Mary Anne is blond and wears black, and her voice could move mountains.
Mary Anne has a job interview coming up in L.A., and the company where she's interviewing couldn't find her a limousine. All the limos were booked, and they only work with this one limo agency, so they'd like to rent her a car instead. But she'd prefer that they look up other limo agencies on the Internet, so she doesn't have to spend an extra hour (that's 30 minutes when she arrives, and 30 minutes on the way back) at the car-rental place. It's important to save that transit time, because Mark would like Mary Anne to maximize her short stay; she only has a couple of days. She'd appreciate it if the interviewing company could work that out.
Things are going great for Mary Anne. She already got one job offer she doesn't want, but that place in L.A. is flying her in for interviews. But they know she won't move to L.A., so either they're going to try to woo her or they might be thinking of opening an office in San Francisco. If they do, it could be because Mary Anne told them that a lot of big companies are opening offices here these days.
Mary Anne knows all the words to "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" and several other rock classics, and she loves her mom.
If the dozen other people in the café and I were to say something to Mary Anne, it might be: "Mary Anne, get an office." Or, barring that, perhaps a night class in vocal modulation?
But she's on an important conference call right now, so we won't disturb her. Mary Anne will get back to us later.
February 15, 2008
February 05, 2008
¡Ya voté!
I don't much care for politics, or most politicians, or endless campaigns, policies that hurt more people than they help, and debates that don't delve deeper than sound bites. And I really hate campaign ads, especially when they try to be funny.
But I love voting. I do, I do.
This morning, I went to the polling station half a block away. Tiny local polling stations are the best. There were four people working—a Hispanic woman in her 30s, a black teenage guy, a white man in his 50s, and a black man in his 40s—all irrepressibly cheerful. They thanked me for arriving, they thanked me for turning in a friend's ballot, they thanked me for telling them my address, they thanked me for spelling my name, they thanked me when they handed me the ballot, and they thanked me when I left.
On the way to work, I passed two other polling stations. One was in a fire station and another in what looked like someone's garage (is that allowed?). A row of happy multiethnic people manned each table. Everyone on their way out sported a red lapel sticker and a Cheshire grin.
At the entrance to 24th Street BART, a smiling guy in a fuzzy hat holding a giant Obama sign said, "Thanks for voting!" I thanked him back.
Except for certain homesick moments during long journeys abroad, voting might be the only time I feel patriotic. This country inarguably has enormous problems, and the next president will have a steaming mess to sort out. Our leaders make mistakes. We as voters make mistakes.
But in that booth with a ballot in my hand, filling in the black arrows that point to what I'd like to see happen in my city, state, and country, I get butterflies in my belly and think, "This matters."
One vote won't tip the scales, but one + one + one + one + one will, and the fact that we're given the age-old opportunity to cast our opinions to the skies and have them heard—actually counted, piece of paper by piece of paper—that's a sign our country has at least figured out the first step.
But I love voting. I do, I do.
This morning, I went to the polling station half a block away. Tiny local polling stations are the best. There were four people working—a Hispanic woman in her 30s, a black teenage guy, a white man in his 50s, and a black man in his 40s—all irrepressibly cheerful. They thanked me for arriving, they thanked me for turning in a friend's ballot, they thanked me for telling them my address, they thanked me for spelling my name, they thanked me when they handed me the ballot, and they thanked me when I left.
On the way to work, I passed two other polling stations. One was in a fire station and another in what looked like someone's garage (is that allowed?). A row of happy multiethnic people manned each table. Everyone on their way out sported a red lapel sticker and a Cheshire grin.
At the entrance to 24th Street BART, a smiling guy in a fuzzy hat holding a giant Obama sign said, "Thanks for voting!" I thanked him back.
Except for certain homesick moments during long journeys abroad, voting might be the only time I feel patriotic. This country inarguably has enormous problems, and the next president will have a steaming mess to sort out. Our leaders make mistakes. We as voters make mistakes.
But in that booth with a ballot in my hand, filling in the black arrows that point to what I'd like to see happen in my city, state, and country, I get butterflies in my belly and think, "This matters."
One vote won't tip the scales, but one + one + one + one + one will, and the fact that we're given the age-old opportunity to cast our opinions to the skies and have them heard—actually counted, piece of paper by piece of paper—that's a sign our country has at least figured out the first step.
February 04, 2008
For Miss E.
Nothing in life is so exciting
As to be shot at
And missed
The cold now is in the single numbers
Is shattered
Frost on my window glass
As if arrows passed
Snow, or a kimono, blows
Sleeves across your arms, crossed
Where you stand
Like an emperor driven into enemy camps
Matching and watching the Eros of the Universe
(Fanny Howe)
As to be shot at
And missed
The cold now is in the single numbers
Is shattered
Frost on my window glass
As if arrows passed
Snow, or a kimono, blows
Sleeves across your arms, crossed
Where you stand
Like an emperor driven into enemy camps
Matching and watching the Eros of the Universe
(Fanny Howe)
January 29, 2008
Flashback
This was my favorite poem in high school. I keep it tucked away in a mental pocket, along with Jabberwocky, a couple of Ogden Nashes, and a few random stanzas of Robert Frost (hats off to fourth grade). Whose woods these are, etc.
I could chalk it up to adolescent angst—and truly, one of the things that makes me happiest is that I never have to go to high school again—but now and then I dig it out, and it still resonates.
I could chalk it up to adolescent angst—and truly, one of the things that makes me happiest is that I never have to go to high school again—but now and then I dig it out, and it still resonates.
a total stranger one black day
knocked living the hell out of me—
who found forgiveness hard because
my(as it happened)self he was
—but now that fiend and i are such
immortal friends the other's each(e.e. cummings)
January 25, 2008
Limited stature
Aren't people just the darnedest things? May it please the court:
1. Dwarves zipped into suitcases who steal stuff (“We are looking at our records to identify criminals of limited stature.”)
2. Little wedding ring coffins for sale (“Give a dead marriage its proper, final resting place.”)
3. Foreskin's Lament (Enough said.)
Thanks—or maybe a friendly anvil to the head—to Shmosh and Miss Mobtown for sharing these tidbits. I know my day is brighter now, not to mention my faith in humankind.
1. Dwarves zipped into suitcases who steal stuff (“We are looking at our records to identify criminals of limited stature.”)
2. Little wedding ring coffins for sale (“Give a dead marriage its proper, final resting place.”)
3. Foreskin's Lament (Enough said.)
Thanks—or maybe a friendly anvil to the head—to Shmosh and Miss Mobtown for sharing these tidbits. I know my day is brighter now, not to mention my faith in humankind.
January 16, 2008
Niche hobby
There was a guy on my BART train this morning with little round glasses, a tall poofy hat, and a long red beard. He looked like a hybrid of Papa Smurf and a hobbit, minus 20 years and plus a few feet.
But this is San Francisco—we have much weirder people to watch than that, so I didn't pay much attention to him. When we reached my stop, I inched over to the exit and wound up standing next to him for those 10 or so seconds when the train slows down to align with the black door marks on the platform.
He was reading a book called, for real, Hand Puppets. It was open to two pages of line-drawn cartoon diagrams about how to design and build hand puppets from scratch.
There's no real moral to this story, but you have to admit it's kind of awesome. And if you wanted to name your first kid Hobbit Hand-Puppet Guy in memoriam, I'd fully support that choice.
But this is San Francisco—we have much weirder people to watch than that, so I didn't pay much attention to him. When we reached my stop, I inched over to the exit and wound up standing next to him for those 10 or so seconds when the train slows down to align with the black door marks on the platform.
He was reading a book called, for real, Hand Puppets. It was open to two pages of line-drawn cartoon diagrams about how to design and build hand puppets from scratch.
There's no real moral to this story, but you have to admit it's kind of awesome. And if you wanted to name your first kid Hobbit Hand-Puppet Guy in memoriam, I'd fully support that choice.
January 14, 2008
Adrenalin
I only have a few memories of going skiing as a kid, but they're potent.
I remember the J-bar on the bunny hill at Mt. Tom, and the slight feeling of panic at the top, right before the lift released, when I wondered if I'd make it off this time without falling over.
I remember squeezing in just a few more icy runs in the pouring rain with my friend Danielle, when the slopes were empty and we were the only ones stupid enough to brave the weather. The fog was so thick that it felt like riding up into Narnia or a Led Zeppelin song.
And I remember the last time I went, with Stephi and her parents at Mt. Snow, taking a jump too fast and whacking into a tree hard enough to get knocked out for a minute or two, then getting up and zooming to the bottom with an aching brain, thinking, "Maybe I shouldn't pay this much to do something scary." The sinking sensation when confidence melts into mild paranoia.
That was it until yesterday, when I strapped on some sturdy, well-worn rentals and gave Heavenly a try. Now I'm only sorry it took me 14 years to rediscover that skiing is freaking fantastic.
You get all bundled up in gloves and hats and long underwear and a puffy coat and new shades because you couldn't find yours at home, and you pay people to let you stand on two carefully curved, slippery strips in giant boots that feel like chunks of lead. Then you point downhill and go, and somehow your legs remember the necessary motions to turn and aim and keep control, and even kick up some satisfying swooshes of powder when you make a sharp stop.
I think the adrenalin actually starts when your boots click in just so. Then there's a little rush in the lift, just about the only time you can get up that high in open air, nothing between you and the sky and the mountains but a thin metal safety bar, if anybody remembers to pull it down. Then another one when you get a little push from behind sliding off the seat at the top.
Then another when you realize there's only one way to the bottom, and the reason you pay for it is that nothing else feels like moving that fast propelled only by your own body and gravity and whatever nature decided to throw down that day.
Swoosh.
I remember the J-bar on the bunny hill at Mt. Tom, and the slight feeling of panic at the top, right before the lift released, when I wondered if I'd make it off this time without falling over.
I remember squeezing in just a few more icy runs in the pouring rain with my friend Danielle, when the slopes were empty and we were the only ones stupid enough to brave the weather. The fog was so thick that it felt like riding up into Narnia or a Led Zeppelin song.
And I remember the last time I went, with Stephi and her parents at Mt. Snow, taking a jump too fast and whacking into a tree hard enough to get knocked out for a minute or two, then getting up and zooming to the bottom with an aching brain, thinking, "Maybe I shouldn't pay this much to do something scary." The sinking sensation when confidence melts into mild paranoia.
That was it until yesterday, when I strapped on some sturdy, well-worn rentals and gave Heavenly a try. Now I'm only sorry it took me 14 years to rediscover that skiing is freaking fantastic.
You get all bundled up in gloves and hats and long underwear and a puffy coat and new shades because you couldn't find yours at home, and you pay people to let you stand on two carefully curved, slippery strips in giant boots that feel like chunks of lead. Then you point downhill and go, and somehow your legs remember the necessary motions to turn and aim and keep control, and even kick up some satisfying swooshes of powder when you make a sharp stop.
I think the adrenalin actually starts when your boots click in just so. Then there's a little rush in the lift, just about the only time you can get up that high in open air, nothing between you and the sky and the mountains but a thin metal safety bar, if anybody remembers to pull it down. Then another one when you get a little push from behind sliding off the seat at the top.
Then another when you realize there's only one way to the bottom, and the reason you pay for it is that nothing else feels like moving that fast propelled only by your own body and gravity and whatever nature decided to throw down that day.
Swoosh.
January 09, 2008
Germs 1, Ergonomics 1
I have a sore throat and cold thing going on, just in time for our ski trip to Tahoe. It's making me grumpy and tired.
But there's always a silver lining: Staples delivered my new footrest today. It's amazing what a difference it makes—a chunky gray piece of plastic that reminds me to sit upright and not cross my legs while I'm glued to my chair. For an inanimate object, it's very persuasive. I also discovered a way to rotate the keyboard tray so it tucks underneath my desk. Since I don't use it, it's just been getting in the way and hitting me in the thighs. No longer!
In other pleasing news, a glimpse into the sudsy woods of ktopia.
Now I'm going to bed. Yeah, it's 9:15. What about it?
But there's always a silver lining: Staples delivered my new footrest today. It's amazing what a difference it makes—a chunky gray piece of plastic that reminds me to sit upright and not cross my legs while I'm glued to my chair. For an inanimate object, it's very persuasive. I also discovered a way to rotate the keyboard tray so it tucks underneath my desk. Since I don't use it, it's just been getting in the way and hitting me in the thighs. No longer!
In other pleasing news, a glimpse into the sudsy woods of ktopia.
Now I'm going to bed. Yeah, it's 9:15. What about it?
January 03, 2008
Brand-new year, same bad habits
Here are some of the things that happened in the past month that I haven't written about yet:
1. Jews to the Movies
2. 1920s walnut desk
3. Canteen 2
4. Mom's visit (but I did post a few pictures)
5. The return to Djerassi
6. ktopia!
I'm still semi-jetlagged and trying to get the February issue of the magazine out the door in three days instead of five. But I'll be back soon, wordier than ever. Triple sevens on that, baby.
1. Jews to the Movies
2. 1920s walnut desk
3. Canteen 2
4. Mom's visit (but I did post a few pictures)
5. The return to Djerassi
6. ktopia!
I'm still semi-jetlagged and trying to get the February issue of the magazine out the door in three days instead of five. But I'll be back soon, wordier than ever. Triple sevens on that, baby.
December 25, 2007
Miracle on North Street
It's 12:01 a.m. Merry Christmas, everyone!
Between bouts of gluttony and gift-opening, please stop by my photo blog for an exciting tribute to my old apartment. You'll laugh. You'll cry. Afterward, you'll be overwhelmed by the urge for more eggnog.
I'll be thinking of you later today, while I go to the movies and get Chinese food with all the other good Jewish children.
Between bouts of gluttony and gift-opening, please stop by my photo blog for an exciting tribute to my old apartment. You'll laugh. You'll cry. Afterward, you'll be overwhelmed by the urge for more eggnog.
I'll be thinking of you later today, while I go to the movies and get Chinese food with all the other good Jewish children.
December 18, 2007
Tiny slice of fame
It's no secret that I'm a little shutter-happy.
After making the unprecedented decision to merge that hobby with the wide wide world of the Interweb, I started with a photo blog that I'd use a lot more if I could upload batches, instead of one picture at a time (any Bloggerheads out there know a shortcut?).
Then I finally succumbed to the lure of Flickr, thanks to wheedling friends who kept telling me how easy it was. And it really is. Less space for rambling photo essays, but more motivation to post stuff when it takes a few minutes instead of hours.
Anyhoo, that's all by way of letting you know that a random guy in the UK who works for an online travel company found my Flickr pictures of China, and he asked to publish one. And it's up!
It's not an exciting photo (see here for my favorites from the China rolls), but it's still neat to see the copyright symbol next to my name on someone else's travel site.
After making the unprecedented decision to merge that hobby with the wide wide world of the Interweb, I started with a photo blog that I'd use a lot more if I could upload batches, instead of one picture at a time (any Bloggerheads out there know a shortcut?).
Then I finally succumbed to the lure of Flickr, thanks to wheedling friends who kept telling me how easy it was. And it really is. Less space for rambling photo essays, but more motivation to post stuff when it takes a few minutes instead of hours.
Anyhoo, that's all by way of letting you know that a random guy in the UK who works for an online travel company found my Flickr pictures of China, and he asked to publish one. And it's up!
It's not an exciting photo (see here for my favorites from the China rolls), but it's still neat to see the copyright symbol next to my name on someone else's travel site.
December 09, 2007
By the way, I moved.
You probably guessed that by now. But just to confirm why BCB posts have been shorter and farther apart than usual: My life is stuck in a cacophony of boxes that I'm slowly breaking down into bite-sized wavelengths. Or some other profound metaphor.
The point is, I just managed to unearth my living room today. It's very nice. I'll tell you all about it when things calm down.
Also coming soon: a photo tribute to North Street. I really do miss Oakland, but things are sweet in the big city.
The point is, I just managed to unearth my living room today. It's very nice. I'll tell you all about it when things calm down.
Also coming soon: a photo tribute to North Street. I really do miss Oakland, but things are sweet in the big city.
December 05, 2007
Bzzzzzzzz
I rarely drink coffee, especially the caffeinated kind, but I had a cup this morning to gear up for what I knew would be a crazy long day.
And now! I'm! totally wired!
There's a giant pile of work on my desk, but I can't seem to stop watching this very fantastic thing made by two adorable geniuses I know. Also I think I'm actually levitating.
Coffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffee
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And now! I'm! totally wired!
There's a giant pile of work on my desk, but I can't seem to stop watching this very fantastic thing made by two adorable geniuses I know. Also I think I'm actually levitating.
Coffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffee
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
November 29, 2007
Dude with a tuba
Walking toward me while I headed for BART tonight was a tall, lanky guy wearing a big, shiny tuba. He looked a little self-conscious but pleased with himself.
There's also been a bagpiper at the corner of Sansome and California all week during the evening rush hour, in full Scottish regalia. So every time I pass by, it's like I'm graduating from high school again.
There's also been a bagpiper at the corner of Sansome and California all week during the evening rush hour, in full Scottish regalia. So every time I pass by, it's like I'm graduating from high school again.
November 21, 2007
Spectacular times for shopping at IKEA
1. Friday, 7:30 p.m. (except holiday weekends)
2. Saturday, 7:30 p.m. (except holiday weekends)
3. The day before Thanksgiving, 4:30 p.m.
If you know what you're looking for, you'll be in and out in less than 20 minutes. No lie. Plus you'll get a killer parking space near the entrance.
In other, more hypothetical news: I may or may not have bought the Sexiest Man Alive issue of People, with Matt Damon on the cover, from the impulse rack at Safeway.
If perhaps I possibly did, rest assured it's strictly for research—k2 asked the other day who would be on my celebrity list, and I couldn't think of anyone except Mos Def, Clive Owen, and the character of Josh Lyman on West Wing. So it's clear that I'm out of touch on the critical issue of celebrity sexiness.
School me, People. Hypothetically. Ahem.
2. Saturday, 7:30 p.m. (except holiday weekends)
3. The day before Thanksgiving, 4:30 p.m.
If you know what you're looking for, you'll be in and out in less than 20 minutes. No lie. Plus you'll get a killer parking space near the entrance.
In other, more hypothetical news: I may or may not have bought the Sexiest Man Alive issue of People, with Matt Damon on the cover, from the impulse rack at Safeway.
If perhaps I possibly did, rest assured it's strictly for research—k2 asked the other day who would be on my celebrity list, and I couldn't think of anyone except Mos Def, Clive Owen, and the character of Josh Lyman on West Wing. So it's clear that I'm out of touch on the critical issue of celebrity sexiness.
School me, People. Hypothetically. Ahem.
November 16, 2007
The little town that reads
Two posts in one day! Unprecedented. But I have to give props to my hometown (and home valley), featured today in the New York Times for being the readingest spot in the land.
If you click on the slideshow to the left of the article, you'll see nice shots of the Odyssey Bookshop, my childhood bookstore down the street from my dad's house; and the Montague Book Mill, one of my favorite places on the East Coast. Broadside Bookshop, also mentioned in the piece, is another long-time family staple about a mile from my mom's house.
Born in the "Valley of the Literate" . . . that probably explains why it's taken me a week to pack just the books in my living room.
If you click on the slideshow to the left of the article, you'll see nice shots of the Odyssey Bookshop, my childhood bookstore down the street from my dad's house; and the Montague Book Mill, one of my favorite places on the East Coast. Broadside Bookshop, also mentioned in the piece, is another long-time family staple about a mile from my mom's house.
Born in the "Valley of the Literate" . . . that probably explains why it's taken me a week to pack just the books in my living room.
Snaps, sir
If you think copyeditors are reserved, formal, heady creatures permanently chained to our desks, you're a little bit right, but we can also kick some ass. Um, verbally.
Case in point, this recent excerpt from The Chicago Manual of Style's hilarious (if you're in my line of work) Q&A section:
Q. About two spaces after a period. As a U.S. Marine, I know that what’s right is right and you are wrong. I declare it once and for all aesthetically more appealing to have two spaces after a period. If you refuse to alter your bullheadedness, I will petition the commandant to allow me to take one Marine detail to conquer your organization and impose my rule. Thou shalt place two spaces after a period. Period. Semper Fidelis.
A. As a U.S. Marine, you’re probably an expert at something, but I’m afraid it’s not this. Status quo.
Case in point, this recent excerpt from The Chicago Manual of Style's hilarious (if you're in my line of work) Q&A section:
Q. About two spaces after a period. As a U.S. Marine, I know that what’s right is right and you are wrong. I declare it once and for all aesthetically more appealing to have two spaces after a period. If you refuse to alter your bullheadedness, I will petition the commandant to allow me to take one Marine detail to conquer your organization and impose my rule. Thou shalt place two spaces after a period. Period. Semper Fidelis.
A. As a U.S. Marine, you’re probably an expert at something, but I’m afraid it’s not this. Status quo.
November 11, 2007
Newfangled
Walking home today, I saw a middle-aged guy careening down the sidewalk on what appeared to be wheels. But he wasn't riding a skateboard or wearing Rollerblades. Did he have wheels attached to the bottom of his regular shoes?
No. He had two mini skateboards, one for each foot. They were squarish and silver, and they looked hard to manage. His legs kept shooting away from each other, since he basically had to face forward and sideways at the same time to stay balanced.
It was all kind of ridiculous, but he seemed to be having a blast. What will they think up next?
No. He had two mini skateboards, one for each foot. They were squarish and silver, and they looked hard to manage. His legs kept shooting away from each other, since he basically had to face forward and sideways at the same time to stay balanced.
It was all kind of ridiculous, but he seemed to be having a blast. What will they think up next?
November 08, 2007
Comfort zone
What comfort food has meant to me since as far back as my memory goes: mashed bananas on toast, cream of mushroom soup, and Domino's pizza. Don't worry, not in one repulsive three-course meal. It's situational.
English mother + any kind of ailment = mashed bananas on toast. I don't know if it was an honored Yorkshire tradition or an early parenting inspiration (can't leave the house, the kid's too sick...those bananas are about to go off...hey, here's a loaf of bread), but it stars in all my childhood sickbed memories. During a holy trinity of illnesses in spring 2005—flu, strep throat, double ear infection—it was the only thing I could stand to eat, once I could swallow. But if you offered it to me on a normal day, I'd be nauseated. Seriously, I don't even like bananas.
From seventh grade onward, staying home sick from school meant ordering Domino's pizza (terrible) and watching Dead Poets Society (fantastic). Every. single. time. Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black, cutting through the forest with a golden track....
Following a round of jaw surgery when I was 15, I couldn't eat anything but protein milkshakes and soup for six weeks. "Eat" is the wrong word, really, since my teeth were busy being wired shut. It was a dark, dark time that turned me into a weepy pile of teenage angst but somehow didn't spoil my taste for milkshakes. I couldn't touch soup for about three years afterward, though.
That exciting anecdote doesn't explain why cream of mushroom soup is one of my comfort foods. It just is. It's warm and filling and doesn't require any real effort to make. Even so, I almost never get a craving for it unless I'm upset or diseased.
The end. Tra la la.
English mother + any kind of ailment = mashed bananas on toast. I don't know if it was an honored Yorkshire tradition or an early parenting inspiration (can't leave the house, the kid's too sick...those bananas are about to go off...hey, here's a loaf of bread), but it stars in all my childhood sickbed memories. During a holy trinity of illnesses in spring 2005—flu, strep throat, double ear infection—it was the only thing I could stand to eat, once I could swallow. But if you offered it to me on a normal day, I'd be nauseated. Seriously, I don't even like bananas.
From seventh grade onward, staying home sick from school meant ordering Domino's pizza (terrible) and watching Dead Poets Society (fantastic). Every. single. time. Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black, cutting through the forest with a golden track....
Following a round of jaw surgery when I was 15, I couldn't eat anything but protein milkshakes and soup for six weeks. "Eat" is the wrong word, really, since my teeth were busy being wired shut. It was a dark, dark time that turned me into a weepy pile of teenage angst but somehow didn't spoil my taste for milkshakes. I couldn't touch soup for about three years afterward, though.
That exciting anecdote doesn't explain why cream of mushroom soup is one of my comfort foods. It just is. It's warm and filling and doesn't require any real effort to make. Even so, I almost never get a craving for it unless I'm upset or diseased.
The end. Tra la la.
November 01, 2007
The sweetest words ever spoken by an automated phone system
"Your jury duty is complete for one year, and we thank you for your service."
Since it's ship week and there are piles of paper the size of an overgrown toddler waiting in my inbox, this means justice has been served.
And I didn't even have to leave my desk.
Since it's ship week and there are piles of paper the size of an overgrown toddler waiting in my inbox, this means justice has been served.
And I didn't even have to leave my desk.
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