The Lighterside by Paul Bianchina

But I Own an iPod!

I walked proudly into one of the big electronics stores the other day. I say proudly, because I had two very specific purchases in mind. I knew the store would carry them both, and I knew they’d both be simple to buy and – most importantly, because we’re talking electronics here – I’d be able to understand and actually use them within any help. Ah, how quickly pride turns to despair. The store covers at least 62 acres. I’d like to say that it has its own zip code, but that wouldn’t be accurate.

It’s actually its own sovereign nation, and eavesdropping on a couple of nearby conversations, you could readily see that it also has its own language: “The amplification module flux won’t dampen the midrange sine wave unless you boost interim capacitation and allow it to completely pixilate…” “…..so Dude, what I need is an 8-way D-pad game ‘troller with hyper-drive for on-line up-links with a 64-bit refresh rate that won’t get all weirded out when the emulators interlock during a hot Ninja dustup.” Instantly intimidated, I looked around for help. Not just any help, the right help.

Then I spotted it. In the distance, a pair of passing clerks. One was within the normal 10-14 year old age range that’s a prerequisite for working in large electronics stores these days. But the man with her was – gasp! – in his 40s. I had stumbled upon the Holy Grail of electronics store clerks – someone who could translate Techno-speak into English! “Can we help you find something sir”? Elementary School Clerk asked, with that chipper tone of voice that somehow manages to substitute “grandpa” for “sir.” “Actually, yes.” I took a deep breath, hoping that with Translator Clerk there, there wouldn’t be much of a language barrier. I started with the first item. “I’m looking for an small, inexpensive AM-FM radio to stick in my shop. Something I can attach a couple of external speakers to.” There, I said it. Clear, simple, and succinct.

I waited proudly and expectantly for them to direct me to the aisle where I could choose from at least three or four of them. All right, what’s wrong? Elementary School Clerk looks confused. Did I not say it right? I tried again “You know, a radio that plays AM and FM,” I said with a little less confidence, as though that description was somehow clearer and more meaningful than just saying AM-FM radio like I had in the first place. “A small, inexpensive one,” I added, babbling now. Falling back on my Italian heritage, I threw in some hand gestures as well, showing her the approximate size of a small radio. All pretense of the sophisticated electronics shopper was now completely crushed.

“Ahhh,” she stammered, still confused but trying hard to be polite to the elderly. “We have a wide selection of boom boxes and stereos on Aisle 137B, with multiple CD changers, MP-3 capability, USB interface, digital sequencing for multi-port input of ringtone apps, and thousands of other features. I think some of those even have, ah, radios in them too.” Language problems again. Finally Translator Clerk stepped in. “Wait, I know what he’s looking for.” Thank goodness! I knew I’d been right to seek him out. He understands me! He speaks my language! He turned to Elementary Store Clerk. Now he’ll show her a thing or two! “My Dad used to have a radio like the one he’s talking about.” Whoa.

Okay, that stung a little Dude. You’re not that much younger than me. I simmered a bit, but swallowed it. The important thing was to buy the radio. He turned back to me. “Sorry sir” – at least it didn’t sound like ‘grandpa’ when he said it – “we don’t carry anything like that. You might try one of the online auctions, like eBay.” Ouch. Stung again. To imply that I’m so far past my prime that my only hope of buying anything electronic was to get it from someone who’s cleaning out his attic. At least Elementary School Clerk had the decency not to snicker. But I wasn’t done. I could still salvage this shopping trip, and let them know I wasn’t the complete old codger they thought I was.

“Okay, thanks,” I mumbled, with as much dignity and phony sincerity as I could muster. “One other thing. I need an armband for my iPod.” Go ahead, make me feel old with that one! Elementary School Clerk immediately brightened. She really did want to be helpful, and this was something she obviously understood. Across 12 generations, we had finally reached common ground! “Absolutely!” she enthused. “We have, like, a ton of those! Which model iPod do you have?” Believe it not, I actually know there are different models, so I came prepared. I reached in my pocket, and produced my beloved little gem of electronic music. Her smile disappeared in an instant. “We, ah, don’t carry any accessories for that.” She looked like she wanted to cry. “Excuse me?” “Sorry. We only carry things for like the last two generations of iPods. Nothing for the older ones like you have.” No. NO! How can that possibly be? I have an iPod for goodness sakes. I’m cutting edge! I belong in an electronics store! Thoroughly dejected, I left the store and headed home to lick my wounds. I guess that also rules out going back to talk to them about a player for my 8-track tapes. Paul Bianchina can be reached at paul2887@ykwc.net for comments.

A Man & His Shop - Always in Motion

For eons, mankind has been in search of a Perpetual Motion Machine. Known as a PMM, this device would constantly feed upon itself to create more and more motion and energy, never resting, never stopping, in an endless cycle of activity for all of eternity. I have found such a device, and surprisingly, many of the people reading these words right now – especially those of the male persuasion – already have one as well. It’s called a wood shop. Allow me to explain. When you have a wood shop, you make things. All the time. Constantly. But you never actually make things that anyone can use, such as, for example, a table. In an odd twist of logic, that would actually be at odds with the entire reason for having a wood shop.

Instead, wood shops are used to make the things that hold the things that are used to make the things that hold the things that are used to make the things that hold the things that – well you get the idea. So therefore, a wood shop is actually in a perpetual cycle of motion. Thus, it can accurately be called a Perpetual Motion Shop, or PMS. For simplicity, we’ll abbreviate that a little further, and just call it a P-Miss. It’s actually pretty easy to understand the whole P-Miss concept. First, you start with an empty space, such as a garage, a barn, or some other type of building. The larger the empty space is, the better, because with a P-Miss, size matters. Second, you need to subscribe to as many woodworking and home improvement magazines as you can find. Ideally these should have staggered delivery dates, so that one is showing up in your mailbox at least every other day.

These magazines are the fuel that keeps the P-Miss in motion. You also want to join a minimum of six dozen on-line woodworking and home improvement forums, for additional P-Miss fuel sources during those times when you don’t have access to one of your magazines. Third, and this is critical, you have to train yourself to ignore anything in the magazines or the forums that deals with time-wasting projects such as, say, making a table. This will distract you from your real goal, which is the perpetual cycle of making things to hold things. Fourth, acquire as many tools as you can. It doesn’t matter if you know what the tools do, it only matters that they’re sharp, loud, heavy, and have names like “Multi-Spur Hollow-Ground Carbide-Tipped Lumber-Eating Wood Hog.” Now, open the first magazine. For starters, look for the easiest project you can find, such as “How To Make A Simple Shelf.”

That’s what’s needed to start the P-Miss machine in motion. Once the first shelf is on the wall, the machine will begin to cycle and feed on itself, and the process has begun. Now look for a bench to build. Remember two things – it has to be simple, and it has to be a bench for the shop, not a practical bench you could use in the house. Great. Now you have a bench for the P-Miss that you can set things on while you’re building other things to set things on while you’re building other things. Now let’s step it up a notch. Open another magazine. There on Page 5 or 6, following the full color ad for the “New And Improved Lumber-Eating Wood Hog, Now With X-12 Carbide And Even More Multi-Spurs Than Ever Before” – which you’ll want to be sure and order – you’ll find an article for how to make a screwdriver holder. Perfect. Make that.

Then check out that article on chisel holders. How about the article on a bin for holding sandpaper? Or the one for holding screws and nails? Feeling that cycle starting to take hold? Now let’s increase it a bit. Up to this point, you’ve been looking at the articles written by the magazine’s writers. But what about the magazine’s reader’s, or the guys on those Internet forums? The guys just like you and me, but who’ve been at it a little longer, and who’ve got a better shop and a better cycle going and have way cooler ideas for screwdriver holders and chisel holders and sandpaper bins and all the other boxes and shelves and gadgets for holding the things that make the things that hold the things that make the things. You want to start making what they’re making, right? Perfect. Now you’ve developed a case of P-Miss Envy.

From the simple projects, then to the reader tips and the forums. Finally, you move on to the ultimate in high-speed perpetual motion. Remember the article on “How To Make A Simple Shelf?” Now we’re looking for the one on “How To Build An Advanced Shelf.” Why? Well the answer’s obvious isn’t it? So you can tear the simple one down and replace it with the advanced one. That’s the beauty of the entire P-Miss process. As long as you have the shop and the magazines and the tools and the big pile of lumber, you’ll never run out of things to make that hold the things that make the things that keep the machine running for ever and ever! Whoa – time to go. The mailman just showed up with a fresh magazine, and the machine was starting to slow down! Paul Bianchina can be reached at paul2887@ykwc.net for comments.

Business or Economy Class -- The Differences Are Subtle

We had the opportunity to take one of those once-in-a-lifetime vacations to Africa recently. It was truly a remarkable trip, and I discovered a number of very interesting things along the way. For example, I quickly found out that Africa is actually quite a long distance away from Bend. As such, I also found that an airplane is the preferred way of getting there – preferred over, for example, driving or taking Amtrak, which had been my first idea. Anything but flying. But, flying it had to be. Given that this was to be such an inhumanly long and arduous flight, I had a moment of ridiculous whimsy. “Let’s,” I said, “see how much it would cost to fly business class.” So, we asked the airline. Interestingly, airlines never actually give you the price of a business class ticket. Instead, they ask you a series of questions. They want to know your annual income, the value of your home, and the weight of any gold bullion you have.

They then hand you a calculator with instructions on how to figure the rate for a second mortgage. We quickly took the hint. Then came brilliant idea number two. We had some frequent flier miles, from past trips and credit card miles and all the rest. So why not upgrade our economy-class tickets? But, as is typical of the airline industry, nothing is easy. Or cheap. There’s a fee to upgrade. And there were only upgrade seats on some of the flights, not all of them. “We’ll take it,” I slobbered pathetically. And the airline nodded smugly, knowing, as always, who had the upper hand in this negotiation. However, being an intrepid reporter – and always at a loss for material to fill the grueling schedule of three column pages every month – I had a thought. “This will be the perfect way to compare the differences between the two classes of service on the same trip, and report back on exactly what they are!”

Surprisingly, the differences between business class and economy class are much smaller and more subtle than you’d expect. They’re there, but you have to really look closely to spot them. For example, there’s the boarding process. As a business class passenger, your seats are called first. An obsequious airline representative meets you at the Jetway with a plush robe and heated slippers, and you’re taken by enclosed cart directly to your seats. Along the way, you have to endure the usual spitting and catcalls of “rich pig” from the economy class passengers. As an economy class passenger, the boarding is similar, it just occurs a little later in the process.

Once the business class passengers have been seated, the Jetway is removed and the cattle chute is wheeled into place. A surly flight attendant with an attitude screams “All second-class steerage seats, get your worthless butts on board now! You’ve got 5 minutes or we leave without you!” They then electrify the steel floor of the chute in order to get the stragglers moving. Food is another thing that people often wonder about. Here again, I was shocked to discover that the economy class folks get the exact same food as the business class people, just a little later and with some subtle differences. In business class, the passengers are given a menu to select their meals from. The food is fresh, and excellent. It’s served on linens, with silverware. It’s akin to dining in a nice restaurant. At the end of the business class meal, all of the trays are gathered up. Leftover food is dumped into an industrial blender, along with water and bread rolls from the previous day’s flights. This is processed into a semi-liquid gruel, and poured into spray tanks.

Flight attendants in rubber suits then move into the aisles of economy class, where passengers can purchase one or more squirts of gruel from the spray hose for $35 each. So as I say, it’s pretty much the same food as what the business class passengers got, just served a little later and with a little less flair. But it is easier to chew. (Incidentally, if the plane is experiencing any turbulence during the spray-serving, you might opt out – the bouncing can affect the flight attendant’s aim with the gruel hose, which doesn’t do much for your traveling clothes.)

Seating was the only place where I noticed much of a difference. In business class, passengers are escorted to a double-wide leather recliner with a fleece top, which makes up into a king size pillow-top bed. There’s on en suite bath for each seat, with a toilet, stall shower, whirlpool tub, and bidet. The 60-inch plasma screen at each seat was to be expected, but the live stage show was a nice added touch. In economy seating, what with all the cost-cutting measures, there were a few new features we hadn’t seen before.

As you exit the cattle chute and are prodded down the aisle, you pass under an overhead nozzle that drizzles you with oil. That makes it easier for you to squeeze into the seat, which has now shrunk to below the federal minimum standards for toddler car seats. The other change is seat rotation. On your ticket is a series of times, which are the periods during the flight that you’re actually allowed to occupy that seat. During other time periods, the seat is occupied by other passengers who’ve been sold the same ticket.

On average, 12 passengers now occupy the same seat during any given flight, in 5-minute rotations. Movie screens and other forms of entertainment have been eliminated. Instead, during the 55-minute periods that you’re not in your seat, chores are now assigned. This is nice, since it helps the flight go by faster. You’ll also have the opportunity to be in business class for part of the flight, since you’ll be up there changing bed linens, cleaning bidets, fluffing pillows, and warming slippers. So as I say, you’re really not missing all that much. Coach is just fine. As for me, having used up all my frequent flier mile upgrades and not having a sufficient stockpile of bullion to afford to actually buy a business class ticket, I have a simpler solution. I’ll never fly again. Paul Bianchina can be reached at paul2887@ykwc.net for comments.

Simple Test for a Complicated Life

The thought may have crossed your mind more than once that perhaps your life has gotten complicated. More complicated than it needs to be. And it probably has. But would you like to know for sure? If so, here’s a simple two-part test you can take that will determine the level of complexity beyond any shadow of doubt.

Part 1: Plan a vacation trip to a destination that has limited phone and internet service. In other words, make sure it’s somewhere that people can’t get a hold of you very quickly if they need you.

Part 2: Now leave a note for the person who’ll be watching your house while you’re gone. In the note, explain to them how everything in your life functions, from the operation of your TV and your coffee pot to the care and feeding of your dogs. If Part 1 turns out to be way easier than Part 2, congratulations. You’ve achieved a complicated life in the 21st century. My list of instructions began with the TV, because I stupidly thought that would be easy. Whatever. In my house even the coffee pot isn’t easy. I started by sorting out the remotes.

We have several. We even have one that was supposed to take the place of the several, but that didn’t work out as planned, so now we have the touch-screen “universal” one, and all the individual ones for the different components that the universal one was supposed to universalize, but didn’t. With all the remotes in front of me, along with a tablet and a pen, I next set about explaining to someone who’ll be watching the house but has never used our TV exactly how to do all this. First, you have to describe each remote, complete with little sticky notes, because the stupid things all look alike, right? I mean you know what they are, but she’s not going to. You can’t very well say “use the black remote with all the buttons to operate the TV, but use the black remote with all the buttons if you want to operate the DVD player.

However neither of those will work if you want operate just the stereo receiver – for that, you’ll need the black remote with all the buttons.” So, I get everything labeled. Fortunately, the universal not-so-universal remote that operates everything but really doesn’t is silver and has a screen, so that one gets to skip the little sticky note and will forever after be the Silver-Remote-With-The-Screen in a world of Black-Remotes-With-Buttons. Clear so far? Okay. So we start on Page 1 with the Silver-Remote-With-The-Screen. “Touch the screen to get it to light up.” Sounds simple enough. But do I need to explain that it goes dark again in about 5 seconds if you don’t press a button on the screen? Will she understand that? She seems smart enough. She’s a whole lot younger than me, so she probably understands all of this a whole lot better than me to start with, even without sticky notes and written instructions. I mean if she doesn’t, she shouldn’t be watching the house and having the lives of our dogs in her hands, right? Okay, I’m over-thinking the whole screen lighting up part. She’ll get that, she’s bright. Now: “To watch TV, press button marked SAT”.

That’s easy. I do it once, just to be sure. Works fine. But wait. It only works fine because I always remember to keep the remote pointed at the TV for at least 5 seconds until the little red light in the corner of the TV changes from red to blinking blue to steady blue, just like the 12-year-old guy from the high-tech TV store who installed all this stuff kept repeating over and over to me to be sure and do, in that tone that 12-year-old guys from high-tech TV stores use with old fogies who need touch-screen remotes because they don’t understand black remotes with buttons. But if the red-to-blinking-blue-to-steady-blue sequence doesn’t happen, then the “no-sync-signal” error message comes up on the screen, and then we have to initiate the reverse shut-down sequence, which takes a different set of buttons, and sometimes takes two or even three tries to get it to take before the TV and the receiver and the satellites and the hard disk and something else that’s inside something else that’s trying to talk to something else but didn’t listen to whatever it was that wasn’t listening to whatever didn’t hear what the first thing said in the second place, which was why the light didn’t come on and the sync signal didn’t sync and god help me if I have to explain all of that to her in under 12 pages, single spaced.

So. “To watch TV, press button marked SAT”. BUT – “Be sure and keep the remote pointed at the TV the entire time, until the light goes from red to blinking blue to steady blue.” There. That’s better. But do I tell her about the sync signal, and what could happen if she gets it wrong? Will it frighten her? Maybe I should tell her to bring her own TV, one that she already knows how to operate. Yeah, that would be easier. And she could bring her own coffee pot too. But that won’t solve the problem of how to work the sprinkler system.

Or the Internet service. Or any of the other systems I haven’t even begun to describe yet. And what about the dogs? I can’t very well tell her to just bring her own dogs over, because they’d be easier to operate than explaining how to take care of ours! And so there you have it. Two days until vacation, and I’ve reached the point where I’m considering sending the house sitter on vacation in my place because it would be considerably easier than explaining to her how to take care of our house for two weeks. That’s when you officially know your life is too complicated. Paul Bianchina can be reached at paul2887@ykwc.net for comments.

Can We Shake On That?

I was reading recently all about the phenomenon of “social networking”. Now some of you, especially those who aren’t as tech-savvy as I am, may not be up to speed with that term, so allow me to explain. Social networking occurs when a group of people with similar interests get together to share them. Sounds pretty simple, right? You like to listen to music, so you get together with other people who like to listen to music and listen to music together. Except that social networking doesn’t really involve socializing. It’s actually kind of anti-socializing.

It’s done in complete isolation, through the wonder of modern electronics. It includes such things as tweexting, face-neting, i-looking, bloating, and many other forms of pretend interaction that I don’t understand. Theories abound as to why this is, and how it came to be. Lots of stuff about the “Me Generation” not having time for anything or anyone other than themselves. But, after careful study, I’ve concluded that the withdrawal of our youth into the safety of their Twixting and Twexting little world has been caused by one simple thing. Shaking hands has gotten so complicated, they’re afraid to interact in person.

The simple ritual of hand-shaking is thought to have originated centuries ago, as a way for one man to show another that he was not carrying a weapon. (At least not in his right hand. Apparently his left hand was free to do whatever it pleased, giving rise to the phrase that the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing, or something like that.). Again, as I say, simple right? But leave it to youth to screw it up. At last count, there are now 1,763 ways in which two people can shake hands.

Here’s a partial list:
-The Meet and Greet: Extend the hand at a 45-degree angle, thumb up, cup the palm over the other’s palm, grip, squeeze, give a single shake, release, step away.
-The Meet and Greet with Finger Extension: Extend the hand at a 45-degree angle, cup the palm over the other’s palm, grip, squeeze, give a double shake, partially release the grip but do not lose contact, partially withdraw, grip the other’s fingers with a loose overlapping claw-grip, give a single shake, release, step away.
-The Thumper Bumper: Extend the hand at a 45-degree angle, cup the palm over the other’s palm, grip, squeeze but do not shake, partially release the grip but do not lose contact, partially withdraw, grip the other’s fingers with a loose overlapping claw-grip, lean forward, bump shoulders with a swift, affectionate yet manly motion, withdraw, release, step away.
-The Man Gripper: Extend the hand straight out, bypass the other’s hand and head further up the arm, grip the forearm 1-2 inches below the elbow, give 2 firm shakes, slide the hand down the other’s forearm, maintain contact but not in an affectionate manner, interlock hand grips, shake up and down 2 times but not more than 3 times, maintain eye contact, withdraw into a claw-finger grip, do not shake up and down but instead exert a slight backward pull, release, step away.
-The Showdown: Extend the right hand to the inside of the other’s right bicep and grip; extend the left hand onto the other’s right shoulder and pat with a movement that simultaneously expresses affection, peace, and the ability to rip the other’s arm off and use it as a club if necessary; maintain the left-hand shoulder grip and move the right-hand bicep grip down to the elbow in a continuous movement; grip twice with force, release, grip again, then move to the forearm; grip once, move down and encircle the wrist, reset the time on his watch to confuse him and further show dominance; move your hand to his hand and interlock in the traditional 45-degree hand grip; hold that position for 5 seconds while bumping chests; move the left hand off the shoulder and remove $10 from his wallet, then move the left hand back to the shoulder and once again pat with a movement that simultaneously expresses affection, peace, and the ability to rip his arm off; release the hand grip and slide into an interlocking finger grip while you engage in a manly game of pin-the-thumb; bump left shoulder to left shoulder twice, right shoulder to right shoulder twice, left shoulder to right shoulder once, pause, once, pause, three times, pause, then twice; step back, grip with crushing force without wincing, stare at each other, nod twice to show that you really mean it – whatever “it” is – then step away.

Or stay home, hide behind your computer, and just Twixt or Twext or Bloat or whatever it is you do to socially interact. I’m not sure I blame you.
Paul Bianchina can be reached at paul2887@ykwc.net for comments.

What Wine Do You Serve With Donuts?

Up until recently, the sum total of my knowledge of wine could be summed up as follows: It’s made from grapes. At least, I’m fairly certain it is. That is, until we were seated near two couples in a restaurant one night. They quickly perused the menu, ordered their food, then settled into what was obviously far, far more important – the wine. What followed was a lively discussion/debate – borderline argument – about which wines to order. Emphasis on the plural. All of this involved all four people at the table, their server, and everyone else within earshot of, I suspect, the restaurant itself. It turns out that you can have different wines at different times throughout the meal.

Who knew? It apparently all depends on what you’re eating, what your dinner companions are eating, what time of day it is, where the sun is in the sky, what color the plates are, what type of garnish is being served, whether the napkins have starch in them, and a number of other highly complex but apparently equally crucial factors that I quickly lost track of. After much discourse, the first bottle was finally agreed to. It had a complicated name, reminiscent of some remote place in Europe where you could assume a battle had been waged at some point in antiquity, and where hunting dogs were currently at play. It had many syllables, and they all pronounced it differently, leading to more lively discussion/debate – borderline argument. The server popped the cork, to delighted ohhs and ahhs around the table. It was as though a Fourth of July fireworks display had suddenly burst forth just over their little corner of the restaurant. The server handed the cork to one of the gentlemen, who stiffed deeply.

What? It’s the cork for goodness sakes! I mean there’s nothing I love more than a good pizza, but I have never in my life inhaled the aroma of the mozzarella fumes that have permeated the lid of the box! The cork was passed around the table, and all took an appreciative sniff. It was then that the other gentleman nodded with great satisfaction and held it up for all to see. “Notice the length of the cork”, he exclaimed. “This is extraordinary. Only with French wines will you see corks of this length. American wines use a much shorter cork.” At this point our dinners arrived, and I was able to tune out the rest of the loud conversation about how size apparently matters more to the French than it does to the Americans. But it was a fascinating glimpse into the passionate and, dare I say it, slightly over the top world of the true wine lover. Ah, to be that passionate about something. The next day, I stopped at my favorite donut shop for a maple bar. I was still chuckling to myself about how crazy those wine people were.

They were probably the same types who wax poetic about the hint of smoky oak flavor in this, and the touch of currents and apples in that. With a disdainful shake of my head, I bit into the maple bar. Now this, I thought, is perfection worth raving about! The outer shell of the donut had just a light golden haze to it, as though the sun was setting through the clouds on an autumn afternoon. I could smell the leaves burning in the distance. The baker had obviously been trained at one of the premier donut houses in the south of Boston, where donut-making is an art form. I could taste that pure canola oil had been used for the frying, and that the oil had been hand pressed from free-range canolas raised in the mountain passes near Quebec. The frying temperature had been 352 degrees when the dough had entered the fryer, but it had dropped to the optimum 349 degrees as the dough approached Max-C, the point of maximum crispness. That’s the point of no return for a donut. Remove it at Max-C, and you have perfection.

Exceed Max-C, or worse yet, extract the dough at less than Max-C, and your donut is nothing but inedible hog food. And then, there was the maple frosting. This one had a base that came from upper Vermont, from a sugar maple that was between 57 and 59 years old. It was tapped from the tree on March 26th, using a traditional tapping and sap collection bucket method. That allowed a small amount of spring snow to add crispness to the maple. The frosting was hand-applied, which allowed for variations in thickness. This random additional frosting thickness gave me the “surprise flavor micro-bursts”, which is much sought after by maple bar connoisseurs the world over. Savoring the bar took just over two hours, which included taking notes and photographs. And all the while, I was still chuckling over how anyone could get so wrapped up in anything as silly as a simple glass of wine. Paul Bianchina can be reached at paul2887@ykwc.net for comments.

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