Romany

Charlie is just awesome!

2014-08-09T07:11:17Z

ZOMG! POP!VINYL IS COMING OUT WITH A CHARLIE BRADBURY!111!!!!

LOOK AT EEEEET! SO CUTE! MUST HAVE!

TAKE MY FREAKING MONEY!

Yep, I definitely have a Felicia Day problem.

Writing. Except Not.

2014-08-08T07:29:46Z

Right now I'm at the blinking cursor and blank screen stage of writing. As in staring at my blinky buddy for hours. And then saying, I know, imma do some more *research*.

But all this *research* isn't making my blinky buddy move forward. Not one character forward.

Ugh. I hate this part. And it happens every time I try to crawl out of a dry spell. Every. Freaking. Time.

Fan Art and dinner.

2014-08-01T06:08:39Z

Runkirya on tumblr made and posted this drawing inspired by an old Clark/Bruce fic of mine. Yay! I'm always pleasantly surprised and grateful when someone is inspired by something I've done. I don't get asked "May I...?" regarding any of my fics very often.

This is the first time someone completely bypassed my LJ to do it though. Because LJ is like that town in Cars now. *sad face*

Also, when I say old fic, well, mine are *all* old. Urgh. I might be working on that. Maybe.

So my kids are no longer the wee Romanitas they were when I first set foot in fandom. They're both teenagers now. As they were helping me set up for dinner, the oldest noticed the music I had on.

"Hey, nice dinner music you've got going on there, Mom. Is this your jam?" *smirk*

[Instrumental Big Band is on in the background]

"It's research," I said.

"No!" *blink and pause and then smile* "Are you writing again? That's awesome!"

"I might be. I haven't gotten that far yet."

"OMG! Steve/Bucky! It is, isn't it?"

"No. Maybe. Yes. It's complicated."

"Complicated? Everyone and their mother is doing Steve/Bucky. Steve/Sam?"

"It's complicated. And maybe a crossover. I'm jinxing it by saying this much."

"Oh yeah, I know that one."

And then the younger one said, "Hey, I got three paragraphs down the other day..."

Yes, dinner conversation at my house. *facepalm*

Drive-by recs

2014-07-22T05:51:51Z

MCU is the current monster fandom now, isn't it? It's just so *huge*, how can anyone find anything? I'm kind of dragging my feet about getting involved because I've *always* been on the caboose of any major fandom I've been in. Always. That being said, I have ~~two~~ three recs:

Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square by Speranza. It's Steve/Bucky plus Avengers ensemble. With time travel!

And this glorious new MCU vid by lim.

Not MCU (but related, if you count Chris Evans), if you've seen the movie Snowpiercer, this *excellent* meta review is a must-read: Meta: Snowpiercer, We Live In The Dark. I have *serious* meta FEELS and ENVY from this. This will make you rethink the entire movie. Really.

Guilt!: Someone wants an update.

2014-07-20T07:39:20Z

I just finished posting all my fic to AO3 here. Wow, even with the user-friendly interface, it took...a bit. But now it lives somewhere else besides LJ. I haven't been around much, but I seem to hear echoes of reliability issues with this here place. So a back-up is probably a good idea.

But! Okay, I wasn't expecting much in the way of clicky-action since I back-dated everything to original date of publication. And I pretty much put everything of any length up there, including my WIPs. And...one of them has an update subscriber. For a work I haven't touched in six years. Yikes. The guilt!

I have no idea what to say.

2014-06-08T06:10:00Z

So yeah, doing my yearly check-in. I guess? It seems less and less people are around these days. Are you all on tumblr now?

Speaking of tumblr, someone camped my fan-name. Yes, romanyg is taken, but it's an empty journal. ROM ANGRY! ROM SMASH!

Also, I shall attempt to upload my fics to AO3. This will take me about, er, 20 years or so to accomplish. But this is what all the young kids do these days? I mean, I know all the *really* young kids do Wattpad. But everyone *else* is storing to AO3. Yes or yes? And surprise - a pleasant one! - some of my SV fic is already there since SSA went down and the kind folks at AO3 transferred all and sundry. But I have some figurings out to do to get anything else up there my own self. *sigh*

*sheepish wave* Hi!

Um, er, what?

2013-05-23T06:13:33Z

Okay, pulling out of limbo for a minute to ask what fresh hell is this? Meaning the announcement of Amazon's Kindle Worlds thingiemabob doohickey. I've been out of the loop for *years* so, yeah, what? Er...

Oh, and I'm still among the living. *sheepish hi*

Geekier Than Thou: or Tara Tiger Brown says, 'Dear Fake Geek Girls: Please Go Away'

2012-03-27T20:32:52Z

First things first: Not dead. Hi! In lieu of explanation, I'll just dive right in.

So over at Forbes, Tara Tiger Brown posts Dear Fake Geek Girls: Please Go Away, where she tells us that, back in the day, she had to rub sticks together to make *fire*, and lol! kids today, they got lighters and matches and stuff. So weak! Gotta do the time! Or the geek equivalent thereof. I've got at least 10 years on her so *sporfle* to her 'you kids, get off my lawn!' thing.

Haven't we had this discussion before? Sigh.

As others have said, your conclusion bothers me a little. Okay, more than a little. I think I get that passion needs time to grow, but it could be easily read as ‘Sit down and shut up, little girl.’ Which may not be what you meant at all, but how many times have we heard, as women, that we’re wrong, we’re too loud when we do speak, the put-downs? *Especially* when it comes to traditional guy-spaces. Geekdom has faux gender-equality. It always has. The guys, and the other girls who’ve done their time, automatically assume when we walk into the geek-room for the first time that we’re there for the food or as someone’s girlfriend. We have to work doubly-hard to prove we’re legit for the sole reason we have girl-parts.

I can see from your bio that you mentor. Your friend’s daughter, whom you mention as an example, is wonderfully lucky because she’s 2nd gen. She has support from her mother to follow her passion. I’m 2nd gen too, daughter of geeks. Why would I want my mother’s battle-scars from the 50s and 60s? Why should I, or any of our daughters, have to reinvent the wheel? My mother taught me early on that bored people are boring, find your passion, your joy. Many girls never get that, have to struggle to learn it’s okay to be your own person.

Maybe these so-called fake geek girls stumble into their passion because of marketing or an agenda or whatever. They’re in a fog, they don’t know who they are yet, whether they be 7 or 12 or 20 or 40 (and women – don’t even get me started how as geeks we’re still ‘girls’ when we’re old enough to be someone’s mother.:)) Let them learn and come to the Dark Side. We have better cookies anyway.

As far as the internet making things too easy, I differ on that. It’s opened doors for women who, for whatever reason (and there are many), haven’t had access before, simply because they’re women. In my small corner of geekdom, we have women who cannot even leave the house because of abuse, physical issues, or they live in countries where the simple fact of being a geek is a criminal act. Online, they find support, community, mentoring, even help to better their situation as human beings. Sure, they don’t have the cred yet, but that’s due to access rather than lack of passion.

And this supposed shallowness? Okay, maybe there’s no there there, but oftentimes it’s a disguise, a mask covering a hidden depth, for social survival. Even in our media-driven culture we’re taught from day-one that our role is to look nice and make someone a sandwich. We learn that our dreams are only hobbies, something to market to, and it better not take time away from our families or men-folk. We’re raised to be support staff. Even today, girls have to work harder for that math grade, to be noticed in science, get that scholarship. And it darn well better be used for a vocation rather than an avocation. In other words, we’re told to sit down and shut up. A lot. We really shouldn’t do that to our own.

So there's this guy, right?, who says the following in response to her post:

What an incredibly great read. As some one who is a guy and is currently single I do look for a bit of geekiness in the girls I choose to date and what I’ve found is that a lot of girls will say “I’m a total geek” and it’s because they wear glasses with no lenses or they play super mario occasionally when they’re bored.

What’s even worse (imho) is when a girl will say “yeah I’m a total geek. I love all that nerdy stuff like twilight” That’s the kiss of death and I must simply walk away. There’s no coming back from that one.

So even though Twilight is *so* not my fandom, I still got to get in and get all Fandom!Represent and stuff:

“yeah I’m a total geek. I love all that nerdy stuff like twilight” That’s the kiss of death and I must simply walk away. There’s no coming back from that one.

I can’t believe I’m going to defend the TwiHards here, but it sounds like you’re de-legitimizing an entire group of women – some of whom *completely* fall into this article’s definition of geekery. Not your thing? Fine. But that doesn’t make the passion any less valid. That fandom, more than most, is a Female Space. It’s not about you. It’s about running fanboards, art sites, conventions. And anyone who’s worked ConComms knows that’s a *job* that can only be done through passion and strength. These women have way more than ‘a bit of geekiness’.

Geek girls maintain their passion all while defending on two fronts: society in general and guy geeks, both of whom feel that our very self-definition and contribution to what we love isn’t worth a hill of beans. We seek each other out. We have our own communities. And true, the interwebs make it much easier to find each other, but we’ve been here for generations, and we have the secret handshake to prove it. And if guy geeks want to join in the fun? Great! Welcome. But don’t tell us how to run our own culture, or worse, tell us we don’t have one, because there’s the door, k?

We’re driven. We fall. We get back up, and most importantly, keep doing what we love.

Once again, it’s not about you. It’s about us.

One thing I can thank her for, I decided to think and speak again. *g*

Thoughts?

The spammers made me purple!

2011-05-17T23:06:45Z

With laughter and rage that is. I've neglected my in-box for far too long and just had to delete a kabillionity spam comments. Like hyenas, they've sensed that this is a dying journal. Sigh. This gazelle's not dead yet!

RL is still BLARGH! but I'm once again taking a WoW break. I just got hit by a big ol' bucket of "Why am I doing this again?", especially since I have growing Romanitas, and did the LOG OUT of doom. WoW will go on without me, I'm sure. *g*

Glee - The Romanitas *love* this show, and I can't say that it's such a burden to watch it with them. *g*

American Idol - Yes, everyone's pretty much left the party on this one, but the Romanitas sucked me into this one too.

Breaking In - I didn't even *know* this had Rosenbaum in it until I couldn't get off the couch to switch from AI when it premiered. Rumor has it that this show is saying buh-bye. Which is too bad! I like it.

Camelot - Aside from the magnificent Eva Green and Joseph Fiennes, I'm struggling to hold interest in this one. Alas.

Game of Thrones - ZOMG! I love this show! The closest I've been to fannish in a long time.

Treme - So far, the second season isn't as strong as the first. But like The Wire, it just *sneaks* up on you.

Other shows, such as Mad Men and Boardwalk Empire, are on hiatus, but I'm sure I'll watch them when they return.

A long time coming: Thank you, denyce and discord26 for the lovely v-gifts.

Is everyone on Dreamwidth now? I do not know the fannish climate anymore!

In other words: Hi!

Happy Halloween!

2010-10-31T22:21:33Z

Happy Halloween to all! *wishes goodies for everyone*

Now I'm off to help the Romanitas celebrate. Hopefully, I won't have to peel them off the ceiling later. *g*

Your voice and this lamp.

2010-10-27T05:45:28Z

I am *so* torn by all the squee regarding BlizzCon, and the fact that the seasonal Headless Horseman instance is spitting out the used-to-be rare mount (it's a flying flaming horse, who wouldn't want that!?) like a pez dispenser now. But if I log into the game at this moment, I'd only regret it. I have to remember that there's only angst, alienation and heartbreak for me there. Hyperbole? I really wish that were true. One day, it will be, and I can log in, have fun with the game again, joy in the nerdishness of it all. But that day? Is not today. It probably won't be for a while.

Besides, things to do. Like apply to grad school. Ack! This is the longterm plan for Marketable!Rom and breadwinning, as in loaves and loaves. But right now, the cupboard is getting a little bare. So jobs, as in looking and yuck and despair. I have two Romanitas to feed. But a little sidework for now keeps the lights on and such, so yay!

The Romanitas and I still read together at night. Not every night, like we used to, but sometimes. And the not-so-wee one said, "Mom, this story, it's so beautiful but the words are simple!" She said this with wonder as she then read a bit of it aloud.

So I told her, "You know how your teachers are telling you now that good writing means adding in all these things like adverbs and words you have to look up in a dictionary?"

She nodded.

"They'll tell you that for years. They'll tell you to make it complicated. But you know what? You'll learn that it's just clutter, garbage on the floor, and you'll spend the rest of your life learning to take those things out."

"But..." And then she stopped. She read some more, quiet, her voice, the lamp and the wee one and myself listening.

"It's like music," she said.

"Yes," I said, "Exactly."

Or like water over pebbles, I wanted to say. Your voice and this lamp. But that would have made it complicated. So I let it be and listened.

I wish I knew that when I was her age.

Review: Sherlock, "A Study in Pink", 1.01

2010-10-25T09:47:58Z

On the advice of a friend, I decided to give the American premiere of Sherlock a try.

Anyone who knows me, knows I have a thing for sharp cheekbones, witty banter and a sweeping coat. Ah, I loves me a sweeping coat! Although I haven't been very fannish recently, I decided to give this updated version of Sherlock Holmes a try.

"A Study in Pink" is clearly a first episode, in that it's a bit wobbly on its legs. First we meet Watson and his flashbacks. He's still a veteran, but one with a therapist and a blinking cursor on his blank blog. He needs a place to live. Cue the larger than life, off-putting but with an odd charm, Holmes, the requisite meeting in a morgue.

I do have to admit, I liked the coroner and her lipstick. Perhaps it's flashbacks to Forever Knight, but I want to see more of her.

The show, however, couldn't decide how much it wanted to rely on the viewer's knowledge of Doyle's canon. We have the setup of the mysterious archenemy who, we are to presume, is the elusive Moriarty. Haha! It's Mycroft, we learn at the end of the episode, Holmes's brother. Also, there are laughs that are only there if we're aware of the original's cocaine habit - here displayed by the three nicotine patches on Holmes's arm for 'thinking', as well as the worried look on his face when half of London's police force is doing double-duty tearing apart his flat looking for a narcotics bust as a strong-arm tactic. Heh.

Unfortunately, fan-service, of late, annoys me. Yes, fan-service in the *first* episode. Although, I know, I'm supposed to have that tingly, ooh they went there feeling. No. It's all for laughs. "I'm not his date!" Yeah, what decade is this? Especially since we're clobbered over the head with Watson's heterosexuality as he tries (what?) somewhat ineptly to come on to Mycroft's assistant. Whatever. Yawn.

Plus, usually clueless me was muttering, "~~The butler did it!~~ It's the cab driver!" when no one else on screen could figure out why the GPS signal was in 221B. Sigh. And was that showdown scene in the college library so similar to The Princess Bride that we could almost quote it word for word? Yes or yes? No one shouted "Inconceivable!" but they might as well have. They're both iocane powder! Obviously, Mr. Aneurysm Cabbie has been to Australia and developed an immunity! Sherlock has not! Or has he? Watson saves the day by being a crack shot and we never find out, alas.

I'm willing to give this a few more episodes. Kind of like a first date that I'm not sure about. Besides, we all know I loves me a sweeping coat.

The icon says it all.

2010-10-20T05:35:27Z

I am taking a WoW break because, as it turns out, I am a, big sigh, delicate flower and cannot handle ex-guild drama trauma. Woe! As the icon says, emotions suck, even if they're fantasyland, cartoon ones. So I said to myself, "Rom, you can always just gtfo." Oh, haha, yeah.

*flounces like a little girl*

As for fannish things, I did watch the season finale of Mad Men, am watching Boardwalk Empire (although, I cannot seem to get *involved* in it). Everything else, I'm hopelessly behind and a little lost.

*desperately needs a hug and big mug of tea*

So, um, how are things on LJ these days? Hi! *waves*

ETA: Spoilers for Boardwalk Empire in comments.

She has a math degree!

2010-09-08T21:10:16Z

First off, I would like to thank the people who wished me a happy birthday, and a special thank you to svgurl for the lovely bear on my profile. I owe comments like an owing thing.

Second off, I would like to thank the person who nominated me for the WFAs 2009 (for one of only 2 stories that I posted that year). I'm almost embarassed since I've been gone for so long, but thank you for remembering me.

I'm more than a little confused as to the migration to Dreamwidth. Apparently LJ is doing Bad Things? I haven't really been around to understand. I have a permanent account here and my financial situation now is such as I can't really afford *another* journal account. I guess I'll just have to track everyone down.

Fannish things:

I've been watching Mad Men but haven't been able to coalesce any thinky thoughts.

I've also been watching The Guild because I have a short attention span these days (webisodes, yay!) and Felicia Day is *adorable*! She is, it's true! They also have two music vids out:

Eep, I've never tried to embed video before, my apologies if this messes up your reading list.

But hugs to all! *waves*

Lost and broken. Please fix.

2010-06-27T09:37:50Z

I don't know why I thought I'd be able to jump right back into fandom. Just feel sort of...lost. Adrift. But I'm feeling lost in general, so that's okay? The velocity of fandom exceeds time itself? Not sure.

Sq..uee....eee...k.

Yep, my squee button broke. Need to get that fixed.

Darn.

It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

2010-06-21T08:33:49Z

Okay, confession time, I have had some spare time in the past year or so. Admittedly not as much as before, but some. And that time has been spent playing WoW. World of Warcraft. It all started so innocently. Mr. Romany said, "Hey, Rom, you might like this, give it a try." Next thing I know, I'm running end-game content, knee-deep in a guild, with my mouse hand turning into a claw on raid nights.

But without going into boring detail, this game broke me a little. More than a little.

I've been spending more time on my facebook lately, and I have a bit of crossover between here and there so I figured I should show my face here too.

How much I'll be around, I can't say, but I've missed you all terribly - also owe more than a few apologies.

Radio silence no more

2010-01-26T21:50:04Z

I am alive. I made a resolution to get back and catch up. What? It's still January.

I am an owing person who owes: email, replies, and general good wishes.

If I fall in the forest, do I make a sound?

2009-06-09T10:27:43Z

So, er, hey. Trying to catch up, speeding through all the Racefail and Mammothfail posts, so I follow a link over to The Angry Black Woman and find this post: Dear Hollywood, Gypsy Curses? NOT Okay., which points out the absolute fail of Sam Raimi's film Drag Me To Hell for reinforcing the racist stereotype of the scary old gypsy lady using her scary gypsy magic to curse someone. Should be all YAY!

Except. The comments.

I'm used to people not knowing much, if anything, about the Romani except for media and cultural stereotypes. So I expected to see some not-so-informed comments in response to the post. Most were totally cool and just the nodding in agreement type. Until Scott chimes in with a Yeah, I knew some of those people once comment:

Good post. Lenny Bruce once observed, everyone in New York sees gypsies, but did you ever know anybody who was tight with a gypsy? I lived upstairs from a gypsy family for three years. We got along. I walked their dog. They taught me how to read palms, but Romani are pretty inward-looking, suspicious and prefer to have us leave them alone more than promote dialogue. If Jews or people of color had done the same, we’d all still be living in 1890.

I’ve met Sam Raimi. He graduated from Tisch Film. Enough said. I like Evil Dead, Xena and Spiderman, but Sam is not a deep thinker. My contention that Romani need to be open to dialogue doesn’t suggest that Raimi is not simply a lazy tool. Lori S. is right. If gypsies were so freaking powerful, why do they remain the most internationally persecuted people on the planet?

What the...? Explosions of RAGE! Why do they remain that way, Scott? Because you're not exactly helping. Open to dialogue? GAH!

nojojojo had this to say further down:

Scott,

"I lived upstairs from a gypsy family for three years. We got along. I walked their dog. They taught me how to read palms, but Romani are pretty inward-looking, suspicious and prefer to have us leave them alone more than promote dialogue. If Jews or people of color had done the same, we’d all still be living in 1890."

Do you blame them? Between Sam Raimi, and you stereotyping and blaming them for their own oppression, they can’t win for losing. Dude.

I’m not sure you intended to come across this way, but can you check your language in the future, so you don’t?

Which, yeah, *total* point. Except The Angry Black Woman responds directly to nojojojo *in defence of Scott's comment*:

actually, I didn’t read Scott’s comment that way (but I’m biased, because I know him). I wouldn’t characterize the notion that Romani would rather be left alone than engage in dialogue “blame” but rather “a reason for their actions”. I can see how not wanting to deal with outsiders (which is how I’ve typically heard this expressed, but must admit I don’t know for sure if it’s actually the case) is a natural reaction to oppression and persecution. I can also see how that could be detrimental to fighting said persecution, but that isn’t the fault of the Romani, but the people who think: “well, they don’t complain about the evil gypsy woman stereotype, so it must be okay!”

anyway, that’s how I read it.

Okay, breathe, Rom, breathe. That is not what he said. Perhaps that's her extrapolation, but that is not what he *said*.

So I had to put in my $0.02 (still in the moderation queue, but hey, I just submitted it):

Scott,

I have to disagree as well (and frankly, it's taken me over two hours to calm down enough to use the word 'disagree') on a few points. First off, I think the Lenny Bruce quote serves as an example of a racist remark which you did not use ironically. Romani is a big word that includes many nations, so I can't tell from your comment if your neighbors were Roma, Sinti, Kale or even Lom or Domari (who are not Rom but related and also called 'gypsy' by the world at large). In other words, not monolithic. Also, why was it their job to serve as cultural ambassadors? To satisfy your curiosity?

"If Jews or people of color had done the same, we’d all still be living in 1890."

Romani *are* people of color. And just because you're not aware of Romani activism does not mean it doesn't exist.

So yeah, the reason we're stereotyped and oppressed is because we're not *loud* enough and we *don't engage in dialogue*.

Some of you may remember the post I made two years ago, I am not your Halloween Costume, I am not your Gypsy Rover, regarding the racist remark in phaballa's user info. I was upset and emailed her, made the post. I never did tell you that she replied with "I'm sorry this offends you, but I'm not changing it." Two years later, the user info is still the same.

I guess I wasn't loud enough or just not Open To Dialogue.

I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

A wave and a ficlet

2009-05-28T09:53:58Z

Ack, I'm *seven* weeks behind in answering comments, but I took a gander at the prompts over at sb_kink. So yes, still with the Bruce/Clark thing here. Some great comment fic there, yay! Which I need to feed. *cough*

So I see a prompt for "grudge sex" (okay, I'm *slightly* paraphrasing). But my brain only turned up "grief sex" which is something completely different. Kind of. So nothing big, 1300 words, post-Final Crisis and completely dependent on *that* plot point (DCU and sortamaybe Bruce/Clark), bleak, nothing super-explicit, and something to offend just about everyone. Or not. Also, I unashamedly abuse the second person because someone has to.

"I used to jerk off to this," he says, fingers splaying against the headboard, stretching into a yawn. He's half-asleep, the uniform a dark puddle on the rug that you and your wife argued about for half an hour in the Carpet Barn off 54th. She won and now it lies graceless beneath your bed that reeks of sweat and semen, both his and yours.

You should hang it up, you think. The cowl stands in the middle, empty and accusing. You never would have, before. Never. But now you have and it's done. Or as done as it can be with his hand running over your arm as he rolls into you with an "Mmmm."

He keeps talking as you place your hand over his to push it away. But you don't. You leave it there. "Used to imagine catching you two in the act—"

"Don't," you say, finger in sudden warning against his lips. He nods slightly, eyes older than they should be and understanding, and just takes that finger, sucks on it, rubs his jaw against the heel of your hand. He has stubble and you wish it could hurt, burn.

"Dick, don't," you say again, but it's already too late.

It's just as much about grief for him as it is for you.

It should have been Diana, if anyone, you tell yourself as you roll the sheets and comforter into a ball to take to the laundromat down the street. You wince as you hear the heavy boots, wisp of silk, five floors above, the roof top of your building. You and your wife planted a tomato garden there, petitioned the co-op for it. All since withered on the vine, neither of you having tended them regularly. An eye-sore, the building petition will say, get rid of those things, a fire-hazard.

Some farmer you turned out to be.

A swish of line and he's gone.

It should have been Diana. That, you could explain and maybe she'd forgive you.

"You know better than that, Kal," Diana says. "He loved you."

The washing machine vibrates, having taken your last quarter. There's a ripped copy of Ladies' Home Journal on the chair next to you. A mass of rags that could be a man is asleep under the folding counter.

"Hey," you say, "Do you need—?"

"Fuck off," the mass says as he rolls over toward the wall.

You laugh, softly. How Gotham. And your throat tightens as you shake your head to loosen it again. How Gotham, but this is Metropolis, your city, and how does it come to this?

By the time he says, "Fuck off," again, he's rolling into the inexplicably open door of the nearest shelter and you're flipping through that Ladies' Home Journal.

Bruce – caboose – papoose – adduce – recluse – chartreuse – profuse – mongoose – induce – seduce.

Seduce.

Bruce.

You're hovering six miles above Centennial, but you have telescopic vision so you can see perfectly well into the limousine that you'd very much like to fling into a lake at this precise moment. You could rescue her then, bride-carry, even though you haven't had the courage to ask her out yet.

It's ten years ago and the head of Bruce Wayne disappears underneath her skirt as one stiletto tries desperately to scratch the bullet-proof glass. He's saying filthy things as he rises, suspenders falling off his shoulders, and her neck arches beneath his mouth.

In space, no one can hear you scream. Technically, you know that you need to fly past the mesosphere for sound not to carry. But the thin, horrible noise tells you close enough.

"Did you want something, Clark?" Bruce says. It's five o'clock in the morning and he's sitting on the edge of his monstrous bed sipping a scotch. He dips his fingers down and grabs an ice cube. His cheeks hollow out as he sucks on it.

"Let's try to keep this professional," is all you say before you fly off the veranda.

"Wait," he whispers. You could be as far as the Solomon Islands before he says this, but you hear it regardless.

This is also ten years ago, minus eight hours.

He never says it again. At least, not to you.

You've forgotten the fabric softener and have lectured your own mother on the evils of dryer sheets often enough that you decide to live with the inevitable static. Your building has a laundry room in the basement so you don't even need to be here.

Here is where normal is. Or at least where it should be.

You hum as you fold.

The adultery rate among emergency workers is horrific and your own particular brand of rescue workers fares no better with that percentage. Divorces occur almost as often as marriages. You know this. You've counseled enough, given advice, the firm hand on the shoulder. Be strong, you say, you have to be.

God, you're an idiot.

"I should tend the chores," you say as Ma and Lois put the last of the casseroles away. You're all wearing black and you can't bear to look at Pa's chair in the darkened living room.

You're in work clothes now and you don't turn as you hear the careful footsteps behind you in the barn.

"Thanks for coming, Bruce."

"I sent Alfred around the block."

You turn. He stands at least three feet from you, hands in his trench coat.

"The nearest block is a good five miles away."

The corners of his mouth twist up, briefly, before gravity turns them down again. "Well, he might be a while then."

"Why didn't we?" you ask as Bruce heads out of the barn. It's a horrible question, and the tone of your voice betrays what you mean even though the words themselves are vague. He may think you mean now.

He stops, stares out at the near field. It's sunset. A full minute ticks by before he says, "It would have been a disaster."

You can only nod. The hay needs cutting and you should do that before you and Lois head back to town.

"Take it from me," he says after another silent minute. Dust on the horizon announces that Alfred has found that block and is returning. "Some what-ifs should never be indulged."

The two of you don't hug; you don't even shake hands. What would be the point?

She's waiting for you as you turn the key in the lock, laundry bag slung over your shoulder. None of the lights are on.

"You forgot the mattress pad," is all she says.

She doesn't go to the closet; she doesn't pack her things. Instead, she helps you remake the bed.

"Oh, Clark," she says, "Let's talk about this later."

You can't move until she does; it's impossible. Lucky for you, her arms go around you.

An hour later, you make dinner while she showers.

It's tomorrow or the day after. You're floating above Gotham. Bruce would want you to at least check.

"Do we have a problem?" Batman says as he's crouched on a cornice. The gargoyle beneath his boot is either smiling or vomiting.

"No, Jesus, fuck no!" whimpers the man dangling from his left gauntlet. He's already pissed himself. The urine trail snakes down to his collar.

"I wasn't talking to you." The snarl, it's uncanny.

"No, we're good," is all you say, all he would want you to say. Batman is a few inches shorter than he should be and more than a few pounds lighter, but certainly no less terrifying. He gives you one short nod and ignores you until you fly away.

You hear the confession before you've flown three blocks. You smile. You won't be back for quite some time, but he'll be all right. After all, Dick has been taught by the best.

Messages from under the rock

2009-05-13T17:48:27Z

Will I never just go away? *g* Behind, apologies, same old. Just a few things before I attempt to catch up again:

Dreamwidth. What? Not again.

Someone posted in sv_inquiry looking for a fic of mine. No one responded. Just the resounding silence of "Dude, I have no clue and don't care." Ha! How's that for humbling, Ms. Rom? You're forgotten! Heeee.

Ended up in the emergency room at the lovely hour of 3:30 a.m. a bit ago from *stress*. I need to calm down. *g*

I have not seen Star Trek, watched television, or done anything much. But Rom, how will we talk to you? you say. I don't know, but it's kind of damp beneath this rock that I live under now. Plus there are bugs. Hopefully, the rest of you are enjoying sunshiny spring.

Fic: "Otherwise It Won't Come True", DCU, Bruce/Clark, Teen

2009-04-03T04:44:36Z

Yes, I've been away. And I owe many comments, so ridiculously behind. My apologies and promises to catch up.

Title: Otherwise It Won't Come True
Author: Romany
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Bruce/Clark
Rating: Teen/PG-13
Length: ~4000 words
Spoilers: none really
Warnings: slash, ridiculous analogies (Alexander/Hephaistion)
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to DC Comics. Except the parts that belong to Oliver Stone

Summary: Some analogies are loose at best.

"You didn't like it," Clark said from the floor, leaning against the footboard, head tilting slightly back and looking up. Bruce sat on the soft blue comforter, an eye on the laptop beside him, one knee drawn up and feet bare. The credits rolled on the new plasma screen across from them. The ending score a soft reverberation in the master, quadraphonic, drum beat and lilt.

"There went three hours of my life." Bruce reached over for his water bottle on the nightstand, aimed the remote and the room fell silent. Now only the afternoon sounds of the manor garden drifted through the barely ajar balcony door: birds, squirrel chatter, Alfred's gardening gloves sifting through the loam.

Clark shrugged, nibbled salt from his fingers, popcorn bowl a foot away. A few stray kernels, invaders on the area rug, Persian, most likely antique and irreplaceable. "You're the one who picked it. Besides, you managed to keep busy."

And Bruce had kept himself occupied, never giving the film his full attention. He worked on his laptop, did pull-ups on the closet bar, sit-ups on the floor, stretches. Even resorted his sock drawer, toes and heels matched as he rolled, flickering his eyes to the screen occasionally. This a man that could crouch, unprecarious, on a building ledge hours at a time, focused. And he couldn't sit still through a movie. His comments and criticisms the only proof that he'd been paying any notice at all.

"Ten minutes in, I knew it wasn't worth it."

"Then why—?"

Bruce closed his laptop, drew up his other knee. "You seemed to be enjoying it. And some parts held my interest."

True, at certain points during the film, Bruce would pause, turn his head to the screen. And those scenes were all when...Clark couldn't keep in the laugh of disbelief.

"You're kidding. Bruce, you didn't find those scenes a bit flowery?"

Standing, Bruce put his laptop away. Back turned, he said, "It's a love story, Clark, set against a time in history." He zipped up the case, murmured, "I drew certain analogies."

Clark's hand fell away from his mouth then. "Loose, at best. We don't, you know, all that much." He thumped his head, gently, against the footboard. He didn't want to bring that up at all, unsure.

"When we have opportunity, we do," Bruce said, back still turned.

"You didn't exactly jump me when I got here this morning." In fact, Clark had sat at the breakfast table, Bruce still in his bathrobe, newly risen, at a quarter to eleven. Bruce handed him a section of the paper, sipped his coffee, as Alfred set a plate down in front of Clark. And Clark had said nothing when he followed Bruce into the bedroom, only to find that Bruce had put in a DVD and then dressed. Alfred arriving with a tray of popcorn and drinks, then quickly exiting.

"I wanted you to watch the movie first." Now he did turn, face impassive and arms crossed, waiting for a reaction, response.

Clark only looked back at him, reached for his glass of water, ice long melted from the early autumn heat but still cool, swallowed. "We don't have much in the way of opportunity. This—" He noticed the angle of his head, still sitting on the floor. "Do you have to loom like that?" Awkward, but he didn't feel like getting up, rising and asserting his slight difference in height.

"I'm not looming." But Bruce uncrossed his arms, leaned against the bureau, ran a hand through his hair. "You're avoiding the question."

"You didn't ask one."

"Didn't I?"

"No. Maybe you're avoiding it by making these vague statements."

Pushing himself off the bureau, Bruce huffed, the breath ruffling his bangs. Normally, he didn't have any, his hair either brushed back and elegant or sweat-slick from the cowl. But here he was, t-shirt and sweats, casual. With bangs. Hair a disarray from his morning shower and a quick comb. Clark took a quick breath, unable to look away and not wanting to.

"What?"

"You."

"Now who's making vague statements?"

"I think you're you right now. It's not always easy to tell."

A flash of irritation segued into a soft smile. "Precisely." He crouched in front of Clark, elbow on his knee, and peering just a foot away from Clark's face. "That's the point."

Clark couldn't lean any farther back so he leaned slightly forward. "What point?"

"Intimacy."

"I thought we were talking about why we weren't."

Crouch turning into a sitting position, their legs brushed and Bruce leaned in so now that foot of distance halved into six inches. "We are. You really want me to do that to you?"

"Do what?"

"Make this about sex. I don't want to do that."

Clark fought the pull, the lean forward and no distance, instead he focused on Bruce's eyes. "Sex would be good."

"It hasn't been?" Bruce tilted his head slightly, a real question and whisper.

Incredible, the first word that popped into Clark's mouth, but he didn't let that go. Infrequent, but he didn't let that one out either. And he couldn't say precisely who started it three months ago, blame either himself or Bruce. All he knew, one minute they were sharing a cup of coffee on the Watchtower, literally, one cup between them, because only one had been in the cabinet. Both of them laughing, rare for Bruce but not unheard of, close. And the next minute saw them kissing and closer.

"That first time—"

Bruce only raised an eyebrow. "You expected me to push you up against the bulkhead?"

"No. I don't know. It was..." Nice. But that was a stupid word, inadequate. Slow didn't cut it either. Unexpected, maybe. How they ended up at the manor instead of racing off to available quarters on the tower. Morning sheets, the sun of Gotham creeping through the shut drapes and both of them drifting off after.

"Was what?"

"The rest were like those too." All five times. Five times in three months. "What are we doing, Bruce? Are we having an affair? Is this just a friendly thing? What?"

Bruce shifted closer, cupped Clark's cheek, ran a thumb along his face. "We haven't exactly talked about it. I didn't want to."

Clark closed his eyes, preparing.

"No. Look at me."

He did.

"My life has been a series of brief affairs, Clark. Maybe I want to take it slow for once and not wipe my hands of it after a few tempestuous weeks."

"That's not what I—"

"Do. Yes, I know. We're friends."

Clark's mouth opened, but no words came, only the slow bubble of desolation in his chest.

Bruce kept his hand on Clark's cheek, insistent. "No, you don't get it. I have far fewer friends than people I've slept with." He shook his head, hand falling away and rising. "This isn't coming out right. Wait here." He disappeared into the bathroom, rummaged through the vanity and returned with a small black velvet case.

"Sit on the bed, the angle's better."

Rising, Clark went to the edge of the bed, sat down, but not without a question on his face. "You know, that looks like a lady's cosmetics bag to me."

"It is." Bruce opened the bag, retrieving a thin black pencil.

"Should I ask where it came from?"

"No. It's old. That's all you need to know." Pausing, Bruce closed the bag, tossed it on the comforter. "We both come with a history, Clark."

The hint of Selina's perfume hung in the air, stale. How many years and he still hadn't boxed up all of Lois's things. "I guess we do."

"Look up," Bruce said, testing the pencil on his thumb and leaving a black smudge.

"Are you going to put that on my face?"

"Eyeliner does go around the eyes, which tend to be on the face."

"What does this—? Oh, you have got to be kidding me. You want to make me look like the actor in the movie, with all the kohl or whatever that was supposed to be. You know, I don't think that was one of the more historically accurate—"

"Indulge me," Bruce said, the pencil not retreating. "There's a point here."

"Yes, and it's right by my eye."

"Even if I deliberately stabbed you with this, all I'd do is break the thing." Bruce now tilted Clark's chin, planning his mode of attack.

"Reflexes, personal space..."

The grip on his chin tightened. "Relax. I know what I'm doing."

Clark took a deep breath, not too deep, released it slowly, nodded, and then kept still. "Okay, Max Factor, do your worst."

Bruce drew the liner, long strokes and then short, across each eyelid and then underneath. Clark tried not to blink, having horrible visions of snapping the pencil in half, splinters. Somehow, he managed it. The pencil retreated and now Bruce used his thumb to rub lightly on the lids, upper and lower, mouth pursed and intent, pencil between his lips. Clark looked at the faint stitch lines, faded scar on the underside of Bruce's chin. He breathed again, now concentrating on the feel of Bruce's fingers, gentle and purposeful on his face. Almost sensual, close, and Clark wondered what Bruce would do if he fell back on the bed, pulled Bruce down with him.

But then Bruce drew back, thumb and forefinger together. "Eyelash."

It must have been loose already. Although invulnerable, Clark's body regenerated like anyone's. Skin cells and bone and hair. Bruce twirled the lash slightly, intrigued, and Clark knew that this would end up on a glass slide down in the cave along with all the other samples that Bruce had retrieved over the years.

The corner of Bruce's mouth twisted up as he held the lash out. "Make a wish," he said.

"You're in a mood," Clark said, but couldn't help the soft smile, surprise.

"Is that a problem?"

"No." Clark let out a soft breath, the lash fluttering in the air, filtered sunbeam from the garden. And his wish both great and small. Four hours he'd been here, selfish, since the world didn't make for such allowances. Please. An hour more, maybe two. Let the volcanoes sleep, the earth not rage up, flood waters hold back. Peace, for a short time, and just this place.

The lash twirled and fell on the carpet.

"So what did you wish for?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you. Otherwise, it won't come true."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

"All right. You."

Bruce's eyes widened slightly, imperceptible to anyone but Clark. "That's just like you, Clark Kent, to wish for something you already have." He leaned in, whisper, breath in the ear. "You look ridiculous, by the way."

Clark leaped up and dashed for the bathroom.

"I look like a cartoon!" he said to the mirror, blue eyes somehow bluer in contrast and huge. "Was that your point?"

"You're quite lovely," Bruce said, now behind him, but his own image smirking at Clark in the mirror.

"I'm glad I could amuse," Clark muttered, turning on the tap and looking for the soap. "Because you didn't have anything better to do today."

But Bruce reached around him, turned the faucet off. "Leave it on. I'm getting used to it." Arms now wrapping around Clark's waist, chin tilting to lean on Clark's shoulder, he said, "There are always things I have to do. But I made time for you."

"You are in a mood," Clark said, looking sidelong at Bruce, the image of the two of them in the mirror on the periphery. "Not that I'm complaining."

The grip around his waist tightened, the chin on his shoulder turned so that Bruce's mouth grazed his neck. "You've been gone three and a half weeks, Clark. And we lost contact with you after the first week." Yes, deep space mission. He couldn't help it if the communications device sank into a lava pit. He retrieved it, of course, but he couldn't make it work after that.

"You had that trip to Austria the two weeks before that," Clark countered, arching his neck to give Bruce better access. "If that's really where you ended up. I did look for you once or twice."

Sighing, Bruce closed his eyes briefly. "That's what I meant by opportunity. We mostly work separately. That can't change."

"So on our downtime, we watch an epic-length movie and you assault me with eyeliner?" Clark took another quick glance at himself in the mirror. "I'm ready for my close-up now, Mr. DeMille."

"Wrong movie."

"Are we role-playing?" Clark grinned, pulled away. "Then I should make it more authentic." He stripped off his t-shirt and grabbed Bruce's blue satin robe from the hook by the door, put it on without tying the sash to leave his chest bare. He flipped the back so that it billowed behind him. Lowering his lashes and raising them again dramatically, he said in a reasonable Irish brogue, "You once said the fear of death drives all men. Are there no other forces? Is there not love in your life, Alexander? What is it you fear?"

Standing away from the vanity, Bruce crossed his arms. "That's not...Fine." And in a better brogue, he said, "Who knows these things? When I was a child my mother thought me divine; my father, weak. Which am I, Hephaistion? Weak or divine?" He walked toward Clark, pausing just inches in front of him. "All I know is I trust only you in this world. I've missed you. I need you." He paused again, swallowed, voice now low. "It is you I love, Hephaistion. No other."

Clark's eyes widened. And with the eyeliner on, he was sure they looked impossibly big. His breath hissed between his teeth. Just a game. They were playing a game and he'd started it. Or Bruce did. One of them did. Or they were just playing off each other.

"Your line," Bruce mumbled after more than a few seconds. His expression open and expectant as if he hadn't said that word.

"Like a deer listening in the wind you strike me still, Alexander. You have eyes like no other. I sound as stupid as a school boy, but you're everything I care for. And by the—" Clark laughed, small chuckle and blush. Midwestern accent now. "I'm sorry. I can't say it. It's just..."

Bruce, still inches away, glared.

"Okay, okay." Finding the brogue again. "By the sweet breath..." Another laugh. "Okay." Breath. "By the sweet breath of Aphrodite..." Clark leaned into the vanity. He slid down to the tile, shoulders shaking and ridiculous sounds coming out of his mouth. He rubbed an eye and black smears ended up on his hand. Clark looked at it for a moment and then just howled. And couldn't stop. "I've ruined my makeup!" He collapsed on the floor in giggles.

"Are you done?"

"Give...give me a minute," Clark said, and kept giggling. Breath evening out, he said, "Okay, I'm done." He turned, still on the floor, his only view Bruce's bare feet, the hem of his sweatpants. "Don't you wear steel toes?" He reached out, couldn't help it, to the small ridge that shouldn't be there on the middle toe of Bruce's left foot, bone spur and badly knit, hairline fracture. The beginnings of osteoarthritis. "You're only thirty-six," he whispered against that toe, hand now reaching up the calf.

"Don't." Bruce pulled away, stepped back.

"I'm sorry," Clark said, now on his back and staring at the bathroom ceiling. What were they doing? They didn't have this kind of time. Clark closed his eyes, laughter gone from his voice. And finished his line. "I'm so jealous of losing you to this world you want so badly."

Bruce knelt beside him. And finished his line too. "You'll never lose me, Hephaistion. I'll be with you always. Till the end."

Clark looked into his eyes, the two of them silent for a moment. "Aren't you supposed to hug me now?" he whispered.

"Not on the bathroom floor." Bruce turned and walked back to the bedroom. By the time Clark had picked himself up, slowly, since he considered making a hasty exit through the tub drain – physics be damned - or disappearing altogether, he found Bruce rummaging through a walnut box on the bureau.

"I found it in Egypt..." Bruce said, brogue again, and a ring in his hand.

"Your prep school ring?" For that's what it was, blue stone set in silver and impossible print scrawled around.

Bruce only beckoned impatiently so Clark stepped forward.

"The man who sold it to me said it came from a time when man worshiped sun and stars. I'll always think of you as the sun, Alexander."

"Wait, are we switching?"

Bruce said nothing in his own voice, only took Clark's hand and shoved the ring on a finger, sliding it easily over the knuckle. It fit. Bruce always had large hands.

"No one in their right mind would compare me to the sun," Bruce finally said, low and annoyed, but hand still on Clark's.

"If we're switching, then shouldn't you be the one with the eyeliner?"

Instead of answering, Bruce let Clark's hand drop, stormed over to the cosmetics bag still on the bed. He grabbed the pencil from it and quickly lined both eyes, upper and lower lids, while peering in the mirror above the bureau. "Satisfied?" he finally said, turning.

"You're stunning," Clark said, but not without a low chuckle, lip quivering from the suppressed open laugh. "It brings out your eyes."

Bruce only glared, eyes narrowing.

"No, really, I mean it," Clark said, daring to come closer and arms opening. Bruce didn't back away - or down. "Next time, we'll have a Mary Kay party." But he said this with arms already wrapping around Bruce. "Let's just skip to the hugging, okay?" And when Bruce didn't flinch, his own arms going around Clark, underneath the robe and bare hands against Clark's skin, he added, "And if I'm lucky, the conquering thighs part."

"We should try it," Bruce said, murmur along Clark's collarbone, robe sliding down as far as it could, and breath.

"Most people would call this a hug," Clark said, hands sliding down. "A naughty hug." Smirk against Bruce's ear and fingertips going beyond the waistband of Bruce's sweatpants and further. "You have got the best -"

"No, I mean intercrural."

"By all means, get technical with me." Clark backed up, pulling Bruce with him, until his back hit the mattress and Bruce landed on top of him. The robe splayed behind him on the comforter. Even with it half off his shoulders, he managed not to strain the seams as he kneaded that best ass that he didn't get a chance to finish saying earlier. He hoped his fingers relayed the message. The way Bruce arched and ground into him told him message received.

"It means - "

"I know what it means." Clark lay fully back, with what he wanted to be a seductive smile but was more likely a goofy grin. "You can have my virginal thighs."

"Clark..."

"But you'll hurt yourself if I don't get my jeans off first."

"Clark..." Bruce said again, head bowed and shoulders slumping. The wonderful grind stopped. "Why is this a joke to you?"

Closing his eyes briefly, his own hands slowing, he said, "Will you let me be serious?" A whisper and real question

"What the hell do you think I've been trying to do all afternoon? I said - " But Bruce stopped, shook his head in frustration.

Managing to get one arm out of the robe, Clark raised his free hand, the one that still had the prep school ring, just touched the side of Bruce's face. Bruce leaned into it, a small sigh escaping and eyes pleading. His lined eyes, impeccable and unsmudged. Beautiful, Clark wanted to say, and as open as he'd ever seen them. But instead, he said, "No more analogies. This is just us, okay?"

"Us," Bruce managed to repeat, face turning slightly to kiss Clark's wrist, but eyes still focused on Clark.

"I like the sound of that." But Clark didn't let Bruce respond, not in words, as he leaned up and kissed him, drew him down, hand wrapping around his neck

And if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. But sometimes wishes do come true. As yes, Clark did manage to get his jeans off and the afternoon minutes ticked off into hours, the earth turned in peace and quiet. This room the only place he needed to be or wanted. Evening would come with its sirens and screams, its horrible injustices, and two people determined to make a difference, have it make sense.

But that time was hours away.

In brief

2009-02-08T01:42:10Z

Well, it seems I haven't posted anything in 2-1/2 months. Sofia sent me an email that simply read:

WOMAN, ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?!?

Yes, I said, after several days, I am.

Currently, I'm at my mother's - who is rather more than poorly - and have an hour or two since she's resting.

During my absence, someone(s) nominated a few of my WF fics for the WFA (World's Finest Awards). Thank you, someone(s)!

Also, my very belated thanks to chrisleeoctaves, dakinigrl and netweight for the lovely holiday cards, and to discord26 for the v-gift.

Although I've been horribly negligent, I've missed you all.

This is not my beautiful icon.

2008-11-21T00:01:25Z

No, it really isn't. I have no clue who or what this icon is. Is LJ randomly swapping out icons? Old news for the rest of you, I'm sure. But yes, I've been away again and horribly negligent, owe comments.

I missed my LJ-versary too. Five years!

In other words: HI!

Skip=ZOMG! and zother things

2008-10-23T20:21:21Z

Wow. I *just* finished reading through skip=zomg! on the flist. And it only took me a week and a half! \o/ No fic, and I didn't comment on most of them, but I *read* them. (I don't filter anything/anyone out but comms.)

Please, oh please, never let me fall that behind again.

I just drove Mr. Romany to the airport so that he can cavort with fellow fanboys. This is a big deal for him - he's not the biggest social butterfly in the world. He doesn't even like going out to the movies because there are *people* there.

And I promised the littlest Romanita that I'd take her to go see HSM3 this weekend. The things I do. *g*

[Huff Puff!] Random Fandom

2008-10-17T17:28:36Z

This is the only Jossverse/Smallville crossover icon that I have. Not that there are too many of them. *g*

So...Writercon 2009 will be in Minneapolis. I reallyreally want to go since I've been to 2004 (Las Vegas) and 2006 (Atlanta), but I need to see how many nickels I can rub together to do that. Also, time is more of a factor for me now. But Jossverse is my first fandom love, and I treasure the friendships that I've made there. Convince me that I have nickels and time!

Whatever happened to that Smallville con that was supposed to happen in 2007, then got postponed to 2008? Did it die an ignoble death?

Speaking of, guess what happened on season premiere night for SV and SPN? My DVR hates me! We get the kidlets snuggled down, turn on the tv and...2 hours of infomercial! What?!? But! I finally saw the first ep of SV, so yay! I'll catch up with the rest soon. I haven't been able to get my hands on the first ep of SPN however, so boo!

Rumor has it that nwhepcat is now writing SV! I'm not back to fic-reading mode yet, but I look forward to diving into those.

Catching up slowly: I've filtered out all my comms and am at skip=eleventybillion, just reading the personal posts to see what you've been up to while I've been offline.

Also, I've finally seen Iron Man!

ETA: Slight spoilers for SV 8x01 in comments.