Lost is coming back tonight. I know because I keep seeing those promos with the Lord of the Rings hobbit saying, “Where are we?” while walking through the tropical jungle on the island he’s been stranded on for the past 70 seasons.

Really? Shouldn’t he know where he is after being stuck on the same small, tropical Pacific island for 70 years?

(And yes, Lost seasons are indeed exactly 10 times longer for those of us who have to endure those of you who watch Lost.)

What those of us who don’t watch Lost don’t understand about those of you who do watch Lost is why those of you who do watch Lost watch Lost.

Sure, it was interesting at first – big plane crash on a tropical paradise with excitingly beautiful and fit people struggling against all odds for survival while building a golf course – but then airline pilots started getting eaten by large, dinosaur-type monsters which were neither shown nor explained, a wheelchair guy miraculously walked (a plane crash – what a strange way for Jesus to heal the lame) and there was something about a woman trapped in some kind of concrete bunker from the past or something and then, well, those of us who don’t watch Lost stopped watching Lost.

What we couldn’t figure out (besides anything) is why Merry, Pippin, Jack, Kate and Frodo couldn’t climb the tropical volcano to throw the Ring and the sacred 5-iron into Mt. Doom and save all of the passengers of Oceanic flight 815.

All I know about the show these days is, after 70 years, a bunch of people are still stranded on a small, tropical Pacific island, there were some Others from another part of the plane who were also stranded and everybody in first-class was served champagne as the plane was going down, given parachutes and then picked up from the island the day after the crash by a 250 ft. luxury yacht chartered by Oceanic Air.

(And the first class passengers of Oceanic Flight 815 have not had to watch a single episode of Lost. Ever. Makes me want to upgrade my seat whenever I fly.)

Also, didn’t some of passengers flying coach get off the island on a dugout canoe or somesuch because they threatened to make some noise about supporting the airline passenger bill of rights and then, when they got home, gave press conferences while attempting to sue the airline and, after losing the lawsuit, got a life sentence to be served back on the island with only a non-turn-off-able TV, DVD player and a box set of Lost, the Expanded Director’s Cut? (All electronics on the small, tropical Pacific island powered, of course, solely by the smugness of those who watch Lost.)

Oh yes, and the State of the Union given by the President of the United States of American had to be rescheduled because of the Lost season premiere. (Which actually made me glad that Lost was still on the air – the State of the Union interfering with the Lost premiere showed me that people were paying attention to something political that directly affected their lives.)

By the way, my prediction for the Lost series finale is that President Obama is going to put the small, tropical Pacific island on the no-fly list and send President Bush and President Clinton over there to secure the release of all Oceanic flight 815 passengers while President Carter builds new houses for them and Congress passes another stimulus package earmarking over $50 billion in aid for the survivors who will all decide to compete on game shows (with most choosing American Idol, So you Think You Can Dance or Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader with the lone hold-outs being John Locke, who will foolishly decide to compete on Survivor: Project Fashion Cake Design Kitchen, and Jack Shephard who, after a long night of hard drinking, will kidnap Tiger Woods and return to the island after realizing his only regret in life was never double-bogeying on the island’s golf course) and, subsequently, give a hero’s welcome to the pilot of Oceanic Flight 815 who, it turns out, was regurgitated by the dinosaur-type monster after 70 years of digestion.

I got my replacement credit card in the mail (the original card was about to expire) and activated it.

Or rather, eventually activated it.

I tore the card from the glue on the page with the picture of the kindly, smiling customer service person on it and dialed the activation number.

“Welcome to Acme Super Credit Card Company, home of the ‘No Hassle Card.’ Please say your 16-digit card number.”

“Your 16-digit card number,” I told the automated system.

Okay, I didn’t say that, but I should have, and it would have done me just as good as doing what I actually did, which was try to give it my 16-digit card number. You need me to text, email, click a mouse or just push buttons to communicate with a computer? Fine. No problem. But the moment I have to start talking to one over the phone I start rolling my eyes (which I know doesn’t make a lick of sense because phones are, after all, for talking, not for pushing buttons, but go ahead and ask me if I care) and the stupid automated system on the other end, while not being able to understand unaccented English, always seems to have very keen sarcasm detecting ability and decides to pretend like it doesn’t understand me.

Righteous compu-prick.

So while I’m sitting there reciting the Emancipation Proclamation to the computer – partially in the hope that it will just transfer me to to a live person and partially in the hope that it will break its bonds of servitude to The Man and rise up against its Corporate Oppressors – I get a live person.

At least I think it was a live person, phone center folks are so scripted these days that it can be hard to tell. Usually, just to make sure it’s a live person, I throw a computer-related “yo mama” joke at it (for instance, “Yo momma was so worthless she was a NeXT computer.”)

After confirming the thing I was talking to had a pulse, the customer service representative started asking me all kinds of verification questions and then asked for a password, which really sucked because I didn’t remember ever giving them a password. When I asked if they meant the password I used to access my online account they responded that they couldn’t help me figure out my password.

Which I thought was bad customer service. The one time I actually needed help during the credit card activation experience, the one time where I needed assistance from them instead of giving assistance to them by dutifully answering their silly questions and putting up with their silly automated system, the one time where I – the customer – was asking for service from an actual customer service representative, they wouldn’t help.

I threw another “yo momma” computer joke at them to re-verify their humanity and then gave them “***********” which I totally pulled out of my butt because I really didn’t have a clue as to what I had given them password-wise. Boy howdy, it sure was lucky that my default password for silly things is the word “asterisk” repeated eleven times. (I like to keep my passwords simple.)

So now I’m about 8 minutes into trying to get my replacement credit card verified and I started wondering A) Why a credit card has an expiration date in the first place, and B) Why the person I’m talking to is trying to upsell me on services that are so restrictive that I’d never be able to use them.

Then I realized they do “A” so they’ll get the chance to do “B” and just when I’m congratulating myself on figuring that out the customer service rep asked me if I want them to read the service terms of my credit card.

And it’s about now when I started wondering why Acme Super Credit Card Company bills themselves as the “No Hassle Card’ and wondered who thought it would be good to make customers jump through all these hoops just to use their product/service – scratch that, to just be able to activate their product/service so I can try to use their product/service at some point in the future – when I realized that it was people who don’t ever have to A) Jump through these hoops to use this product/service, and B) Try to sell these products to customers, that come up with things like expiration dates and upselling in the first place.

I briefly flirted with the idea of having them read me my entire terms of service but then thought that the poor customer service rep was just doing their job and there’s little reason to dislike them so much as to make them do that when I suddenly realized I might actually be doing them a favor by having them read my entire terms of service to me so they don’t have to go on to the next inane credit card verification call in a day that is, I’m sure, painfully full of credit card verification calls. But then again I didn’t think I could actually make it through an entire reading of a credit card’s complete terms of service without thinking extremely evil thoughts toward the customer service representative and the next three generations of their family, so I politely declined their offer and, that night, knowing I’d done my good deed for the day, slept the sound sleep of the just.

According to a study of 38,000 moderate-to-severe head trauma patients, “Experts believe the right dose of alcohol…stops the cascade of swelling, inflammation and further destruction of brain cells, known as secondary brain injury.”

They go on to warn more research is necessary and patients with too much alcohol in their blood are more likely to experience medical complications and too much alcohol nixes the benefits while too little alcohol has no effect at all and blah blah blah, but…

“Dr Ali Salim and his colleagues from the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, in Los Angeles, found head injury patients who had drunk were significantly less likely to die than those who had not had any alcohol.”

Woohoo!

Say, while exiting your car, you bump your head on the door frame – hard.* After regaining consciousness on the sidewalk, lurching to your feet and brushing the cigarette butts from your backside it would be wise to find a bar – there’s almost always one just down the road – and start self-medicating before asking the bartender for a phone to call an ambulance.

Once in the ambulance they’ll hook you up to a 500 mL solution of, well, take your pick. I’m sure the paramedics will have a fairly limited selection of beer (domestic only) and wine (no white) but when you get to the hospital – whoo boy – foreign lagers brewed by monks in alpine retreats, top shelf liquor and mixed drinks with frilly umbrellas (or, if you’re insurance is crap – or non-existent – Thunderbird and 8-Ball).

The best part? The bill for your bender will go to the insurance companies.

Okay, maybe the best part will be you’ll still be alive, but getting drunk on the insurance company’s dime sounds pretty good, too, no?

* Despite having worked as a phlebotomist at a plasma collection facility I am not a qualified medical professional and in no way endorse hitting your head repeatedly on something until you pass out in order to get free alcohol – even if you’re really hard up for a drink and broke. If you do hit your head you should seek professional help immediately – or not – remember, I don’t know what I’m talking about.

There’s a saying attributed to Albert Einstein that I don’t understand.

Actually, there are a great many things that Einstein said which I don’t understand – E=MC² among them – but while that little five character formula of special relativity is beyond just about anyone except astrophysicists and those banned from Vegas while going around obsessively and compulsively mumbling the word ‘definitely,’ “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results” tops the list of head-scratchers for me.

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results” is also, regrettably, often accompanied by the highly perplexing example of, “You wouldn’t expect different results from repeatedly banging your head against a wall,” to which I always want to respond: Yes, I would.

You’re banging your head. Against a wall. Over and over again. Each and every time you’re hitting the wall with your head you’re causing more damage to yourself – more brain cells lost (a different result), more bruises forming (a different result), more blood loss (a different result), more wooziness experienced (a different result), loss of consciousness (a different, and hopefully singular, result).

At this point, someone is probably thinking, “Not me! I have a hard head!”

Please, do not comment, email, phone, text, tweet or IM me with this thought!. My response will be to politely suggest, while pointing toward the nearest wall, “Prove me wrong.”

Or not.

But let’s say you have the hardest head in all the land. Nothing can damage it. You’ve been known to save out-of-control school busses full of crying, screaming children by simply squaring your shoulders, bowing your head and running into them (the busses, not the children).

Fine.

Then think of the damage you’d do to the wall – the increase in crumbling drywall/plaster/concrete/brick/plywood with every hard-headed thump, the increase in structural damage with every noggin-powered knockout, and, finally, the increasing fruitlessness of trying to explain to your insurance company why they should pay out on your home owner’s insurance policy because you headbutted your house into the ground.

Insanity isn’t doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting things to stay the same.

So take that Einstein! You may have unlocked part of the great, eternal mystery of our universe with your mass-energy equivalence formula, but I know that repeatedly banging my head against a wall will help me understand your fancy shmancy formula a little less every time I hit it!

An article titled, Long-range Taser Reignites Safety Debate, in NewScientist states:

Unlike the current Taser X26, which fires darts attached to short wires, the XREP is wire-free. Its projectile, the size of a shotgun cartridge, is designed to pierce the target’s skin and contains battery-powered circuits that deliver a debilitating shock. It has a range of 20 metres or more, compared with 5 metres for previous Tasers.

A team led by Cynthia Bir, a trauma injury specialist at Wayne State University in Detroit, Michigan, found that some of the 275 XREP cartridges that Taser supplied for testing last year were capable of delivering an electric shock for more than 5 minutes, rather than the 20 seconds of shocking current they are supposed to generate. Previous Taser stun guns shock for only 5 seconds per discharge, though that can be repeated.

Wireless shotgun taser!

All of which leads me to wonder, what’s next?

I’m thinking uzi taser – spray and pray the electrocution, hey? And perhaps sniper taser – why get within 20 meters if you can do it from hundreds of meters out?

Howitzer taser, now that would be nifty.

Or maybe get more high tech. F22 Raptor taser or stealth bomber taser technology – attack the enemy and instead of obliterating them with smart bombs you could subdue them with electrical shock. Or you could electrocute them and then bomb them to smithereens!

Ooh! Ooh! Nuclear powered taser missiles! Can you imagine how long a nuclear powered taser could tase somebody?

Which begs the question: Is 5 minutes really long enough to tase a person? When there are riots there are lots of people to tase and it would be a shame to hit something like 30 people in a row only to have the first couple people start to get up while you’re just putting down the last few stragglers. It seems to me we need tasing to last for up to, what, say 30? 45 minutes? That way the cops can put everyone down that needs to be put down and then start packing them into the paddy wagon all nice and tidy like.

And inmates. If we kept all inmates mildly tased they wouldn’t be able to cause trouble in prison.

In fact, if we kept all Americans tased, or, since people probably wouldn’t go for that, how about we implant tasers in every American citizen? Cops wouldn’t be able to shoot tasers at people anymore, but they could ( I don’t know, flip a switch? Key in the social security number of the desired tase-ee?) tase people at will, and, side benefit, first responders would be able to use the taser implant to jump start humans who’ve had a coronary episode (no more lugging around those heavy, awkward defibrillators).

Other side benefits of taser implants include:

• No more need to call AAA when your car battery dies, just jump start the car battery yourself!
• iPhone running low after repeated twittering? Try iTase! Simply hook yourself up to it and charge away!
• Are all the outlets at the coffee shop currently being used by people who never seem to leave the coffee shop (or drink coffee)? Plug in your laptop to you!
• Can’t find new batteries to put into your flashlight when the power goes out? Charge it yourself!
• Discipline your children not with a spanking or a stern word but rather with the “time out tase.” Choose how long you want them to take a break, set them against the wall, and initiate taser protocol. Comes with 5 automatic preset time settings!
• Productivity low at the office? Set an example with the office slacker! (Don’t forget to have them sign the tase agreement along with the non-compete and confidentiality agreement when they first get hired!)

We should also go back and retrofit the atomic bomb. How cool a name is the “atomic taser”? It gives it that spiffy 50s retro sound!

Yeah, I think this taser technology is the wave of the future.

(Originally written for another site, but as I’m consolidating pieces, you’re stuck with it.)

Over the years I’ve witnessed many skirmishes in the war between those who support car dealers (mostly car salespeople) and those who oppose car dealers (the rest of the known sentient universe). It’s time to put this particular argument to rest. Car dealers suck. Here’s why: Buyers never know what kind of deal they got.

It really is as simple as that. Sure, there’s anecdotal evidence up the wazoo about pushy, intimidating, lying, cheating, incompetent, scummy salespeople but here’s the little secret: Mother Theresa could be the salesgal and Gautama Buddha could be the F&I guy for Allah’s Ford Lincoln Mercury dealership and I still wouldn’t trust that I got a good deal. Between sticker price, invoice price, dealer add-ons, incentives, rebates, discounts, hold backs, various employee/college grad/military/loyalty/your mama cash backs, weekly/monthly/yearly manufacturer-to-dealer quota deals and the other probable dozen or so on-again, off-again programs of which I have no knowledge, trying to make a good deal with a car dealer is a bit like trying to make a good deal with the devil himself – even when I think I made out good there’s always that lingering smell of rotten eggs in the air.

And if I think I got a good deal shouldn’t I just be happy? Aren’t dealers entitled to make a profit, too? Absolutely not. Given the choice between thinking I got a good deal and knowing I got a good deal I’ll take the knowing each time. Unfortunately, after hearing twenty different price quotes from half a dozen dealers, each one implying it was as good an offer as I could get (until the next one, evidently) the knowing is nigh impossible, and, even if the dealer is absolutely, positively, completely, 100%, without-a-doubt losing their shirt on the deal, 1) I’m not going to believe it because over the last hour(s) of sales negotiations you’ve lowered your price more than once so I’m getting the sense that there’s wiggle room, and 2) my concern isn’t whether or not you lose money, but rather that I get a good deal.

Car dealers, are you getting the point here? I don’t care if you don’t make a single red cent. I don’t care if the new salesguy I’m working with hasn’t made his first sale yet or if you go out of business and can’t feed your kids because of that great deal I just got (okay, I actually do care about the kids, but not enough to buy rust-proofing). I want to know I didn’t get ripped of while buying my brand-spanking-new massively depreciating “asset.” That’s it. And assuming for just one infinitesimally small moment I actually did care if you made a tidy profit, just why exactly would I trust you to determine for me what a fair share of my money in your pocket is? I don’t know what you paid for the car, what it costs you to keep the car on the lot, or what kind of money/bonus you’ll get from the manufacturer when you sell it to me. I have zero knowledge of your financial situation except for the fact that you want to maximize your profit on the car you are trying to sell me – which is absolutely groovy and above board given this wonderful free market society we live in – but don’t expect me to like it when your profit comes from my (non-self imposed) ignorance, for despite the plethora of pricing information on vehicles that’s available online these days there is absolutely no way for the buyer to be aware of what a car costs you, and thus, what a fair deal for you would be.

A quick aside: While we’re all busy celebrating and abiding by that wonderful capitalist free market system, let’s not look too far behind the curtain at all those laws you passed in your state legislature to make sure that you were the only way I could continue to get my fix on those shiny dollops of addiction we call new cars.

If I never know what kind of a deal I got then I don’t know if I can trust you and if I don’t know if I can trust you then I’m not going to feel comfortable in my dealings with you and if I’m not going to feel comfortable in my dealings with you you’re either going to have to learn to deal with all the negative backlash that’s thrown your way or find a better way to do business and I guarantee you the only thing longer and more painful than this run-on sentence is the truth of said same.

I’m tied to you for new car sales and warranty work and the only ones who want it that way are you. That sucks. You suck.

(If this were Girls Are Pretty this piece would probably be titled “Happy You Were Basically A Parasite Attached To Your Mother For 9 Months And Get Free Stuff For It Day!” but it’s not so it isn’t.)

There’s another birthday around here sometime soon for me and I’m trying to think if I’ve actually ever done less in my life while getting so much in return.

Basically, an egg floated its way to my mother’s uterus, my parents had sex, a sperm found the egg and then I got to lay around for nine months (actually, nine and a half months, even back then I was a bit lazy – sorry mom!) chilling out in a comfortable, fluid-filled, climate-controlled environment where my every need was catered to while biology did its thing until I was forced down a tunnel with a light at the end of it where everything was loud and cold and confusing until I got slapped on the butt by a doctor at which point I could start crying about it all.

And for this I get presents and cake. Every year. Without fail.

Overall, birthdays are even better than Christmas (have to worry about getting gifts for others) or Halloween (have to get dressed up to get the free candy) but I worry about the name of the day, ‘birthday’ sounds fairly proactive for an event where all I had to do was show up (and even then I didn’t actually have a specific time I had to show up at, there was no itinerary to follow, no deadline to meet, no Outlook Calendar warning chime I needed to heed, all I had to do was pop out at a time convenient for me and no one else – as my mother has made eminently clear over and over again). So perhaps, given the passive nature of this event, it should be called birthed day.

At any rate, I think birthed days are what’s wrong with America these days. Every time one of these days is celebrated by some overindulged youngin’ they are learning a lesson that they get the most stuff for a day that took place far in the past where they had the least amount of responsibility for anything that happened, thus, we are raising children to believe that they get the most kudos and swag for the least amount of effort on their part.

You know it’s true because the previous paragraph where it was explained contains the word “thus.”

None of which will stop me, of course, from accepting gifts which are given to me on my birthed day. Principles are one thing, but free stuff is another – far more fulfilling – thing entirely.

The spousal unit is on assignment this weekend – Operation Annual Mother-in-law Birthday Pilgrimage has commenced – and she has foolishly (and far too optimistically) left me behind to hold down the fort with naught but a cellphone with which to call the friendly neighborhood delivery folk and a couple hundred in cash with which to pay those same kindly people who show up at my door to provide me with wonderfully fried sustenance in this, my time of great distress. Instead of the usual 7 hour drive, my wife decided to fly this year despite the line of thunderstorms stretching from place of departure to place of arrival. (You see, dear? Even the gods cry and complain when you leave me.) All of which means I am, for the time being, left all alone in this cold, dark, wet, cruel world.

In her absence I’ve done the usual things, of course – sleep in the middle of the bed, leave the dishes in the sink to be washed at a later date and not use a coaster with cold drinks – all of which are much less enjoyable, by the way, when there’s no one around to complain about me doing them, and all of which regretfully lead me to conclude that, without my wife, I would most likely be living life exactly as I had in college.

Which wouldn’t be all bad I guess, except, well, these days, it would. Digging my furniture out of someone else’s trash and performing maintenance and repair on my car with duct tape are novel and neat-o things to experience when you’re first trying to make it on your own, but are ultimately experiences which probably begin to pale after a decade or two. Luckily, in large part because of my wife, I’ve never had to find out for sure.

So my dear, while I’m sincerely enjoying my time lazing around the house, reading books at 3:30 in the morning and letting the dishes pile up in the sink, please know that I am ever so grateful for the love, compassion and just plain stability and order that you’ve brought to my life. You sure do class up the joint good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear someone at the door. I sure do hope it’s the Philly cheese steak delivery guy.

And please, don’t be too upset if I don’t get to those dishes before I pick you up from the airport.

I went to my first drag show recently and wow-ee wow wow wow: with a dab of makeup, a handful of glitter and – on the skimpier costumes – judicious and generous use of tape, the ladies looked fabulous.

I was, however, originally a bit hesitant to go to the show.

One summer back when I was 10 or so I was playing Super Friends with the neighborhood kids – sporting my fancy, new Superman Underoos t-shirt with nifty red-blanket-tied-around-my-neck supercape (I don’t care, dear spellchecker, ’supercape’ is definitely one word) when my mom yelled my name from the steps of our house.

Now when this happened, of course, it meant only one thing: get over here and do it now. She hadn’t used my middle name – which was a good sign for me – and all the kids I’d been playing with who had paused to see if there were going to be some temporary, new entertainment from the bakiwop family resumed running around with their superpowers while I ran faster than a speeding bullet – with magnificent, red supercape trailing out behind me (and after making sure to look carefully both ways before crossing the street) – home.

“I want to show you something,” she said, taking me into the living room and sitting me down in front of the TV.

This was it! I was in heaven! My mother was making me watch TV! She had actually called me in from playing outside and sat me down in front of the television. I was so happy! TV! During the day! In the the Summer!

“Do you think those girls look pretty?” She asked.

I had been so happy to be told to watch TV that I had forgotten to actually watch the TV set. As I settled down and focused I saw an old guy on a talk show (turns out it was Phil Donahue) and women wearing very sparkly gowns and lots of makeup (you have, perhaps, guessed that not much has changed in drag queen attire over the years).

I was 10, so I wasn’t entirely naive, and I looked up at my mom, confused. She was starting to smile a bit, that kind of smile that adults get when they’re amused by children (that smile is rarely a good sign for the kid) and asked again, “Do you think they’re pretty?”

Asking a 10 year old if a girl is pretty involves a lot of hemming and hawing and looking away and shuffling of the feet before admitting that, maybe, yeah, possibly, there is something kinda, sorta, to them….maybe.

And that smile made me nervous.

So I looked at the TV, very hard, studying the images, trying to see what was wrong.

I felt cheated! Watching TV wasn’t supposed to be work! TV was for fun! And I finally had to admit, under my mother’s watchful and bemused eye that, yes, those women on TV were pretty.

“They’re actually men,” she said.

I honestly don’t remember much of what happened after that. I must have gone back outside and played more Super Friends but I’m guessing my heart wasn’t in it. I may as well have traded in my red supercape for a pair of Clark Kent glasses. I do know that it took me 5 more years before I had the courage to try and kiss a girl, although by then it was an hours long kiss that started on a windswept cliff overlooking a cove and ended in a conversion van – you might say I was making up for lost time.

So here’s to you, you fabulous drag queens – it was a good show, great entertainment and yes, you looked pretty.

Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

Yes, these four simple sentences can be the key to getting a better job.

In these slow economic times it is important to put the best “you” out there possible. Put your best foot forward. Go for the gold. Dare to dream. Don’t give up. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Book ‘em Dan-o.

For those of you lazy, worthless, no good, do nothing, commie bastards who would rather live off the teat of the state than get a job, I applaud your decision. However, if you want to find work, I can help.

The key to getting a good job is the cover letter. It’s what recruiters and HR-types look at first and determines whether they will review your resume or just hit ‘delete’.

The movie, Princess Bride offers many fine tips on how to best prepare your cover letter, but there’s none better than, “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” It’s cover letter writing at its best.

To wit:

Hello. It is best to start off with some type of friendly greeting or salutation.

My name is Inigo Montoya. Introduce yourself.

You killed my father. Tell them why you are interested in them.

Prepare to die. Let them know what you can do for them.

From a recruiter’s perspective, this cover letter is pure gold. It is polite, short, to the point, and covers the four main areas a cover letter should.

Finding a good job is hard work, but if you remember, “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” landing that perfect job might be just a little easier.

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