Seasons eatings and a sojourn.

Hi all

I am off next week to France and then New York. I will return to our sunny shores in mid January. WOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

This picture is apt, don't you think?

I know you will all miss me much. Like Janet sings about.


But I know it's time for a holiday when I am in vehement agreeance with another Janet.

Ta ta then.

xxx

Seven words or less.

Short and punchy. Distilling key elements. Condensed. Like milk in a tiny tube:

Not from cow.

Name of the game = seven words or less.

First, movies:

Under Siege
Chef. Cake. Boobs. Busey is bad guy.

Footloose
Church. Can't dance. Sexual frustration. Can dance.

Mulholland Drive
Lust. Midget. Open the box. Death. Lust.

Snakes on a Plane
Snakes on a Plane.

Finding Nemo
Ocean. Lame jokes. They find him.

The Big Lebowski
Dude. Bowling. Dude. Pee on rug. Nihilists.

Quantum of Solace
Zzzz. Action. Gratuitous sex scene. Twist. Zzzz.

Second, books:

My Life - Bill Clinton
President. Peace in Israel. No inhale. Blowjob.

Mao: A Life - Phillip Short
Ordinary guy. Wins wars. Chaos. Dead tyrant.

Bible
Babies without sex. Miracles. Dead. No body.

Everything is Illuminated - Jonathan Safran Foer
Premium. Jews. Randy dog. Potato on floor.

The Gathering - Anne Enright
Ireland. Distinct lack of potatoes. Angst. Alcohol.

Grug in the Playground - Ted Prior
Grug in the playground. Yay.

The Mighty Book of Boosh
Hahahaha. WTF? Hahahahaha.

Hit me.

Public service land - I salute you.

I have been undergoing a degree of blogging lethargy of late. I don't even have an excuse for being as lively and regular as a constipated camel. It's probably something to do with the large amount of work I've been doing.

Don't rub it in.

Sorry.

Anyway, good news! Last week, I won this:

Divine.

At a work thing. While there may be a degree of nepotism involved there, I will share the benefits with others on Friday.

Anyway, I thought it would be time to celebrate the oft-found-in-a-kitchen-or-bathroom-near-you, passive-aggressive office sign.

Somebody ain't me.

While some of you like the odd sink wash, I do think this may be a waste of A4 paper.

If my mother worked here, god help you all!

Who writes these chestnuts? I like to think the authors of these signs are righteous and self-aggrandising. They are smug bastards. They seek to push their virtuous view on to the rest of the world's occupants - where the 'world' refers to the tiny microcosm of space, encompassing the toilets, the kitchen and 2 or more partitioned office spaces.

I could write more but I have a headache :/

According to Doyle.

Good day fellow travellers! I hope you are feeling wonderful, wild and slightly moist on this Manic Monday.

Now I'm sure you have all seen the most controversial bit of news since the poolato incident at the Coogee Beach Hotel.

He's written a list and he's checking it twice.

Doyle's plan is to rid Melbourne's CBD of the badly talented buskers.

We find this proposal slightly disquieting

Tell me about it.

The reasoning behind this is that Doyle does not want the city to be a 'bogan magnet'. Ummm... unfortunately dear Doyle, the bogans are not getting pulled into the gravitational force being administered by Mr S. Manipulator esq. nor are they magnetically attracted to Bernadette's fingers dancing over her gilded piano accordion.

Instead it is a simple network effect - one bogan coming to the city, attracts another, and another...

"Oh my gawwd, Jeht, JEHT, are you coming? Look at this Jeht. JEHT! This is fucking top shit. Hey dipshit, get over here or I will fucking hurt you! Can you fucking hear me Jeht? Do you want me to hurt you fuckface? I'll smash you. etc etc"

Birds of a feather flock together Doyle. Don't you forget it.

And why buskers? Buskers are fabulous! Allowing buskers to turn a buck on our city streets foists some seriously quirky characters on to the public consciousness (several very literally larger than life). It also incites vociferous debate and provides ample opportunities to ridicule those that are utterly convinced of their vocal supremacy when they actually sound like the worst thing that came out of this country musically since Toni Pearen's first single produces many quasi-polished performances.

Doyle - one day in, and you are already headed for a mayorship that can be depicted graphically as thus:

Most liveable city --> a city in shambles

Fin.

You can't afford it - la la la laaah laaaaaaah...

New research has revealed that the economic crisis may be keeping unhappy marriages together. While the economic crisis might have placed more strain on an already shaky relationship, it has also made more couples financially dependent on one another.

I think that's quite interesting given COACM has recently reviewed some research to the contrary!

It's all a bit depressing for a Friday.

As my friend Geoff says: Love is like a letter-opener jammed through the larynx with no friendly hand to twist it home.

I recommend the twist

I can't find my p3nis...

It's detachable. Let me introduce you to the Whizzinator...

So many levels of wrong...

The eclectic entrepreneurs behind the Whizzinator have pleaded guilty to 2 charges of conspiracy in the US Federal Court. Mr Wills and Mr Catalano, a.k.a. two dodgy dudes, sold the prosthetic, detachable c0ck on the interwebs for 3 years. The Whizzinator helps its customers pass drug tests by storing and heating fake urine samples.

The pair could face up to 8 years in prison and a fine of half a mill.

The pair’s company, Puck Technology, bills itself as “the undisputed leader in synthetic urine,” selling both the Whizzinator and the similar Number One. “The Whizzinator is the ultimate solution for a drug testing device,” the company’s site boasts. “The prosthetic penis is very realistic and concealing is simple, while our quality production and materials assures you that the Whizzinator will let it flow again and again!”

Ughhhhhhhh!

Fatty fat fats...

Those of the porcine variety will be delighted to hear that their lard-infested rumps get not one, but two seats on an airplane in Canada.

Baby got some serious back

The cheer went up from those that cherish calories and cholesterol:

This is my time in the sun

The rest of us let out a very LOUD sigh. FFS!!!!

Funny because its true.

Cracked has come up with the Ten Commandments of Facebook.

Moses has had a bad day on top of Mt Sinai.

LOL. ROFLMAO. LOL some more, etc etc.

Woohoo to Wes.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy!

Here's a sample of the nation's responses:

And like, Wes won and he's like totally awesome. He's like really great and stuff. I'm going to make myself a Milo and dance like a spastic. LIKE WHAT FUN! -- Liza, 16, Epping.

This is even better than when I came up with the term 'working families' and just as good as the time I pashed Stephanie Rice -- Kevin, 51, Canberra.

Top bloke (wish it was me). -- Luke, 25, Young.

The only way is up - for me and me now!

Too cool.

I'm so glad Wes took out the Idol championship last night. It capped off a day filled with stress (my fake grass ain't never growing back, I'm afraid!) and illness (mostly due to the dubious prawn toast).

And wasn't it interesting to see Jessica Mauboy, freshly squeezed into a vinyl sleeping bag.

Now what? Well James Matheson is being put into hypersleep as we speak. And Andrew G continues to blog about his dirty jocks and other laundry-related habits.

Till next year!

xx

Review - High School Reunion

On Saturday night, I returned to the heart of G-land to attend my 10 year school reunion. And was it ever a doozy!

Sadly, no one wore dresses made of vinyl or trimmed with fluff

While at times it was equivalent to full fingernail removal, there was fun to be had.

Highlights:

- Being told I was even taller and thinner than I was 10 years ago.

- Getting along with people I was quite ambivalent towards at school.

- Seeing that some slackers have pulled the finger out, given it a decent scrub and got a fair way down the path of 'life'.

- Drinking a few glasses of Peter Lehmann's finest at my parents' house and arriving at the party already well lubricated (did I mention I drove the Range Rover with the world's biggest turning circle?). Ahhh memories.

- Seeing that some people that were previously 'portly' have since taken an Olsen twin approach to the term 'three square meals', culminating in a halving of their size.

- Wading through some of my old possessions and finding the following gems: (1) A 1996/97 one day series cricket record which was signed by Ricky Ponting; (2) My sticker book from Grade Four - with at least three stickers of Melissa Tkautz - what a lady; and (3) Several year books from school and university - my, my, the world is small. Never commit to paper that you are fond of Aqua as it will come back to haunt you!

Lowlights:

- Dubious ingredients within fried bread purporting to be prawn toast. I blame those two bites for the next day's stomach affliction.

- Finding out that those who had just two neurons at school, now only have the one.

- Everyone flashing pictures of their babies on their mobile phones and asking when one will soon part from an Amniotic Sea near me.

- Racial/homophobic behaviour nearly resulting in a punch-on. I stepped in and had a one-on-one chat with the aggressor. I, of course, got into the role of psychiatrist but this went on for a bit and in the end, got in the way of my good time.

- When asking whether there would be an after party, I received an extremely blunt request for coitus.

So there you have it. I will probably never see most of them again, which reminds me, I should remove some of them from my friends on Facebook...

High School Reunion: 3 and a 1/2 stars.

Phallic Phairfax.

Interesting article in the online edition of The Age:

Ugliest erections...

Gold.

Steve wants a squeeze.

Despite the fact that he won the first Olympic gold medal in a field event in 60 years, my friend Steve can't find someone to hug with his amazingly buff arms.

Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

This piece of information was considered to be newsworthy.

I don't really understand why Steve can't find a lady. In my biased opinion, Steve brings a fair bit to the party. He is a triple threat - smart, sporty and - as reported in the article - can sing.

Wow.

The resemblance is frightening.

I love you man.

Labels are bad, mmmkay.

Mmmkay, mmmkay, mmmkay, mmmkay!

When you get your prescription meds from the chemist...

Hang on. Let me just branch off here to tell you what really grinds my gears. Why does it take a good 10, sometimes 20, minutes for some university-educated doctor-wannabe to stick a printed out sticker that bears my name and dosage per day on the front of my pill box/bottle??? Why oh why??? The mind boggles at what the pharmacist does for the other 8.2 minutes not spent typing the info into the computer and printing this sticker. I can have a guess though. And it's sick. Very disturbing.

... anyway, when you get your prescription meds at the chemist, there is usually a quick back and forth with the person in the white coat:

I'm going to have to re-examine you, if that's OK?

You wish.

Pharmacist: Take these 2 to 3 times a day with food.

You: OK, thanks

But you REALLY want to say something like: As opposed to swallowing the whole bottle of pills and bottle itself in an unsavoury fit of blood lust, which you think I might do without you telling me this interesting morsel of information? And do you think I can't read this large, courier type, 10 point size, in CAPS, font on the sticker? And why does it take you so long to write these stickers, you unproductive piece of runny turd!

Pharmacist: And remember that these pills make you drowsy so don't operate heavy machinery.

You: OK. I won't drive.

But you REALLY want to say: That's a crying shame. I really wanted to drive my forklift over to Macca's place to use his lathe to finish off my wooden handle on my self-powered rocket. And I was then going to use my self-powered rocket - that puppy has some serious torque, mind you - to zoom off down the West Gate Freeway to the Ford assembly factory in Corio to operate the machine that inserts the engines in the latest Ghia models.

Anyway...

Warning labels.

Inside the pill packets are large bits of paper that are carefully folded up into a tiny sliver. A wisp. These contain the ins and outs of all the possible side effects that might occur if you take other medication in conjunction with this medication, masticate with an AIDS-infested camel, or are otherwise verry unrucky.

Under no circumstances should you read these warnings.

Why?

Well research has shown that those expecting to feel ill can bring on illness in some cases. This is known as the "nocebo effect" - the placebo effect's evil stepbrother.

One particularly cruel nocebo experiment in the 1960s found that when patients were given sugar water and told it would make them vom, 80% of them had to ride the porcelain bus. Wow.

The Cranberries got it right when they said: 'it's in your heeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaadddddddddd, in your heeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaadddddddddddddd.'

A brother from another mother.

A good evening to you all.

Things have occurred recently.

I would have to agree with you there.

Of course Ben. I'm always right, you know. Just ask anyone my good friends.

So anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, things have occurred.

You see generally things tend to occur with such intensely boring predictability that I feel it is a waste of time to turn my precious attention to them.

Let's face it. Most of the working day is spent doing other things. Dreaming up pie-in-the-sky, grandiose ideas, for instance. We imagine running our own record store/book store/art gallery/bed and breakfast/ski resort. We fantasise about writing a children's novel/TV script/memoir/text book on string theory. We swoon at the thought of stealing our annoying workmate's food/turning all their possessions upside down/carving their cornea out with a set of calipers....

And the time that we are not doing all of the above, we are doing work. Obviously.

We're all familiar with the mundane script of life by now. Or are we?

Today at work, I learnt a lil' something.

Wait for it..........

I am closely related to Skippy.

And...........

So are you!

Dear Santa, I have been very good this year, can you please pop one of these in my stocking? Guilelessly, Kid A.

That's right. The genome of dear ol' Skippy has much in common with that of yours truly and yours not so truly (that's you).

Apparently those that are more proficient in the area of science than I, under the more-than-slightly-dubious auspices of the Centre of Excellence for Kangaroo Genomics, have mapped the more-than-mildly-aggressive marsupial’s genetic code.

Some smart lady said: “There are a few differences, we have a few more of this, a few less of that but they are the same genes and a lot of them are in the same order.”

And like pizza, rice paddies and Hot Wheels, kangaroos are from China.

Other random 'roo facts include (1) their farts do not contain methane so are not a blight on our environment unlike those bovine beasts and (2) are quite delicious when served with a shiraz blend.

My pecs are bigger than Peter Andre's -- oh yeah!

Choose your own adventure.

Last night on Idol, contestants were given the right to choose. How progressive!

Fillipina Lydia Arena was brought in to assist the three wise men guys. And isn't Teens a little dynamo? I have fond childhood memories of slam dancing to her smash hit debut I Need Your Body, which was on my Hits of 1990 album. And she was my third favourite on YTT after Joey Perrone and Jamie Churchill. But I must say, for someone that has been raised as a lovely Catholic lass, she did rather crudely point out the key difference between herself and the three Idol contestants.

Three of these things belong together
Three of these things are kind of the same
Can you guess which one of these doesn't belong here?
Now it's time to play our game.

James Mathieson -- bless his little cotton sox -- was a bit more bold, describing the final 3 as a sausage fest.

Mmmm tasty mystery meat.

Insert seamless segue here.

To the 6 performances:

(1) Shearer performed Stuck in the Middle with You. Shearer astutely informed the audience that he has loved this song for a long time, like I don't know, since he was a kid. Wow. Such profundity. I thought this was comme ci, comme ca. Interestingly he did a bit of left-right pointing -- clowns to the left, jokers to the right -- to all the twig-sized tweens. And I did sense a hint of prevarication from the judges, particularly Dicko.

Stuck in the middle with you, silly!

(2) Spano sung a mellow rock thang. Something you would expect to hear on Triple M along with James Blunt. Not surprisingly, I had never heard it before. And frankly, I do not want to hear it again. Not even in the tiny 2 second wrap up package! The only saving grace with this performance was the matrix-esque design graphic behind his little scarred head. That was slightly odd. A bit WTF actually.

Whatever.

(3) Wes then sang Easy. Proof that a mellow song on Idol does not always send you into a coma! The harmonica was simply magical. The judges all frothed at the mouth. Tina and Wes bonded over both being kiddy fiddled educated at the Johnny Young Talent School. Happy happy joy joy.

Exciting -- like being touched for the VERY first time.

(4) Shearer then crooned I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues. Lukey was a bit pitchy poos. Although, to his credit, he slowly built it into something half listenable. But can I just say? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. This could be put on one of those sleep tapes. And what was the deal with the blue, flashing background? Too trippy for my liking.

Has it been five years? Six? It seems like a lifetime, the kind of peak that never comes again.

(5) Mark smoothed us over with some Santana. Tina and the Marcia-God were gushing... Dicko and Kyle were just as loved up. I'm not sure if there is something wrong with me but I just can't bring myself to like/care/give a flying piece of faecal matter about this guy. I've tried and tried but nothing, zilch, zip... A real vanilla performance.

Care factor = 0.

(6) Finally, Wes took off into outer space with Get Back. There was a TV throw, a touchdown... next will come a record deal, a plethora of fame and fortune and a miracle or two. He CAN and WILL do anything... perhaps he could even get his gorgeous girlfiend Charlie a new gig on a different soap?

I'll have a clean sweep at the Grammy's, a sell out world tour and 10 grams of the finest Charlie please.

On the basis of last night's performances, I'm fairly sure that Spanner will be told to leave the building. Leaving Shearer and Wes alone in the Idol love shack...

Like two men away at war...

And Mark. He will be alone, listless... watching the clock, its 4 o'clock. etc etc.

Let me taste your tears hippy!

Roll on next week, roll on.

Ode to Connex.

Each day, I must ride the train traverse some highly perilous terrain to get to my place of employ in public service land.

Today, for example, I caught the train at 8:40am only to arrive at work about 8 lights years later (or 36 minutes later in non-exaggerated terms). Last night, I dared to be different and caught the tram. It was on time. However, it was filled with a bunch of disease-riddled, sweaty bastards. It was hot. And it took a long time - 20-25 minutes.

Hop on board for a one-way ticket to insanity.

Why should every day be a harrowing and soul-destroying mission to get to work?

The hate for public transport, PT for short, really stems from the other humans that ride alongside me. I'm sure I could cope with a few delays and the odd cancellation. It is the "other" people that suck the last marrow of joy out of me every morning.

These people can be compartmentalised into several, equally heinous categories. They are all selfish bastards.

Seat hogs: These tend to be the suited-up corporate wannabes. They dream the big dreams but they probably only work in HR. They have a lot of love for their own existence and appearance. So much so that the mere thought of having to share their seat with anyone, lest it be a pregnant woman or a one-foot-in-the-grave, crippled World War II vet, is abhorrent to them. They attempt to preoccupy their pea-sized brains with "more important things" - usually their Iphone or Ipod - or close their eyes and dream of their next FHM-induced wet dream. For those sitting alongside these aftershaved-soaked pricks, the turf war for territory will be a vicious game of leg widening, chicken wing flapping and pushing their shoulders further back into the seat.

Pole hogs: Similar to the seat hog. Usually its the gum chewing, skanky, whorish teenagers that hog the pole. The pole, I might add, is designed for hand holding of a series of commuters in an umbrella-like fashion. It is not designed for one selfish strumpet to lean her tiny arse against. The pole hog is too busy glaring at their own reflection in the door windows to notice that everyone else is playing an involuntary game of corners -- a 40 year old woman, mother of 3, is being thrust deep into the armpit of a 23 year old council worker that has not put on deodorant since 1994. Try not to stare at these pole hogs too much or you will end up resenting the world and everyone in it.

Inconsiderate MX Readers: Devourers of this saccharine tabloid are exposed to celebrity trash, diet tips, heartening feel-good stories about Simone Warne and tales of Fev's heroism on King St. All at the cost of $0. Ahhhh but there is a cost. Reading this particularly grogan-esque paper means your sense of right and wrong will become seriously impaired. To us on the train, you are another inconsiderate piece of shit that should keep your scratchy paper to yourself. And no, I do not want to read it!

Mobile phone bandits: Those that have a proselytising enthusiasm for their mobile phone are the devil's spawn. Who do you think you are? Get a life! There are two subcategories within the bandits - the talkers and Internet surfers/game players. The talkers tend to engage in the most futile phone conversations. Conversations go along the following lines: "Hi, where are you? ... OK. Well I'm on the train. ... Yeah. I'm just at Flagstaff. ... Yeah... It's the 5:41 ... Yeah. I'll be there in 15 minutes. ... Yeah I said I'll get off at the station in 15 minutes. OK ... I'm about to go into the tunnel ... you're cutting out..." While the Internet surfers are busy updating their status on Facebook - John Smith is on the train - just as insightful. Or playing a souped-up version of Snake.

Highlighter students: These people furrow their eyebrows and bury their heads deep into a double sided, two-to-a-page document. They have a highlighter in hand and furiously fossick through the text... thinking "ooh I must highlight that word". Highlighting is usually conducted in a manic fashion. Even more worthy of disdain are the dual highlighter (headings in green, text in yellow) and the highlighter-pen double act (I've highlighted this but I really need to underline it as well). Do you realise that the 18 size font or the series of bullet points tend to naturally highlight the key bits from the rest of the text? I understand the psychological intent of this exercise - "it's really going in my brain, I'm REALLY going to remember this". Meanwhile everyone else gets high off the texta fumes. Even more annoying is that the highlighter student tends to look around at the mobile phone bandits with utter disdain.

Homeless people: These are the mentally incapacitated, intellectually disabled, victims of an uncaring society or people just down on their luck. OK fine. You have my sympathies but does that mean they have to sit directly behind me, smelling of Coogee Beach Hotel icecream, asking for money when all I can think is "I'm about to be molested." Argh! And why are you even going to Caulfield anyway? What is there for you?

Sick people: Similar to homeless people on the grate scale. At places like McKinsey & Co, I'm sure that soldiering on (with Codral and several lines of trucker speed) is met with warm praise. Someone needs to keep our economy from sliding into oblivion. However, the train is not the place for sick people. If you even have to think about trying to dislodge thick mucus from the recesses of your chest, you need to stay at home. Keep your cough-inducing contagion to yourself. Filthy beasts.

Literary folk: These people are on display. The careful selection of their reading material is designed to impress all and sundry. These people pride themselves on the fact that they haven't read the Da Vinci Code - Dan who? As its purely a case of show boating, they hold the book or magazine out at an obtuse angle which is designed to be more accessible to the person sitting opposite them. These people also secretly WANT to be reading the MX. Sad.

Packed like sardines - what a life.

Wow. That was cathartic!

I shall return to working. Ta ta.

Asleep at the wheel.

Wake up Australia! While Jabba was correctly in the bottom 2, Wes had his first undeserved brush with near elimination. Noooooooooo.

Wes strumming his guitar // Jabba trying to be cool

This sad event has shocked me to the core. I might even vote next week. I implore you all to do the same.

Over and out.

Numero uno de Estados Unidos.

This week we celebrated the cream of the crop from the sweet land of Liberty. American No 1's.

Chris Isaak was this week's guest host. Described as someone who does not follow trends, but someone who creates them... well I must say that this broad generalisation is true if you couch it in terms of adorning oneself in backwards facing dominoes.

It is worth the squint to see the black domino jacket.

This year's winner star performer was up first. Wes Carr. While he has already ruled out singing Born to Run given his Dancin' in the Dark effort for 80s night, he did sing an equally challenging rock song - When You Were Young. And wasn't he just (insert positive polysyllabic adjective here)? Chris invited him to wine and dine and 69 with him and the Killers producer. Just say gourmet!

Would you like more jus with that?

Next up was Jabba, who as they say, could bring tears to the most dried out glass eye. Jabba took off before the starting gun had fired -- a common problem. But he did find his situation hilarious, which was refreshing, given he is a fairly solid wooden performer. No Such Thing - well, the falsetto was quite brilliant in the chorus but, on the whole, it was more shopping centre than Seymour Centre.

What do you mean I'm wooden?

Then it was Spanner Man - how many times can you start off sitting on the step, you slack f&*k? - who sang Chris Isaak's Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing. Then he stood up and proceeded to do a whirlpool on stage - the camera followed, giving everyone at home a bout of vertigo. Well yes it was pretty good but the sprays of ladyjuice were coming a bit too thick and fast from the judges - keep it in your pants!

I feel sick.

Last up was Shearer. He had visited the Wizard of Oz during the week to ask for some hair advice. The devilish pointer beard has gone bye-bye. This was a piece of drivel. I can't even remember the song - some Christian band piece... blurgh blurgh blah blah.

You forgot to ask for some style.

Wes take 2. The Marcia-God's acid had kicked in by this stage as she gushed: "You know what I'm going to say about getting it, you just get it." Exactly. Can I just say that the tie was fantastic? Love it. But I do think you look quite like the English Springer Spaniel that I want to get in early '09...

Awwwwww so cute

Teale looked like JT when he walks into a magic mirrors hall... a lot shorter, a lot wider. And the wooden sway has turned into a cheesy swagger. Kyle shook his tush and we all vomited. I have mentally blocked most of this 3 minutes out.

This picture is to scale.

Spanish then sung Everybody Hurts. God this was good. As Marcia-God says: I have nothing to say.

Astronomical nothingness.

Shearer capped off the show with a performance that was just schiezenhausen. His t-shirt looked like Skeletor wearing a Guns N Roses hat, which did not match the song. Only a cardigan clad octogenarian would have enjoyed this.

Apply alcohol liberally.

Bottom 2 = Shearer and Jabba with a so long to Shearer. And can I just say I really don't like his soft side, he needs to HTFU:


Amen.