OPEN MOUTH
Yeah, yeah, it was Thanksgiving... yeah, yeah I watched three movies (THE TERMINAL, THE LAST SAMURAI, HARRY POTTER 3) and had pastrami burgers instead of turkey.... yeah, yeah I finished WALLY MEIERS issue #3.
But THIS is what I'm posting about today.
"The publisher, Richard Nash, mistakenly authorized a production change that the printers requested in the final hour---which led to the misprint. I had done all the production work on the book, but was never consulted about this change. Ironically, if the printers had correctly executed the changes they proposed, the book would have come out fine-but in fact, they screwed it up. This is not a matter of the artwork looking too dark or too light or less than perfect. The affected stories have lost all their gray shading, background detail, and in some cases, faces and text are unreadable."
I'm sorry, but that's just wrong. I know Megan and a great number of the artists involved on the book... and I'm aware of what goes into an anthology and to have all this work, all this trouble result in this.... well, that's just terrible.
I'm also a designer/production artist and can tell you that you NEVER make a change like this without consulting the point person/artist and/or the client... I mean, that's just BAD business. The publisher should have consulted Megan...and the printer should have noticed the problem earlier.
This just sucks. I was actually looking forward to this book.
OPEN MOUTH
If Sunday at 4 is the Long, Dark Tea Time of the Soul, then what's Monday at 4?
Dear lord, I am bored.
It was a decently productive weekend, all told. Late night dinner party on Friday night - pushed our way through two bottle of scotch (12 year Dalmore and an awful Dewar's White Label), four bottles of wine, half a Jack Daniels and endless bottles of Guiness and Corona. I think I've finally mastered the art of waking sans hangover (see - I know what sans means, as opposed to my last post where I called serif fonts by a sans serif name!).
Saturday night was celebrating the roomate passing the bar and yesterday was quite peacable - with waking up late, finishing a paying illustration for a client and writing a pitch for VAMPIRELLA Magazine. Then, at 7, I headed downtown to catch Keith Knight at Jigsaw and shot the shit with wordsmith Chris Lamb, beersmith Patrick Reed, the mandolin playin' BenJones, fiddler--without-a-spotlight Elizabeth "E Bess" Genco and her manly cartoony beau, Leland Purvis. I also got to see my collaborator and co-monster Dave Gallaher parade around in a raccoon hat. Good times.
Knight's slideshow was brill, with the right touch of sardonic humor as he showcased selections from his new book, RED, WHITE, BLACK AND BLUE. I've always liked Knight's work and he did not dissapoint last night.
But now I sit at my computer, tired and bored and waiting for the hands to strike five so's I can go home and write WALLY MEIERS.
I also have to overhaul my website - seems that my hotmail account's been bouncing everything back to email senders (oddly, I'm still getting porn spam and Nigerian suitors). So I've switched my primary email to gmail and aol accounts - if you know my hotmail address, simply switch "hotmail.com" for "gmail.com" or "aol.com."
I'm actually looking forward to Thanksgiving. I'm going to have the place to myself and though I can't be home with my family (gotta deadline on Friday!) I'm planning on relaxing at taking it easy all day Thursday. My usual Thanksgiving ritual is a) wake up late b) watch tail end of parade c) draw while listening to the Lions pre-game d) jog on the treadmill while watching the first half e) watch the second half on my couch with a beer and some chips f) rent a movie, eat pizza.
Every year I end up getting caught in the Wednesday night "let's watch the balloon" foot traffic and it frustrates the hell out of me because I'm actually trying to get HOME. So this year, rather than frustrate myself with fate, pal Lisa and I are going to go look at the balloons and then get coffee. I'm really looking forward to it and I think It'll be a nice lead-in to my day o' rest.
Damn it. It's only 4:45.
Sooooo bored.
OPEN MOUTH
I am re-reading Chip Kidd's THE CHEESE MONKEYS for perhaps the third time and as always, it is inspiring me to actually DESIGN. The book is about a student's first exposure to graphic design and his first ever "commercial art/graphic design class." I don't know if it's autobio or semi-autobio, but it does a good job.
Books like this inspire me to be a better graphic designer.
But the one thing I did NOT realize was that the inside front cover states that Kidd "wrote the book in Quark 3.2 in Apollo and then, at a certain point in Bodoni." For those in the know, Apollo and Bodoni are two similar looking san serif typefaces, Bodoni being a tad stronger and heavier than it's thinner counterpart.
So I scanned the book to see where the typeface changes and surprise, surprise it's at the moment Kidd's protagonist encounters his teacher, Winter Sorbeck. It's that moment that he starts the road to design - it's that pivotal moment that his world changes.
God, I love this book. .
There's also a great interview of Kidd up here and a retrospective of his cover work is for sale .
OPEN MOUTH
Dan Taylor, publisher and writer of HERO HAPPY HOUR, just posted the review my pal Jack Abramowitz did of the 2004 SUPER SPECIAL for Comic Buyer's Guide. Neil Vokes and I did a 4 page story entitled "Secret Origin" for the book, and I'm in the middle of brainstorming a short for the 2005 special.
Jack also tells me that he reviewed COMICS PROSE, the prose anthology About Comics put out this summer with my "Open Call" short, in which he says, "If you don't know who Neil Kleid is, don't worry - you will!"
Thanks, Jack!
OPEN MOUTH
Been going under with personal stuff and pitch/proposal work, but in the meantime here's something to keep you interested - a short excerpt from BROWNSVILLE, the graphic novel Jake Allen and I are doing for NBM:
Page 81 (5 PANELS)
PANEL ONE
EST. LOCH SHELDRAKE – NIGHT
It’s been years since we’ve seen the Loch. Sam Tannenbaum doesn’t own the joint anymore, and it’s been run down. We can see faint lights coming from the main dining hall. Behind the structure we see a clearing of woods- the woods that Gurrah and Allie walked through years before.
PANEL TWO
Pull in on the woods. We can make out the tail end of Dukey’s clipped car. The trunk is open and someone’s been dragged from it. Dukey leans against the car, having a smoke.
PANEL THREE
Camera pulls towards the right, where Allie and Pep Strauss are dragging Walter Sage’s corpse in shirtsleeves towards a large clearing.
ALLIE: THROUGH HERE. THIS OUGHT TO DO IT.
PANEL FOUR
They break through the ring of trees into a large open area with a deep pool set in the center. The only difference is that it isn’t a pool for recreation purposes… it’s a lime pit. Shovels and mechanical equipment lie around in disarray.
STRAUSS: THE HELL’S THAT SMELL?
ALLIE: LIME.
PANEL FIVE
Strauss breaks into a grin, teeth shining through the sweat and soot. He looks out at the deep lime pool.
STRAUSS: NO SHIT?
ALLIE (OP): NOPE. JUST LIME.
Page 82 (6 PANELS)
PANEL ONE
Silhouette of the two men strapping a small slot machine to the corpse. The woods and campgrounds lay just beyond them.
STRAUSS: YOUR DAD OWNED THIS?
ALLIE: SOLD IT A FEW YEARS BACK.
ALLIE: SPENT EVERY SUMMER UP HERE WAITIN’ TABLES.
PANEL TWO
Strauss grins up from the wire and rope he’s working on.
STRAUSS: SO WHAT HAPPENED? WHY DIN’CHA MAKE DAD HAPPY AND BE A GOOD JEWISH BOY?
PANEL THREE
Allie stares wistfully off to the dining hall, sticking up over the trees.
ALLIE: I DON’T THINK I EVER WAS A GOOD JEWISH BOY.
ALLIE: ANYWAY, I MET LEPKE AND GURRAH UP HERE.
PANEL FOUR
The two men work the knots on top of the machine, the slot stuck on two lemons and a cherry.
ALLIE (OP): THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT THEM…
ALLIE (OP): …STYLE, COOL… TOUGHNESS…
PANEL FIVE
Strauss stands up and wipes his brow.
STRAUSS: MONEY?
ALLIE: WELL, SURE. BUT MORE THAN THAT.
PANEL SIX
Allie looks up at the other gangster.
ALLIE: THEY WERE MY TICKET AWAY FROM BEING POP’S GOOD JEWISH BOY, I GUESS.
Page 83 (4 PANELS)
PANEL ONE
They grab Sage and the slot machine and prepare to heave them into the lime.
STRAUSS: REGRETS?
ALLIE: NAW. WHO HAS TIME FOR THAT?
STRAUSS: AMEN.
PANEL TWO
Allie rests his chin on the slot, right above the slot machine’s arm. He stares through the night at his companion.
ALLIE: AND YOU? HOW COME YOU’RE IN THE GAME?
PANEL THREE
Strauss grabs the machine and grins back.
STRAUSS: POP TAUGHT ME TO DO WHAT I’M BEST AT.
PANEL FOUR
They slide the slot machine and corpse into the lime pit, letting it bob.
Page 84 (5 PANELS)
PANEL ONE
Strauss and Allie look down at the pit, ripples from the lime coming to rest at their feet.
STRAUSS: PLUS I GET TO SEND MESSAGES LIKE THIS.
STRAUSS: THAT’S WHAT I CALL JOB SATISFACTION.
PANEL TWO
Shot of the slot sinking in the middle of the lime pit, Sage’s corpse strapped to it on his back. His face is covered in a bag and his arms are pulled to the sides of the machine. He’s already hip deep.
PANEL THREE
The machine sinks further as we pull in on the pit. Bubbles and ooze pop up around the sinking machine.
PANEL FOUR
Finally, the machine disappears beneath the surface; the ripples, bubbles and waves are all that’s left.
PANEL FIVE
Atmospheric shot of the two mobsters walking back towards the car through the woods, the rippling lime pit behind them.
BROWNSVILLE, a 196 page graphic novel from Neil Kleid and Jake Allen, debuts late 2005 from NBM Publishing.
OPEN MOUTH
Man, what a shit week.
Everyone I know has had it rough this week - maybe it's the second week of NaNoWriMo, maybe there's something in the air... but everyone I've spoken to has just had a terrible week.
For me, I spent all week on ONE proposal. Granted, it's the hardest proposal I've ever had to write, but still... I should have also been working on the novel, comics, something. I think the subject matter of the proposal, being so personal and demanding, had something to do with my reluctance to write...or maybe I'm just a lazy son of a bitch. This is also the first book/proposal I've written with multiple editors - and let's not forget that these editors are my FAMILY. You've never felt work output guilt until asked for a rewrite by your parents.
So aside from that, and having to redo my entire apartment with my roomates, I've been pretty lazy and tired this week. I think last month's push for the Work For Hire book (144 full script pages in 3 weeks, yo) has taken it's toll on me and I need to find something fun to work on. Maybe I should shelf the novel again and get back to WALLY MEIERS. NaNoWriMo has turned from National Novel Writing Month to National Nothing Writing Month.
My Diamond rep tells me that NINETY CANDLES is being relisted in the December PREVIEWS and I have to gear up for another big promotion push. I did an all out push with NINETY CANDLES - advertising in trades, packets to retailers, online whoring myself - and the book is now out and in stores. I wish I could say it's doing gangbusters, but it's doing... okay. The upshot is I'd like to do is figure out how to sell more copies of NINETY CANDLES, a unique book whose initial push and release has past...
What's worked for self publishers out there in the past when sitting on a stack of books? What's worked for retailers as far as pushing a "backlist" book? How do you generate interest again in a book that's been out for a while?
Is this making any sense?
Anyway.
I saw THE INCREDIBLES last week and loved it. It's a great little spy family story wrapped in a superhero motif. Don't get bogged down in the superhero thing - focus on the relationships, insecurities and overal look and feel of the project. Pixar never fails to impress me and I know that when this DVD comes out it's going to grace my shelf. The best part of seeing this was the STAR WARS trailer - not that the trailer was all that (ok, I liked it), but the minute "a long time ago" crawled across the screen, some guy halfway up the theatre shouted "oh, for crying out loud...!"
Work-wise, now that the MIGDAL DAVID proposal is into the publisher, I can try to focus on COFFIN (the novel) again and decide how best to finish it. BROWNSVILLE is moving ahead and all in Jake's court, THE BIG KAHN is basically contracted and the script is in Chantler's hands. CITIZEN MONSTERS is in the hands of my collaborators for right now. I think it's time to retackle DEAD RONIN and WALLY MEIERS, yes. Yes.
Oh, also my buddy Mal Jones is planning on putting up some short comics here. He asked me to write one so I handed him an old LATE NIGHT BLOCK story that neevr got done entitled AURAL FIXATION. It's a cool story and the funny thing is...there's no dialogue. Can't wait to see what he does with it.
My pal Dabb is working hard. Check out his GHOSTBUSTERS preview and ATOMIKA.
Remember me saying it was a shitty week? I just got an email from a friend that confirmed it.
What a fucking punch to the gut.
OPEN MOUTH
Head on over to Comics Book Resources where pal o' mine Carla Speed McNeil lets a tiny cat out of the bag in the middle of pimping FRANK IRONWINE, her upcoming project with super-real superpimp Warren Ellis for Avatar:
"CBR News: What other projects do you have upcoming?
CSM: More "Finder," definitely. A collaboration with "Ninety Candles'" Neil Kleid about Samurai in San Francisco, possibly. A collaboration with "Amy Unbounded's" Rachel Hartman, probably."
That's DEAD RONIN, folks. Disgraced samurais in the middle of the early 1900's San Francisco waterfront gang wars.
Coming whenever I finish writing it and Carla has time to draw it.
INSERT FOOT
Here's an excerpt for you:
“Oh, Camptown ladies sing dis song, doo-dah… doo-dah.”
Clang Clang.
“Camptown racetrack five miles long, oh di-doo dah ay.”
Clang Clang.
Tim DiMarca passed the butane lighter back and forth over the already superheated metal of the broken lock three more times. He peered close in the dim, flickering light and inspected his handiwork. A little bit more ought to do it. He held the flame to the metal for another five minutes, feeling the waves of heat smother the solid, crumpled steel.
“Something out all night… dum de dum all day…”
He hummed louder and louder, letting his tense and straining voice fill the moment. He worked slowly, allowing the aluminum door to absorb the heat in due time, weakening it and making it almost malleable to hammering blows. The ditties and sea shanties he sang helped to keep him from screaming with impatience while also serving as relief from his unseen tormentors.
Still workin’ dat lock, Timboberoo? Still got a song in yo’ heart and a hope in yo’ pants? Gointer get outta dese here digs and see dem Captown Ladies?
“Doo dah.” Tim hunkered down and pressed the lighter against the door.
Nonsense, Timothy. Disgraceful.
“Doo dah to you too, Dad.”
He pulled away, peering at the burnt metal, checking for signs of flaking and weakness. He prodded the lock and quickly jumped back, his index finger coming away with a slight burn. Sucking the singed digit, he placed the lighter aside and raised his already shattered arm.
Just grit down and bear it, Tim. No nerve is good nerve.
He closed his eyes and with a quickness belied by his present condition, rammed his forearm down on the handle three times.
Clang Clang.
“SSSTTTT!” The pain shot up from the remaining nerve ending surrounding his damaged hand, traveling quickly up the solid bone and exploding synapses all along his nervous system. He bit down and tasted blood.
No pain no pain no pain no pain no gain
“C…C-Camptown racetrack f..five miles long…”
He sat heavily, clutching his arm to his chest. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he fought against the searing pain. His breath hitched in his chest and Tim shuddered, a small sob erupting from the left side of his mouth. Slowly, with a great deal of effort, he let his arm go slack and opened his eyes to the accustomed darkness and stared towards the door he had just attacked. He slid along the floor, torn cuffs catching against the twisted metal, reached out and gave the handle a twist.
It came off in his hand.
“NO! Dammit… dammit!!!”
Cursing and spitting, Tim flung the handle at the door. It ricocheted off the wall and struck him in the right calf. He slumped back against the bulkhead and let the frustrated tears flow. He was trapped – that was all there was to it. The captain of the troubled vehicle couldn’t get himself out of his own cockpit.
I’m not surprised.
“Oh FUCK – not now, Dad”, Tim spat bitterly.
Just us pals, Timacula. Doo Dah.
“This isn’t happening.”
He stretched, letting his heels press against the door. His hands clasped in his lap, he attempted to relax and let himself fill up as much space as he could.
Gonna be here for a while… might as well make myself comfortable, right?
His feet hit the door and applied pressure.
Creak.
“What the hell?” Tim dropped his eyes to his legs. That noise had come from the door.
Probably just the cabin settling after your MacGyver episode.
“I told you, Dad – fuck off.”
Tim pushed again, applying more resistance to the metal door. A small sliver of dim brightness cracked through the pitch black, shining glimpses of firelight all along the interior of the cockpit. The edges of the door outlined wonderfully in the momentary luminescence. He pressed harder and watched as the locking mechanism began scraping and tearing away at the sides of the doorway. A screeching piece of metal expanded, no doubt the result of Tim’s periodic bunsen burning with the Zippo lighter. The lock was giving way – Tim was getting out.
With an exultation of joy, Tim pulled both legs in as far as he could and shot them out, striking the hard, yielding aluminum door. The square portal pushed outward and the superheated lock snapped.
And the door stopped.
Tim kicked four more times with no result other than the immovable door hitting an unknown barrier. He leaned forward, peering through the gap between door and frame. A broken, shattered pole was barring the door against the cockpit. It had bent in such a way that it formed a crude latch, clamped down between the door and the adjoining benches. Licking his lips, he slid his finger into the gaps as far as they could go and tried to push the pole away from the door but to no avail. He couldn’t reach the barricading column.
Sooo close and yet so far, Timothonic.
“I ain’t licked yet, guys. How’s this for deep thinking, Dad?”
He grinned and tore a strip of material away form his uniform. He pulled the ends into a crude noose and slid it through the space between the doorframe. He breathed into the gap, taking in a little smoke and a bit of sulfur and hacked out a cough. His eyes teared up once more and he wiped it with the back of his sweaty hand.
“Okay… steady, Timbo…”
With the patience and care of a lion tamer, Tim slid the noose far enough over as he can and with the flick of his wrist, attempted to lasso the end of the bent pole. His first three tries missed the mark and his brow ran slick with perspiration. He wiped his brow against the metal and steeled himself once more. The mock noose swung into position and with two passes, Tim flicked his wrist and hooked the large metal pole.
“Yeeha!” he cried. Grinning like a clown, he thanked his lucky stars that he had captured it – his hands were doused in so much sweat that if this last pass would have missed, the “rope” might have slid out his hands into the car.
Tim wrapped the free end of the material around his wrist and jerked hard with two hands. The pole screeched and sent sparks up into the cockpit but Tim did not care. He pulled with his remaining strength and the pole shuddered once, twice and finally loosened. It slid away from the door, scraping against the steel as it created it last noisy finale. Tim summoned up the last of his energy and kicked the door free. It banged against the pole, sending it back at him, but he stopped it with his left forearm. Slowly, letting the pins and needles run up and down his now fully extended legs, Tim stumbled out of his impromptu cell.
He looked down the length of the compartment and his breath caught in his throat. The sides of the car were blackened and ruined, the once beautiful advertisements now singed memories. Unnoticeable, blackened corpses littered the ground and particles of human organs and remains stained the walls. The lighting and wiring hung down from the broken roof, popping and fizzling like angry electric rattlesnakes. He held back the urge to vomit and steadied himself on pipe cleaner legs. The far end of the car was still blazing and Tim could not make anything out past the thick smoke. As far as he knew, his was the only car that survived the wreck.
Turning back to the cockpit, he gathered the remains of his belongings – ball cap, wallet and the now lucky lighter. He stowed them in his pocket and had to retrieve the lighter when he realized he had no more right pocket. He stared at it a moment, thanking his lucky stars that it had been there when he needed it – he vowed right then never to go anywhere without the lighter. He made to leave the control cabin when he stopped, a funny little smile creeping across his face. He turned back, hands resting against the shattered and scuffed frame.
“Hey, Dad… howdja like me now?”
He walked out of the cabin and kicked the destroyed cabin door.
“Fuck you too. Doo dah. Doo dah.”
Whistling to himself, Tim headed to the non-blazing door and turned the handle. It did not turn. The metal was jammed.
“Oh, you have GOT to be shitting me.”
He pulled his elbow back and thrust it out through the window of the sliding door, breaking the pane into a million tiny, bloody pieces. He reached through the jagged glass and grabbed hold of the outside handle, Yanking it once, the lock jimmied and he door slid down the track, ratcheting against the opposite frame.
“Well, now” Tim said as he leaned out into the cold night of the subway tunnel, “let’s see what else God’s got in store for me…”
He stepped out into the cavernous shaft, his feet unsteadily crumbling the gravel beneath him and he began to make his way to the closest subway car. His nerves began to hum and slowly, softly, Tim Di Marca started to sing once more.
“Camptown ladies sing dis song… doo dah. Doo dah…”
Copyright and TM Neil Kleid, 2004
OPEN MOUTH
Now there are reports that Arafat is, in fact, not dead but "clinically dead."
Kind of like America.
This is so confusing. I don't know what to think. TV has neevr lied to me before.
I see a WEEKEND AT BERNIE'S style government being put into place.
OPEN MOUTH
That's what they're saying here and on Brokaw.
"Palestinian President Yasser Arafat died in the Percy military hospital near Paris, Proche Orient Info, a French newspaper that covers the Middle East reported Thursday evening.
Radio Monte-Carlo also reported on Thursday evening that Yasser Arafat is clinically dead.
Proche Orient reported that doctors decided to take Arafat off the artificial respirator on Thursday evening at about 5:30 p.m.
Channel two reported that the Israel Defense Forces received information Thursday from a "very reliable source" that Yasser Arafat died in hospital at about 5:30 p.m. Israel time.
At a press conference at Percy Military Hospital held at 6:30 p.m. officials said Arafat was not dead, but did not give his condition. The officials said Arafat was taken to intensive care so that "he could get the treatment required for his illness."
Man... imagine the sit-down that's going on right now: Arafat, Rabin and G-d.
OPEN MOUTH
The Beat and Chris Butcher are both reporting that this Fall's Xeric winners have been announced:
Andrew Drozd - Coexisting
Ryan Dunlavey & Fred Van Lente - Action Philosophers!
David Heatley - Deadpan #2
Nick Jeffrey - Centerfield
Craig McKenney & Rick Geary - The Brontes: Infernal Angria #1
Fay Ryu - HELLO
Rob Sato - Burying Sandwiches
I loved the ACTION PHILOSOPHERS! ashcan I got at MoCCA this year and more power to pal Ryan Dunlavey and good all around MoCCA guy Fred Van Lente for getting the cash to get it out to the rest of the world.
Welcome to the club , kids.
OPEN MOUTH
Lord, how depressing.
I don't mean the election coverage... i mean that during the last election I was at the Daily Show Election Night Party right now, guzzling free Heineken and hanging out with Lewis Black.
Fuck you, Bush's America.
OPEN MOUTH
I wrote 3,877 words last night. That's ten pages of COFFIN.
I did it for this.
Now get off your ass and go vote.
OPEN MOUTH
There's a blog called The Hip Librarian's Book Blog in which six"Hip Librarians post information about books they like. Or loathe."
I happened upon the blog in a google search (yay ego trip!) to find that one of the six recently reviewed a few great graphic novels. Among such great graphic novels as SALMON DOUBTS, WATERWISE, FURTHER GRICKLE and PEANUT BUTTER AND JEREMY (all oddly available from the same publisher...) was a nice little blurb for NINETY CANDLES.
An excerpt: "Ninety Candles is a perfect introduction to the graphic novel genre because it is easy to follow and explains a lot about the business of making comics. This is a fantastic and inexpensive add that will add depth to manga and superhero collections and appeal to a broad readership."
I agree. Thanks, Hip Librarians!
OPEN MOUTH
Crap - is it November already? Where the hell did the time go?
Well, if you're me it went behind a very tight deadline. Finished the WFH graphic novel script yesterday and am finally able to come up for air. Amid that, I helped marry off my roomate last week, threw a bachelor party, post-wedding dinner and assorted personal stuff.
So, sure - I'm a little beat. But I'm glad November is here because that means we're getting into the festive season. The season of turkey, football, crappy music and snow. I actually dig snow.... i just dont dig biting wind.
This month is proving to be quieter than last, comics wise, as I get ready to tackle the new graphic novel (this week is chapter breakdowns and budget) as well as work on finishing COFFIN in honor of National Novel Writing Month. I went to Jigsaw last night and got re-inspired for this by chatting with Chris Lamb for a while about our schedules and ideas for working on our respective novels. We also saw six guys ride by wearing red sweatshirts, on bikes with E.T. affixed to the front. It was like Spielberg's version of the bloods.
I also have to catch up with a bunch of folks regarding projects I am going to work on - from an illustrated book with Elizabath Genco to the ongoing with Gallaher and Rolston - and it seems I'm going to be more social than productive.
Which does not bode well for the novel.
I'm also coughing up a lung here. Who got me sick?
It was you, Lamb, wasn't it?
WASN'T IT?