What do they all have in common? The first thing that comes to my mind is this: while the bullets are flying and the swords are clashing, there’s music in the background. Good stuff, too. Respectively, there’s the catchy techno hook of the Propellerheads’ “Spybreak,” a rhythmic surge of taiko drummers, and the hammering guitar rock of Masami Ueda.

I don’t need to remind you that our troops in Iraq are not groovin’ to the sounds of Prodigy as they fight.

All right, my examples have something else in common. In The Matrix, the characters run on walls, do cartwheels while shooting, and kick guns out of their opponents’ hands. Crouching Tiger has our heroine wrenching weapons off the dojo walls, and displaying nothing less than expertise with every one. She also flies from time to time. Dante, our edgy player character in Devil May Cry, wears a bright red trenchcoat, leaps easily ten feet upwards with impunity, and turns into a lighting-flashing, combat-ready demon at intervals.

That is to say that the violence portrayed is, in short,

Not.
At all.
Realistic.

That’s why it’s cool.

10 Things I've Learned from Watching Rogers and Hammerstein's South Pacific:

1) Frenchmen have goatees.
2) You don't spring two Polynesian kids on a girl right away.
3) Bullies multiply and grow strong.
4) Island nookie solves all your problems. Just like crack does.
5) Friggin' Bali H'ai.
6) It's okay to let the girl you love drive a jeep drunk if it's dramatically appropriate.
7) You've got to be carefully taught to hate. (imagine this sung. happily.)
8) Good ol' suicide missions.
9) What piffle.
10) Yes, "hurly burly" is an actual phrase.

This week... what can I say? If I don't stay motivated this week, there will be problems.

I have a movie to make. Time has been allocated tomorrow for the filming process. Editing time is questionable at best. Hopefully, none will be needed: the idea I have could potentially be filmed in one continuous take (but certainly not the first take). The idea fits the one-take format... but could necessity is the mother of invention, they say.

I have a story to write. Six more pages by Friday. I have an idea, characters, a general plot, themes, motifs, something of a setting... just need momentum. Six more pages by Friday. Good ones.

I have a derelict car to dispose of. That needs to happen tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, no less. My friends can attest to my wretched history with cars. This one, I literally can't give away. If it is not gone by Wednesday, my head will be unceremoniously be fed to Koby, our German shepherd. I intend to deny the dog the satisfaction. Mutt.

If today is any indication, I can pull all this off. I did more things today than I've done in the past week, practically. And it feels wonderful.

Lately I've re-realized how laziness can devour my life. There's an African proverb that goes, "Sitting is being crippled." I've often wondered at my more active friends (which seems to be just about everyone), and how much they get done in a given day. Sometimes it genuinely boggles my mind.

I truly hope I can join their ranks soon. This week might just help.

I'm really thankful that God has put into my life the people that He has. Just thinking about how different things could be... for example, the two girls I've dated in the past both broke up with me under rather unfortunate circumstances. Today, they are both cherished friends. It's not just that we don't hate each other. I love them, and they love me. I can confidently say that. Some friends of mine can't even look at their ex-girlfriends without clenching their teeth.

And my family. It 's painful to see how many of my peers have deep, abiding problems with their parents, especially their fathers. But I know my Dad loves me. Mom too, without a doubt. I know not everyone can say that with certainty... which is why I'm so thankful that I can.

My friends continually teach me things about myself. Particularly, that I need to be more patient with people. Heh. Love you guys. Thanks for being patient with me, when you have been.

*virtual group hug*

For a thrilling recap of a conversation I recently had with Crwuidth (while I was feeling strangely adversarial), check out News From The White Room.

...tomorrow will more than likely spawn a very interesting post. I shall wait, though, until the events in question transpire and become public knowledge. Or, well... until they transpire.

(9/15 update: never mind.)

A couple friends and I were out and about late one evening, about to head home. One of my friends asked if we could stop somewhere to could pick up some condoms – he had run out. I frowned. My friend was unmarried, and therefore, as far as the Bible is concerned, should not be having sex at all. So, I said no. With a similar frown, my friend spied a gas station behind us at the corner, and asked if I would at least wait for him if he got some there. Succumbing to decency, I nodded. A moment after my friend had left to fetch condoms, my other friend who was along asked about what had just happened. “He’s just going to get them anyway,” he noted.

I was ready for this. It’s an excuse I hear often. It seemed to be true enough in this situation: even in my refusal to help, my friend was on his way to getting what he was after. My refusal, it seemed, had been at best a futile attempt to delay the inevitable. So what was the difference?

The difference was me. I explained to my inquisitive friend that I would not support my sexually active friend, and so involve myself. I would not bear the burden for any part of his sin. Similarly, I had previously declined to take another dear friend of mine to get cigarettes. I loved him too much to help him do anything to hurt himself. The situation was much the same.

My friend returned quickly from the gas station. “They’re out,” he reported. At that, I took them both home.

If you ask me to help you do something that I think is wrong, no matter how passive my part may seem, I should refuse. It is not at all necessary, and not in the least justified for me to take part in another’s sin. I have enough of my own to worry about.

No, you’re not hallucinating. I have actually updated my blog. I’ll give you a second to recover from the shock.

All right, then. Part of my excuse for not updating in some time (the only remotely relevant part) is that I have been travelling these past two weeks. I spent some time in Seattle with my best friend, which was wonderful, and later went to San Diego to attend Comic Con 2003. There was a particular incident there I’d like to share with you… well, perhaps confess would be a better word.

I must first say that the Con was amazing. I had the opportunity to meet and pester several of my favorite artists, and meet some new ones. I’ve set up links to a few of them in my links section. Many of the attendees came in costume, myself included.

There was a girl among them, the top of whose costume was merely two wide strips of tape, made to look like suspender straps, covering her breasts. That is to say, covering a three-inch wide strip of breast each.

Who came up with the idea that a woman’s nipples have to be showing in order for it to be considered nudity?

Every time I saw her, I made a point of looking away. Unfortunately, male eyes reflexively move toward bare skin and tight clothing, so the image won’t be leaving my mind any time soon. It’s true, by the way. The thing about the eyes moving reflexively. I’m not making this up. It’s an automatic process that I frequently have to fight. It’s not to blame for all lechery, to be certain, but it does happen. Something to keep in mind, ladies. I for one am trying to fight the impulse, along with a lot of other guys, but it’s tough. You have to be very conscious of things. Case in point… read on.

On the second to last day, I was walking along with a friend, when I was stopped by a young woman. She complimented me on my costume, and I thanked her. Quite suddenly, I recognized her as the girl. I hadn’t realized who she was at once because she was wearing clothes at the time, more specifically a small blue tank top which may or may not have actually been a bra. Ironically, as I recognized her, she turned around and said casually, “Oh, could you undo me, so I can be in costume too?” I was confronted with a tiny white clasp and a ton of implications. Even as I considered saying no, my hand moved to the clasp and slipped the two pieces apart. “Sure,” my mouth said, and the implications hit me. The girl turned back around, and I looked away. Our conversation continued a few phrases more, which I have understandably forgotten, and we went our separate ways. My friend must have thrown me one hell of a smirk, but I didn’t notice. After a moment’s consideration, I realized what my next blog post would be about.

I should have said no. It could have been quite awkward, but I should have said no. Why? Her costume was among the most distracting, lust-inspiring, degrading things I have ever seen. I was disgusted, and I told my friends as much when she inevitably came up in conversation. I wasn’t disgusted with her, mind you, but with what she was doing. What she was wearing. I don’t know her. But I know what her breasts look like. That is a tragedy.

So what, you ask? Someone would have helped her out, anyway. It’s not like I could have stopped it from happening by refusing. That much may be true. But I had the option of not involving myself at all. Further, I had the opportunity to make a stand, to say “no” to something which was wrong. And I missed that opportunity.

I still can’t get the image of that girl’s chest out of my mind. Sadly, I barely remember what her face looked like. There are perhaps hundreds of men, young and old, thinking back on Comic Con and not even trying to remember her face. That’s what disgusts me the most. Her body was a weapon of distraction and temptation for so many of us, whether or not she meant it that way.

To the girl, and all those who laid eyes on her... I’m sorry. I’ve done you an injustice. I should have said no.