Friday, January 23, 2004
You would think that shaving your head would make life a lot simpler, even for a guy who spends an average of 2 minutes a day on hair care. No longer must you wash, rinse, and repeat everyday, sudsing up with that expensive Suave product. No time in front of the mirror running your fingers through your hair after towel drying. No need to throw on a hat when the morning’s minutes run out before a shower can be arranged.
You would think that. But my slick head has presented unseen new difficulties. First, of course, is the time it takes to explain why. I should come up with a pat script, like “Acts 18:18;,” which is pretty accurate. The problem with that is that most people do not have Luke’s works memorized, so I would need to quote the reference and explain it. That makes for a very inefficient script. “Why not?” or “Shampoo costs” or something flippant gets me out of the harsh light of any inquisition, but it masks any real reason I might have had for scraping off every follicle on my skull. Most people think those responses provide enough reason to go spit bald, though, and drop it.
The next one is maintenance. All that time I save by not shampooing my hair has been absorbed by the task of shaving my entire head. It only takes about 3 minutes to take the scalp back down to shiny, but it only took 2 to keep my remaining hairline scrubbed and neat. More than time is the cost. Contrary to what you may think, Suave products aren’t really that expensive. Mach 3 razor blades (the only ones in the house) are quite expensive. I only go through one every two weeks or so, but still! They run about $1.20 apiece, while that jug of shampoo cost like $.57. And I still haven’t come to grips with cutting my head shaving. That’s weird.
And speaking of hats: they have become a matter of life or death instead of a fashion tarp for bedhead. You have no idea how very cold the air is until it envelops your entire scalp with its devilish frigidity. I don’t wear a hat and my cold comes running back with astonishing speed and vigor.
Finally, after a day or two of not mowing the follicles, my entire head becomes an unbecoming piece of Velcro. I try to put on a turtleneck and it sticks to every part of my skull. We have a cotton curtain hanging in front of our pantry, and I nearly pull it down walking it through it as my head clutches the cloth. The situation mandates regular shaving. And buttoned shirts.
Is it worth it? Sure. Nothing reminds you of a vow like a shaved head. It’s gotta be easier for grace to come down from heaven into my head without all that hair. And I share at least one minute bit of knowledge with God: that is, the number of hairs on my head. But I don’t know how long I’ll leave it shorn. Two days ago while washing my hands at work I glanced in the mirror and was shocked to see that my head isn’t symmetrical. There’s a lump in the middle which is distinctly listing to the left (my left, mind you). Most people go their entire lives without learning such things about themselves. I should be happy to have this self-knowledge, but it does put me in a bit of a hurry to cover up this freakish deformity. After all, skull imperfections should remain a private thing, between a man and his phrenologist.
You would think that. But my slick head has presented unseen new difficulties. First, of course, is the time it takes to explain why. I should come up with a pat script, like “Acts 18:18;,” which is pretty accurate. The problem with that is that most people do not have Luke’s works memorized, so I would need to quote the reference and explain it. That makes for a very inefficient script. “Why not?” or “Shampoo costs” or something flippant gets me out of the harsh light of any inquisition, but it masks any real reason I might have had for scraping off every follicle on my skull. Most people think those responses provide enough reason to go spit bald, though, and drop it.
The next one is maintenance. All that time I save by not shampooing my hair has been absorbed by the task of shaving my entire head. It only takes about 3 minutes to take the scalp back down to shiny, but it only took 2 to keep my remaining hairline scrubbed and neat. More than time is the cost. Contrary to what you may think, Suave products aren’t really that expensive. Mach 3 razor blades (the only ones in the house) are quite expensive. I only go through one every two weeks or so, but still! They run about $1.20 apiece, while that jug of shampoo cost like $.57. And I still haven’t come to grips with cutting my head shaving. That’s weird.
And speaking of hats: they have become a matter of life or death instead of a fashion tarp for bedhead. You have no idea how very cold the air is until it envelops your entire scalp with its devilish frigidity. I don’t wear a hat and my cold comes running back with astonishing speed and vigor.
Finally, after a day or two of not mowing the follicles, my entire head becomes an unbecoming piece of Velcro. I try to put on a turtleneck and it sticks to every part of my skull. We have a cotton curtain hanging in front of our pantry, and I nearly pull it down walking it through it as my head clutches the cloth. The situation mandates regular shaving. And buttoned shirts.
Is it worth it? Sure. Nothing reminds you of a vow like a shaved head. It’s gotta be easier for grace to come down from heaven into my head without all that hair. And I share at least one minute bit of knowledge with God: that is, the number of hairs on my head. But I don’t know how long I’ll leave it shorn. Two days ago while washing my hands at work I glanced in the mirror and was shocked to see that my head isn’t symmetrical. There’s a lump in the middle which is distinctly listing to the left (my left, mind you). Most people go their entire lives without learning such things about themselves. I should be happy to have this self-knowledge, but it does put me in a bit of a hurry to cover up this freakish deformity. After all, skull imperfections should remain a private thing, between a man and his phrenologist.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
This is better: I reread Matthew 10-13 before L. fell out of bed. Now she sits with me on the same couch that staged Tuesday’s angst. No yelling this morning, just quiet yawns and stretches. Eyes are rubbed; arms are scratched. This is every morning’s waking for a tiny human who drinks no caffeinated drinks.
It’s tea again for Papa. Going to meet Pat Knapp for breakfast. He was the real estate agent who helped us find this swell little house five and a half years ago. Then he acted as part of my official mentoring team in seminary. Then he keeps calling and taking an interest in my life. He would be the Barnabas to this John Mark. (And, yes, there is at least one Paul. I’m still scratching my head about where exactly our Pamphylia was, if there was only one).
If you even think about buying a residential property in Denver without first contacting him (pat.knapp@attbi.com), you have done yourself a huge disservice.
He is going to want to know what we are doing here about moving forward in our ministry. Since securing the letters “M.Div” behind my name, I have taught a history course at a local Christian university (twice!), and instructed a small group of peers on Sunday mornings. That’s about it. In that last few months I have timidly put my toe in the waters of full-time international teaching. There is a pile on my floor of contacts and information I need to follow up on. At least three Post-It’s lie crumpled on my desk with phone numbers I need to call. Yesterday I surfed around the web looking at real estate in other parts of the country (and even in Belize. Wouldn’t THAT be cool?!), thinking we could sell this house in Denver, buy a bigger one in semi-rural Tennessee and live off the surplus for the next five years. Over coffee and oatmeal at Perkin’s I’m sure to be disabsolved of such notions, and reminded that the kingdom of heaven is not to be found in niftier houses or lifestyles. For a decade or more, Pat kept his head above water by shoving data into a computer at Public Service. Now he’s found of quoting Chariots of Fire, that he “feels God’s pleasure” helping people find houses. Plus it gives him time for all sorts of other service.
I need to get the recycling out now. Service only comes by every fortnight, so if I forget once a pile of crushed milk jugs immediately starts growing. Then rehearse my story before coming under Pat’s encouraging gaze.
It’s tea again for Papa. Going to meet Pat Knapp for breakfast. He was the real estate agent who helped us find this swell little house five and a half years ago. Then he acted as part of my official mentoring team in seminary. Then he keeps calling and taking an interest in my life. He would be the Barnabas to this John Mark. (And, yes, there is at least one Paul. I’m still scratching my head about where exactly our Pamphylia was, if there was only one).
If you even think about buying a residential property in Denver without first contacting him (pat.knapp@attbi.com), you have done yourself a huge disservice.
He is going to want to know what we are doing here about moving forward in our ministry. Since securing the letters “M.Div” behind my name, I have taught a history course at a local Christian university (twice!), and instructed a small group of peers on Sunday mornings. That’s about it. In that last few months I have timidly put my toe in the waters of full-time international teaching. There is a pile on my floor of contacts and information I need to follow up on. At least three Post-It’s lie crumpled on my desk with phone numbers I need to call. Yesterday I surfed around the web looking at real estate in other parts of the country (and even in Belize. Wouldn’t THAT be cool?!), thinking we could sell this house in Denver, buy a bigger one in semi-rural Tennessee and live off the surplus for the next five years. Over coffee and oatmeal at Perkin’s I’m sure to be disabsolved of such notions, and reminded that the kingdom of heaven is not to be found in niftier houses or lifestyles. For a decade or more, Pat kept his head above water by shoving data into a computer at Public Service. Now he’s found of quoting Chariots of Fire, that he “feels God’s pleasure” helping people find houses. Plus it gives him time for all sorts of other service.
I need to get the recycling out now. Service only comes by every fortnight, so if I forget once a pile of crushed milk jugs immediately starts growing. Then rehearse my story before coming under Pat’s encouraging gaze.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Grrrrrr. I’ve been feeling under the weather for a week now. Just when I think I’ve knocked out this cold, that spiteful green phlegm grabs the ropes, staggers up from the mat and goes for a few more rounds. It hasn’t been punching so consistently hard that I couldn’t have written at some point, but if you are going to be coughing up unnatural manifestations of evil, then I figure you should get two good excuses out of it.
So I finally get back in my routine of early waking this morning, the day ripe with possibility and promise. No sooner had I poured my first cup of tea than I hear the patter of L’s little feet on the hardwood floors. 5:17am That’s way too early for everyone involved. So now I sit on the couch, thinking I’ll write down some of these thoughts that have been germinating in my head. M. snuggles on my left arm, kicking L. who is at my feet and just announced with a bright smile that she’s sitting in a poopy diaper. N. on my right is whining and crying about trying to cover himself with a blankie: “Uhhhnnnnnnnnn! Blankie! Mama! Uhhhhnnnnnnnaaaa!” And now that foot-play between L. & M. has progressed into very loud “Stop its!” between the two sisters. Now, if you were a good dad, you would give up this attempt at typing (M. keeps telling me to push “f.” Why? I ask. Because I like that one. She’s four.), close this machine, and enjoy this interaction with freshly wakened children. You would be a wise, good dad for doing so.
But the mornings are supposed to be mine! I get up hours before the sun so that the day begins slowly, with the Gospel of Matthew, some decent strong tea, and silence everywhere. The furnace kicking on is supposed to shatter my concentration. I’m supposed to look up at the clock when the newspaper gal’s car rumbles by. Children screaming at each other about bananas, blankets, and toes is not part of my idyllic morning scene. Look carefully at any Thomas Kincaid morning scene: you will see no children whining about blankies or climbing all over the venerable Dad’s head.
My tea has grown cold.
There is terrific spiritual benefit to taking joy in the situation at hand, I know. The whining of this two-year-old N. about a blankie will be soon enough replaced with profound adolescent angst. What’s so bad about Miriam wanting to see an “f”? (Here you go, sweetie: FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF. Now she wants “J’s”:JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ. HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL. BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB. GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG. Was that so hard?) Stacy’s up now. She draws the little bodies to her presence like the US Army does terrorists. Big brother J.’s up, too. He plays with the little ones while Stacy makes her coffee (I’m going out to breakfast with Joe this morning, which means drinking a pot of coffee while sitting in an orange vinyl booth. No sense in making diner coffee taste bad by setting the baseline with our good stuff).
This isn’t what I was planning on writing about, mind you. It is, however, apropos. My own current angst is easily projected upon these little ones. I now live in a doghouse because this looks a lot like annoyance to the people involved. It’s not. At least not on the front end. I don’t start with annoyance.
Starts more with a glance at the horizon of things to do and learn and remember, which are mere foothills to the towering passes we will need to be crossing before too long. If this were a wagon train, I find myself staring at axles needing grease and oxen requiring attention and a dwindling food supply. But every day we pass someone along the trail living in a purty frame house with a lush garden and a porch swing who yells out, “Hey, you looked at those mountains lately? Those sure are some purty mountains up ahead. Intimidating, though. Why don’t ya just pull over here?” I take a breath to answer, but before I can a bonneted child (or 5) will round the back of the wagon and jump on my back and break my wrench and accidentally knee me in the privates.
That does sound like annoyance, doesn’t it? Aren’t dads supposed to laugh uproariously when kneed in the privates? Aren’t they supposed to put down the book they were hoping to read in order to drink imaginary beverages with their little girls? I think I have become that grunting, uninvolved dad who mumbles “dat’s nice. . .” from behind the newspaper. Sometimes it feels far safer to be a small man than an exposed one.
So I finally get back in my routine of early waking this morning, the day ripe with possibility and promise. No sooner had I poured my first cup of tea than I hear the patter of L’s little feet on the hardwood floors. 5:17am That’s way too early for everyone involved. So now I sit on the couch, thinking I’ll write down some of these thoughts that have been germinating in my head. M. snuggles on my left arm, kicking L. who is at my feet and just announced with a bright smile that she’s sitting in a poopy diaper. N. on my right is whining and crying about trying to cover himself with a blankie: “Uhhhnnnnnnnnn! Blankie! Mama! Uhhhhnnnnnnnaaaa!” And now that foot-play between L. & M. has progressed into very loud “Stop its!” between the two sisters. Now, if you were a good dad, you would give up this attempt at typing (M. keeps telling me to push “f.” Why? I ask. Because I like that one. She’s four.), close this machine, and enjoy this interaction with freshly wakened children. You would be a wise, good dad for doing so.
But the mornings are supposed to be mine! I get up hours before the sun so that the day begins slowly, with the Gospel of Matthew, some decent strong tea, and silence everywhere. The furnace kicking on is supposed to shatter my concentration. I’m supposed to look up at the clock when the newspaper gal’s car rumbles by. Children screaming at each other about bananas, blankets, and toes is not part of my idyllic morning scene. Look carefully at any Thomas Kincaid morning scene: you will see no children whining about blankies or climbing all over the venerable Dad’s head.
My tea has grown cold.
There is terrific spiritual benefit to taking joy in the situation at hand, I know. The whining of this two-year-old N. about a blankie will be soon enough replaced with profound adolescent angst. What’s so bad about Miriam wanting to see an “f”? (Here you go, sweetie: FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF. Now she wants “J’s”:JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ. HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL. BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB. GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG. Was that so hard?) Stacy’s up now. She draws the little bodies to her presence like the US Army does terrorists. Big brother J.’s up, too. He plays with the little ones while Stacy makes her coffee (I’m going out to breakfast with Joe this morning, which means drinking a pot of coffee while sitting in an orange vinyl booth. No sense in making diner coffee taste bad by setting the baseline with our good stuff).
This isn’t what I was planning on writing about, mind you. It is, however, apropos. My own current angst is easily projected upon these little ones. I now live in a doghouse because this looks a lot like annoyance to the people involved. It’s not. At least not on the front end. I don’t start with annoyance.
Starts more with a glance at the horizon of things to do and learn and remember, which are mere foothills to the towering passes we will need to be crossing before too long. If this were a wagon train, I find myself staring at axles needing grease and oxen requiring attention and a dwindling food supply. But every day we pass someone along the trail living in a purty frame house with a lush garden and a porch swing who yells out, “Hey, you looked at those mountains lately? Those sure are some purty mountains up ahead. Intimidating, though. Why don’t ya just pull over here?” I take a breath to answer, but before I can a bonneted child (or 5) will round the back of the wagon and jump on my back and break my wrench and accidentally knee me in the privates.
That does sound like annoyance, doesn’t it? Aren’t dads supposed to laugh uproariously when kneed in the privates? Aren’t they supposed to put down the book they were hoping to read in order to drink imaginary beverages with their little girls? I think I have become that grunting, uninvolved dad who mumbles “dat’s nice. . .” from behind the newspaper. Sometimes it feels far safer to be a small man than an exposed one.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
I have been graciously kept from an obsession with really nice things. My cars all have over 150,000 miles on them and wear each mile with pride and subtly masked fatigue. Most of my clothes come from a thrift store near our house (these shoes, jeans, microfleece vest and goretex jacket - all from the Unique Thrift Store. Savings? Oh, about $280. Cool). Our house is small, paid off, and hardly a fancy thing about it. TV's inherited, as is the 1970 Pioneer receiver amp.
The repairs to the Benz last week brought heat back out of those little vents. I'm giddy now as I drive around in cold weather and shed the hat, gloves and scarf. The mechanic even fixed the windshield washer squirter. That hasn't ever worked. If you see a grinning guy washing not-very-dirty windows in his old green sedan, that's me.
My last two computers have actually been state-of the art, after 10 years of working hand-me-downs. Of course, they have become relics while we sleep. And I have no desire to get a better faster one. My best flyrod, a Sage RPL+ has been out of production for at least 3 years, and no amount of slick copy persuades me to even think about upgrading to a newer taper or graphite construction.
There is a downside or two to this contentment: the first is not so detrimental. I play a minor part in this economy of ours. I neither generate nor distribute wealth. Capitalism likes it when people strive for goods, and I think I'm making an end run of it. Question my patriotism if you must, but I didn't even think of running out and buying a new car when the towers came down.
A far more dangerous possiblity is this: I can fool myself into thinking I am not laying up treasures for myself on earth because all my treasures are not all that slick. My new Canon G3 is still an amazing toy, but, c'mon now, it's not a G5. And this computer here is dang nifty, but, now, it doesn't have integral g wireless. This is the trick to both the complacent, happy spiritual life in a culture like ours, as well as the obvious roots to an unsavory hypocrisy: compare your sins to the gossest sins your culture has to offer. Never take the Sermon on the Mount at face value. Like Luther sinning boldly, maybe you folks with leather interiors, seat warmers, vaulted ceilings and new North Face jackets at least enjoy better treasures in the meantime.
And, truth be told, I do own a truly kickin' wheelbarrow. Not contractor grade, of course, but purty sweet none-the less.
The repairs to the Benz last week brought heat back out of those little vents. I'm giddy now as I drive around in cold weather and shed the hat, gloves and scarf. The mechanic even fixed the windshield washer squirter. That hasn't ever worked. If you see a grinning guy washing not-very-dirty windows in his old green sedan, that's me.
My last two computers have actually been state-of the art, after 10 years of working hand-me-downs. Of course, they have become relics while we sleep. And I have no desire to get a better faster one. My best flyrod, a Sage RPL+ has been out of production for at least 3 years, and no amount of slick copy persuades me to even think about upgrading to a newer taper or graphite construction.
There is a downside or two to this contentment: the first is not so detrimental. I play a minor part in this economy of ours. I neither generate nor distribute wealth. Capitalism likes it when people strive for goods, and I think I'm making an end run of it. Question my patriotism if you must, but I didn't even think of running out and buying a new car when the towers came down.
A far more dangerous possiblity is this: I can fool myself into thinking I am not laying up treasures for myself on earth because all my treasures are not all that slick. My new Canon G3 is still an amazing toy, but, c'mon now, it's not a G5. And this computer here is dang nifty, but, now, it doesn't have integral g wireless. This is the trick to both the complacent, happy spiritual life in a culture like ours, as well as the obvious roots to an unsavory hypocrisy: compare your sins to the gossest sins your culture has to offer. Never take the Sermon on the Mount at face value. Like Luther sinning boldly, maybe you folks with leather interiors, seat warmers, vaulted ceilings and new North Face jackets at least enjoy better treasures in the meantime.
And, truth be told, I do own a truly kickin' wheelbarrow. Not contractor grade, of course, but purty sweet none-the less.
The miracle of modern computing! Here I sit in my frozen 1975 Mercedes 300D*, waiting for her arthritic bones to warm up, and writing my latest blog entry. These fingerless gloves allow for surprisingly easy typing, too.
This old German lady has treated us well since we inherited it from my grandparents’ estate in 1996. I just dropped five c-notes on her last week, to keep her humming along for another 7 years. The state of Colorado let me put collector’s plates on her last spring, so I don’t have to go through the foolishness of an annual $50 emissions test. They don’t match the dark olive nearly as well as the old green and white plates, but I still love looking at that expiration tag of 2008.
(Holy cow! Fingers are already numbing up – this is the coldest day of the winter so far, you know. Good old-fashioned snot freezing weather. Better finish this up at home. I think the Benz here is plenty warm enough to start the crawl home, anyway.)
* link provided to provide a general image of my Benz. Note that I have never lived in Texas. NEVER. And this sweetie is a slightly unsavory pond-scum green (as her owner puts it). Mine is a conservative dark olive, a very pretty color when freshly primped with two coats of hard wax.
This old German lady has treated us well since we inherited it from my grandparents’ estate in 1996. I just dropped five c-notes on her last week, to keep her humming along for another 7 years. The state of Colorado let me put collector’s plates on her last spring, so I don’t have to go through the foolishness of an annual $50 emissions test. They don’t match the dark olive nearly as well as the old green and white plates, but I still love looking at that expiration tag of 2008.
(Holy cow! Fingers are already numbing up – this is the coldest day of the winter so far, you know. Good old-fashioned snot freezing weather. Better finish this up at home. I think the Benz here is plenty warm enough to start the crawl home, anyway.)
* link provided to provide a general image of my Benz. Note that I have never lived in Texas. NEVER. And this sweetie is a slightly unsavory pond-scum green (as her owner puts it). Mine is a conservative dark olive, a very pretty color when freshly primped with two coats of hard wax.
Friday, January 02, 2004
Our little house here in Denver was built in 1951. By the time we bought it from the estate of the original owners, it had four additions, plus a detached garage and dug-out crawl space you can stand in. I naturally figured that after 50 years, whatever was going to happen to the structure would have already happened.
But I was wrong. Major drainage problems paid off after three years in foundation cracks which led to tight doors and small fissures above many door frames. It's all been repaired now, with a french drain along the south end of the house, epoxy injection in the masonry, and the necessary cosmetic touchups. My little mind has a hard time getting around the fact that things do not last forever, even nice little houses. The earth moves and we just try to keep up.
Several years ago, I took a trip across Turkey to follow the journeys of the Apostle Paul and his companions. Most of the big cities in his day no longer exist, Iconium and Tarsus being the two major exceptions. The major coastal city of Ephesus came to ruin when the sea receded out of view. None of the three cities in the Lycus valley are still inhabited (I know Paul probably didn't visit these. But he wrote a few letters to them). Laodicia and Colossae are nothing more than fields today. Given a few economic setbacks or environmental changes, these sizable human achievements turn back to dirt with startling ease.
A more topical example: Bam, especially photo #6. (The loss of these centuries old building and 30,000 souls keeps me from making a really flippant remark about the city's name.) This one could have been excepted: you don't build your buildings out of mud where the earth shakes. But if I imagine my 50-year-old house to have already settled as much as its going to settle, what did those sleeping people think of their 500-year-old citidel?
Lots of places to go with this: requisite humility in the works of our hands; this terrific, terrible pain as a slap in the face of any free-will defense to the problem of evil; politics of humanitarian aid. But I'll stick with my little house. Here I will live, love my wife, raise my children, and tend my garden in 2004. When cracks appear, I'll fix them.
But I was wrong. Major drainage problems paid off after three years in foundation cracks which led to tight doors and small fissures above many door frames. It's all been repaired now, with a french drain along the south end of the house, epoxy injection in the masonry, and the necessary cosmetic touchups. My little mind has a hard time getting around the fact that things do not last forever, even nice little houses. The earth moves and we just try to keep up.
Several years ago, I took a trip across Turkey to follow the journeys of the Apostle Paul and his companions. Most of the big cities in his day no longer exist, Iconium and Tarsus being the two major exceptions. The major coastal city of Ephesus came to ruin when the sea receded out of view. None of the three cities in the Lycus valley are still inhabited (I know Paul probably didn't visit these. But he wrote a few letters to them). Laodicia and Colossae are nothing more than fields today. Given a few economic setbacks or environmental changes, these sizable human achievements turn back to dirt with startling ease.
A more topical example: Bam, especially photo #6. (The loss of these centuries old building and 30,000 souls keeps me from making a really flippant remark about the city's name.) This one could have been excepted: you don't build your buildings out of mud where the earth shakes. But if I imagine my 50-year-old house to have already settled as much as its going to settle, what did those sleeping people think of their 500-year-old citidel?
Lots of places to go with this: requisite humility in the works of our hands; this terrific, terrible pain as a slap in the face of any free-will defense to the problem of evil; politics of humanitarian aid. But I'll stick with my little house. Here I will live, love my wife, raise my children, and tend my garden in 2004. When cracks appear, I'll fix them.
