Archives For Humor

Swedish Bobo Music

April 5, 2016 — 65 Comments

Tween boy

Apparently, if you are searching for “Baba O’Reilly” on Spotify, and your kid is trying to wrestle the phone out of your hand so he can search for “Swedish House Mafia,” the search term morphs into “Swedish Bobo.”

Little Dude – is not so little anymore.

He’s 12, in middle school now, and he has LOT of opinions.

For one thing, he’s prefers electronic dance music to rock music. I like EDM when I’m wasted in a club, dancing at 2 am (which hasn’t happened a lot lately), but for purely listening purposes? Not so much.

He also listens to whatever is on Spotify’s Top 50. It ranges from “please pour battery acid in my ears”  to Twenty One Pilots. I know they are puppets of a soulless music industry, but I like them. They appeal to my inner angsty eighth grader.

I made Little Dude listen to Brian Eno, one of the pioneers of ambient music in the 70’s. Some might argue that ambient and electronic music aren’t necessarily connected, but too bad. I wanted my kid to know who Brian Eno is so I connected them.

Little Dude has braces now. They make him look like a little teenager and are a constant source of torture for both of us. I don’t always spend money I don’t have, but when I do, it’s $5000 on braces for a kid who accuses me of ruining his life between bites of jello.

He wears AXE deodorant. It smells horrific, but according to its last ad campaign, should have him kicking car doors open in no time.

 

HE SLEEPS LATE NOW.

He always woke at 6:30 am on the weekends, raring to go. I spent years teaching him to entertain himself and not wake Mama up until a more civilized hour.

When he was five, I had him convinced that those early Saturday am hours were HIS “alone time,” and he was free to watch movies and eat snacks and do whatever it is that five-year olds do when they have “alone” time.

I woke up at 8 am on one of those Saturdays, patting myself on the back because he let me sleep in. I stepped onto the top step of my stairs and tripped on a pencil that was rigged to protrude off of the step. It was tied to an empty soda can which I rolled over, and I tumbled down the stairs.

Little Dude had watched Home Alone early that morning, and decided to copy Kevin McCallister and booby trap my house. Did I mention he was FIVE?

A few months ago, I woke up at 8 am and my kid wasn’t up. By 9 am, I was in his room, putting a compact mirror under his nose to see if he was breathing.

Now, he sleeps sometimes as late as 11:00 am. Last Sunday, I celebrated by making myself a mimosa and listening to the local police scanner on my phone app and it was AWESOME.

 

His hormones are kicking in, which means he’s often moody and unpleasant. Normally, I don’t tolerate that, but this is different. He’s experiencing emotions he doesn’t even understand.

He simultaneously has the worst hygiene of his young life, while still managing to disappear upstairs for an inordinately long time when showering.

I don’t even want to think about that. EW.

He got an email from a girl the other day, a girl he’s told me he likes. When I asked him if she was pretty, he said, “Why does that matter? She is, but that’s NOT why I like her. She’s smart and nice.” I wish some boy in middle school had liked me, despite my braces, glasses and frizzy hair. I was in an awkward stage that lasted until 2015.

This girl had actually emailed him a copy of some Harvard admission essays. They’re in SIXTH GRADE.

 

Little Dude still enjoys spending time with me, one on one. Over spring break, we did a bunch of cool stuff together. We saw “Deadpool,” which was a little mature for him. How did I miss that it’s rated “R”? Luckily, he’s so innocent, all the sexual innuendos went right over his head.

At the end, he insisted we stay until the end of the credits. He was convinced there would be some kind of “bit” at the very, very end.

He was right.

As we left the movie, LD impulsively grabbed my hand in the parking lot. I acted like it was no big deal, but it was. He’s still very affectionate with me, but never in public.

 

Sometimes, he asks if we can talk, to help him sort through feeling lost or confused. We have talks that last hours.

Thank you Lord, Buddha, and All The Gods, that my kid still wants to talk to me about whatever is troubling him. Any day now, he’s going to become a Teenager, discount my opinion and silently plot my death.

 

He’s in such an odd place right now; no longer a boy, but not yet a teen. It’s a complicated, confusing and probably scary place for him.

It’s confusing for me, too. I want to hold on and let go all at the same time.
Most of all, I want it to slow down.

Slow down, baby boy.  I don’t want to miss a thing.

 

“I’ll Come Running” by Brian Eno. I can’t even tell you how much I love this song.

 

Do you ever wish you could slow down your kids’ growing up? How much longer do I have until he stops thinking I’m cool?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house.

Drag-Queen-Eye-Makeup-photos

 

Are your days jam packed with kids and work, avoiding the gym, and maintaining your drinking habit?  Don’t let your beauty routine drag you down!

Even if you’re as busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kissing contest, you still need to look good, right?

After all, none of our accomplishments matter if we’re not pretty!

 

HAIR

Women are always trying to achieve beautiful hair on what’s known as “second day” hair; or in my case, “sixth day” hair. The best way to achieve this is to NOT LEAVE THE HOUSE.

I washed my hair yesterday. It came out so good, I’m not going anywhere for as long as humanly possible.

Eventually, I’m going to have to leave the house. By that time my hair will be totally janked up. You can purchase dry shampoo, but there are plenty of household ingredients that work just as well. Flour, cornstarch, cocoa powder (if you have dark hair.) Rub that kludge in your scalp. Go on, don’t be bashful! Dump it on!

After a week or two of this your hair will look like a hedgehog that somehow managed to survive a nuclear holocaust, but by then you have enough crap in it to bake a chocolate cake. This will make you forget about how nastified your hair is, ummm, cake!

I also wear hats frequently. Baseball hats and beanies are my favorite, but in a pinch I’ll wear a cowboy hat or a sombrero, if I happen to wake up in Mexico.

Placenta is known to be really good for the hair. It’s expensive, and the stores try to sell you nasty animal placenta. Unless you want to grow a sheep out of your head, use HUMAN placenta. After you or a friend give birth, grab hold of that swag and massage into your scalp.

If you’re really having a supremely shitty hair day, wear a low-cut blouse.

 

MAKE UP

The “smokey eye” is a coveted sultry eye makeup look. The best way to attain this look is to pass out without washing your eye makeup off.

If you wake up with disgusting clumps of black sludge on your lashes, smear that shit out for extra sexy. If I had a dollar for every day I wore last night’s eye makeup, I’d be wearing expensive left over makeup the next morning.

The same goes for your entire face. If I’m going to put in the effort to do my makeup, you better believe it’s going to last for at least two days. Washing your face every night just means you have to start all over again in the morning. Ain’t nobody got time for that!

You can never put on enough concealer. My under eyes have that “meth addict with eyeball anemia” look.

Kylie Jenner started a trend where girls try to copy her ‘celebrity pout’ without surgery or fillers. The process involves sucking into a cup or glass.

Huh! I’ve been doing this for YEARS. I use a vacuum cleaner hose, which bursts blood vessels quite nicely. It causes paralysis, but nothing permanent. As an alternative, you can always go for the Blow Job pout.

If that doesn’t leave you with puffy, plumped up lips, then you have done the Writer’s Job – which has no payoff.

 

ANAL BLEACH

Don’t knock if you haven’t tried it! This is a real game changer.

Clorox is a tad too harsh for us gals with sensitive butt holes, so you can smear whitening toothpaste up your ass. I’ve bleached my ham flower until it glows in the dark.

It serves a dual purpose, since we lose power frequently during rainstorms. I can find my way around the in the dark by walking backwards and bent over.

 

SKIN

Exfoliation is super important. I get the really cheap washclothes at Walmart, the ones like sandpaper, and rub them over my face until it bleeds lightly. Alternatively, you can lie down and have a cat lick your face.

For a natural “rosy glow,” masturbate. It’s important to keep a purse size vibrator on you so you can get off on the fly.

The two absolute BEST things you can do for perfect skin? Dim lighting, and Photoshop.

 

PIT TRICKS

Who has time to shower every day? That’s excessive, isn’t it?

Once you get to the point where your underarms smell like Sasquatch’s nuts, use Wet Wipes. I use them for just about everything – to bathe, clean up after sex, remove chocolate stains from my shirt, clean up cat vomit – WET WIPES ARE LIFE ITSELF.

Hand sanitizer also works well for the pits. Roll on deodorant afterwards. Don’t be shy about doing this at work. The trick is to maintain FULL EYE CONTACT with a co-worker while reaching under your shirt.

As an alternative to using deodorant on the fly, you can use those perfume tester cards they give you in department stores. At least once a week, I go to the bathroom at work and rub one of these on my pits. This is best accompanied by a little soft crying over what your life has come to.

 

CLOTHING

Once you find a look that you love, stick with it – for decades! I’ve been wearing the same clothes since the 90’s. Furthermore, if you dislike people, you will avoid making any friends if you attend a PTO meeting looking like a Goth hobo.

A quick get ready morning tip: Wear the same clothes you slept in. Leggings and a tee shirt can be worn for several day/night cycles.

2nd day crotch stank is fixed by a spray of body spray or Febreze and a hair dryer. Spray first, then hang the pants around your knees and give them a good blast with the blow dryer. DO NOT attempt this without lowering your pants, or you will end up in the ER with a roasted vulva.

 

GAS

This is not quite a beauty hack, but it’s such a good tip, I had to include it. No one wants to fart in public, right? It’s not ladylike to smell like a sumo wrestler took a dump on a burning tire.

So when you feel one coming on, do a little pelvic tilt. You will now trap that fart in your vagina, where your labia will keep it nestled indefinitely.

 

What are your favorite beauty hacks?
You know I’m not kidding about wearing the clothes I slept in, right?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

2009pitchfork_freaks

 

“You HAVE to come with me next time!” my college BFF slurred drunkenly over the phone from Little Rock, Arkansas. She was having a musical epiphany at a 3-day festival and called to let me hear some obscure band play over her iPhone.

No, actually, I don’t. I don’t want to go anywhere where I contract hepatitis from a porta potty.

The Internet has killed the retail music industry. Now, we must spend a gazillion dollars travelling to festivals to hear obscure genres like “sock puppet poon tang” and “tropical beaty bop-pop-a-roonie”

Music festivals aren’t for people who actually like music. They’re for people who want to get chemically annihilated in a humongous crowd while trawling for similarly wasted sexual partners. People who eschew silly amenities like food and water to camp out in the mud for a week. People who like to experience music as tiny insects a mile away, performing songs you have to watch on a Jumbotron. Sort of like watching them on YouTube, only far less comfortable.

Here are some of the music festivals I WON’T be going to. EVER.

 

COACHELLA

After you sell a lung to pay the $1000 to get in, it’s only a 50 mile hike –  in a 150-degree California desert sandstorm – to the festival entrance.

If you actually want to see a band, be prepared to stand for 12 hours in the blistering heat. Just be prepared for the Douche Brigade to come muscling their way to the front at the last minute. The 6-foot dude in a velvet patchwork top hat will plant himself right in front of you. Natch.

Coachella is a great place to feel body-shamed, in case you don’t already have that hangup. People train ALL YEAR for their “Coachella bodies” so they can wear as little clothing as possible. It’s crawling with skinny models dressed in Urban Outfitter’s finest. Fashion is foremost to these fringe-laden, hula-hooping, drugged-out hipsters.

If you do opt for clothing, Native American is de rigueur, which is French for “I look like an asshole.” You may not see any bands, but you’ll see oodles of molly-stoned millennials in Navajo Indian headdresses groping each other.

 

 

BURNING MAN

“The Burn,” as its cult devotees refer to it, is not really a music festival. It’s a week-long art festival which allegedly provides spiritual enlightenment in an obscure corner of the Nevada desert.

Event promoters describe it as a “radical experiment in self-expression,” but it’s 70,000 loonytunes camping out in the desert while engaged in Bacchanalian drinking, drugging and sex. Newbies are greeted with “WELCOME HOME!!” by seasoned burners with names like “Captain Pajama Pants.”

Burning Man is the antithesis to Coachella’s gym-honed perfection. Here you get leathery old bare-assed hippies, ravaged by time and psychotropic drugs. Middle-aged, middle class men in particular love to drop their inhibitions and their pants at Burning Man, so be prepared for a veritable cornucopia of naked testicles drooping like turkey wattles.

If you ARE dressed, you must be in a costume. Otherwise some self-righteous druggie perv with herpes on his lip, dressed as the big rat from Chuck E Cheese, will lecture you on participation.

I’d love to trip balls in the desert and dance around dressed in nothing but a python and duct tape over my nipples, but I have a life, a kid and I job. I can’t pencil in a trip to the desert to get so high I shit myself.

The grand finale of this hippie-flavored shindig is the burning of the actual 60-foot wooden Burning Man. I enjoy a good orgasm of flames and destruction as much as the next pyro, but I’m not interested in being asphyxiated while 70,000 frenzied stoners perform the hippie version of a Ku Klux Klan rally.

Not if I have to sign a waiver that reads:
“I acknowledge and fully understand that as a participant, I will be engaging in activities that involve risk of serious injury, including permanent disability and death.”

 

 

ELECTRIC DAISY CARNIVAL

If you’re wondering who the hell listens to that soulless, inhuman, repetitive nonsense known as “EDM” (electronic dance music), they’re all here.

Electric Daisy Carnival is a souped up, super-size rave, for people who don’t realize that raves have been over for two decades. It was cool when it was an “underground secret warehouse” culture, but like anything else that’s been commercialized, it’s a ferocious, brutal appropriation conveniently adapted for mass consumption. It’s rave folklore packaged for your 14-year-old kid.

Electric Daisy Carnival is a stage in a parking lot, full of kids with suckers in their mouths and gas masks on, getting obliterated. For three days, the same three minutes of music plays on repeat. Teeny boppers sporting knee-high fake fur and tutus have no clue what they’re listening to. All they care about is taking selfies as they flash peace signs and make duck faces.

And then there are the “Bros.” The frat boys who once inebriated themselves to Dave Matthews Band are now wearing neon tank tops with “TURN UP” in block letters and careening around to Deadmau5. The ‘roided up bro culture loves aggressively loud music they can break into gorilla-ish fights to.

And the line up? It sounds like porn. All these DJs have sex-toy names. Max Enforcer, Dirtyphonics, Gigamesh, Delta Heavy. I don’t want to listen to music made by people who sound like menacing dildos.

The EDM industry is a music industry cash cow. They’re repackaging old techno as something new and selling it to an audience who doesn’t know any better. Of course the music sounds good when you’ve lined your nasal passages with pure crystallized MDMA. I could play “Gangnam Style” in a room full of EDM fans blown up on Molly,  and by the second verse I guarantee each and every one of them would be having the time of their lives. By the end of the song I could convince them it was actually a symbolic anthem regarding the struggle of a divided Korea.

You can do ingest all the drugs you want, but for fuck’s sake, don’t let those substances convince you that Electric Daisy Carnival is the event of a lifetime. You’re just ball-hair blasted and listening to a glorified Mrs. Pac-Man soundtrack.

 

Would you camp out in the woods at these events? What music festivals won’t you be attending? 
When did I get so old that these festivals are no longer fun? 
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

 

 

Join me on FacebookInstagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

lion-blog revised

 

Little Dude recently received the date for his bar mitzvah, which will be in November of 2016.

We’ve decided to fly 150 people to Africa to go on a Wildebeest Migration Safari on the Serengeti. For the ceremony, LD will arrive on the back of an elephant surrounded by authentic members of the Maasai tribe.

The tribal leader will cry out the opening lyrics to “The Lion KIng,”

“NANTS INGONYAMA BAGITHI,

SITHI UHM INGONYAMA!!!”

 

I’ve hired animal trainers to help reenact the opening scene to the movie. Little Dude will be dangled over a cliff by a wizened baboon as the rest of the animal kingdom bows to him.

From there, he’ll recite Hebrew prayers so we can return to rented huts for champagne and bagels.

 

Jk.

 

A bar (or “bat” for girls) mitzvah is a Jewish coming-of-age ceremony. It celebrates graduation from Hebrew school and marks a child’s emergence into the adult world of Judaism,

Blah blah blah… everyone knows it’s really all about THE PARTY!

 

A photo album is made, just like a wedding album.

This is a typical staged photo from a 1960’s bar mitzvah album:

WLnCEWg

“Son, today you are a man. I present to you this family treasure. Your Grandfather, myself and now you will enjoy these fine ladies. Go forth and MASTURBATE.”

 

 

I recently shared on Facebook that one of my students had a Sweet Sixteen which cost her parents over $60,000. She hosted 300 people at an upscale, celebrity-studded restaurant in Manhattan. Each of her two dresses cost about $2500.

Her parents even hired Fetty Wap to appear. Fetty Wap, which sounds like the act of slapping someone in the face with a flaccid penis, is actually a super hot rapper with a slew of hits.

Nicki Minaj wasn’t available. She was booked for a bar mitzvah that day.

 

nikki minaj 2

Rich Catholic boys everywhere are now converting to Judaism

 

 

The truth is, even if we were billionaires, it would not be my style to throw a million dollar bar mitzvah for my kid.

Okay. Hold up.

If we were BILLIONAIRES, I might splurge and pay to restore what used to be CBGBs, and is now a John Varvatos store, to its former seedy glory as CBGBs for the night. And have the party there.

The point I’m trying (and failing miserably) to make is that it’s ludicrous to throw such extravagant parties for children. It stinks of entitlement and conspicuous consumption.

And all that money! Instead of throwing a 4 hour party, you could feed an entire starving Ethopian village.

 

Multimillionaire David H. Brooks spent TEN MILLION DOLLARS for his daughter’s bat mitzvah. The party was dubbed, “Mitzvahpalooza,” because Brooks had a stage built, brought in jumbotrons, and installed special concert carpeting.

He hired old AF musicians Steven Tyler and Joe Perry from Aerosmith, The Eagles’ Don Henley and Joe Walsh, Fleetwood Mac’s Steve Nicks, and Tom Petty. And since this was allegedly a party for kids, he also hired DJ AM, Ciara, and 50 Cent.

Kenny G serenaded the guests on sax during cocktail hour.

Kenny FUCKING G? I would have had to get naked wasted to block out the soulless horse excrement that Kenny G passes as music.

I wasn’t even a little bit sad to read that five years later, Brooks was found guilty of insider trading. He was sentenced to 17 years in prison but I still think his biggest crime was hiring KENNY WANKING G.

 

 

A huge trend is creating elaborate videos for the bar mitzah invitation. This one I posted below is MORTIFYING. I HAD to share this with you. It went viral, which now completely ruins for me the entire concept of “going viral.”

I don’t believe in being judgey about how people spend their money, or especially about kids and how they look or sound.

HOWEVER – I hereby temporarily retract that belief.

This kid is a chubby tone-deaf ginger with a voice that sounds like someone tied rubber bands around his balls. The icing on this cake of shame is that he strips to almost naked at the end.

This video doesn’t fill me with Judaic pride. It makes me want to tie this dingleberry to a chair and shoot him repeatedly with a BB gun.

 

Look, I can appreciate that kids want to mark their Judaism in a passionate and creative way. But these over-the-top theatrics make a mockery of the religion.

And distastefully extravagant affairs, of all kinds, seem to be merely a show of affluence and pointless one-upmanship. They’re driven by parents who want to prove that they’ve “made it” and exploit their children’s rites of passage as the vehicle

 

 

Most families, upon receiving the bar mitzvah date a year in advance, start planning in a frenzy. The mothers in particular go crazy, not just interviewing caterers and florists and DJs but also booking face lifts and personal trainers.

I won’t be hiring strippers to pole dance around my kid at his bar mitzvah. I recognize that he’s been working hard, attending Hebrew school since he was 8. So it will still be a celebration of all that he’s accomplished. But not something I need to start planning a year in advance.

I have, however, been threatening – for years – to perform Napoleon Dynamite’s entire talent show dance in front of a crowd.

Little Dude’s bar mitzvah might be just the place.

 

What the hell is going on with these parties?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

 

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I’m also on Instagram

dog at table

My ex sister-in-law hated me on sight.

It wasn’t because she felt no one was good enough for her brother. She just hates everyone. She’s an equal-opportunity hater.

The first time I met her, I was dating my Ex and was invited to spend Thanksgiving at her house.

Thanksgiving 1999. I walked in and Bang! CHAOS.

She was flapping around the tiny kitchen, which smelled like a skunk fucking a burning tire. She was wild-eyed; furiously puffing on a Marlboro Red and screeching at her husband and two-teenage daughters. Her two dogs were barking incessantly. Nothing was even close to ready. Pots and pans were bubbling and threatening to boil over on the stove.

I enjoy cooking and I’m the kind of guest who walks in, rolls up her sleeves, and pitches right in.

“Can I help you in here?” I offered.

“NO!” she barked at me in her gravely, man-sounding smoker’s voice. You know, like frog bones in a blender?

“You don’t just THROW a meal like this together,” she snapped at me, waving her arms in a grand sweeping gesture over her kitchen. It was jam-packed full of junk normal people throw out. Hoarders, The Thanksgiving Edition.

She then proceeded to whip potatoes like they stole something from her. She set the bowl of mashed potatoes on the table WHERE IT SAT FOR THE NEXT THREE HOURS UNTIL WE ATE. At that point, it had one of those nice “protective coatings” on top, and tasted like hobo urine.

My ex’s sister, aka Satan’s daughter is not only the Queen of Mean, she’s manipulative, jealous, castrating, hypochondriacal, and LOUD.

I haven’t heard her husband talk in over 15 years. Her crazy has muzzled him to where he communicates in hand gestures.

She’s obsessive about her dogs. She refers to them as her “non biological” children, and demands that they be treated as such. She expects Little Dude to refer to them as “his cousins.” YES, SHE DOES.

She has closets full of clothes for them. They go to temple wearing Yarmulkes. As soon as one yappy, bitter little dog dies, she replaces it with another. She has a seemingly endless supply of tiny mentally ill dogs who NEVER STOP BARKING NOT EVER NEVER.

She is obsessed with Elvis Presley and her latest non biological child is named “Miss Elvis Presley.” It’s a girl dog, dressed in little pinafores, that she carries around town and refers to as “Miss Elvis Presley.” She doesn’t like you to shorten the name, either. When you refer to the dog, you have to say, “excuse me, but Miss Elvis Presley just took a shit on my living room rug.”

She will not go anywhere without them.

Well, she doesn’t go anywhere. She is chronically ill with some mysterious ailment that prevents her from leaving the house ever, unless Macy’s is having a one day sale. She has missed every important family occasion, including (I SWEAR TO GOD) her own daughter’s wedding. An enigmatic bowel affliction leaves her unable to get off the toilet.

Two years ago, when I was still married, we had Thanksgiving at my house. I love to host holidays. and my Ex  sister-in-law’s turkey tastes like sanitary napkins. She’d pick at my food and pretend not to like a thing I cooked. Then she’d pack enough leftovers to save a starving Ubangi village and stuff her face with them the next day. According to her husband, who told me in sign language, she licks her fingers and murmurs to herself the entire time she’s eating them.

That particular year, her beloved dog was dying. He was gravely ill with only days to live. She lives about 20 minutes from us, but refused to come to my house unless she could bring the sick dog.

I understood. I wouldn’t want my dog to die alone, either.

However once at my house she insisted that he join us, and laid him on a pillow under the dining room table. His eyes were jaundiced; his breathing ragged and irregular. He bleated like  Chewbecca having an aneurism.

I prayed to God that he would live, at least through the meal. “Please God, I beg of you, do not let this dog die under my Thanksgiving table in front of my 10-year-old. He will never get over it.”

We did our best to enjoy the meal, but it’s hard to really dig in and celebrate heartily when you’re housing an outtake from Pet Semetary. Thankfully, her doggie lived through the meal and the next day, he went to the Great Kennel in the Sky.

The last time we all got together for a family occasion was about a year ago. My two nephews, (well, technically the Ex’s nephews) were now grown and able to drink legally. These are the other sister’s kids, and they have always known their aunt was kamikaze crazy.

But now, we were able to create a drinking game around it. Yippee! Every time my ex sister-in-law said something bizarre, offensive, ridiculous – we had to take a drink of wine.

We. Got. Schmammered.

And had to go back to the liquor store THREE TIMES to buy more alcohol.

This year, I may host an open house for Thanksgiving. You’re all invited, provided you leave any dying pets at home.

Do you have a crazy in law? What’s the weirdest Thanksgiving you ever had?
Will you bring lots of dessert to my house for the holidays?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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