Reading Vanessa Gregoriadis' recent detailed article about Facebook on New York magazine, http://nymag.com/news/features/55878/ I was reminded how powerful social networks have become of late, and the pitfalls that have come with this new form of - let's face it - overexposure.
Last January, I was feeling a little frustrated by the fact that several pitches I'd sent to a number of publications in a certain geographical area had gone unanswered for longer than usual. One afternoon, I ran into a friend and then we had a few drinks together which caused me to lose some of my inhibitions.
Later that day, I made the mistake of logging into my Facebook account, where I left what I will call an off-color remark about what I was feeling at that moment.
Now, I had - like many before me - posted a few silly things on my account status to zero consequence whatsoever. I figured then that what I had written would be laughed at and dismissed as a silly rant. But to my surprise - some people took real offence.
Later that evening, I got a message from one of the editors I've worked with over the years. In it, this individual wrote that "this is not only incredibly immature, it is going to have the exact opposite effect that you intend. "
She added that "Facebook comments (not the appropriate place to try to do business), and so on are not going to get me caught up with e-mails any faster. In fact, they are going to make me want to answer yours, or give you assignments, last. I'm sorry you're frustrated with the speed at which I respond to you, but damaging our working relationship does neither of us any good."
This person along with a couple of others also immediately de-friended me and let me know why they'd done it. One of those wrote me that "not getting responses must be extremely frustrating, but being an editor and tackling the escalating demands of that job, while simultaneously dealing with free-lancers who constantly e mail, call, and generally add to the overwhelming feelings of pressure you already might be struggling with, is no picnic either."
Having realized how bad my blunder had been, I sent a direct email with an apology, but it was to no avail. Because of what I'd written (do NOT ask me to repeat it), a three-year working relationship was suddenly over, and has not been restored since. The worst of it was that I was not venting about anyone in particular, but things sadly ended up as they did.
Today, my status updates are pretty innocuous. Having been burned once, I learned that sometimes words you think are harmless can be truly hurtful. I haven't heard from my former friend since that day ,and every attempt of communication since have gone unanswered (I stopped trying after a few times - what is the point?), and although I recognize that what I wrote was wrong, I also think that this prolonged "silent treatment" is a bit over the top.
After all, we all make mistakes.
When I started this blog a few weeks ago, I saw it as an opportunity to try out the whole blogosphere thing in a low-key kind of way - I had already contributed pieces for different publications around the country - mostly the Miami New Times and The Houston Press, which both have daily blogs on music and the arts.
I was surprised when I got numerous comments on two pieces I wrote here - the first being a note on the arrest of a relative in Lawrence for gun posession, and the second an account of my last trip there in order to attend my grandfather's funeral - that one got a whopping 58 comments (there were more, but I flagged them) in just a few days.
I have since posted other pieces, but those didn't get much of a reaction - maybe because they had little or nothing to do with the city of Lawrence.
Now, I welcome any kind of commentary - especially critical ones. But what I got in some cases was nasty and borderline threat-like. One person went to great lenghts to go through my entire published history - and also my Facebook profile. I had no choice but to flag those posts and have them removed - I felt like I'd been stalked online.
On the other hand, there were also some comments that made me reflect on my own writing - for instance, one individual opposed a remark I'd made - I immediately realized it was inappropriate, and edited the original text in order to make it more palatable. I did more revisions on the same text every time someone pointed out something was unclear or too vague.
Looking at other articles published on the site, I noticed that some comments were completely thoughtless - almost as if the reader had been doing tequila shots before posting - for instance, I saw several posts on a piece on LJWorld that simply made fun of a reader who'd mispelled a couple of words - I mean, what exactly is someone trying to accomplish with that kind of thing?
When I leave a comment somewhere, I try to do something that is worthwhile, that people will react to (agreeing or not) in a positive manner in order to create a dialogue. Apparently, some use the Internet's anonimity shield to create bar brawls - even though they would never do that in real life...
It's been two decades since the Chinese government sent tanks to confront thousands of unarmed students who were protesting for more political liberty and democracy in their native country.
It is interesting to notice that because so many countries do business with China, not one pushed for sanctions against its communist government. Had it been, say, Castro, I am sure that there would have been an all-out invasion to depose those who ordered the massacre. But no, China means business and revenue. And so there is silence.
What a shame.
Interview with Vieux Farka Toure
Dengue Fever's Sleepwalking Through the Mekong, reviewed
Broward New Times
The Israeli Dance Festival, previewed
Beyond Race Magazine
Scott Feiner's Pandeiro Jazz Live At Smoke, reviewed
New York Press
Lower East Side Arts show, reviewed
Recent MSNBC broadcast on the case
Among all the bad news this week – beginning with the murder of Dr. George Tiller last Sunday, the tragedy of Air France flight 447 and the shooting of an off-duty African-American police officer by another (Caucasian) cop in New York, the one that sparked the most outrage was the new setback on the Goldman abduction case.
For those unfamiliar with what is going on – five years ago a Brazilian woman named Bruna Bianchi traveled to Brazil with her son with her New Jersey husband David Goldman. The trip was intended as a three-week vacation, but as soon as Bianchi arrived in her native Rio de Janeiro, she announced that she was not returning to the US. From Brazil, she got an unilateral divorce and got – from the Brazilian courts - for sole custody of the boy. In the meantime, David Goldman filed a petition in New Jersey to have Bianchi return to the US to resolve the matter as prescribed by the Hague Convention, which both countries have signed.
Back in Brazil, Bianchi remarried and became pregnant. Tragically, she died from complications after childbirth (how that happened at this day and age, I don't know). David Goldman has since intensified the fight to recover his son, but he has found fierce opposition from Bianchi's moneyed family and the connections that her husband, a well-known lawyer in Brazil, have with the Brazilian government.
Earlier this week, Federal justices in Brazil finally awarded David Goldman the right to have his son returned to the US with him, but then a senator from a minority political party (of course connected to Bianchi's family) filed an appeal to halt the current order based on the premise that the 9-year-old Sean has adapted to Brazil and has said that he does not want to come back to the US. Another argument is that since the kid has Brazilian citizenship (through his mom), he cannot be 'repatriated.'
The case now rests in the hands of the Brazilian Supreme Court justices.
What drives me nuts about Brazilian courts is that money talks louder than it does in the US. Had Bianchi's family been dirt-poor, this story would have been over a long time ago. But they are quite rich, even for US standards (for instance, their assets include a condo in the Jersey shore), so they have the means to fight this as long as they want. To make matters worse, Brazil's courts are seriously underfunded and overworked – which causes justice there to be served very, very slowly.
Let's hope that this setback is indeed the last one in this sad story.
It was with disgust that I learned about the murder of Dr. George Tiller last weekend in Wichita It made me remember of another slaying that happened here in New York about a decade ago,when Dr. Bernard Slepian was cowardly shot sniper-style by by a radical pro-life activist gone beserk. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barnett_...
I personally oppose to abortion by principle, but have no problem with laws that favor the act itself. Reason being that my views are strictly religious – and as far as I know, in this country the laws of the state have nothing to do with the laws of any specific religious organization. As Jesus said himself, “"Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor's, and to God the things that are God's." http://www.theworkofgod.org/Devotns/Euchrist/HolyMass/gospels.asp?key=145
Now, I think that abortion rights opposers can make all the noise they want in order to get what they want – go on TV, protest in front of clinics, lobby their congressmen – after all, they are exercising their constitutional freedoms just as the doctors are exercising theirs. But when they begin resorting to violence it is just plain wrong, no matter how you look at it.
Now one might say that clinical abortions are acts of violence performed against the unborn – but the fact remains that such procedures are protected by Roe Vs. Wade, so whatever one might think – they are protected by law, no matter what you might think about it. If the suspected murderer is convicted and then sentenced to death, the more vocal Right-To-Life activists might want to call him a martyr and a hero. If they do so, they will at last lose my respect once and for all.
“I just don't get it,” Karen said as she wondered about her musical tastes. “How can I be so hooked by Bossa Nova while still loving the music of George Michael?”
The year was 1996. Karen and I were sitting at a beachfront restaurant in Fortaleza, a city in northeastern Brazil where we both resided. We had been going out for a few months, and as college students we had very little time on our hands. Whatever chance we got, we would either watch a film on video or hang out at the beach - which would almost always end up with a torrid lovemaking session, a delightful routine that began after about half a year into the relationship.
At the time, neither of us had exactly eclectic musical tastes. I was – and still am - a huge fan of the blues of Eric Clapton, B.B. King and Stevie Ray Vaughan, while she was going through a dedicated phase of discovery of bossa nova and everything that had to do with it, going from the creation of the rhythm in the hands of Jobim, Joao Gilberto, Roberto Menescal and a few others who got together and revolutionized the sound of Brazil, blending the sophistication of cool jazz with the spontaneity of samba and achieving monumental success around the globe.
In Brazil, bossa had been - at first - a little more than a passing fad that was almost on the way out until American guitarist Charlie Byrd toured the country and discovered the beat. Over a quick session with saxophonist Stan Getz they recorded what was to become Samba Jazz, and shortly after came the historic Getz/Gilberto recording that would earn multiple Grammy awards and turn Astrud Gilberto into a star in her own right thanks to the single mix of “The Girl from Ipanema,” which pretty much obliterated Joao Gilberto's Portuguese-language vocals, which made what would be a mildly successful jazz CD into a major hit that resonates to this day.
Back in the mid-90s, George Michael was still best known for hits like “I Want Your Sex” and “Freedom '90,” and even though it was obvious to many that he was a gay man, some female fans still looked at him with dreamy eyes – his scandalous bathroom arrest (to which he would later respond with the video “Outside”) had not yet happened, and since the release of Listen Without Prejudice he had been enjoying a lot of success around the world despite having an aversion to touring – a characteristic that is too common among Brit musicians (maybe excluding Eric Clapton).
Karen was just as obsessed with George Michael as she was with Bossa Nova – her collection even included his discs with Wham and a handful of hard-to-find bootlegs, which only compared with her carefully guarded CDs of Jobim, Vinicius de Morais, Chico Buarque, Nara Leao, Miucha and others – it was something that she couldn't explain and simply didn't understand, and she was just wondering about it as we relaxed at Biruta, a youth-oriented beach bar we had always favored.
Karen always prized intellectuality over her looks. A tall, dark Brazilian woman with long, black hair,full lips and inquisitive brown eyes, she was the kind of girl who looked down on any woman who used her looks for leverage. To this day, she rarely wears any makeup to work as an effort to tone down any attractiveness that might overshadow her academic training
“ I just don't get it,” she insisted. “George Michael has nothing to do with bossa, and I love his music – is there something wrong with me?”
“I don't think so,” I said in response. “You can have diverse musical tastes, there's nothing wrong about liking more than one style – I mean, look at your relationship with northeastern rhythms – is there any rhyme or reason for that?”
“But at least there is a connection,” she responded with the same kind of vehemence that she used whenever she wanted to prove a point. “Bossa nova was created by Joao Gilberto, who is a northeastern guy, so at least the roots are the same.”
At the time, I didn't have a reply, but now I do: the simple syncopated beat of the forrozeiros (who have since been discovered by international audiences) is the music of the people – bossa is made by virtuosos who read music and have the kind of musical education that is beyond the reach of many of those musicians in Pernambuco or Ceara.
She still couldn't contain herself, and between sips of caipirinha, she would mutter about her musical ambiguity, which was beyond her understanding. As we were leaving for my beat-up 1979 VW, a strange version of “Corcovado” began to play on the restaurant's loudspeakers --- it seemed to be some electronica-inflected, deformed version of the classic tune with a jaded female voice taking the lead. I recall how we shrugged and left, wondering who had committed such an atrocity.
The following morning, I was browsing through a music store in Fortaleza's upper-class midtown area (those were the days before digital downloads came to exist) when I came across an album called Red Hot & Rio, a charity album put together by The Red Hot Organization to bring awareness to HIV/AIDS in Brazil. Among the participants were Chico Science (one of the creators of the Mangue Beat, who sadly passed away a week before the disc came out), Marisa Monte, David Byrne, Milton Nascimento, Sting and others.
Among the surprises on the disc was Everything But The Girl, who turns out was the group who had recorded the version of “Corcovado” that we heard at the beach, and a recording of “Desafinado” in a duet featuring Astrud Gilberto and... George Michael, who had shed his sensual dance chops to sing - in Portuguese, no less – in a soft bossa nova voice.
I could not contain myself, and I immediately purchased the disc and called Karen on the phone. I played the disc, but she could not figure out who the voice belonged to, and tried to guess a few times until she finally gave up. I drove over to her place and handed the disc over to her without the sleeve, and she was as puzzled as ever, until I mentioned our conversation from the day before. She gave me a puzzled look, and as she opened her lips she said, “George Michael?” almost in disbelief. She could not believe that the two musical things she loved the most had – quite unlikely – come together.
The tune was a departure for him. Gone were all the synths and beats – he sang bossa with the same respect that Sinatra gave the genre on his 1967 album with Jobim. He would repeat that approach on Older , Songs From The Last Century (a criminally overlooked disc) and during his MTV Unplugged set – by discovering Brazilian music, he changed the focus of his career (with the cost of losing some of his dance music-loving fans), often flirting with jazz, as heard “How Do You Keep The Music Playing?”, his magical duet with Tony Bennett in 2006. At the time, however, this was almost unheard of. I still remember the look on Karen's face as she spun the song, still unable to register that her favorite singer had gone bossa.
As for myself, Red Hot & Rio was like a gateway into the world of bossa nova, a genre that I was yet to discover and later master. Back then, I did not understand its sensibilities, and the bossa resurgence was still a few years away. Today, Oscar Castro-Neves, Joao Gilberto, Jobim and others have – through their music, at least – become good friends who I rely on from time to time, and who have helped me in my musical path.
With Memorial Day behind us (the weather was great in New York, but has since deteriorated), we start focusing on the summer activities – in the meantime, there is a lot of turmoil going on --- today, the New York Times did a feature on the battle over Proposition 8 in California – two lawyers who were at opposing ends during the Bush-Gore debacle almost a decade ago have joined forces to try and overturn the law that made same-sex marriage illegal in that state. According to that piece, David Boies and Theodore B. Olson have set their political differences aside to fight together for something they believe is right. And by the way, so do I. http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/28/us/28marriage.html?_r=1&hp
I have also just learned that there has been a dramatic shift in the Goldman case in Brazil. According a report on O Globo newspaper, a prosecutor there has given an official opinion that Sean Goldman – who was illegally taken to Brazil by his mother about five years ago – belongs with his father, now that the mother has passed. The Brazilian family has been battling to keep the boy in Brazil – but the battle is definitely not over --- If you haven't heard about the case, here is a good resource: http://riogringa.typepad.com/my_weblog/the-goldman-files.html
Finally, I am happy to announce that I have started a blog with musings, short stories and some more material – it's a low-key thing that I have done in order to stretch my creativity and also to post things of mine that are outside of the realm of music and arts --- I have posted a few thoughts there, and there has been a lot of controversy – the blog is hosted by a newspaper in Lawrence,KS, where I have relatives. If you ask me what the blog is about, I'd quote Seinfeld and say that is really about nothing specific... Check it out at http://www2.ljworld.com/weblogs/newyorkmusic/
Anyway, here are the goodies for this week:
Mariachi Real de San Diego, reviewed
Cedric Burnside & Lightin; Malcolm perform in Houston
Broward New Times
It was a Tuesday night when my phone rang. It was my father, with whom I had not spoken for more than three years. When I heard his somber tone over the line, I knew exactly what it was.
My grandfather had died.
I couldn't say that he went too soon. At 39, I was one of few people my age who still had a living grandparent. He had been suffering from dementia for quite some time (a condition accelerated by my grandmother's death four years before), and was being looked after at an assisted-living facility in Lawrence, a Kansas state town just an hour west of Kansas City.
I felt that it was my duty as a grandson to fly to out to Kansas to pay my last respects to my paternal grandfather – even if that meant having to be in the same physical space occupied by my estranged father.
Things had never been good between my father and I. As somebody born right before the boomers came into the picture, he was raised by strict parents and was expected to do as he was told. He rebelled and became a rocker in the late fifties, but in the end he at heart a small-town boy unable to deal with the changes that swept society in the sixties. By then, he was pursuing a degree and looking to settle down as far away as possible from his folks.
But he grew up to become his own worst nightmare. He had become his own parents with the wrong expectations for kids growing up and coming of age in the 80s.
As for my parents' relationship, I must say that they were a mismatch from the start. My mother was a beauty queen brought up among the socialites of her northeastern Brazilian town of Fortaleza, with a large circle of friends that included journalists, doctors, writers and other faces that would often graced their local papers' society columns.
My father, on the other hand, was a small-town guy who favored hanging out with his high school buddies, drinking beer and watching ball games on TV . He wanted a wife that would look after him, cook and take care of the house – a woman he could control, but instead he married a free spirit who was not at all easy to get along with.
When they finally split after two bitter and quite unexplainable decades together, my father quickly married another Brazilian woman – a shy, small-town lady almost twenty years his junior with little or no personal ambition except getting a rich man to take care of her financial needs. Unlike my mother, who went on to get a masters degree in literature, this woman wanted nothing more than shop at Wal-Mart and clean up after my dad while having three kids in rapid succession.
It was little surprise when – without previous notice - he left for Kansas (a place he said he hated) a few years later, cutting off most communication with myself and my kid sister. That didn't affect me much, as I was already a grown man with little attachment to him, but it really disturbed my sister, who was instantly transformed from daddy's little diamond to a piece of trash for falling out of his favor after she'd gotten into some personal trouble.
In the winter of 1999, I was living in Brazil working as an ESL teacher while also studying for a bachelor's degree in literature. In January of that year, I had a month's vacation (those were the good old days) and went with my Brazilian girlfriend on a trip to New York City, where years later I would reside.
During that vacation – the first we'd taken together - we received an unexpected invitation via a late-night phone call to our New York City hotel to fly to Lawrence, KS to visit my grandparents (who I hadn't seen in more than a decade due to escalating family feuds). So it was that halfway through our visit, we took a plane to Kansas, where we met my grandparents – who were pushing 80 but were still healthy and active - at Kansas City airport.
It was a pleasant trip. During our four-day stay, we saw all the places I had no memory of having seen my whole life , since my parents had moved out of the area when I was still a toddler. We reluctantly spent a day with my father's new family, which consisted of his two kids and very pregnant wife, all parties doing their best not to step on each others' toes during those few hours. Paying close attention to the old adage that said that visitors and fish both start to smell after three days, we returned to New York after four, and while we were in Kansas we stayed in a hotel in the outskirts of town.
During the next few years (especially after relocating to NY), I talked to my grandparents over the phone whenever I could, and lamented the fact that they were moving from their longtime home to an assisted-living facility – I knew the inevitable end was coming. In May 2004 as I took a lunch break from my job at a Queens ESL school, I turned on the phone and noticed that there was a voice message. To my surprise, it was my father's voice – I hadn't spoken to him in four years. In a very casual tone, he let me know that my grandmother was gone. Just like that. Over a voice message. I couldn't believe it.
Sitting in the lounge at the school, I just blurted out, “my grandmother died.” Clearly, everyone thought I was joking. I just felt paralyzed. Just two days earlier, I had a nice conversation with her over the phone. Now she was gone.
Back then I was unable to fly to Kansas for financial reasons – I was going through a divorce - but this time around I was doing well enough to fly out there, book a hotel for a night and fly back the next day.
I called my father to let him know I was coming and to ask for details on the arrangements. He was actually surprised to hear that I was coming, but didn't sound happy to hear the news.
“You don't have to do, this you know,” he said in a very sarcastic tone.
“I missed my grandma's funeral, I feel like I should not miss this one,” I replied, trying to sound as natural as possible.”
“Well, suit yourself,” he said, almost disturbed by the notion of actually having to meet me. “I'll give you a call with the details later.”
That night I was supposed to attend a concert at the Blue Note jazz club in Manhattan, but I just was unable to do so, even though I thought that I would be honoring my grandfather's memory in doing so – he loved jazz. Instead, I called the club to inform them that I was not going to make it (I had reservations) and instead stopped at The Cargo Cafe – a small jazz joint a block away from my Staten Island apartment – and listened to a small combo as I slowly sipped a double scotch and lost myself in memories.
On Friday morning, there was a message on my phone – it was my father, letting me know details about the services and giving me instructions on how to get to Lawrence from Kansas City airport. The funeral would be on the following Wednesday, so I quickly booked an early morning ticket and also a room at an inexpensive hotel in town – something not hard to find there.
I hadn't seen my father for about six years, but I hoped that the grief we were both sharing would at least thaw things between us for the few hours we'd be in the same physical space, but the few contacts we had on the phone hinted that things would not be that way. It would be a rough ride, but – what the hell – I was ready to face it for Grandpa.
My Polish-born wife asked me if I wanted her to accompany me to the services, but I chose to go it alone – I expected that things would be bad there, and the last thing I wanted was to have her see how dysfunctional my family was – we had only been together for a short time, the last thing you want is to cause a bad impression on a new bride.
Specially when she has an accent and you know that your father will pick on her.
I woke up early that Wednesday morning, heading to LaGuardia airport in Queens. I made it to Kansas City in a few hours, and just in time for the funeral services in Lawrence. It was a freezing January day – around 18 degrees or so, but since there was very little humidity, it was somehow bearable to be outside.
There I met with distant cousins I had not seen in a long time – a few for the very first time, which made for an awkward experience - “nice to meet you” and smiles at a funeral were a bit too much for me, but I politely shook my father's hand, and his wife and kids received me like an estranged friend coming in a mission of peace - which made me feel somewhat welcome.
After some small talk we all headed to the cemetery, where some chairs were set under a canopy. A minister said a few words, and an elderly WW2 Veteran presented my dad with a US flag in recognition to my grandfather's service (he was in the Navy during that conflict). I felt bad for him, since he looked like the temperature was causing him some suffering. A few moments later, it was all over – no reception was planned, which I thought was rude – some relatives had traveled from Colorado, Miami, Texas and (me) New York, and all we had to do was head back home after some considerable expense.
I hitched a ride with my cousin to downtown Lawrence, where I was supposed to meet with the editor of the local paper (a writer is always hustling!) for a quick interview, which was pretty much uneventful. Across the street was this Mexican restaurant, and it was then I realized that I'd had nothing to eat. I grabbed a bite and returned to my hotel, where I briefly rested and talked on the phone both with my current and ex-wives, who were both curious about how things had gone down. Shortly after that, my father called inviting me to dinner – something he'd been pressed to do by his cousins and brother, who were all pissed at him for not holding a reception after the services.
My uncle picked me up in one of his many sports cars and we drove to the local Applebees, where I proceeded to order a margarita. I was in no mood for eating, because I knew what was coming. And I had better have a few in my head before that came around. At the table were my father, his wife (who by now looked like a sucked lemon) and his three kids – one of them who I had never met. We chewed the fat for a brief period, and then my father came out with one of his infallible gestures:
“It's very considerate of you to come all this way for the funeral, and I am sure that your grandfather would have appreciated that,” he said with no irony in his voice. He then paused for a second, and blurted: “but don't come back – it's not like we like having you around.”
He had apparently drunk a few by the time I reached the restaurant. My uncle quickly intervened, and diplomatically stated that he was more than happy to have me around.
“And oh, about your expenses coming here...”
I immediately cut him off. “It's all right, I'm OK – it's the least I could have done.”
He looked around uncomfortably, unprepared to have his magnanimous moment taken away from him. His wife bravely changed the subject, and asked about my sister, who was at the time starting a dog-walking business in New York. But soon the mood turned somber again.
Without much to say, my father turned to me and said, coldly: “I don't like you, you know?”
“Why is that,” I asked.
“Because you wrote a negative review of my book.”
About ten years ago, my father – ever the frustrated writer - self-published (under a pseudonym) a trashy, bitter book about life in Brazil where he described all women as whores, all businessmen as corrupt while singing the praises of beer and cachaca. I got a hold of it and wrote a very negative review that was picked up by Amazon.com – apparently, I hurt his sales badly, and now the tome is only available on demand.
Had he written a critical book about Brazil that was any good, I would have published a positive review, but the fact was that his book was garbage, and that was exactly what I told him to his face at the table, almost a decade later.
He just turned and said, “You go to hell”
I smiled and said, with all the sarcasm I could: “Guess I will meet you there then.”
And that was that.
I ended the night watching a TV show the hotel's TV while eating a pre-prepared salad and drinking some wine that I'd purchased from a nearby store. The next day, I woke up early and headed to the airport, where I resumed my normal life.
As someone who suffers from seasonal allergies (avoiding medication as much as possible - everything makes me drowsy), I can't help but relate to this. Changes in the weather affect me a lot. Just recently, I had to excuse myself from a concert because I could not stop sneezing, and of course everyone around me was giving me dirty looks --- and that was before the whole Swine Flu thing.