The dog days are over

Two years since my last post.

The dog days are over ... no more running away from happiness.



Blog hibernation is over. Watch this space!

Thanks, Sheena

You cannot know how much your post, read today, touched me. Incredibly timely, and very relevant.

So much so that I have to share the same song. And hope its message is heard.



I know your fear, Sheena. I share it. But I also have faith, that we will have that happiness and peacefulness again. In fact, we already have it. If not in the arms of another, then in the hearts of friends.

Come On, Get Higher

I haven't been able to get this tune outta my pointy head. I've been singing it as I drove all over Oahu, hummed it as I snorkled, whistled it in the parking garage.

It's taken me over. He's playing in Atlanta this month. May have to check that out.

Matt Nathanson, Come On, Get Higher

Soothed and Balmed

When was the last time you slept to the sound of the ocean? An unsuck listen and a favorite thing.

It's October: Do Your Part

Unless you're living under a rock, you know that October is breast cancer awareness month. I'm angling to score one of the kewl pink ties that the male Delta flight attendants are sporting.

As my 40th approaches, I know that regulah mammograms are ahead. Already had the baseline one a few years back. But regular self-exams are something I need to get more vigilant about, fer sure. Did you know that there's a service out there? Dinner with peeps last week in Atlanta served as my awareness vehicle, adding to the Videos You Should Know About (V.Y.S.K.A.):



Ok, we've already established that I suck. And not always in good ways. Sorry for the dearth in posts. Between stoopid busy work and many peeps in distress, I've been plumb out of time for any self-sustaining rituals. When stress has my plate full - good stress, bad stress - I find I start to lose myself. I'm not even aware it's happening. But it hit me on this second of many work travel weeks.

Hadn't listened to my iPod for, um, weeks? Turned it on whilst unpacking in schwanky Vegas hotel digs. Listened to the last iTunes purchase - the Aimee Mann release recommended by Sheena earlier this month (not bad, by the way). Then listened to a couple fave playlists.

A small, familiar yearning started to build. The music resonated with the bits of myself that I'd turned off to get through the travel, the work, the holding of others' hearts.

Music and words - reading, writing - are my prescription for life. Exposed to those drugs in infancy thanks to my 'rents, I'm a lifelong addict. Cutting myself off cold turkey really sucked. I'm slowly dosing and not yet up to regular intoxication levels, but I'm working on it.

Work and peep sitches still aren't really affording time for proper omphaloskepsis. But life ain't life without my fixes. Looking forward to live tunage action soon with Kimplicated and the return of The Old Ceremony to Atlanta, followed by a roadtrip to see Mike Doughty. In the meantime, my iPod won't be so neglected. The tune whose words struck yesterday: Gomez and "See the World" - an unsuck listen *and* and unsuck watch:

"And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you earned"

Enjoy.

High and Dry

Sorry, my lovelies. I haven't meant to leave you high and dry. Other concerns have been paramount.

Being left high and dry sucks. Unless it's Jamie Cullum doing it, as a cover of Radiohead. Baby. He doesn't suck.

A Summer of Sundays

It's not been a secret, my un-love affair with summer. I've made some pretty harsh, judgmental statements. But summer did its best to win me over at the beginning of September. I think she even forgave my brash, rude, petulance.

Visiting FloridaDad and SWEJudy the other week, each afternoon found us taking cover from the daily Central Florida summer storm. Only instead of abating after an hour or so, the rain kept coming. And coming.

But on my last night, a reprieve. Post-dinner cleanup found me grabbing my iPod and heading a block away to the beach as the sun was setting. I hit play on my "Summer of Sundays" playlist and set to strolling.

"& its you and me in the summertime
We'll be hand in hand down in the park
With a squeeze & a sigh & that twinkle in your eye
& all the sunshine banishes the dark"
- The Sundays, "Summertime"

The song ended as I kicked my flops under the sea grapes and set towards the water. Not many walkers that late. A few blokes casting. The lights of cruise boats twinkling off shore.

"well the heat was enormous
it fell like a gorgeous
blanket of indian clay
time drifting over us, stagnant like thunderclouds
pregnant and heavy with rain"
- Eddie From Ohio, "This My Town"

The breeze reminded me that the morning's showers had chased away the languor of humidity and stickiness of heat. My toes hit the edge of the perfect water, same temperature as the air. My cadence slowed to a surf strut.

"Maybe sometimes, we've got it wrong, but it's alright
The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same
Oh, don't you hesitate . . .
You're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow."
- Corinne Bailey Rae, "Put Your Records On"

The lights inside the condos loomed brighter as I moseyed south. My pace quickened to a jaunt - almost a dance - as the next tune bubbled up.

"If everything is nothing, then are we anything?
Is it better to be better than to be anything?"
- Counting Crows, "Einstein On the Beach"

At least three times, I jumped up and down in the surf, once landing on a sand crab. Ouch! Out of breath, a respite as Herbie Hancock's "Cantaloupe Island" chilled me out.

I couldn't have timed the scoring better. As I saw the last glimpse of sun to the west, The Sundays returned with words to bid the day's glow adieu:

"The thought of heaven couldn't drag me from the path
When I'm wandering here alone
I climb higher move towards the fire.... so blaze sun
Watch until it dies slow falling from the sky
Pale fading sun"
- The Sundays, "Folk Song"

Have you ever cha cha'd to XTC in the surf? I recommend it.

"You play hard to get
'Cause you're teacher's pet
But when the boats have gone
We'll take a tumble excuse for a fumble"
- XTC, Grass

My only picnic of the summer was dining with PJamaMama on the lawn at the Atlanta Botanical Gardens for the Indigo Girls show. What a fine evening that was!

"and my family takes picnics to the park
on warm weather holidays
and we ask all the neighbors, and they invite all their friends in kind
and we all bring side dishes, and we form one big holiday buffet line"
- Eddie From Ohio, "I Don't Think I Know Me"

"Nightswimming, remembering that night
September's coming soon
I'm pining for the moon"
- R.E.M. "Nightswimming"



It struck me during this tune that I had not skinnydipped before. I turned around and realized the sun had fully set. I was halfway through my playlist, so I about faced and headed for home.

T.B.C.

Rock Me Youthful

Gig tonight was cool. Laid back, acoustic, 2 guitars, 3 voices. Rain scared the early birds away, but the dinner crowd at a BBQ joint is loyal. They show.

Each time we play a different song strikes me. Tonight it was Tracy Chapman's Gimme One Reason:

"I don't want no one to squeeze me, they might take away my life . . .
I just want someone to hold me, and rock me through the night.

This youthful heart can love you and give you what you need . . .
but I'm too old to go chasin' you around, wastin' my precious energy.

Gimme one reason to stay here, and I'll turn right back around . . .
I don't wanna leave you lonely, but you gotta make me change my mind."

Hello, Goodbye: Target is Sexy, Baby

Today's What Is Sexy bit (W.I.S.B.s):
Target is sexy.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a Target whore. Specifically, a Super Target whore. I'd say ho, but that's too soft. Even slut doesn't seem visceral enough. Target is one of my favoritist thangs.

If I had only one store to shop at, forever, it would be SuperTarget. I can clothe myself. I can accoutre my home. They sell cat litter. And the Archer Farms pu pus - ah. Don't get me started.

Target is running a series of ads using a VERY sexy chick covering The Beatles: here's one. Sophia Shorai - her cover is as yet unavailable in a single format. Shame. She's fabulous, and is an unsuck listen.

Sparks and Flames

Summer’s sultry heat has me languishing. No mint julep sipping on front porches here (Sheena, where are your rosemary mojitos when I need ‘em?). I’m a coward to the heat, running for cover in the shade and the sweet serenity of air conditioning.

The worst summers were those I worked at Kennedy Space Center. Out the door each morning at 6:30 AM, gingerly stepping the twenty feet from the front door to the car in the useless attempt to avoid breaking a sweat.

Dwelling on the negative ain’t my style. So I’ve been pondering the goodness of summer. And what’s come to mind the most are two things: the 4th of July, and fireworks.

From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void

FloridaDad is a Yankee Doodle Dandee. Most summers find me in his company to acknowledge and raise a glass for the occasion. I think he’s just about forgiven me for getting a permit from the Cape Canaveral fire department to light the candles for his 50th. Good times. Made gooder with the tradition addition in recent years of singing patriotic songs with PJamaMama at Grandma Beach’s as the Ron Jon’s barge launched their sparkly offerings into the sky.

This summer’s sparks came from different sources. Canada Day – oops, sorry, Sheenada Weekend – was my first serving of fireworks, as shown in Sheena’s vid capture:

From what I could see, they trumped the Ron Jon’s offerings. But they paled in comparison to Kimplicated’s faves at Lenox Square in Atlanta. She’d long championed them, but this year was my virgin attendance, up front and in the ash-ridden fallout zone.

Spanks to Kimplicated for this snap.

Big. Bang. Boom. Sparkly goodness and chest reverb. They took my breath away. They do that. Fireworks surprise. You don’t know what’s coming, exactly. You hear the “whomph” of their release, perhaps a trailing light as they catch fire streaking up the sky when you first notice their path. They’re intense. They burn and shine, lighting up the dark where you could hardly see before. The blues are always my favorites.

My last offering was the aforementioned Gatineau competition spied from an Ottawa balcony. Distanced fiery jewels in the setting sun sky, with the launch release again heralding performance. Reminded me of dashing outside after the Shuttle’s sonic boom to watch the ascent’s remainder. Fireworks’ sparks and the Shuttle’s launch: both steal your breath for an amazing few minutes, and then they’re gone. Over. Only smoke ghosts hint of their scene-stealing performance moments before.

I enjoyed these sparks and their passionate colors, but they were too brief. You can’t have fireworks e'yday, after all. Unless you’re on vacation at Disney World. So while I enjoyed them, they have me missing the longer lasting sparkly colors found in a wood burning fire.

I yearn for the cooler weather. For PJamaMama and her squire to once again play WoodFairies and set me up with oak and hickory. To enjoy the strangely satisfying sound of shoveling ash to make way for the next long, slow burn. To carefully layer fire’s trappings: newspaper, kindling, and wood (and ok, some of the “cheater” fire starter dupers). To tend the nascent flames as they inexorably build, their snap-crackle-hiss-pop cadence a soothing, perfect fall evening’s soundtrack. At the apex of intensity, the blue flame is my favorite. Continued tending as the flames take their time to wane, re-sparking as logs shift through the grate into hot red embers, slowly gasping into ash soon again satisfyingly shoveled.

So perhaps I’m not a coward to the heat after all. Mayhap I’m just particular about its form. Fires are more of an investment in time. Summer's fireworks have their place, but I’d rather lose myself in the heat of sultry, slow-made fire sparks in cooler seasons. It’s not a bad thing, being particular. After all, I *am* the Concubine of the Mountain Ash.

Coldplay's Sparks

Don't Stop Now

Kimplicated and I were spoda head to Athens this eve to catch The Old Ceremony, but fate found otherwise. Instead I'll look forward to our next concert consort experience: Crowded House.

Summertime

Spoda get to effing 101 degrees F today in Hotlanta. I might not be so hot and bothered if I hadn't had a blissful break from the hated heat during my recent Canadian sojourn.

So I'm trying to find things to be happy about when it comes to these dog days of summer. So far, this song is my only idea. What are yours?

The Sundays, Summertime

Bonus for whitenoise, from the Unsuck Covers CD:

The Sundays covering the Rolling Stones' Wild Horses.

If it sounds familiar and you don't know why, it was used in a Budweiser commercial a few years back.

Ottawa Fireworks

Had my first Canadian rail experience last week in making my mosey from Toronto to Ottawa. Bidness delayed my intended departure, so I copped a free wired internet phone booth squat in Royal York hotel's business centre at Sheena's suggestion. Later upgraded my journey's accommodations, and didn't regret it. Nice ride. Nice meal.

Arrived in Ottawa and needed a place to lurk whilst waiting for my host's availability. Sheena to the rescue again, recommending the bar at the Westin. Last visit during Canada Day found me surrounded in the glow of many fireworks. Strange that my return should be heralded by them again. In the form of newly installed lobby light fixtures that look like fireworks. Spied 'em as I sipped what purported to be a mai tai, but failed.

Became a Repeat Offender at The Laff on the requisite Saturday afternoon to catch the Lucky Ron show. He didn't disappoint - and is an unsuck listen.

Fireworks as an Ottawa theme continued Saturday night spying Spain's efforts in the Casino du Lac-Leamy's Sound of Light competition from Gatineau / Hull. My last night in Ottawa found the sky with its own natural fireworks.

The Sheenada Day host was my chariot to the airport and return to things domestic, but not before a lovely repast at Mexicali Rosa's at Dow's Lake. Lovely sunshine and water, but the windy ass-day got interesting when an "I Am Canadian" umbrella took off flying across the patio, narrowly missing impaling fellow diners.

Stayed too long away. While the respite from Atlanta's heat was much enjoyed, it's good to be home. Now if I can just get these Canadians from haunting me everywhere I turn, I'd be set.


Tegan and Sara, Back In Your Head.

M.Y.S.K.A.: When Serendipity Strikes. Again.

Chihuly Glassworks @ the Atlanta Botanical Garden

Caught the Indigo Girls last night at the Atlanta Botanical Garden. My second repeat concert offense there - saw Rufus Wainwright with Kimplicated, Boone, and Marin's Mom a couple years back.

Fantabulous venue. Didn't mind getting moist in the light pre-show showers with Pjayamamama, the evening's concert consort. Opening act performance serendipity struck again, as is its wont to do, in the form of Brandi Carlile. Backed by a cellist and identical twins on guitar & acoustic bass, she was effing amazing.

Her tune The Story is garnering vid and airplay from its use in the season closer of Grey's Anatomy. My vid capture in the gardens has decent sound, but zilch stabilizing assistance. Time for a new camera?


The Indigo Girls came out during Brandi's set to harmonize on Cannonball. 3 part chick harmony: shiverlicious.



I'd seen the Indigo Girls last summer with Kimplicated at Chastain. A good show, but not nearly as intimate as the Garden, venue-wise. Don't know their whole catalog, but several lines struck me:

"You should listen to your mama if you have a lick of sense left", Pendulum Swinger
Amen!

"Put your head on my heart and lay down in the crook of my arm", Three County Highway.
Where do I sign up? I'd like to get me somma dat.

"I'm gonna love you good and strong while our love is good and young", Get Out the Map.
Indeed.

They invited Brandi back out on a few tunes. Chick three part harmony shivered again with Bob Dylan's Don't Think Twice. Warning: listen only - the vid focus sucks. Big time.


Pjayamamama's sensitive to audaciously loud tunage, but she allowed as how she'd repeat offend at the Garden. Methinks Chastain might be her cup o' tea as well. Her finely bald-headed husband is slated to be my consort for the Dave Matthews Band at Piedmont Park in September, and two of her urchins were my consorts for The Fray, Gomez, and Eisley two weeks back.

Ah. Summer. Music. Peeps. Good times. Good times.

"The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time." - James Taylor

Hello, love.

From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void

For you, sistah.

Mike Doughty's "Your Misfortune", from Haughty Melodic.

When your faith in life is gone
Come and speak to me
When you’re down and all messed up
Seek my sympathy

When everybody says no, no, no
Well it’s
Your misfortune and none of my own
Wrong, wrong, wrong
Well it’s your misfortune that sweetens my song

I can be the friend you want
I can be your confidante
I can be the right reminder at the right time
Throwing out the lifeline

Stand in the light. Stand in the light. Stand in the light.

When everybody says no, no, no
Well it’s
Your misfortune and none of my own
Wrong, wrong, wrong
Well it’s your misfortune that sweetens my song

When your face is caked with mud
Come and speak to me
When the chill creeps in your blood
Seek my sympathy

When everybody says no, no, no
Well it’s
Your misfortune and none of my own
Wrong, wrong, wrong
Well it’s your misfortune that sweetens my song

I can be the air you drink
Every single thought you think
I can be the right notion in the meantime
Warm you like the sunshine

Stand in the light. Stand in the light. Stand in the light.

Today's What Is Sexy bits (W.I.S.B.s):
Strong women who can be vulnerable. Who also happen to have great t*ts.

Being Present

James, by Mark Tonra

Being present is a tough row to hoe for me. Knowing that giving anyone or anything my singular, focused attention is an unusal feat, I've been trying to accomplish it more often. And have been looking for ways to enable better success.

“Everyday living is too fast, too busy, too complicated. More than at any time in history, it’s important to have good information on just about every aspect of life. And, there is more information available than ever before. Too much in fact. There is simply no time for people to gather and absorb the information they need.”
- Britton Hadden, Time Magazine co-founder, quoted in 1929.

And he thought THEY had it bad!

Hugh MacLeod had a great post a couple weeks back on Gaping Void entitled "Human attention does not obey Moore's Law".

If you aren't like me and gifted with natural ADD, you've received the gift 4400-style thanks to technology. HP did a whitepaper a couple years back on InfoMania detailing results from a study by the London School of Psychiatry. That study found that the attention of a computer-using knowledge worker shifted every 3 minutes.

EVERY 3 MINUTES.

Go ahead. Respond to that IM. Answer that phone. Read that e-mail. View that YouTube vid. This post will be waiting for you to continue reading.

The HP study found that addiction to e-mail and other "always on" mediums can lower a person's IQ by 10 points - more than twice the amount of the effects of smoking pot, and more than going without a night's sleep. Trade pubs wrote about the study under the headline "Stoned On E-mail". (HP's Guide to Avoiding InfoMania seems to be archived from their site, but I can send you a copy if you're curious.)

A fantastic thing happened to me a couple of weeks ago. I arrived on St. George Island to discover zilch cell phone coverage and wireless internet access for Mac use was inconsistent and piss-poor, at best. Initially vexed at the lack of connection to the wankosphere, each day found me happily unthwarted at being forced to be present in my vacation.

I had three great assistants in my digital dismemberment, in the form of two 3-year olds and one 14-month old. Playing in the sand, sun, surf and pool with them and their mommies found me sharing in their wonder and insouciance. They took me out of my own pointy head and brought me into the moment. Their moments. Their now. Our shared occupations were simple: what will we eat? how will we play? what will we drink? when will we sleep? how will we play some more? where is the sunscreen?

I spend too much time looking backward, looking forward, and not enough time enjoying where I'm at. Where I’m at ain’t bad. I'm going to endeavor to embrace this “present” stuff post-beach bliss. With myself. With others. In life. In work. It won’t be easy or intuitive for me – but I think I’ll be more content. Will be a powerful strong gift from those young urchins and the sea. And it is not unrelated to my new year's resolution.

"The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now."
- Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gifts from the Sea

The Judybats, "Being Simple"

More Guilty Pleasures

This song just came on my digital cable muzak station. Again. And e'y time I hear it, I'm struck by it. The sound is sexy. Her voice is sexy. And she's hot in this video.

I cannot explain why this is sexy. It just is.


Amy Winehouse, "You Know That I'm No Good"

Ska it up, babee!

So last night at band practice, we went over tunes with our new bass player to get stuff set before we play on Thursday. A recent addition to the set list is "Two of Us" by The Beatles. Callified and I both very much groove on the I Am Sam soundtrack and particularly dig Aimee Mann and Michael Penn's version (did ya know they were married?). Caught Michael Penn at The Five Spot last year with Kimplicated - great show.

As we started on the song, I heard something in my head and said, "Callified, you should ska-up the rhythm bit." She did. And l'il drummer boy morphed the beat to match. And day-um! It was cool.

The Police. Mighty Mighty Bosstones. No Doubt. Sublime. Just a few of the bands whose incorporation of ska doesn't suck. This Save Ferris cover below of "Come On Eileen" puts an awesome ska spin on the classic Dexys Midnight Runners' tune. Spanks for that CD years back, Pid. Definitely an unsuck listen!



Today's What Is Sexy bits (W.I.S.B.s):
- Girls singing about girls is sexy. I wonder if Jill Sobule knew her song would be so popular?
- Surprise is sexy.

Good At That

From Stephan Pastis' Pearls Before Swine

whitenoise wrote: ". . . although I'm good at what I do, and the imposed discipline has probably been good for me, it wasn't a good career choice.

I have a random, creative, anti-authoritative streak and I've always felt like a square peg jammed into a round hole. I should have been an architect, cardiologist or even a dentist.

Oh well, should count my blessings, I suppose - coulda been a lot worse."

In response I offer this song by Eddie From Ohio from their album Looking Out The Fishbowl. Run, don't walk, and buy the song from iTunes. It's an unsuck listen.

Good At That

Could have been a writer, should have been a novelist
Could have been something, anything other than this
Turn light on now, turn the light on
Room so dark without, room so dark without love

Should have been a healer and gone to Africa
Magic medicine that’ll clear it all up
Put away the hunger now, put away the hunger
World so dark without, world so dark without love

But night comes quiet as a cat
I lay awake considering, I consider ‘til my mind grows fat
Don’t know much about the weight of the world
But the weight on my brain’s sure intact
And maybe I’m good at that

Could have been a pundit, could have been an Uncle Sam
Shoulda been holy, a political holy man
Shift the gears now, turn the wheels of change
Land so dark without, land so dark without love
But that’s another kind of healer

Night comes quiet as a cat
I lay awake considering, I consider ‘til my mind grows fat
Don’t know much about the weight of the world
But the weight on my brain’s sure intact
And maybe I’m good at that

Now I’ll never be an Olympic star
I’m not that strong, I can’t run that far
And I’ll never die on the silver screen
I’m not that brave
Not much hero in me

Could have been a thinker, could have been a philosopher
More like a tinkerer, philosophical amateur
Turn the light on now, turn the light on
World so dark without, world so dark
World so dark without, world so dark
World so dark without, world so dark.

No Weakends Here: Part 3 - CAKE

(We resume tales of two weekends past. Have been busy with work wrapping up before vacation, the latter now blissfully affording blog catch up time.)

Post Summerfest Saturday afternoon, headed chez Cheek to clean up and collect Slomack to head down to the 99x Big Day Out affair at HiFi Buys Amphitheater to catch Cake. Cake is the reason Slomack was in Atlanta. Cake is Slomack’s reason for being. Cake, and Chuck Norris. He paid for the tickets just to have a concert consort – good thing he doesn’t read my blog or my mooching jig would be up.

Their set was great, albeit a brief fi’ty minutes:

1. Italian Leather Sofa
2. Meanwhile, Rick James
3. Stickshifts and Safetybelts
4. Arco Arena
5. Frank Sinatra
6. Love You Madly
7. Wheels
8. Never There
9. Short Skirt / Long Jacket



Kimplicated lent me a couple of Cake CDs for familiarization. Was bummed that they didn’t play my new favorite song,
“Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps”. The magic of YouTube yields this for your listening and guffawing pleasure:


George Takei would be thrilled. Wasn't he AWESOME as Hiro's father? But I digress. As is my wont to do.

The band signed autographs post-show. A drunk a**hole endeavored inappropriate queue insertion. We and our queue mates begged to gently differ, but his rejoinder was in the vein of "I gotta do what I gotta do." Well, miss young thang behind us went seeking staff and got the a**hole ousted. Girl gumption rocks!

Staying only for Cake's set, we departed, only to be rear-ended leaving the parking lot. Minor damage from bad driver chick's headlight nipples into Slomack's bumper.

Nickiemoto's was the Cake-head's dining druther. Funny. With his metrosexual hair I'd have thunk him a bit less sensitive to being in the thick of the gay rich men's Midtown, but to his credit, he gracefully wished our waiter the best of luck in departing the Atlanta ballet to seek out success in NYC.

Sunday morning breakfast sought at La Madeleine. Walked to dinner at Chicago's, where I recommend the Tilapia Mediterranean Style. Pub crawled to Charlie Mopps Public House.

Crawled further and slightly inside the Perimeter to 5 Seasons Brewing, where the Glenkevin "Wee Heavy" Scotch Ale was easily quaffed. Slomack was again thwarted by alternate lifestyle choices, as our beer maven was HOT but not of his persuasion. The long mosey back to chez Cheek was interrupted by a fall. Mine. Grace is not my middle name. A black asphalt driveway had the brazen audacity to be unlevel. Right knee planted, left hand braced the fall, right wrist bruised upon landing, left ankle same. Knee scrape wasn't bad, but the bruise is only now starting to fade, 2 weeks later.


Slomack is welcome back for more music, knoshing, and sloshing, but I'll need a designated walker with a flashlight. Those who know me well know that intoxication is not the factor here - it's rather one of genetics.