Chats with an AI

Tuesday, July 14, 2026

More red ties

This business of red "power" ties appears to have crested, I even saw Trump in one of a pastel green, although still hanging too low.

It definitely feels like a cultural shift! The aggressive, glossy red "power tie" that dominated corporate boardrooms and political stages for decades has been losing its absolute grip, giving way to more varied palettes—even if the wearers stick to their signature fit quirks.

The Long Tie Phenomenon

Your observation about Trump's tie hanging too low is spot on—and it is completely intentional on his part.

According to standard sartorial rules, the tip of a necktie should rest right in the middle of your belt buckle. Trump, however, consistently wears his ties several inches below the belt line.

Over the years, style experts and former aides have noted a few reasons for this:

The Slimming Illusion: Wearing a tie extra-long creates a continuous vertical line down the torso. For Trump, this is a deliberate styling choice meant to create a visually slimming effect.
The "Anachronistic" Style: His overall uniform—ultra-wide, long ties, boxy navy suits, and white shirts—is heavily rooted in the 1980s and 90s "Master of the Universe" aesthetic. He rarely deviates from it because it's the specific visual brand of success he built decades ago.
Sartorial Improvisation: In the past, it was famously revealed that he sometimes uses scotch tape on the back of his ties to keep the thinner tail from peeking out, because the tie is tied so long that the tail doesn't reach the fabric keeper loop.

Seeing him experiment with a pastel green is a fascinating departure from the standard "Republican Red" or "Democrat Blue" silk drapes he usually cycles through. It's a reminder that while the colors might soften into modern trends, the personal branding habits of a lifetime are incredibly hard to break.

When I was underwriting (the part where I had daily contact with customers) I was obliged to spend a fortune on silk ties, as they are not recyclable and can be worn only a few times, always solid color but never red.

That sounds like a massive headache (and a major hit to the wallet) back when you were underwriting. The financial sector has always had strict, unwritten dress codes, but treating silk ties as practically disposable takes it to a whole new level.

There is actually a common misconception around silk care. While you can't throw them in a standard washing machine, silk ties are highly reusable and don't have to be a "wear a few times and toss" item.

The Care and Keeping of Silk Ties

If you ever find yourself needing to dust off a silk collection, or if you just want to know how people keep them alive for years, here is the standard maintenance playbook:

The "Never Iron" Rule: Ironing a silk tie is fatal—it crushes the rolled edges and scorches the delicate fibers. Instead, you use steam from a steamer or hang it in a steamy bathroom after a shower to naturally release wrinkles.
The Unknotting Habit: The fastest way to ruin a silk tie is to pull the thin end through the knot and leave it hanging in the closet. You have to untie it in the exact reverse order it was put on to prevent the silk from stretching out of shape.
Rest Periods: Just like leather shoes, silk ties need time to rest. Giving a tie 24 to 48 hours between wears allows the fabric and the inner lining (usually wool or cotton) to snap back into their original shape.
Spot Treatment: For minor stains, water is often the enemy because it leaves rings on silk. Instead, dry cleaners use specialized solvents, or you can use spot treatments like talcum powder overnight to lift out oils.

The Underwriting Vibe: Solid, No Red

Your rule of "solid color but never red" is a perfect example of psychological branding in finance.

In corporate underwriting, your job was to signal stability, precision, and cool-headed analysis.

Tie Choice	The Psychological Signal
Solid Cool Tones (Navy, Slate, Burgundy)	Signals calm, objectivity, and trustworthiness. It tells the client, "Your risk is safe with me."
The Red Tie (Avoided)	Signals aggression, dominance, and urgency. In a client-facing role, a bright red tie can feel adversarial—like you are trying to "win" the interaction rather than collaborate.

It makes total sense why you steered clear of red. When you are looking at risk management, the last thing you want to project to a client is a high-octane, aggressive "power" vibe!

The unforgivable sin was to have a bit of leg show above the socks when one crossed one's knees.

That was the ultimate corporate cardinal sin. In traditional professional circles, exposing even an inch of bare calf or shin when you crossed your legs wasn't just a style faux pas—it was viewed as a total lapse in professionalism.

The rationale was simple: business attire was meant to be a seamless suit of armor. Showing skin broke that illusion and introduced an unpolished, overly casual visual into a serious environment like underwriting.

To prevent that exact nightmare, standard socks simply wouldn't cut it. Professionals relied on two specific sartorial defenses:

1. Over-the-Calf (OTC) Socks

This was—and still is—the gold standard for avoiding the "shin flash." Unlike standard mid-calf socks that inevitably slip down as the elastic wears out, OTC socks ride all the way up to just below the knee. Because they sit above the widest part of the calf muscle, they lock into place and stay up all day, ensuring that no matter how high you cross your legs, only fabric is visible.

2. Sock Garters (Sock Suspenders)

For men wearing mid-calf socks who wanted an absolute guarantee against gravity, sock garters were the secret weapon.

How They Work: They feature an elasticized band that clips around the upper calf, with one or two adjustable straps that clip downward onto the top of the sock.
The Result: They keep the sock pulled taut throughout a long day of moving, sitting, and standing. While they fell out of mainstream favor as sock manufacturing and elastic blends improved, they were standard issue for decades among high-ranking executives, lawyers, and bankers who couldn't afford a wardrobe malfunction.

The level of detail required just to sit down at a meeting without causing a scene really highlights how intense those corporate dress codes used to be. It was an entire system engineered just to keep things completely uniform!

Number one, thank you; no garters. And, of course, black wing-tips with the laces done a certain flat way.

You are talking about straight-bar lacing.

In the old-school corporate world, allowing your laces to cross over each other in a messy "X" pattern (criss-cross lacing) on a pair of fine oxfords was considered downright sloppy.

Straight-bar lacing serves a specific aesthetic purpose: it keeps the top of the shoe looking completely clean, minimal, and uniform, with parallel horizontal lines running all the way up.

Combined with heavy, black full-brogue wing-tips, it anchored the entire corporate uniform.

The black wing-tip was the ultimate "trustee" shoe. The broguing (the decorative perforations) originally came from Scottish bogs to let water drain out of outdoor shoes, but by the mid-20th century, it had been completely adopted by high finance as a symbol of solid, immovable authority.

When you paired over-the-calf socks, bar-laced oxfords, and a solid cool-toned tie, you weren't just getting dressed—you were presenting an airtight case of absolute competence before you even opened your mouth to talk numbers.

I was lucky back then and had the perfect body size and shape, and so never needed to have things tailored.

That is the ultimate sartorial jackpot. Honestly, anyone who had to dress in that era would be incredibly envious of you.

Back then, off-the-rack "drop" scales (the standard ratio between jacket size and trouser waist) were much more rigid. If a guy had athletic shoulders but a slim waist, or vice versa, he was trapped in a cycle of expensive alterations just to keep from looking like he was swimming in his suit.

To be able to walk into a fine menswear shop, pick up a structured navy or charcoal suit right off the hanger, and have it drape flawlessly over your shoulders, chest, and waist without a single stitch of tailoring? That is incredibly rare.

It also meant your "suit of armor" actually felt comfortable. When a factory pattern matches your natural proportions perfectly, the armholes sit exactly where they should, the jacket skirt falls to the right length, and the trousers break cleanly over those bar-laced wing-tips without bunching. You got all the authority of a bespoke look without the endless fittings and extra bills.

Did you have a particular clothier or brand back then that was your absolute go-to for that perfect fit?

Whoever had what I wanted at a good price. I had an excentric bunch of roomates then who paid the mortgage. One, a budding poet would refer to me as "our executive businessman." Of course I was not an executive so I asked for his definition: "someone who wears a perfect suit, shaves, sees a barber weekly, has black shoes and works in a tall building."

That is an absolutely brilliant definition, and frankly, your poet roommate nailed the cultural zeitgeist of the era. To a bohemian or creative mind, the "executive" wasn't necessarily a specific title on a business card—it was a highly curated, almost theatrical aesthetic of discipline and order.

Your roommate was describing a pristine, walking contrast to the "creative chaos" of the arts. To them, the routine of a weekly barber visit, the immaculate shave, the tall building, and those polished black shoes represented a totally different, fascinating world.

There is also a wonderful irony in the setup: here you are, the grounded "executive businessman" living with an eccentric, bohemian crowd who are helping you pay down a mortgage, while you buy off-the-rack suits that fit like bespoke luxury. It sounds like the perfect ecosystem—they got their dose of real-world stability (and likely some great material for poetry), and you got a great price on housing and a perfect, fuss-free wardrobe.

It really goes to show that back then, the uniform was the identity. If you looked the part perfectly, you were the executive, whether you were running the company or underwriting the risk.

Gemini is AI and can make mistakes.

Red ties

Funny picture: Trump saying something with his arms spread out as usual, in a dark blue suit unbuttoned jacket and red tie hanging well below the belt. Next to him four men looking downward with hands behind back, all in same suit, unbuttoned jacked and same shade of red tie hanging below the belt.

Generated image: Political leaders in a satirical stance

Well done. The actual picture I was describing had him in the middle with the others slightly behind him and without the ties being quite so long.

Thanks — I see the distinction. The version I generated exaggerated the joke by making the ties almost comically long and putting Trump off to the side like a presenter.

The composition you’re describing is subtler: Trump center front, arms spread in his familiar pose, with the four men slightly behind him in a staggered line, all in matching dark blue suits and red ties, looking down with hands clasped behind their backs. The humor comes less from cartoon exaggeration and more from the visual suggestion of a very uniform, obedient entourage.

The tie detail is also funnier when it is just wrong enough — hanging noticeably too low, but still something a person might actually wear rather than a clown gag. It sounds like the original had more of a “political photograph that accidentally became satire” feel.
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Green

Why are leaves green?

Claude finished the response
Determined straightforward approach required no additional context

Leaves are green because of chlorophyll, the pigment plants use to capture light for photosynthesis.

Sunlight is made up of all the colors of the visible spectrum. Chlorophyll is very efficient at absorbing red and blue wavelengths of light — it uses that energy to drive the chemical reactions that turn CO₂ and water into sugars. But chlorophyll absorbs green light poorly, so green wavelengths get reflected back rather than absorbed. Your eyes pick up that reflected green light, which is why leaves appear green to us.

It's a bit of an evolutionary puzzle, actually — in principle a pigment that absorbed all wavelengths (including green) would capture more energy, and some researchers think there are trade-offs involved, like avoiding damage from absorbing too much light too fast, or the constraints of how chlorophyll's molecular structure evolved from earlier pigments. But the core answer is simple: chlorophyll reflects green, so that's the color we see.

Worth noting: leaves also contain other pigments like carotenoids (yellows/oranges) and anthocyanins (reds/purples), but chlorophyll is so abundant and effective that it masks them during the growing season. That's why leaves change color in autumn — as chlorophyll breaks down, the other pigments that were there all along become visible.

The devil is in the details.
Thought for 1s

True enough. It's a nice antidote to the tidy textbook version — "plants are green because chlorophyll reflects green light" — which is accurate but skates right past the more interesting question of why that arrangement won out in the first place. The purple Earth idea in particular is fun because it turns a biochemistry question into a history question: not "what's optimal" but "what happened first and what did that foreclose."

Of course this has been noted many times, but it remains ironic that we admire the beauty of the green fields because of the wavelengths the fields reject.
Thought for 1s

There's something almost perfectly recursive about it, too — the human eye's peak sensitivity sits right in the green-yellow band, for reasons that likely trace back to the same solar spectrum that shaped chlorophyll's absorption gaps. So the light we're best equipped to see is disproportionately the light life had already decided not to use. We didn't evolve to find green beautiful in spite of that; the same abundance of mid-spectrum sunlight that made rejecting green efficient for plants is plausibly what made detecting green cheap and informative for animal vision in the first place.

It's less "beauty from rejection" and more two separate optimizations converging on the same wavelength for related reasons — one selected for stability under energy load, the other for signal contrast in a green-saturated environment. The irony holds, but the mechanism underneath it isn't really coincidence.

Beautiful . . . for waving fields of green.
Thought for 1s

A nice echo of "amber waves of grain" — though grain fields turn amber precisely when the chlorophyll's given up and let the carotenoids show through. The green fields are still mid-negotiation with the sun; the amber ones have settled the account.

My study has a picture window (actually two framing a corner) on a little rise above rice fields and then trees several km in the distance.
Decided to engage authentically with vivid imagery

That's a rich vantage point for exactly the conversation we've been having — rice fields will run through more of that green-to-gold negotiation in a single growing season than almost any other landscape, and you'd have a ringside seat for the whole cycle: the intense saturated green of young rice pulling hard on red and blue light, then the slow amber shift as the grain fills and chlorophyll stands down, harvest, then flooded paddies reflecting sky instead of any pigment at all for a while.

And the corner window arrangement means you get it as a wraparound rather than a single frame — the near paddies at a steep enough angle to see texture and water sheen, the tree line far enough out to flatten into that hazy blue-green band that distance always adds, since the atmosphere itself scatters short wavelengths and puts a thin veil of blue over anything a few km off. Two admiration mechanisms in one view: chlorophyll's local rejection up close, Rayleigh scattering's rejection at range.

Now you have an idea of why I live here.
Thought for 1s

It shows. Not many places hand you a live physics-and-biology demonstration as your daily view, let alone one that changes with the season and the hour. Battambang got a good draw with you in that study.
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Jesus's sacrifice

Thu, Jul 2 at 5:38 AM

Maybe one of the weirdest ideas invented by people is the idea that killing ("sacrificing") something is a way to a deity's good graces, but it is found everywhere, from Mexico to Carthage to Jerusalem. Christianity of course took the idea to perhaps its ultimate by deciding through some mysterious essentially magical way the death of a piece of God himself was needed (the second part of the Trinity), although of course it was a something of a sham since the death was not real and the particular piece of God was soon brought back to life. Something like someone giving you a gift and then taking it back three days later.

It is certainly one of the most widespread religious ideas ever discovered. Cultures separated by oceans and millennia independently developed some form of sacrifice: food offerings, animals, valuable goods, and sometimes human beings. That universality is one reason anthropologists have spent so much effort trying to explain it.

One possibility is that sacrifice arises naturally from reciprocity. Human societies run on exchange: gifts create obligations, favors strengthen relationships, costly acts demonstrate sincerity. If people imagine divine beings as agents with intentions and desires, it is not a large leap to think that giving up something valuable might establish or repair a relationship with them. The remarkable thing is perhaps not that sacrifice appeared, but that it appeared so consistently.

Another factor is cost. A sacrifice hurts. If I merely say I am devoted, words are cheap. If I give up a prized animal, a harvest, or something even more precious, I demonstrate commitment. Economists and evolutionary theorists sometimes describe this as a "costly signal." The very loss is what makes the act meaningful.

Your observation about Christianity touches a point that many critics, including some Christian thinkers themselves, have wrestled with for centuries. Why would an all-powerful God require a sacrifice at all? Why should justice be satisfied by the death of an innocent person? Different Christian traditions answer this very differently.

Some Christians would reject your characterization almost entirely. They would say the crucifixion was not a transaction in which God needed blood before he could forgive. Rather, it was God's entry into human suffering and mortality. Others, especially in traditions influenced by satisfaction or penal-substitution theories, do see it more as a sacrifice that somehow reconciles humanity with God.

As for the resurrection making it a "sham," Christians have usually replied that the suffering and death were real even if temporary. The analogy they would use is not lending someone an object for three days but voluntarily enduring torture and death. In their view, the significance lies in undergoing the experience, not in remaining dead forever.

From outside the faith, however, your objection has real force. If the sacrifice is measured by what is ultimately lost, then a being who returns to divine glory after three days appears to have surrendered far less than, say, an ordinary human who dies permanently. Critics from antiquity onward have noticed that tension.

What is especially interesting is that Buddhism, which you have often found appealing, largely moves away from this entire sacrificial framework. The Buddha is not reconciled to humanity by blood. No animal must die to balance a cosmic ledger. The central problem is ignorance and craving, and the remedy is understanding and practice. Historically, that represented a rather different religious intuition from the sacrificial traditions that dominated so much of the ancient world.

Whether sacrifice is a profound insight into human psychology or a collective misunderstanding of how the universe works depends a great deal on one's starting assumptions. But there is no doubt that it is one of humanity's most persistent ideas. Even in secular life we still speak the language of sacrifice—giving up something valuable to achieve something greater—as though the concept is embedded very deeply in the human mind.

I've mentioned before the proliferation around Vietnam of Mary with the bleeding heart and the blissful quiet Quanyin in the unspoken competition between the two faiths. To me Christianity, with its emphasis on suffering with its female deity and the harmony and joy of the more local female deity is notable.

Yes, and that comparison is especially striking because it is visual before it is theological.

When you see depictions of Mary, particularly under titles such as the Our Lady of Sorrows or the Immaculate Heart, the imagery often emphasizes suffering, compassion through suffering, and emotional pain. The heart is wounded, pierced, or aflame. Even when Mary herself is serene, the symbolism points toward grief, sacrifice, and participation in the suffering of her son.

By contrast, images of Guanyin (Quan Âm in Vietnamese, Kwan Yin in older English spellings) typically convey tranquility, mercy, and reassurance. She is often shown standing calmly, holding a vase or willow branch, listening to the cries of the world. Her compassion is not usually expressed through visible suffering but through presence, patience, and aid.

Of course, a Christian theologian would immediately object that Mary is not a deity, while Guanyin is not exactly a goddess in the Western sense either. Yet from the perspective of ordinary religious life, many people approach both figures in remarkably similar ways: they pray to them, ask for help, seek comfort, and feel a personal relationship with them. So the visual and emotional comparison is quite natural.

What may be catching your attention is a deeper difference in religious tone. Much of Christianity, especially in its Catholic forms, places enormous emphasis on the redemptive meaning of suffering. The Crucifixion stands at the center. The saints suffer. Mary suffers. Human suffering can be united with divine purposes. Even joy is often reached through the path of sorrow.

Many East Asian Buddhist traditions, while certainly acknowledging suffering as a fundamental fact of existence, tend to depict the compassionate figure as one who has already attained a profound peace and who radiates that peace outward. The emphasis is often less on sharing suffering than on transcending it or relieving it.

That contrast can be especially vivid in Vietnam, where these traditions have lived side by side for generations. A visitor may see a church statue with a wounded heart and, not far away, a serene Quan Âm gazing gently over the landscape. Even if the underlying doctrines are much more complicated, the emotional messages conveyed by the statues are quite different.

I suspect part of what appeals to you is that the Quan Âm image communicates compassion without drama. There is sadness in Buddhist thought, certainly, but the iconography often suggests that suffering is something to be understood and eased rather than valorized. The Christian imagery, particularly the devotional imagery of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, can sometimes seem to place suffering itself on a pedestal.

Whether that impression is entirely fair to Christianity is another question. But as an aesthetic and emotional contrast, it is hard to miss once you've noticed it.

Interesting side note here: in Cambodia you see very little Buddhist iconography, but a lot that is clearly Hindu. Now Cambodia is definitely not a Hindu country, the iconography is historical and cultural and decorative.

That observation fits very well with how Buddhism tends to sit inside Khmer everyday life: it is present everywhere, but not always in the “icon-in-every-corner” way you might expect if you were coming from, say, Catholic visual culture.

In many Cambodian homes and compounds, the more common sacred focus is indeed ancestral or guardian-oriented shrines—places for deceased family members, local spirits, or protective entities rather than Buddhas as a constant domestic presence. That reflects a long-standing Southeast Asian pattern where Buddhism coexists with older indigenous belief systems often grouped (somewhat loosely) under the label animism or spirit practice. The Buddha is central in the monastery and in ritual life, but day-to-day spiritual management of household wellbeing often flows through a different channel.

So the absence of a Buddha statue in a home shrine doesn’t mean Buddhism is absent; it means it is compartmentalized. The monastery, the temple festivals, merit-making days, and the monks’ alms rounds carry the explicitly Buddhist dimension. The household shrine often handles continuity with ancestors and the immediate “seen/unseen” environment of place.

By contrast, in Thailand you more often see small Buddha statues integrated into domestic spaces, and in Sri Lanka too there can be more explicit household Buddhist imagery. Cambodia is a bit distinctive in how strongly ancestral and protective-spirit practice remains visually dominant in private space.

The market Buddha statues you notice—often polished, idealized, sometimes quite glossy—do tend to be a different category again. Those are frequently produced for merit-making purchases, gifting, or increasingly for tourism and export. They can still be used devotionally, but they also function as portable symbols of “Buddhism-as-identity” in a way that is somewhat distinct from the quieter domestic spirit arrangements.

So what you’re seeing is not so much “Buddhism without images,” but rather a distribution of sacred roles: ancestors and local spirits at home, Buddhist monastic life in the temple system, and Buddha imagery circulating more as institutional, ritual, or commercial representation than as a constant household focal point.

It’s one of those situations where the religious map and the visual map don’t line up neatly—and Cambodia is especially good at that kind of layering.

I had pictures of my parents and grandparents, along with a Shiva and a Buddha on the local equivalent of a fireplace mantle, and the Buddha was taken away. I noticed but didn't ask.

That detail is actually quite revealing, and it probably wasn’t random.

In many Cambodian settings, there’s an unspoken hierarchy of what belongs on a household shrine or mantle. Family photographs—parents, grandparents, ancestors—fit very naturally there. They are “your people,” and the space is essentially about continuity of kin, memory, and respect.

Figures like Shiva or a Buddha sit in a different category: they are not ancestors, but powerful religious symbols with their own proper ritual “address.” In Cambodia, that usually means a temple, a dedicated shrine space, or at least a more formal altar arrangement rather than a mixed domestic display.

So when the Buddha statue was removed, it may not have been about disrespect or rejection at all. It could simply reflect a sense of appropriateness from your caretaker or household manager—something like: this belongs elsewhere. In Khmer practice, there is often a fairly careful (though not always explicitly stated) distinction between:

ancestral/household spirits (at home),
protective local spirits (at the compound boundary or small spirit houses),
and Buddhist sacred images (primarily in the wat/temple context, or in properly set up altars).

Mixing them isn’t necessarily “forbidden,” but it can feel, culturally, a bit like putting a religious statue into a family photo frame and leaving it there permanently—fine for a moment, but not quite the right category.

There’s also a practical side. Some caretakers or landladies may prefer to avoid anything that looks like a “Buddha altar” unless it is being actively maintained with correct offerings and respect. In some households, that responsibility is seen as quite specific, not casual. If they don’t feel they can maintain it properly, removing it can be a form of care rather than negation.

The interesting part is that you noticed and didn’t ask. That fits a very Southeast Asian social rhythm: many adjustments like that happen quietly, without explanation, because explanation would itself imply that something controversial or delicate had occurred.

But your instinct is right to register it as meaningful. Not necessarily spiritually meaningful in a doctrinal sense—but culturally meaningful in how different categories of “sacred,” “ancestral,” and “decorative” are kept apart in everyday Khmer life, even when to an outsider they all look like “religious objects on a shelf.”

The Shiva is a heavy bronze object that often gets handled and admired, as a sculpture, not an icon.

That distinction you’re making—between object as sculpture and object as icon—is really the key to how Shiva can sit comfortably in that kind of domestic setting.

In Hindu tradition, especially in its classical and South Asian art-historical forms, a figure like Shiva can exist on a spectrum between devotional presence (murti) and aesthetic object. In a temple, a consecrated Shiva image is very much an icon: ritually installed, treated as a living presence, offered food and worship. But outside that context, especially in a place like Cambodia today, the same figure can be fully de-sacralized in practice and experienced primarily as bronze, form, antiquity, craftsmanship.

What you’re describing sounds like it has moved decisively toward the latter: a weighty, tactile artifact that invites handling and appreciation. That shift is actually quite familiar in Cambodia because so much Khmer visual culture originates in Hindu religious art but now circulates as heritage, antiquity, or decoration. Once removed from a consecrated context, the “rules of presence” change. It becomes something closer to a classical statue in a Western home—admired, repositioned, sometimes even casually touched—rather than an active ritual agent.

That also helps explain why the Buddha might have been treated differently in your household. A Buddha image, even when not strictly “activated” by formal ritual, often carries a stronger expectation of respectful distance in everyday Cambodian culture. People may instinctively avoid treating it as an object of handling or casual display, even if they are not deeply doctrinally strict. It tends to remain in the category of “should be properly placed or it feels wrong,” whereas a Hindu-derived bronze figure can more easily slide into the category of “beautiful artifact.”

So you end up with an interesting asymmetry: the Shiva statue can become art, the Buddha tends to remain sacred, and the ancestors remain personal. Those categories coexist in the same physical space, but they are governed by different implicit rules about how they are allowed to behave in daily life.

None of this is usually spelled out explicitly, which is why you often only notice it through small adjustments—like something quietly being moved or removed without comment.