Wednesday, March 29, 2006


so i drove my best friend patrick to the airport this morning at around 8:00am (hence the absurdly early posting time of this blog). and as i was sitting in traffic, i found myself coming to terms with the fact that i may very well be obsessed with paris hilton. well, maybe "obsessed" is too strong a word, i'm not stalking her...yet....but let's call me a "concerned party". i love her to me for five or so minutes and i'll throw a "that's hot" or a "loves it" in there...i know, i know....i'm a fucking valley girl trapped in a dumpy white guy's body.

n e way....i got to thinking, can she really be that aware? i mean, and not be so utterly horrified by what she is? let's think about my tenure as a clerk at a convenience store, i have come to realize that there are two distinct kinds of people. there are those that are actually awake, thinking humans; and then there are those that are simply vessels by which tiny concentrations of societal impulses act. in other words, robots. it's true.

most of the people that you know and interact with on a daily basis are thinking, feeling humans that worry about things like "does my breath stink?" or "should i have worn this hat?" or "what am i doing with my life?" people that actually have the lights on, or somebody behind the wheel. people that are concious of the fact that they are part of a whole, and that their actions do actually have an impact on others.

then there are people who just have no concept of this whatsoever. they barge into your life, bellowing and demanding, cutting you off in traffic (i will cut you off too, yes, but only to make a point, ask my brother about that), buying single beers and drinking them on the way home. buying their way into and out of trouble. unconciously destroying the world around them. these are people that seriously couldn't even comprehend having a deeper conversation than why the patriots will kick the broncos' asses this saturday (that was gratuitous, sorry). which is fine, and its not to say that they are idiots, its just that nobody's there. they either checked out a while ago, or they just don't care. which means they are on autopilot, and not making descisions for themselves, but like i said, just outlets for societally influenced responses to everyday situations.

which brings me back to paris hilton. because i think she is one of these people. the only major difference is that she has limelight....for now anyway, it looks like she may be on her way out for 2006....and these others just have pickup trucks and packs a butts. but the great thing about these autopilots....maybe i just coined me a phrase there....the great thing about them is that they are a perfect glimpse, a wonderful cross section of whatever portion of our society they happen to occupy. so if you treat them as such, social barometers, if you will, then they can actually be quite entertaining to watch. hence my morbid fascination with paris. she, being nothing more than preconcieved generic responses, is a great window into "high society". and the view thru that window, is that they are all fucked. loaded, but fucked. and everybody loves a trainwreck.

and then the middle classes that come into the store...they are bred consumers. the buy a six pack (maybe), they always buy a carton and ten dollars on pump three, and always buy a 1-5 dollar scratch ticket and always always ask for a plastic bag for their carton of butts. they don't need a bag, they are just conditioned to ask for one. and they may be financially okay, but that only justifies their 1-5 dollar scratch ticket donation. then they grab for the nearest chemically created snack with the most amount of packaging (always on impulse), and throw their change at me before vanishing out the door.

then there is the lower class, who are born to destruct themselves....kinda full circle from the ultra rich. they buy the dirt cigarettes, or maybe even the non-filtered ones. they buy singles for the ride home, just daring fate to pull them over and fuck them. allthough they are not aware of i said, just on autopilot, going thru the motions...........

whatever....whats the point? well the point is, have fun. observe. and if you find yourself able to comprehend the act of observing, stepping out of the great race, then count yourself lucky to be awake. and embrace it man, i think there's less and less of us every day. be concious! but not concientious......

cranky old guy

looks can be decieving. places called delaney's in the middle of landlocked north conway, nh can have surprisingly good sushi. like really good. if pricey.....but then, everything is pricey nowadays.....DON'T GO spending 600 fucking dollars on a game system you don't even understand and then bitch at me because i want a sushi roll called pink-pink was good. and it had pink seaweed on it. PINK! wow.

so is there a point to what i am writing (what you are reading) at this very moment? no! not at fucking all. you just wasted the 38 seconds it took you to get this far. how do you feel about that?

back to the gaming system phenomenon. i remember my first. atari...ahhh, sweet, sweet pixelated amusement. it was a 2600. it cost $50, which was down from whatever. so to all you people (except mikey traister, who is one of The Men, if not The Man) who got a x-box 360 in time for christmas, are idiots. 600 dollars. lets repeat that. six hundred dollars. does it suck you off? i sure hope so, because good graphics can only get ME so far.....knowing microsoft though, the extra suck off feature is exaclty that. extra. meaning "pay more".

like the whole dvd player thing with the first x-box. PS2 played dvd's right out of the box. why? cause it's sony, and sony is owned by people in a country called japan, where they still believe in doing a little extra for the customer. the x-box, on the other mitt, was made by people in a country called microsoft, where they believe in FUCKING YOU SQUARELY IN THE ASS. hahahahaha....i hope that line caught your attention first and you zoomed to the bottom of this post just to read that line before reading the rest.

but back to the square ass designed a system because they could, bought all the game companies because they could, and made you pay extra for the fucking dvd player because they could. and now the new system is 600 dollars IF you want the good one...but you can buy this one for less money that memory. and guess what? in a year it will be at least half the price....there isn't more than $14 worth of actual electrical parts in there, i promise.

wtv. i just rebooted my NE fucking S. so who's in for some up up down down left right left right B A select start???? (thats two players, my man!)

humor to avoid

origionally posted december 17th

what follows in the body of this blog is a functional list of quips, jokes, and asides that you can safely avoid regurgitating to the poor trapped clerk in whatever place of business that you happen by in the holiday season. you may think you're being clever and possibly brightening their day, but believe me, your good intentions actually physically kill said clerk just a little bit inside each time. thats right, kill. you don't want to be a go ahead, memorize it, print it out, clip it, put it in your wallet.

1. i just printed that or be careful, the ink is still wet: the all time most reiterated joke on the planet. we at first chance convenience are in the habit of checking 50 and 100 dollar bills with our magic pen (tells us if its real or not). i imagine that many other places of business are in this same habit, as it just doesn't make sense to take a fakie. right? so if you see someone following along with this practice, please, please resist the urge to make a crack about how your real 50 or 100 is in fact a fakie...its not. you arent involved in counterfitting. you just got it from the bank. in fact, the only illegal thing you're going to do today is crack open that bud single on the ride home (smooths the road out...). and maybe kick your dog. i don't know. but it's just not funny anymore. i tried this line out once on a fellow c-clerk just to see his reaction, you know, from the other side of the counter. and i saw the same emotion restrained from his face that i feel inside every time this gets said to me. a forced smile, a single tear rolling down his get the idea, just hand him the 50.

2. i'll take one WINNING powerball: ahahaha....whooo! you know, all it takes is to ask for the winning ticket, i really do control the entire outcome of the 25 state powerball jackpot from my suprema 2000 (it's really called that) lottery console in pelham, nh. but i know that's not the point, you're going for the quip. trying to make me laugh. i understand that, which is why i have a specially prepared counterquip for this one instead of a specially prepared ice pick to stab you in the jaw. "oh yeah, i'll just hit the WIN button for you, but i gotta let you know ahead of time that i charge 5 percent of the jackpot for that." verbatim. every time i get asked for a winner, i repeat that line identically to the way you just read it. even if it's to the next person in line who obviously heard the whole quip/counterquip in the first place. anyway, if i could just hit a button and win the fucking lottery, WOULD I STILL BE WORKING IN A CONVENIENCE STORE????? no, i would be paying hookers to spill champagne on each other and then roll around on $50,000 oriental rugs....or something.

3. i can't complain, nobody would listen anyway: except for me, because i am trapped behind the counter and now i know that the gasoline i just dispensed to you is on its way into a molotov cocktail because your ex wife just started sleeping with your mother's dogsitter and it's friggin -30 degrees out, or maybe its 98, either way you're miserable because space heaters start fires and you don't take no truck in AC. i know. we are all miserable in some way or another, we all have those things that we surmount every day just to put a good face forward. it is this illusion of percieved happiness that keeps the rest of us going, why shit on this happy balance? don't pop the bubble, just smile and nod if you feel like emotional vomit is going to spew forth the next time you open your mouth. i'm just an asshole with a stockpile of cigarettes and beer and gas, i'm not a psychiatrist. i have no good response for any problems beyond "dude, that does suck." believe me, it's not that i don't feel for you, i do, i really do think that sucks. but when you're buying a 30 rack, it's not the place to unload on the clerk. and as far as nobody listening....well, its unfortunate that you feel like you're surrounded by people who don't give a damn, but that's nothing to make a joke about. i'm sure there's somebody who will maybe your wife? maybe if you talked to her more instead of just complaining, she may be more inclined to listen. i digress.

4. 5 bucks on the shitbox on three: okay, this i still apreciate. unless the shitbox in reference is a corvette or a bmw. now you just sound like a pretentious dick who wipes his ass with other people's money. to be fair, it is usually guys in bmw's more than the corvette guys, which is okay because nobody likes a guy in a bmw. which reminds me of a joke:

what's the difference between a porcupine and a bmw?

....wait for it....

on a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside!!!

its FUNNY because its TRUE. if its a 1987 cavalier held together with a roll of scotch tape and a few hopes and dreams, then by all means crack this joke. otherwise, don't.

so maybe that's it. i'll add more if i forget anything obvious. remember: it is the job of the clerk to process as many people as he can in the shortest amount of time, so he sees hundreds of people a day. he may be the only clerk you see that day, but try to look at it from the other side sometime. i hope this blog has done that for you. be well.

cops: pelham

no, this is not about yet another sting operation, but rather a continuation of the one from the other the guy that they nabbed came into the store before the big nab, and in an odd parody of the sting operation from two weeks ago came up to the register with a gatorade and a pack of gum. wicked wierd combo, total: $1.59. except he paid with a bona fide 1957 silver certificate $1 bill, two quarters and a dime. i looked at him and knew in that instant that these brown, slightly watery eyes staring across the counter into my own were the eyes of a man about to go to jail. thats right, i knew it from his purchase, and the odd drug dealer currency...who pays in silver certificates? that's worth like six dollars. retard.

also, the undercover cop involved in luring the dealers into the sting borrowed our dustbin-on-a-stick parking lot sweepy thing and a broom to give him a reason to be hanging out in our lot. when they dropped the net (not literally a net, unfortunately) the stick part of our dustbin totally got run over by a cop car, and now bears the disfiguring curved handle to prove it. "oh, this thing? yeah, it got run over in a sting operation a couplea weeks back. no, the other one." so rad. by the way, you can't get tired of typing sting operation, no matter how many times you do it. sting operation. heh. sting operation.....

the weakest gazelle

never has it been more obvious to me, as i sat watching the second sting operation in my parking lot in as many weeks, that i am in a severe position of disadvantage in the convenience store.

being that we are 1/10th of a mile over the border from mass into new hampshire, a large quotient of unsavories come to deal, and be delt with in our parking lot. they figure, "hey, the prices are better in NH than they are in mass, and if i happen to stab anyone while i'm there, well, i can be back over the border in less than twelve seconds." what they don't know is that cops are in fact pretty smart, and have learned to use the radio to communicate with other cops who can chase them past the origional jurisdiction of the crime.

so they come to me. i am the unwilling centerpiece to their scheming. i sell them gas which they pump into cars and canisters and use to get them to ex-girlfriend's houses which they light on fire. i sell them butts and beer which they use to put them in a mood where setting a fire or two sounds good. i let them use my parking lot, where they buy drugs and prostitutes that created the ex-girlfriends in the first place. and occasionally they get themselves nabbed by the cops.

i'm open every night, have been for the last three years (except for christmas). i've only seen two spectacular arrests...both in the last two weeks. what has gone on undetected, frankly frightens the shit out of me. its only a matter of time before i tell the wrong person we have a ten dollar minimum for credit or debit cards and they decide to burn down my store and peepee on the ashes.

sitting there, behind the counter, i am a humbly captive audience. i have an obligation to the people that come in to be there, behind the counter, so they can buy their butts and booze. and as a result, they know exatlcy where i'll be if they ever decide that "the fat guy must DIE!!!!11"

so i'm buying a gun. not a big one, but one that can nevertheless put holes in someone before they put holes in me. not that i'd be looking to get in a firefight, but if they came in with a knife, well i could tell them to politely "fuck off and go to hell" because i could put holes in them from a distance. or, i could riddle the escape vehicle with a few bullets if they came in with a gun too. make it easier for the cops to find them if they only have to look for the malibu with bullet holes.

anyway, keep it in mind whenever you're in a convenience store after dark: the clerk in there is definately more afraid of you than you are of them. and he doesn't mean you any harm. its not his fault that it just costs too much money to let people charge a pack of butts and a stick of gum. it's a small store, mom n' pop...have pity.

but all i wanted was a nutrageous....

never a dull moment at first chance convenience. tonight we had a full on sting operation involving two kids, most of the pelham police department, and even some collaberation from dracut's finest. so let's rewind a month or so......

*wicked cool rewind noise*

i'm a hip young sales clerk at a border store selling butts and beers to the fine denizens of southern n'ampshire and northern mass. it's a slow night. i notice a honda del sol that has been sitting out in the lot for quite some time. it doesn't worry me, it happens. then i notice some dude, obviously dressed 'undercover' standing outside the door, looking around and shit. i step out, under the guise of checking on my trash cans, and he approaches, asking me if anyone has been asking for him......i tell him no, nobody has been looking for anybody. then i go back inside. he follows in about five minutes later and grabs a water, heading for the register. he flashes a badge and says he's undercover, trying to meet someone they wanna bust. great, whatever, hang out in the lot as long as you want. the night ends with no further action. fast forward back to tonight...

*not quite as cool fast forward sound*

i'm still a hip young sales clerk at a border store selling butts and beers to the fine denizens of southern n'ampshire and northern mass. two young kids come in, guy and girl, sniff around, and end up buying like three candy bars. i think nothing of it, pelham is one stoned-ass motherfucking town, so we get munchies in all the frickin'. anyway, an hour or two later, the girl comes back in and buys yet another candy bar....this might register a little wierd to me, but again, i don't really think anything of it. she pays, heads out, and all fucking hell breaks loose. the first thing i notice is a cruiser whip into our lot, cutting across all the pumps in full persuit mode from one entrance. from the other entrance, cutting off any exit comes a k-9 unit with dog going absolutely batshit. from around behind the store a plainclothes on foot with gun drawn comes out yelling. and from across the street comes the undercover from a month earlier, this time in his cruiser. in about thirty seconds there were four cruisers blocking this chick's car in, all with the lights on, all spewing out yelling 5-0's.

i'm sitting in the store, staring out the window with no idea what the hell is going on listening to the dogs bark and the guys yell. five minutes later i see the kid and the candy bar girl in cuffs being stuffed into the backs of cruisers. in another ten minutes, there is no one in the parking lot, like nothing ever happened. just like that, two scum-ass kids get a life lesson. moral: don't eat too many candy bars, there is a daily legal limit, and the man is always watching.

we do chicken right...and sometimes not at all!

as i was driving home from work tonight, i just remembered what has got to be my wierdest single fast food experience....admittedly, of which there are many, being a professional fat guy....anyway, this was back in college, so three, four, five years ago, whatever. it was late in the evening, probably a weekend, and i was doing absolutely nothing as usual, just driving around in my car. i think it was me and my buddy gillespie. eventually, hours of aimlesness found us hungry, and we headed to the nearest KFC drivethru with dreams of triple crunch zingers (general note of interest: anything with the word 'zinger' in it is automatically good) and tater wedges.

but, alas, it was not to be. when we looped around to the talk box, we were informed that they were out of chicken.

let's let that sink in, for just a moment.

this kentucky fried chicken, as the drivethru employee so matter-of-factly informed, was completely out of an ingredient that they use so much that mention of it is made in their name. welcome to kentucky fried chicken, we have no chicken. i ask you, who fucked up on that week's chicken order?

either way, i would be remiss if i didn't mention how that kind of limits the breadth and scope of the kfc menu. i think we went to wendy's after that, driving the whole way in a kind of a stunned silence, neither of us wanting to mention what had just happened. it kind of rocks your sense of security, you know? like your first earthquake....if you can't depend on the ground to remain solid, what can you depend on??? and if you can't depend on kfc to have some fucking chicken, then nothing, i guess is really sacred or guaranteed. the lesson i learned that hot, florida night is that you cannot depend on anything, and you can never, ever take anything for granted.

on a not unrelated sidenote, the subject for this entry was 'we do chicken right!' which was kfc's slogan throughout the 80's (and therefore, my formative years). i find it remarkable that this is the only one i can remember out of all the fast food slogans i have seen come and go in my admitedly short span of conciousness. mcdonald's has had many, and the only one i can ever remember is the current one....i'm lovin' it....which i am not, actually.

wtv. i felt like i needed an entry with a lighter, flakier texture after that last one. so this is what you get. someone keep me away from my keyboard.

looking down the barrel of a sun

you ever sit still for a second and think about what you're going to do? all the places you could end up? all the things you will do by the time you shuffel off this mortal coil? you ever think that what you are doing at that very moment when you stop to contemplate these things may not lead you there, wherever "there" is?

we all have this allotment of conciousness that we call life. beyond that, nobody really knows what happens, so we can only assume that, if this really is IT, then we might as well do the most we can with IT, that brief flicker we are awake for. because if this is IT, then theres a whole lot of pressure here. why did i eat a chicken sandwich for lunch today? i hate chicken sandwiches, and the number of lunches i have left is, in fact, finite. so why waste one on a chicken sandwich? because it was there? because it was easy? what an excuse!

now for the hypocritical twist: i hate what i'm doing right now, thats definately no secret. i tell myself it's just an ends to a means, that i'm only working at the convenience store because it's here, it's easy, out of an obligation to my father, my family, whatever. but maybe i am afraid of what i may or may not accomplish. i have this life, this time to be awake, what if i fuck up? what if i am fucking up as you read this?

it is such a responsability, being concious while i am alive. i look at people all the time, people that come into the store, beaten down, existing. the only thing they look forward to is the beer that i sell them, or that they may win a couple thousand on that scratch ticket. but they have lines in their faces, worries, obligations, complications. so if this life thing is so precious, and since it is so finite, why do we waste it on trivial persuits? making a million dollars? saving for retirement? if you never make it to retirement, then all that saving, what did it get you? you were living your life based on the assumption that when you got to retirement, you could start doing that. but you didn't get there, so did you not live? is there a difference between just existing and living? maybe, if we have conciousness after the great barrier of death, it will be a conciousness that can appreciate life, whatever life you had before you died simply for the experience of it, irregardless of what you did.

so do nothing? do everything? accept life as a ______, so you can get the paycheck and put the brats through college? am i alone here? or does anyone else feel like they might pop? wtf?

whatever the answer, don't be blinded by it. do something, follow a path, any path, and don't be miserable if you can still draw breath. and go ahead and pop if you want to.

i know, i know, !@#$ english majors. i wish i could at least offer the excuse that i'm messed up right now, but i am stone cold sober. reality. woah.

hit the monkey, win a playstation 3!

on a completely unrelated and lighter note, i will admit to absolutely loving the shit out of those games that appear in advertizements on the top/side of webpages. you know the ones: "beat the bad rapper, win an iPod", that sort of thing. just today i hit a monkey out of a tree with a boomerang, knocked another monkey out with expertly flung coconuts (to be fair, he was throwing them at me first), and i helped a frog catch a fly. totally sweet.

the bee rant

okay, so i just want to throw this one out there. it seems that i can't turn on the tv, flip open a newspaper, read a magazine, etc. without seeing some asshole who has covered himself with bees. i know that you've seen this too. a stunt extravaganza, fear factor, whatever....there he is! covered in bees?! at least like 250-300,000 of the fucking things too. when can we stop being impressed with this? i really just want them to go away.

today, for example. as i was manning my usual post at the convenience store, i flipped open the "sidekick" section of the boston globe to get my daily dose of dilbert and calvin and hobbes. first page, dude in bees, on rollerblades. damn. turns out he was covered in 260,000 bees to celebrate the opening of a new subway in sri lanka or something. now don't get me wrong, i am a man who is all in favor of mass transit, but i certainly didn't feel the need to swarm myself with stinging insects when boston opened the new silver line. maybe you set off some fireworks, go grab a beer, whatever.

final observation:....the sheer logistics of it. first of all, he must have been somewhere near the new subway and not near his home, where he theoretically keeps this collection of celebratory bees. so question one is transportation. how do you move 260,000 bees? does he throw them on at home, then head out for the day? do they follow him there? maybe they were just feral bees in the area that he happened to get along with. which begs the further question of why anyone would set up a subway in an area known to be populated by hundreds of thousands of bees. i don't know. i give up on this particular stupid human trick. end bee rant.


origionally posted october 19th

well i need to go ahead and just get this off my chest now, or all im going to be able to talk to anyone about in the next week is how batshit the friggin convenience store is because of the powerball jackpot.

ok, so what is powerball? well, i'm just darn glad you asked. powerball is the combined lottery jackpot for like 22 or 24 states that draws every wednesday and staurday. you pick five numbers, plus the 'powerball' and you win cashmoneyhoes. they just recently increased the field of numbers from which you pick from 53 to 55, so it just blew the chances of anyone ever hiting the fucking thing right out the window. at 70 mph. in a school zone. anyway, they reason that this will increase the jackpots because people will hit it less. no one hits it, the jackpot rolls on to next week, the bigger it gets, the more people play, and the more money evil, corrupt fatcat politicians can skim off the top.

and boy is it working. the jackpot is now a genuine 340 million dollars. 340 million dollars. just like that. its the highest jackpot powerball has ever seen. needless to say, every asshole with a buck and a dream is out in force playing this shit, and i'm pretty sure half of them came to my store. tonight i spent four hours straight printing out powerball tickets in various combinations for people. no stopping. you kinda get this glazed, haunted look in your eyes after hour one and become less of a person, and more just a machine running a machine. no personality, just business: "hihowmanythanks. hihowmanythanks. hihowmanythanks...." sucks.

and then theres the people who want all singles. fuck them. if you are reading this and were contemplating getting your powerballs all in singles tomorrow, dont. think of the poor clerk. he may be cold and dispassionate when hes behind the powerball machine, but hes a warm-blooded human being most of the time. when you ask for 20 quick picks (machine picks em, what most people get), i can push three buttons and they will come out on four sheets, five picks to a sheet. nice, neat, organized. when you roll up to the machine and ask for 20 single quick picks, the number of buttons jumps from three total to three for each fucking pick. so the number of finger taps on that hard, hard touchscreen goes from sixty. my fingertips are literally sore. im typing with my thumbs. so have a heart. get them regular.

....well, maybe thats it. oh yeah, one more thing. if your dad ever calls you on the phone and asks you if buying a convenience store is a good idea, the correct answer is "no."

deep thought

i've always wanted to be the kind of guy that could get away with a nickname like "Animal" or "Snake". you know, and have like a scorpion tattoo, wear a shirt that says "guns don't kill people, i kill people", that sort of thing.

i wanna be the guy in the bar that gets whacked off the back of his head with a pool cue, and it just pisses him off. you know? just be a real tough guy, so when i say hi to someone instead of snapping their head back like a pez dispenser, they'll think "wow, what a nice guy," unfortunately, "ham sandwich" or "pillow" are much more suited nicknames, and ive never actually been in a fight, nevermind hit off the back of the head with a pool cue.....


this will be a short one, i just have to get this off my chest. so here goes. right now. uh...right, so those damn people....and i see this ALL OVER myspace and shit...those people wHo TyPe iN a raNdoM misHmaSh oF cAps anD lOwerCase.....what the muthafuck? really, those ten words i just typed took me longer to write than the rest of this paragraph put together AND seriously pissed me off as i was doing it. do i make this one a cap? how about this one? i dont want to have too many caps in a row, or cap the first letter in a word, cause then i'll have a brand new sentence in the middle of a pre-existing sentence. then does the other one end? or are we in a dual sentence reality at this point? obviously, said perpetrators do not give a rat's puckered ass for the laws of grammar, or we wouldnt be having this rant in the first place. ah well. sometimes i wish i was a little more dummer (hah) myself so this kinda crap wouldn't bother me. end rant.

ps- i do realize that i may make up for their seeming wanton use of the shift key by refusing to capitolize anything at all. but f'real people, this is the i-net, not an english paper. and i'm lazy. whats the excuse for keeping rhythm on your shift key?


i remember when gwen stefani used to be the innocuous lead singer of a mediocre ska band called no doubt. does anyone else remember them? i do. i remember that their songs were kinda catchy, but they didnt infect your brain like a hanta virus and stay there until you went insane. not like her current solo cheese dick pop sellout crap, oh no. i have had hollaback girl stuck in my head ever since i read an article in a magazine describing it as one of the worst songs of the year several days ago. it wont leave. i've tried everything. i downloaded it, played it, sang it in the shower TO NO AVAIL.

uh huh, this my shit! i aint no hollaback girl, oooooh, this my shit, this my shit. AAAAHHHHHH!!! somebody save me. this shit is driving me B-A-N-A-N-A-S.