I...am...death

I'm hungover.

Now that's on the table, a little stream of consciousness to brighten everyone's Friday. I leave tomorrow for the Tour de Force of los estados unidos. While I am excited to see everyone I am not excited to a) pack and b) get on plane. Thankfully, the remainder of a bottle of Kettle One and a little John Sinclair will help with a) and the over the counter French magic pills should handle b).

[ugh, not enough water or breakfast sandwiches in the world right now]

Belatedly, happy Thanksgiving to everyone. My Turkey Day was fantastic, mostly b/c it didn't involve Turkey at all, but rather copious amount of abuse to my body (which was awesome). Ex-roommate from the smallbutcentrallylocated apartment on Lex came out to the Dam. We rolled in to L&G's in Paris and proceeded to have all sort of fun eating cheese, making pies, drinking champagne, mashing potatoes, dropping pies, ingesting hallucinogens, clubbing under a bridge, watching Seinfeld, puking hallucinogens, talking in my sleep, eating leftovers, eating leftover, eating leftovers and killing bottles of vodka at a rate that would make any post-college semi-alcoholic proud. Though the train ride back to Amsterdam resembled a ride in a handbasket to hell, definitely one of the best Thanksgiving's ever. (others that rank up there include the Madrid Queso y Pan party and the year that my Grandfather decided he wanted lobster instead of Turkey).

See you all soon -- I've got U.S. digits now, so drop me a line if you don't have them. Happy holidays to you and yours. Pick up this line in January (oh yeah! one more update...had "the talk" with my boss lady. definitely signing on for another year! might get a cat! come visit! i fucking hate exclamation points!)

When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds...pretty standard really

Quick addition -- I just found out that one of my coworkers was Zwarte Pete this past week. This kid is tall, skinny, with bright blond hair and blue eyes...check out the dude on the right. Crazy!

Has anyone seen the show Californication with David Duchovny? If you haven't, do it. It's better than the X-Files (don't snicker, I liked that show) and they make lots of inappropriate references to pubic hair. This is my new Entourage.

Photos still have to wait because I have now misplaced the chord that plugs into the computer. I get bonus points for organisation. Instead, I will tell you the magically xenophobic story of Sinterklaas!

Sinterklaas is the "cousin" of Santa Claus and visits all the little Dutch girls and boys on December 5 instead of on December 25 [note: Sinterklaas is actually the "father" of Santa -- Santa stories in England, Germany and Scandanavia are thought to have originated from the Sinterklaas legend]. And how does Sinterklaas deliver all the presents to all the homes? Firstly, Sinterklaas does not live in the North Pole, he lives in Spain, so it's not quite so long of a trip (he takes a steam boat over). And, the pragmatic people of the Netherlands gave him "helpers" (until recently called slaves) which run around and deliver all the presents for him. All his helpers are all named Zwarte Pete (Black Pete) -- at first I imagined something like the Oompa Loompa from the new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory movie where they all look the same, but I was way off.

All the Petes are in fact supposed to be black (hence the recent PC trading of the term "slave" for "helper"). To portray Pete in the parades, the Dutch paint their faces black. It is a little bit uh, alarming, to see all these supposedly forward-thinking, tolerant, blue-eyed Dutch running around in black face. [Aside: Zwarte Pete supposedly wasn't invented to demean black people. In "real" history, he is thought to originally have been an Ethiopian slave who was freed by Saint Nicholas and then stayed with the saint out of gratitude.]

But back to the story. Unlike our Santa, Sinterklaus wears a bishop's outfit with a red hat and cloak, but he does have white hair and a white beard. For the week or so leading up to December 5, children put their shoes close to the fireplace before they go to bed and also set out water and sometimes a carrot. During the night, Sinterklaas/Pete places gifts such as chocolate coins, poems (wtf? who wants a poem for Christmas?) and papernoten (super tasty mini spice cookies which can also come covered in dark, milk and white chocolate) in the shoes of the good children. If you are bad, a Pete will put you in his burlap carrying sack and take you back to Spain!

Maaaiwidge. Maaiwidge is what brings us togefer today.

A very belated congratulations to Caroline on getting engaged. I've been meaning to recollect the shenanigas of their visit. But I want to do that in photos and the plug is at work so another time...why do today what you can put off till tomorrow.


So, I visited Italy for the first time, but it was with work so I didn't really leave the hotel and Milan looks like Madrid anyway...well, feels like it. The hotel was, however, wicked cool. I don't normally go in for all the bells and whistles on these trendy hotel concepts (though it is nice when your hotel suite doesn't look like Grandma Wasp's guest room), but this place did some pretty cool things. One side of the shower was translucent orange plastic and you could move the shade behind it to the side....see into the bedroom. I feel like this description is cheesy, but I think it could be hot.


Speaking of hot, check out what Milan was all about: http://www.camparitales.com/


(I like how I have time to talk about a hotel, but no time to talk about partying w/ the Pearsons. I really have my priorities in order)

I'm not the type of person who will disrupt things just so I can shit comfortably

There's been a lot of talk about poop and fibre over the past couple of days, exacerbated by the fact that ethnic food in Amsterdam = really tasty and that I still have a broken toilet seat. And I, being a ridiculously mature individual, feel the need to share this toilet humor. Summary of last night's SOBER conversation:

Me: I think he's in there trying to fix it.
E (male): What do you mean it's broken?
C: The seat can move unexpectedly.
Me: Am I going to fall in?
C: No, it's just a small shift.
E: I don't want to fall off.
Me: You won't fall off.
E: Do you touch rim?
Me: If you are so concerned about it, then don't shit in my house, shit in Kathleen's house.
E: I've already done plenty of that.

I have to sleep with the Duke, and the jealousy will drive you mad

I was a little sad when I came back from New York in August at the prospect of missing the fall shenanigans that inevitably occur on the East Coast. Last year included adventures such as discovering the best version of charades EVER, "blowing lines" at Whitey's house and skipping around Soho in men's underwear. Can Amsterdam hold a candle to this? (rumor has it they don't really do Halloween here, but I have an in with the goth crowd, so it's all good)

Perhaps. Though I'm not sleeping with any rich sugar daddies (yet...though I have had a few meals picked up which is always nice...baby steps), you should be envious of my next month which includes the best-version -of-charades-ever masters coming for an extended visit (added bonus: Snatch is joining us from Pareeeee), a Thanksgiving out of Alice and Wonderland, plus a work-sponsored trip to Milan where I get to hobnob with people who's waists are the size of my leg (or smaller). Thankfully for my body image, after that is a short trip to D.C., a city in which I actually feel relatively stylish due to the high number of people whose attire matches their politics (read: ridiculously conservative).

Tonight we kickoff with Strongbow and a birthday celebration for my buddy Kathleen who was actually friends with Alex P's brother first and was a roommate of a few rower friends from back in the day. Globalisation at work baby.

Marijuana on one. Reefer on two.

My fair city is crackin' down on hallucinogens. Come get 'em while you can.

We've got a full tank of gas, a half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark out and we're wearing sunglasses

I have learned to drive in Holland! This may seem like no major feat, but seeing as I had a lot of trouble with the whole bike-riding thing (I get my training wheels off next week), I am mighty proud of myself.

True, people here do drive on the right side of the road so its not exactly rocket science, but today was the first day that I maneuvered our office's little Renault without getting lost, stalling out or pissing off any bikers/drivers/pedestrians. High five! (I've reinstated the high five in my office -- don't call it a come back, 'cause we've been around for years).

There are a couple of things that suck about driving here.
1. Speed limits are actually enforced via radar in a Nazi-esque, huge-fine type of fashion. This cramps my style.
2. Traffic is a way of life. Highways are always clogged. It's like the New Jersey Turnpike near Elizabeth the night before Thanksgiving ALL THE TIME. (fun Dutch fact: The Netherlands is equivalent in area to New Jersey)
3. Kilometers are tricky little fuckers. I think I have all this time to merge and then I've already gone by the exit. I miss my "296 miles to New York" signs.
4. Street names are ridiculously long and hard to read when traveling over 5 kmph (e.g. the name of my street is Saenredamstraat -- sounds like some type of VD, but its actually the name of an artist)
5. Bikers. Bikers have right of way, which is sweet most of the time, except when you are driving (pedestrians:cambridge :: bikes:amsterdam)

Sweet thing about driving here: I get to drive. Period. My office has a car to borrow when we "need" it for business. Like this weekend I "need" it to go to Ikea (get me some Sweedish meatballs and a few lamps).

So, do you party?

What defines eurotrash? I'm having a lot of trouble in this country full of "pretty" men deciding where the lines are between eurotrash, eurostylish and eurogay. At this party on Friday I was surrounded by a bunch of relatively tall boys, but had a lot of trouble understanding how a guy can use at least a half pint of gel and be considered a) stylish and b) straight. (curious note: I have also run into this gel phenomena in Texas -- I have a couple of cousins who probably don't know what their hair actually feels like there is so much product in it.)

These guys were all G-Star-ed out in fancy sneakers and uber tight t-shirts (which, legitimately, looked good on some of them), serving red tomatoes and cucumbers as snacks (wtf? where are the chips biatch?). I decided to hit on the only guy who didn't have a head full of gel, but I think it was only because he was bald (therefore the only guy there who didn't look like a teenager).

We all left the party to go dancing and I'm like, well sweet, at least if guys are dressed like this, they must know how to rave out. But apparently, regardless of the percentage of spandex in their clothing, Dutch men cannot dance (maybe dancing is the way if you tell if someone is straight or not...). It confused me immensely -- though that might just have been because I was hammered. Apparently, one of the dudes commented that you could tell I wasn't Dutch because I was more "dancey." What the hell does that mean?

Got back to Amsterdam around 6:30am -- a personal record since my arrival. So, first Dutch house party = success. (Fun Dutch fact: "success" means "good luck" in Nederlands) Other really exciting things that happened over the weekend include me getting cable! Hey, only took seven months, not bad considering the lovely customer service culture here.

K-billy's super sounds of the seventies keeps on truck-in

"I'm from Holland..."

this song is stupid and awesome. as is the video. and this chick is actually dancing in one of the metro stations. and Dutch Flowers is not a flower market.

Our courteous and efficient staff is on call 24 hours a day to serve all your supernatural elimination needs

My most favorite running partner has departed the city, but not before having her very own "longest 36 hour vacation ever" (sometimes, time bends here). We also managed to squeeze in (oooh, is that a gross pun? maybe...) a show at the infamous Casa Rosso. It was... choreographed. We then attended an gala of sorts out in the Amsterdam burbs with great food and old people -- it felt like a tweaked out Eyes Wide Shut (though thankfully, no nudity at this show).

Last night was the first night since pre-Labor day that I've slept alone at my apartment. Get your head out of the gutter -- beyond guests, a friend was couch surfing while waiting for his apartment lease to start. Back to lonely nights of 24 and Northern Lights, though I am attending to my first ever Dutch house party next weekend! I am special (ed).

Oh and per the last post: Budapest was truly beautiful. So are Stef and Heather.

I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just be whelmed?

"I think you can in Europe."

All excited for a minibreak in Budapest, I partied face on Friday, got up early to have someone rip all my hair out, slept for half the day instead of packing and then left my apartment like a responsible adult with plenty of time to make my 8:25 flight.

Except the flight was at 8:25am, not pm. And I had trekked to a small airport about 2 hours from Amsterdam. And I was still hungover.

Freaking out because I was meeting a friend there, I frantically try to find was to get to Budapest that evening (12 hour drive? hmmmmmm). Then, miracle upon miracles, my friend also missed her flight. So, headed back to Amsterdam, considering drinking a bunch of absinthe, but opted to turn in somewhat early and actually make a 9:30 A.M. flight out.

Irregardless (I had to drop that in there -- mostly because this Dutch guy I had a meeting with last week used it and I have to thank Ben Afleck for shaping business English around the world), the Governor and I finally met up in Budapest. Since we ended up there for the raging party nights of Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, I have to say that the supposed crazy nightlife was a bit of a let down (the coolest people we met were shotgun wedding honeymooners from Georgia).

That aside, the baths were awesome ("szaunas" and wave pools!), great architecture, fury chickens and lots of weird, fun sights like a fake labyrinth and popcorn cave. We also got cheap massages, though Doyle still gets props for the best neck rub ever. Back in the A'dam, we're gettin' psyched for a weekend of live sex shows and a fancy dress parties. Woo woo.

You're mother was a hampster and your father smelt of elderberries!

I just got reamed out by a French colleague for something that was not my fault. Goddamn Frogs. The worst thing is, that French accent we all make fun of? They actually sound like that. So imagine the chef in the Little Mermaid screaming at you about something supposedly important. Do I laugh or cry? Actually, people can make careers out of imitating the French. I knew a guy who was the greeter to the French area at Epcot in Orlando. Given, he was Canadian, so half-way there, but a fun job description nonetheless. I mean, no CFO of Eurodisney or anything, but "Get-ting to ahhh talk like zis all zee day long. It would be fun, no?"

Thankfully, Facebook's way of putting you in touch with freaks has brightened up my day:
"really my god how can a person be wonderful and beautiful.have you been in turkey.because l think l remember you but not sure l work in tourıst region every summer.or l had been in holland for 3 month l dont know maybe in my dream l saw you.the true thing you are so beautiful.l hope you let me know you.next june l will be living in arnhem.regards and kisses from mehnet"

I think I'm in love.

Your ego is writing checks your body can't cash

What the hell is it about getting old and partying? I still want to party, I still want to drink a lot of tequila, but I simply cannot function the morning after going out. And I always have to pee. I think I should get some Oops I Crapped My Pants. Ugh, I can still taste old beer on my breath. And someone broke my toilet seat. Awesome.

Despite my kvetching about not being able to handle my liquor/hangover, I had a lovely weekend in Amsterdam. Some lady friends and I polished off a bottle plus of wijn each before exiting to run game at the Pilsvogel (it means "Beer Bird"). We looked so hot that three guys left the bar and then came back 30 seconds later to hit on us. Jam!

We then finagled some free beers before I got an attitude problem and left for greener pastures (read: turkish pizza). I've found there is an assumption about Americans that pervades all foreign culture: We are rich, easy and stupid. Now, I have will concede that one of the above could be true, but I hate being treated like I don't know tuna from chicken.

Anyways, one of my friends tried to pull this guy with some weird Dutch name like Remco or Roy (dude, Dutch names are hilarious), who also happens to work at the same company she does. Post 4am texting, nothing materialized :( But at least now she's made an ass of herself after only 2 weeks on the job.

[coincidence: the following SMS just arrived from my friend -- "Holy shit, i am in this building five minutes and I see the guy from saturday nt. Thankfully he did not see me."]

I had a rough night and I hate the fuckin' Eagles, man!

Saw Modest Mouse at the Melweg last Wednesday (hmmm, 3Ms...reminds me of Mather Malt Liquor Mondays. I wonder if they sell OE in the Netherlands). Awesome concert -- packed, small venue. Lots of screaming, lots of beers.

But the Dutch are wack. Some woman scolded us during the concert for talking and cheering. What's that all about? Other things that the Dutch do that are weird: Let their dogs crap EVERYWHERE. It's worse than Paris (though the time I dragged a foot full of poo into Leigh's dry cleaner was pretty fantastic).

I digress. I had a video clip of the concert to post, but my computer hates me and then I got all nervous about infringement of some sort (not sure if pics were "allowed"). And I also had some sick photos of us rockin' out, but I have tried for the past 3 days to post them and am officially giving up. So it means that this post is useless and uninteresting because all my sweet visuals were rejected. Damn the man.

"Littering and littering and littering and littering and...

...smoking the reefer." Korr the connoisseur is in town. Jam!

In other news, it's throw-back week in De Pijp. A buddy from my hardcore "we don't sew beads on belts" camp was in town Monday to eat face at Sama Sebo (mmmm peanut sauce...drooling sounds). And another old camp friend is coming in this weekend. (Anyone remember the bright green Trojans Swimming t-shirt I wore every Friday night sophomore year? Was hers originally. Sadly, been lost to the Gods of Exes, but at least it made its way back to Canada)

Despite themonthofnoworkbecauseeuropeansdontfuckaroundwithvacation being over, from here to Christmas it's a straight party. It's a good train, you should get on it.

And I'm back in the game!

Thurday's shopping list:

Beer
Wine
Peanuts
Condoms
Stropwaffels
Kettle One
Lemon
Tonic
Lube
Grapefruit juice
Strawberries
Face Wash

Look kids, Big Ben!

Visiting the UK is the best ego booster EVER. A history of weekends in the British empire:

• Fall 2001: Stef flies over Atlantic for first time to visit Anna at LSE. Weekend of debauchery, falling asleep standing up, getting hit on incessantly (quote from friend Mark "Is it always like this when you two go out?"), and innaugural upchuck moment in major European city. Establishment of bouncer bonding. (Not sure when Anna said this, but has always stayed with me: "British girls are ugly")
• Summer 2003: Radcliffe goes to Henley. To quote myself: "Best vacation someone else's money can buy." Week of long skirts and weird hats, male-to-female ratio of 11:1, public grouping, Strongbow, and UW heavies. First encounter with outdoor sex and adults who drink before noon (waaaaaaay before noon -- "Go slower!").
• Spring 2006: Pleasure/business in London. Luggage explodes on belt, exposing thongs but resulting in free suitcase. Leigh and Stef enjoy house music, misue their bodies, and dance like bellends. Business trip deteriorates into bottles of tequila and karaoke. Inital understanding of expense account abuse.
• Summer 2007: Long weekend in London/Oxford. Explanation of the British "butter face" theory to fellow international coworkers. Evenings of excessive drinking and dancing. Record with bouncers continues. (Not sure when Leigh said this, but has always stayed with me: "British guys like American women because British girls don't give head." This doesn't mean I gave any bouncers head, but rather that your accent = the potential that you'll give head. Or something like that.)

That rabbit's got a vicious streak a mile wide! It's a killer!

As part of my job, I am supposed to read a couple of newspapers or magazines every morning. To prevent me from straying from my "news" course while browsing online (oooooh, Lindsay Lohan cleans toilets....), I get Google news feeds from reliable sources like New York Times and BBC. I also get feeds from CNN, but some of their headlines in the past week left me more than a little disturbed. What the hell is with all this animal death and humping and how the hell does that make my news feed when a Category 5 storm misses it? Here is where I would make a commentary about the sad state of media in the world today, but as I am part of that machine I'm not going to bite the hand that feeds.

• Woman fatally crushed by pet camel
• Bears eat man at beer festival
• Blessing the moose

(Anybody friends with a techie who can explain how the news feeds work? Key terms that get picked up? I can't even get my cable up in my apartment.)

I have nipples, Greg, could you milk me?

So I got to hang out with Leigh's boyfriend this weekend! (in the photo, he's the handsome fellow sitting one from the right -- this pic is from Paris in March and all those are Leigh's Paris Friends. Some day, I too will have a photo with me and a group of friends...sigh...such aspirations.) Anyway, I was all set to give him the third degree, find out his deepest darkest secrets, how many STDs he has, number of illegitamate children in Mexico, etc. But then I got stoned and went home.

Anyway, his name is Greg -- he is wonderful and thinks Leigh hangs the moon. Example of endearing things Greg says: "Leigh can cook." (Leigh, he wants cream cheese eggs by the way...he might not know it yet, but he does.) and "I just want to spend time with other people who love Leigh...I miss her."

I'm done with theater. The playhouse is for dreamers. Look what the dream brought us.

Let me preempt this by saying I don't have some unhealthy obsession with masturbation. Really, the freak-show play was just a coincidence in timing with the whole battery-operated situation.

I won two tickets to the opera this week! I was so excited -- I've never been to an opera and its always been on the list of things to do, along with "jump out of a plane" and "eat chocolate covered grasshopers." Anyways, I was all pumped for last night's show, wore a friggin dress and everything. Opera was called "Siren Song" by a Dutch guy but performed in English.

Let's just say there are not enough shrooms in the world to convince me last night's performance was actually an opera. I mean, there was singing (and the female lead did have a nice voice) and a story and a stage. A play? Perhaps. A musical? Potentially. Wacked? Definitely.

So my buddy and I show up a few minutes late to the performance which means we don't get to sit in the super sweet row 9 seats I've won. I'm a bit bummed (but ultimately thankful), and we tuck up in the balconey and still have a nice view of the stage. They've done some modern thing where the musical accompaniment is actually up on the stage (though it doesn't end up being part of the play, which annoys me). And some chick is singing but off-stage and there is one guy is in jeans, a t-shirt and a sailor hat (red flag number one). On a gigantic screen behind the orchestra is a video of a woman's hair cascading like a Pantene comerical or something over and over and over again.

Next Davy the sailor is falling in love with the off-stage singing woman, named Diiiiaaaaannnnaaa, who he's never met or even seen a photo of (they exchange letters). His two compatriots with uh, nice bodies (we got to see them in speedos later - which was red flag like 1026), weave in and out of the scenes while Davy whines about love; these sailors never say anything, they are like moving props, also wearing sailor hats (red flag number two and three).

Then Davy gets a letter with Diana's supposed red panties and it goes from a "little different" to "fucking weird."

The screen in the background is no longer cascading hair but some naked chick in a sauna or something. First it's just her legs with sweat golblet, but then its her massaging her tits over and over and over again (you never see her face). Meanwhile, Davy is on-stage, supposedly yanking his chain but it looks more like he's having a seizure. This goes on for...too long. No full frontal chaci or anything, but my friend and I are like what.the.fuck. -- did we miss the sign for the opera and end up in experiemental erotica? Is this tryouts for the new Skinamax series? The music is heavy and violent sounding -- poor Davy looks more like he's getting tortured than getting off.

Thankfully, we weren't the only people attempting to stiffle laughs -- the woman next to us almost fell out of her chair and some prude in the front balcony walked out. The plot unfolds into something slightly more normal -- imaginary Diana "haaaaaaaas cancer" (sing it with me) and then its the typical gay-guy-as-con-man-tricks-innocent-sailor story.

Seeing an opera remains on the list of things to do in life.

The Latin for banana is ariena

Amsterdam is one of the original cities of free love, complete with a gigantic obelisk (cough cough, phallic, cough cough) in Dam square where all the hippies used to hang out, half (or fully) naked while tripping on acid. And while LSD isn't the daily staple anymore (soooooo 1960s), that whole sexual freedom thing is still ringing, except now in the form of commercial tourism. (favorite thing ever said to me in the red light district: "Ladies, ladies, big cock? big cock?")


Despite my past promiscuity, I'm kinda a prude when it comes to me. (why do it yourself? What the hell are men for?) Already one of my colleagues at work is declaring that I absolutely must go to a live sex show while living here and that something called the "Banana Bar" is a bit of a uh, spectacle. So, unless I've actually been rufied (sp?), I'm going to take a pass on the later (I've seen what women can do with Canadian Loonies; I can infer what they do with bananas). But I have promised myself that under the escort of Senor Cuervo, I will, someday, go watch people bang on stage. (apparently, it's actually really tasteful. Okay, not tasteful, but not like Japanese-porn raunchy. There are supposed to be acts -- like guy and girl, girl and self, girl and girl and guy, etc. And I've heard people clap for good performances. Like your curiosity isn't also peaked? Come on!)

Many a friend have insisted I get into myself, and one went so far as to purchase me a vibrator as a going away present (what is it with being abroad and vibrators? Though unlike Anna I wash my sheets). You'll all be proud to know that (drum roll) I took it out of the package and put a battery in it! Now all I have to do is use it (there won't be a post about that, sorry....).

Gay Men Are So Hot...It's Tragic

I've been to a few gay pride parades in my day (I'm straight, not narrow) and to a couple of even awesom-er displays of queen-dom, such as the annual Poodle Beach Drag Volleyball tournament. But the gay pride parade here last weekend trumps all by a landslide -- I mean, this might be the closest I've been to unclothed man in...well, that's a whole 'nother conversation.

First off, it's not a marching or walking parade, but a continuous stream of floats. Literally -- boats run along one of the major canals with displays of everything from S&M to choreographed dances to the likes of Gloria Gaynor, Madonna, etc. Pink and skin and pink skin everywhere. Apparently, in the past few years the floats have had to be a little more tame since, according to the city, this is a family event. Before this major "crack"down (get it? crack? as in ass crack? yeah, I know it was weak...), the more-than-occasional nekkid man was a float staple. Guess I arrived 3 years too late. Well, there's always the live sex shows downtown...

Everyone wants to be like Mike...

...or Leigh. Well, not Leigh right now (i.e. "in a relationship") but Leigh two years ago when she was busy gettin' busy, seducing any man in the service industry who had an accent. Or who was missing teeth. Or both.


So I will start my European philandering and hope that 2 years from now I too will have some hot sugar daddy who gets in free to Disney Land. In the meantime, I'll burn one down for Leigh.