The "Talent"

I wished I had washed my hair. And maybe shaved the hobbit toes peeking out from my thrift store sandals.

Prepping on the Silicon Valley Capital Club balcony

Such were my thoughts as we stepped out onto the 17th floor balcony of the Silicon Valley Capital Club, and I realized our party numbered six – not 60. The cameras might be a tad closer than anticipated.

Matt and I came to the shoot because our friend Sherif promised us free food and drinks. I imagined the experience would be similar to the time Guy Fieri filmed an episode of “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives” at the local Tex-Mex restaurant, and my sister and I gawked and gorged on free tortilla chips from a distant table. Or it might mirror my 30th birthday, when same sister drove me to the North Florida boonies to film an amateur rap music video in some redneck’s yard. (I was the oldest, saddest bikini babe alighting from the bed of that 4x4). 

This particular project, we came to learn, would promote San Jose tourism via commercials aired on Facebook and YouTube. Sherif’s friend’s friend was part of the crew, and she had recruited other members of Silicon Valley’s Egyptian diaspora to play young tech professionals chatting it up as the sun set over San Jose’s skyline. Ultimately, this amounted to four ex-pats, Matt (who looks vaguely Middle Eastern) and me, the pasty white girl.  We were “the talent,” a group in no way representative of any Silicon Valley demographic I’ve ever encountered (who forgot to invite the Asians?!). We clustered around an electric fire pit, watched the planes descend into Mineta San Jose International Airport and awaited direction as the crew, a decidedly more attractive group of hipster 20-somethings, fiddled with their impressive camera equipment. I noticed a drone – the first I’ve seen in person -- tucked behind one of the lounge chairs, and I hovered over it, marveling at the tiny but powerful propellers.

"Red" doles out the drinks.

“You guys want drinks?” asked a redhead in casually chic attire. She seemed to be second in command to a bearded fellow sporting a borrowed, stained dinner jacket over a graphic tee. (“Apparently, the Capital Club requires a collar,” he’d said, sheepishly.)

“Yes, that might help,” I said, nervously.

The drinks, when they arrived, were impressive: An electric-blue martini, a rum and cola, a champagne cocktail with raspberry garnish. Red positioned the glasses in our hands, reflected on the placement and then swapped a few between us. I was disappointed to lose the beautiful blue martini to Matt. Both of us were disappointed to learn none of the drinks contained a drop of alcohol. Mine, a martini with two perfect olives, consisted of mere water. 

Sherif’s friend’s friend, a petite girl with tight, bouncy curls, ordered an assortment of entrees, and a waiter positioned them around the fire pit: a skillet of meatballs, a shepherd’s pie erupting from its ramekin, king prawns, cheese wedges, grapes and apricot compote. These, at least, were real, but we could only admire the spread until the shoot wrapped. 

Once the sun descended enough to cast a golden glow, it was time to shoot. Red directed Matt and Sherif to adjacent chairs on one side of the fire pit and told the two other female “talents” to occupy the chairs on the other. I stood to the side, against the glass balustrade, and chatted with a short, moon-faced guy sporting a fierce chinstrap.

Sherif, left, and Matt

“Everybody should be laughing with their mouths open – not just talking – because otherwise, you look like ‘ugh,’” said the still photographer, contorting his face into a grimace.

We laughed for real and then, for the benefit of his camera, with our mouths wide open. Yep, I felt like an idiot.

“Just talk amongst yourselves,” Red said. “There won’t be any sound, so you can talk about whatever you want.”

By now, the Bearded Fellow was filming with a digital SLR, the drone was buzzing overhead and the Photographer was punching his shutter.

“I-don’t-know-what-to-say – ha, ha,” I said, taking a dainty sip of olive-flavored water.

“I-don’t-either – hahahaha,” Sherif said.

The "Talent"

Matt happened to be the only guy in a blazer, and the Bearded Fellow asked him and the attractive brunette with the short-cropped jacket to replace the moon-faced guy and I at the balustrade. They launched into a fake-laugh flirtation, and I vacillated between casting the stink eye at this coupling and staring longingly at the steaming shepherd’s pie before me. I decided it would be the first dish I tucked into once the crew let us eat the props.

It would be eight months before Matt and I viewed the final video product; Sherif sent Matt the Facebook link Tuesday. There are hundreds of people featured in the video’s dozen or so vignettes, so I was surprised to see our shoot providing the anchor shots that close out the whole thing. There we are sharing pretend laughter and clinking pretend drinks. Impressively, Matt and his blazer make an appearance in five clips. I think that’s my blurry forehead in the foreground encroaching on one of them.

“My amigos Matt and Megan are so fancy they are literally poster people for the Valley,” our friend Kelsey wrote in a Facebook post.

But Matt took it a step farther.

“I’m the King of San Jose!” he gushed to me via text.

I guess that makes me the queen.

Naked and afraid (Part III)

My time was up: A tiny Korean woman was calling my locker number. Her costume, disheveled hair, navel-high black underwear briefs, black sports bra and multi-colored striped socks peeking from plastic shower shoes, lent her a Hausfrau-meets-Dominatrix-meets-Rainbow Brite sort of persona.

“Good luck,” Cat purred from the Jacuzzi.

Oh boy.

I secured my towel and followed my host into an adjacent hallway To the left and right were semi-partitioned treatment stations, each featuring a knee-high massage table encased in the kind of thick, durable plastic my friend’s grandparents use to protect their couch from radioactive meltdowns.  Hoses snaked from the tiled walls into overflowing industrial-sized garbage cans positioned halfway between every two stations. Shallow buckets floated on top.

“Here,” the woman said, indicating the first table on the right.

“Do I take my towel off?” I asked. But I already knew the answer. Droplets of water, I noticed, beaded on the table; this was going to be a fairly wet experience.

I surrendered my towel to a peg and settled down on the table much in the way you’d expect a self-conscious, naked Nearly Never Nude to settle down upon wet plastic.

“First time,” I said, craning my neck to track the therapist’s movements at the foot of the table. She laughed – and then flung a bucket of warm water over me that traveled like a wave from my toes to shoulders. My butt cheeks clenched. If someone lodged a pencil between them, I reckoned I now possessed enough grip to write with it.

My “Pure Bliss” treatment involved multiple bucket dousings before the therapist donned a Brillo pad disguised as an exfoliating mitt. She grabbed my right leg. She grabbed my left leg. She slid my quivering limbs apart across the wet plastic. More butt clenching. And then she descended.

Aside from the too-close attention paid to my inner thighs and the entire passage of time I spent face-up on that table, the overall experience wasn’t unpleasant; after scrubbing me raw, the therapist progressed to the Full Body Moisturizing Massage component. Then the High Quality Lavender/Mint Aroma Oil. I pondered the color of the Refreshing Vitamin C Face Masque (I guessed pea green). I confess to relishing the Scalp Massage.

Once Cat settled onto her own Slip and Slide three stations down, the partitions separating us concealed all but her disembodied head. I attempted to catch her eye, to flash her a smile that said, “I’m OK. This isn’t half bad,” but her eyes were closed as she succumbed to the scrubbing phase of “Pure Bliss.” I watched her head bob up and down with each thrust of the Brillo pad.

The 90-minute treatment concluded with the therapist tying my hair in a knot, a hand towel burritoed around my ponytail and twisted into submission. Kelsey and Cat sported similar styles when they emerged from their treatments. Jackie’s headgear resembled an Indian rumal, and she seemed slightly envious of our knots.

My girlfriends and I re-congregated within the Himalayan Salt Room to share our experiences. Snuggled between two patrons mounting each other’s backs to administer post-massage massages and the uptight, twiggy patron whose swaddled lower half, visible ribs and outstretched hands bore an uncanny likeness to a certain religious figure, we giggled and laughed. We slipped back into our clothes and resumed regarding one another beyond locked eyes. Jackie French braided our hair. We carpooled to downtown Palo Alto and dined ravenously on Indian food – followed by gelato.

So this is the end of this bloviated account, a tale one of my five readers aptly described as “a tease.” At this point, I’m expected to sum up the Korean Spa Episode by attesting to the joys of parading naked in front of one’s friends and undergoing butt-clenching scrub downs administered by strangers in rainbow socks. I’m now liberated and more comfortable in my own skin and considering a side career as a pole dancer and---. False. The truth is, my back has since developed a rash, and I’m still frightened by my pale, knobby, flat-chested body. Lest my girlfriends think me an ungrateful bitch, however, I will quickly add that I am thankful for the adventure and the opportunity to bond with them. I might even do it all again – but not alone.

So, in summary, I’d like to embrace Cat, Jackie and Kelsey and thank them for putting up with all my bellyaching. I just need to throw on some clothes first before I do so.

Naked and afraid (Part II)

Jackie was already wrapped in a shorty robe by the time Cat, Kelsey and I arrived at the Naked Spa. She sat upon a sofa in an alcove just beyond the reception desk. She seemed serene. I, apparently, did not.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“Sure.” I wondered what level of heightened anxiety my face betrayed.

“We don’t allow shoes inside and bathing suits or underwear in the spa,” said the attendant. “For the Jacuzzi and cold pool you need to be nude.”

Shit.

Himalayan Salt Room

“Perhaps I should put my bag in the car,” I said, backing toward the door. The sizeable duffel slung over my shoulder contained all those verboten items – plus two oversized beach towels, a change of clothes, a bathing cap and a pair of goggles. Combined, I had thought, perhaps they’d sufficiently conceal my translucent complexion and bony chest.

“No, it should fit within your locker,” the attendant said. “And you can leave your shoes here.”

I surrendered my sneakers and placed them upon the designated bookshelf beside Jackie’s Uggs.

This is how we all develop foot fungus, I thought.

Barefoot, we padded after our guide and into the inner sanctum of the women’s locker room. Boob. Belly. Butt. Blobs of bare flesh hovered in my periphery. I crossed my eyes until the figures around us morphed into a beige blur.

“Are you OK?” Jackie asked.

“Yes!” I hissed.

The attendant rattled off the 12-step program leading up to the afternoon’s main event, an extremely wet and vigorous 90-minute ordeal – er, “treatment” -- dubbed “Pure Bliss.”

“You’ll need to shower before your treatment,” she said. “There’s a sauna room and a spa room I recommend you soak in the Jacuzzi for at least 15 minutes prior to the treatment Then maybe the cold pool They’ll call you by the number printed on your locker key One of you has a 2:15 p.m. appointment You’ll need to take a shower right away to allow time for soaking Do not re-enter the pools after your treatment.”

My brain seemed to have suffered a major malfunction. I was first, I was the 2:15 p.m. appointment, (What time was it?!) and everything was happening so fast. Who would call me? Where was the shower? Jacuzzi before cold pool or cold pool before Jacuzzi? Where was Jackie? Suddenly Cat was naked and Kelsey was naked, and I was struggling to balance on one foot while wriggling out of my underwear under cover of a washcloth.

I followed my friends into the dual shower/Jacuzzi room. Though insubstantial, the Plexiglas partitions separating the shower stalls would have provided some modicum of privacy had not the shaving mirrors above the fixture reflected and magnified all the flesh in the room.

Hey, I thought. Maybe I don’t have the flattest chest in Silicon Valley. And that woman’s butt resembles cottage cheese too!

But a flabby fanny was the least of my worries. I had to prioritize for a mad dash toward the 6-person Jacuzzi across the room: left arm across the top and right hand shielding the nether regions. I spied sanctuary in the form of bubbles already affording Jackie censorship.

This isn’t so bad, I thought, sinking down until the water reached my eyelids. I settled butt cheeks atop a protective cradle of open palms.

Kelsey and Cat soon joined us, the former repeating my awkward shuffle across the room, the latter exhibiting an admirably confident swagger.

We chatted and laughed, and, remarkably, after awhile, I started to relax.

Ha! Being naked is a cinch when no one can see your bits and pieces!

And then the Jacuzzi motor stopped purring, the magic bubbles disappeared, and the once-turbulent water around me stilled. I imagined my expression mirrored Kelsey’s: wide eyes, raised eyebrows, mouth slightly agape.

“Bubbles!” I said, drawing my knees into my chest.

“I got it,” Jackie said. We watched our savior slink toward the magic button that would summon back those blessed bubbles. “I’m going to check out the salt room anyway.”

Kelsey trotted after her, leaving Cat and I to puzzle over the curious stools lining the room. Each squat plastic chair sat before its own shower handset and shampoo dispenser. Would we be expected to plant our bare booties there? And how often did they disinfect those things anyway?

“I think the reason all the nudity doesn’t bother me is that I was on the swim team growing up, and we had to shower in front of each other all the time,” Cat said. “Didn’t you play sports?”

“I did,” I said. “I was on the swim team too, but it was a club team, and I was young. I don’t remember having to get naked in front of each other.”

If I had had to strip down, perhaps I managed to block it from my mind. What I do recall is the Blue Wave Swim Team teammate who tortured me with taunts of “Hairy Scary” because I didn’t shave the blonde fuzz on my 8-year-old legs. In addition to bullies, locker rooms meant gnarly foot fungus, impressive feats of toilet bowl levitation provoked by threats of deadly disease and shielding my gangly limbs behind locked bathroom stalls for P.E. uniform changes (Yes, I know I’m disturbed).

Cat continued by relating her D.C. Korean spa experience: Asian ladies in lingerie administered the massages, and all-day, marathon nakedness was encouraged via features like an in-spa restaurant and a communal co-ed room where patrons napped in the middle of the floor.

“Naked naps?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

“No, they wear robes,” she said.

With about 10 minutes remaining until my treatment, I decided to seek out Jackie, Kelsey and the Himalayan Salt Room.

There’s a scene from Season 3, Episode 3, of “Sex and the City” in which Charlotte, the shows designated prude, becomes uneasy as her friends drop their towels and expose some boob in a spa steam room. That’s the kind of awkward I expected within this salt room: handsome teak benches occupied by terry cloth-swathed butts. Perhaps a stray nipple or two. But the door handle was hot and the stone floor was heated, and I yelped into the darkness that had swallowed by girlfriends. Both lay face-up and spread-eagled on the floor.

“Are you OK?” Jackie asked from her state of repose atop a towel.

“I think I’m just going to sit on my towel and cower in the corner,” I said.

To be continued...

Naked and afraid (Part I)

I’ve never gone commando. I layer shorts over yoga pants to hide my underwear lines. And before today, only four people had ever seen my birthday suit: my parents, my sister and my husband. But I just spent three whole hours in the very naked company of three girlfriends -- and a whole bunch of strangers -- and survived.

The last time anyone saw this Nearly Never Nude naked

It was Jackie who suggested we spend Sunday afternoon at the Korean Spa.

“BTW Kelsey – everyone will be naked!!!!!” she wrote in the email invite Monday. “AAAAAHHHHHHHH.”

Somehow Jackie overlooked my prudish tendencies, honed from half a lifetime of anxiety-inducing spa and massage experiences.

In West Palm Beach, there’d been the $20-an-hour student massage studio that required customers to bring their own sheets. The treatment room was one long, co-ed rectangle with 10 or so tables separated by flimsy hospital curtains that failed to dampen any of the moaning and groaning on either side. 

For my 24^th birthday, Matt treated me to a mid-winter weekend getaway at Missouri’s equivalent to the “Shining” hotel. My spa treatment – in a dark and remarkably bare basement -- consisted of lying prostrate on a de facto embalming table while warm water drummed down on me from holes in the ceiling.

And, still vivid in my mind, was the overpriced, pre-Christmas holiday massage I received from “Santa Claus,” an unkept, white-bearded gentleman whose belly rested ever so gently on my back as he slid a greasy, hairy forearm up and down my spine.

(“Did he ask you if you’ve been naughty or nice?” Kelsey asked when I related the experience.)

This particular spa experience, I judged, might warrant a pre-treatment parking lot cocktail: We would shower in a communal shower naked, soak in a communal hot tub naked, lounge in a sauna naked and, for an added cost, lie face-up while tiny, lingerie-clad Asian women drenched our nakedness in oil and milk.

Bathing suits and underwear are strictly forbidden, the spa’s website warned. For the Nearly Never Nude, the prospect was frightening. I would pack a bikini just in case.

I spent all week concocting excuses for cancelling my appointment. Chatting with a co-worker didn’t ease the anticipation.

“Ooooh, I love Korean Spas,” Eliza said, hovering over our shared cubicle wall. “But they do require a lot of pre-grooming.”

Duly noted.

Kelsey’s comments en route to the Palo Alto facility today were equally discomforting.

“I heard those Korean women really beat you up,” she said.

“What, like a Thai massage?” I asked. I had been brutalized by Thai women before.

“No, they scrub your skin until it falls off and you’re all red.”

“And why are we paying for this?!”

The conversation grew progressively more terrifying once we picked up Cat in Mountain View.

“Do you think they massage your b-hole?” Kelsey asked. “They call that a 'margarita' because of the salt on the rim.”

“Anyone who calls it a ‘b-hole’ has never had it massaged before,” Cat said, matter-of-factly.

And, later: “Don’t be surprised if you cry during the massage part,” Cat said. “That happens sometimes because of all the tension it releases.”

“If I cry during this experience, it’s not going to be from the massage,” I replied.

To be continued....

Just listed

I’m a wannabe first-time homeowner shelling out a ridiculous amount in monthly rent to live within a commutable distance of my husband’s Cupertino job. This means reviewing Silicon Valley real estate listings makes me sad. And that’s why I want to extend a hearty shout-out to Russell Ciotta of “Classic Properties” for making me laugh out loud; his listing for 6625 Clifford Drive made last night’s perusal of “The Ugly Yet Unattainable” unexpectedly enjoyable.

Ciotta knows he has nothing to lose; clinching several hundred thousand over his $1.3 million asking price is a given in this wacko market. So he lays out all his cards on the table: cracked façade, mold, mildew and moss, rust stains, unsecured crawl space rat portals. The online photo gallery doesn’t contain a single flattering image of Ciotta’s teardown special. Accessories include a broken squatty chair, a Christmas tree stand and a pool ladder -- but no pool. The primary image shows the front door ajar, and if you squint through the shadows, you can just make out ceiling-high towers of newspaper and the silhouettes of a dozen or so cats.

I can’t decide if this listing is a joke, a social experiment or over-the-top honest advertising. Perhaps Ciotta simply decided to phone this one in. In any event, he deserves some props. Bravo, Mr. Ciotta. Bravo.

Resurrecting Bianca

Warning: This blog post contains spoilers about "Be Right Back," Season 2, Episode 1 of "Black Mirror," the British anthology television series that explores the dark side of technology. If you haven't seen this 2013 episode yet, well, what the heck are you waiting for?!


If bloody curtains and a skeletal clown don’t say, “Come hither, children; we have candy,” I certainly don’t know what does.

Bianca in costume

Within minutes of arriving home Monday, I hung my handmade curtains in the living room windows and clothed the mannequin in a mask and clown costume. I lined the front walkway with tiki torches borrowed from the backyard. I dumped a bag of mixed chocolate bars in a bowl and stirred in plastic cockroaches and Ping-Pong balls painted like eyeballs. I draped the front door with crime scene tape, the red-colored kind that sternly warns, “Danger.” I launched iTunes and cued up “Thriller.”

I have never lived on a street conducive to soliciting or distributing Halloween candy.  Throughout my childhood, my parents drove my sister and I to trick-or-treat in neighborhoods with sidewalks and cul-de-sacs. And thus far, the addresses of my adult years can be characterized in one of two ways: sleepy retirement community or two-lane thoroughfare to more inviting, tranquil pockets of suburbia.

This year, I told Matt, would be different; on this, our first Cupertino Halloween, we resided a mere block from an elementary school, and a steady stream of young families passed by our front door en route to class or work or home each day. I would become the Cool Lady on the block who answered the door in costume and dished out king-sized Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I’d compliment the creative kids on their homemade costumes and cast a reproachful eye at the pillowcase-toting teenagers too lazy to dress up at all. 

My first visitor of the evening arrived as I maneuvered the clown-attired Bianca through the front door and onto the stoop. Bianca, like many third-hand mannequins, tends to shed her appendages at the most inopportune times. And this proved one such time, as she dropped her left hand for the benefit of a middle-aged woman passing by.

“Nice mannequin,” the woman said. “Are you registered to vote?” She thrust a flyer into my hand. The ensuing conversation set me back 10 minutes of decorating.

Follow the torches, children.

I retreated to the safety of the couch, where I could maintain a clear line of sight of the front walkway. I peered through the red paint-splattered polyester curtains and waited. And waited.

Eventually, Matt fired up an episode of “Black Mirror” – the one with the rehydrated dead boyfriend – and my attention drifted from the street to the T.V. Right about the point where Martha begins to suspect Ash has been gone far too long, Wolfie uttered a low growl.

“Trick-or-treaters!” I said, leaping from the couch. Matt paused the television as I ran to the door. I would surprise the little goblins by yanking it open before they had a chance to knock. My excitement became so great that when I finally did throw open the door, the action seemed to lack an “A-ha!” exclamation.

The stoop was empty. Across the street, however, five silhouettes crowned by multi-colored glow sticks approached the darkest, most un-deserving house on the block. 

“Black Mirror” resumed, and Martha struck up an online romance with a computer.

I ventured out onto the sidewalk the second time Wolfie sounded a false alarm. No pedestrians in sight. I resisted the urge to yank a tiki torch from the ground and wave it in the air, a candy beacon in the night.

Back inside, Martha was adding electrolytes to a bathtub of Ash. By the time she began bedding her Frankenstein, I had abandoned my post to shower and change into pajamas. But I kept my bra on – just in case.

“Did anyone come?” I asked Matt, rejoining him on the couch. Part of me wanted assurance I hadn’t missed anything, but the other part desired affirmation someone – anyone – had seen my ridiculous decorations.

Bianca waits

No, no one had come, but Martha’s Frankenstein was becoming a bore. 

The doorbell, when it finally sounded, was jarring. I sprinted to the door.

“Trick or treat!” said the 12-year-old on the stoop. She wore her hair in pigtails – a homage to some character I couldn’t place. I offered her my decoy treat bowl, the one with the Styrofoam skull in it.

“Oops! Wrong bowl!” I laughed at my joke. Pigtails did too, albeit nervously.

She selected a Twix bar from the second bowl I presented. Behind her, beyond the flaming tiki torches, I heard chatter emanating from the driveway.

“Do your friends want any candy?” I asked, hopeful.

“Um, they’re afraid of the clown,” Pigtails said.

We laughed. Carrying the bowl, I followed Pigtails past Bianca, past the plastic severed arm and past the steely-eyed plastic rat to deliver my treats. 

DNA results are in...

... and the most important thing you need to know is this: Matt is more Neanderthal than me.

My DNA contains 246 Neanderthal variants, more than 15 percent of 23andMe’s 1 million-plus customers, and my husband’s contains 259, more than 25 percent of customers.

“You are less Neanderthal than Matthew,” my online report states, bolding, this time, not mine.  I printed this part of the report and plan to frame it.

Sixty-thousand years ago, interbreeding between modern humans and knuckle draggers like Matt’s ancestors led to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA existing in certain populations today, according to 23andMe.

“Everyone living outside of Africa today has a small amount of Neanderthal in them, carried as a living relic of these ancient encounters,” according to National Geographic. “A team of scientists comparing the full genomes of the two species concluded that most Europeans and Asians have between 1 to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA.”

Bragging rights aside, the confirmed superiority of my bloodline is important thanks to Matt himself, who set himself up for deep disappointment and shame after we shared a recent dinner out with Kelsey.

This was post-purchasing the 23andMe kits but pre-spitting, and Kelsey proved almost as giddy about the prospects as Matt and I were.

“We’ll have an ethnicity reveal party like people have gender reveal parties,” she said as we strolled back to her house. “You give me the test results, and I’ll go buy little flags.”

And then Matt turned to me.

“You’re going to break their system,” he said. “They’re going to be, like, ‘This is the most Neanderthal person we’ve ever seen.”

Later, on the ride home: “Oh, you better hope you’re not more Neanderthal than me.”

(I know these quotes to be accurate because I make mental and written notes of many of the stupid stuff my family members say. As a journalist, it’s essentially, like, my job to do so. Plus, I read them back to Matt, and he said, “I said that? That’s funny!” And laughed.)

The morning of July 28, I received an email announcing my DNA results were viewable via my online account. Matt had already left for work, but I compared my results with his, revealed the night before. I snapped a photo of the most important bit, and promptly dispatched a text to the gang.

Matt responded first.

Matt: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!”

Jackie: “Very cool! Any surprises in the results?”

Matt: “Only that I’m somehow, in ways unimaginable by me, more caveman than Megan.”

I guess, if you think about it, another mildly important component of the reports and their comparison is the fact that I’m not my husband’s long-lost cousin – or sister (We don’t share any identical DNA segments). So that’s good news too.