Friday, November 10, 2006

At This Very Moment

It marvels me to think that any this very moment, somewhere...

... someone is being born
... someone is dying
... love is being made
... love is being lost
... someone is awakening
... someone is sleeping
... wealth is being made
... wealth is being lost
... someone is laughing
... someone is crying
... a shoe is being put on
... a shoe is being taken off
... someone is talking
... someone is listening
... a flower is blooming
... a flower is doomed

At this very moment, whatever we can think of, it is happening, somewhere.

Existence is marvelous!

Friday, October 13, 2006


I am born! I am born!
I can't talk or walk
I have until one

I am one! I am one!
I can't read or write
I have until four.

I am four! I am four!
I can't play the piano well
I have until ten.

I am ten! I am ten!
I can't shop on my own
I have until forteen.

I am forteen! I am forteen!
I can't drive a car
I have until sixteen.

I am sixteen! I am sixteen!
I can't have a glass of wine
I have until nineteen

I am nineteen! I am nineteen!
I don't have my degree
I have until twenty-five

I am twenty-five! I am twenty-five!
I am not yet the boss
I have until thirty

I am thirty! I am thirty!
I am not debt-free
I have until forty

I am forty! I am forty!
I don't have a million
I have until fifty-five

I am fifty-five! I am fifty-five!
I haven't travelled the world
I have until ninety-five

I am ninety-five! I am ninety-five!
I don't have much time
I have until I die

I die! I die!
I have eternity.

Monday, September 18, 2006

All in the Mind

Today I put into action something I have longed to do for a long time, but have been unable to.

I try to be happy everyday, but as a human being, I am not immune from being unhappy at times. The problem is that when I am unhappy, everyone around me becomes unhappy along with me. That is due, in no uncertain terms, to no one else but me. When I am unhappy I emit negative facial expressions, negative words and negative mannerisms in general. This negativity affects everyone in my path.

Of course, the next day, whatever was bothering me the day before would inevitably seem inconsequential. Things would either work themselves out or I would work through them in my mind. This would make me feel guilty about having made everyone around me feel unhappy the day before.

Today, I moderated my mind - to smile when I came home to greet my wife and son, to give Khiem a kiss in the kitchen, to listen to Justin's stories from school - despite having had a very rough day myself. When they saw me smile, they smiled; I got a kiss back; I heard moving stories from the playground full of excitement. That in turn, made me smile. We all had a great evening.

It's all in the mind.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Who Else I Might Have Been and Could Still Be?

I could still be whoever else I might have been.

I remember telling my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Mulligan, that I loved music and computers, and that when I grew up, I wanted to do both. Mr. Mulligan's response was, "John, you can be whatever your heart desires!" That really made my day and I live by that everyday.

I could have been a musician because I remember being good at it - I entered grade 11 strings in grade 9 playing the double bass, and played in the all-city orchestra for four years. But, the call of technology was just too great at the time and I followed that half of my then dream. Today, I find myself contemplating piano lessons at the Royal Conservatory of Music.

The phrase, "I could still be whoever else I might have been" does not mean I could still be anyone (although I'm sure I could be a fraction of anyone if I put my mind to it). To me, it means I could still be anyone I aspired being but have not become. That aspiration often stemmed from childhood but does not have to be.

Before becoming a realtor in 2001, I dabbled in real estate as a user and investor of real estate. Dabbling is a word I equate to hacking in the technology world. I hacked at real estate. I aspired to be a realtor but hummed and hawed until I decided one day to just do it and registered for the first course and then the next and the next. I've now been practicing for five years and loving it. However, I find myself hacking at the law. I'm very knowledgeable in real estate law, but it's far from the knowledge a lawyer would have. I'm humming and hawing...

I have dreamed all my life of at least being able to read Chinese (to write would be a bonus) and to speak Mandarin. I have to admit, I have not had the will-power to take that first step towards this daunting task. This fall I will register for a Mandarin class at the University of Toronto.

I am very blessed and extremely grateful to have a wife who cooks for me. I thank her after every meal, but wouldn't it be great if I could cook a decent meal for her, for once? This desire is hampered by the fact that she won't let me in the kitchen (probably because I'm such a terrible cook). That cooking certificate at George Brown College looks tempting...

Then, there's that book I aspire to write...

Can I go back and wish for more hours in a day?!!

For more vibrant thoughts on this subject, visit Sunday Scribblings.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

"My Dad Is Stronger Than Your Dad"

Watching the tragic situation between Israel and Hezbollah reminds me of primary school days in the 80's. In the playground, I occasionally witnessed exchanges between kids about how each's father is stronger or better in some way than the other's father, or variations thereof, escalating until both fathers gain superduper-indestructible-godlike-hero status. I guess the big difference is that after a few of these exchanges, one or both of the kids would end up saying "whatever!" and go back to playing tag or catch or whatever they were playing together (ok, ok, I have to admit, sometimes bunches were thrown).

A similar conversation between Israel and Hezbollah in the playground called Lebanon today might be something like this:

Hezbollah: Oh yah, if you take my people, I'm going to take your soldiers!
Israel: Oh Yah! Well, I'm going to bomb you till you can't take my people anymore!
Hezbollah: Oh YAH! Go ahead and try. I'm going to bomb you back!!
Israel: OH YAH!! I don't care. I have bigger and more bombs than you!!
Hezbollah: OH YAH!!! I'm going to bring my friends and then watch out, you bully!!!
Israel: No, you are the bully - you started first!!!!
Hezbollah: No! You started first!!!!
Israel: NO! You did!!!!!
Hezbollah: NO!! You did!!!!
Israel: You!!
Hezbollah: You!!
Israel and Hezbollah at the same time: NO, YOU!!!! Kaboom!!!

Friday, July 14, 2006


baggage on me mind
baggage hold me down
down me baggage hold
me no baggage more

sunday scribblings

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

When Will It All End?

When will the world understand that this is 2006, not BC 2006? With so many thousands of years of history, one would think that man would learn to stop mercilessly killing one another. Train bombings, air strikes, planes into occupied buildings, live burials, beheadings, wife killings, and on and on. Have people gone mad? Why are some so entrenched in a believe that nothing else and no one else matter?

Perhaps the universe by its very nature is violent. After all, it began with a Big Bang. Could it be that some of this energy has carried forward to life? I am too afraid to think of the consequences if the violence ends. Will the universe end too, if violence ends? Could the universe end the same way it was born? With a Big Bang?

Too many perhapses and too many questions.

Just one more: when will it all end?

Sunday, June 25, 2006


Last Sunday, I had the pleasure of watching Justin's piano recital. All the kids who performed were great. And, I'm certain all the parents who watched were greatly anxious! As I watched the fast fingers on the grand piano and the parents' eyes fixated and intent, a dark image came to my mind.

I saw a sick man in his dying bed, next to a grand piano. The man had a life-long passion with music and the piano, and specifically, with his son performing the piano. On the one side of the bed is an oscilloscope beeping faintly as the green lifeline spikes to a dignified largo. The son sits by the grand piano and plays his magic, tears in his eyes and sweat down temple. He must play, for this is his father's final wish. He must play. He must play well.

The movement of the notes flashes a life's memories through the man's mind. Each up and each down brings a quicker and shorter breath. Each panting brings more tears to the son's eyes. He must play. He must play well.

As the music climaxes, the man's breathing crescendos to a muted forte in prestissimo. On the last note, the green lifeline rests.

The audience applauds and I'm back in the hot recital room.

More music: Sunday Scribbings

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Spaceship Bed

To spaceship bed

Destined tonight
To colour

Time comes to us
Takes us

Passes through
With all the fuss

Nothing ahead
Makes any

Gladly served
On spaceship bed

For more Bed stories visit: Sunday Scribblings

Tuesday, June 13, 2006


The nurse motioned the young woman to one of the empty cribs, in the large and dimly lit hospital room. The young woman, arms cradling her baby, walked slowly to the crib, still feeling the pain from labour. As she walked through the room, holding her baby tightly against her frail body, her physical pain was not on her mind. She could only think of what she was about to do and wished she didn't have to do it.

In front of the crib, the young woman leaned over the edge and carefully laid her new-born daughter, wrapped in a red blanket, onto the mattress inside the crib. Eyes filled with the silent tears of a heart-broken mother, she took a long look at her baby. She hoped the moment would never end. She wanted to pick the child back up and run as far as she could away from the hospital and away from the city, but she knew very well that would ruin both her and her daughter's lives, rather than saving both. An unmarried mother of a daughter who looks neither Chinese nor Vietnamese would not fair too well in a war-torn Vietnam. Both would be chastised.

The young woman turned and began to walk back to the direction of the nurse to finish off the paper work. As she did she was almost certain she heard her baby cry out for her. Little did she know, that baby would cry out for her her entire life.

I can only imagine that was what transpired when my wife was given up for adoption. The mystery of her biological roots has plagued her entire existence. Being given up by one's own mother, I imagine is very, very difficult. I find myself consoling my wife on many occasions when self-doubt, then anger at her selfish mother creeps into her system.

My wife's mystery is a fact of her life that has become a fact of my and son's lives.

If only there was a GoogleGenetics - that would redefine the phrase, "let me google myself"...

For more mysteries: Sunday Scribblings

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Earliest Memory

It is very difficult to pinpoint my earliest memory. The timeline for my earliest memories is a bit blurry, interlaced amongst the time my family spent living in my grandparents' house, living in a room in a rooming house and living in an all-metal one-bedroom bungalow.

One of the first homes I ever lived in was actually a room in a rooming house somewhere in Saigon, before the war was over. The laneway where the rooming house was located was safe enough for a small child to play, because I remember playing there. I remember playing with a table tennis paddle (probably chasing and waving off flies). A little dog came to greet me wagging his tail and barking, probably wanting to play as well. I'm not sure what was going through my mind, but at that momemt, I had the crazy urge to whack this poor little dog's behind with the paddle in my hand. I actually remember doing this. The next thing I remember however, was waking up on the counter in some shop, with my terrified mother and a few other adults standing over me. I don't remember crying or any pain, but do remember being scared, seeing the concerned adult stares.

I would later learn that the dog had bitten me in the face. I fainted. My mother instinctively carried me to the nearest Chinese medicine shop. The folks in the shop admistered a pain killer (morphine, I think) to the bite wound to stop any pain and other medicines to prevent infection. I don't think anything could have stopped my mother's pain at that moment. I can't imagine what must have gone through her mind given she had lost an earlier child (my elder brother) to illness. Sorry mom.

I will release one more unhappy memory before I move on to more happy ones. I'm not sure if it was in that rooming house or the all-metal one-bedroom bungalow my parents moved to next, because the rooms seemed similar. I remember one night being very sick and feeling very cold from high fever. I sensed my parents frantically trying to make me comfortable, with medicines, a thermostat, and wet towels to wipe me down.

The feeling I had that night was very distinctive and I will never forget it, and I've never had it ever since. I don't even know if I can properly describe it with words. I certainly have not tried to write it down until now. The feeling was as if my head was entirely engulfed by an all-encompassing sense of fullness. My mouth felt like it was filled with a large solid block, making it difficult to close. My entire body felt like it was embraced from the inside-out. I don't remember feeling any pain but I was definitely overwhelmed and possibly uncomfortable.

Looking back I can only attribute the feeling to hallucination from the fever, but who can really be certain?

I can remember some very happy memories, especially when we lived in my grandparents' house. There was no electricity to the house. So, in the evening, my parents would light oil laterns hanging from the exposed wooden ceiling beams. We obviously had no television, but my parents were equipped with a harmonica, a mandolin and their voices. Both my parents could play the harmonica and my father could play the mandolin. At times, my father would play one of the instruments and my mother would sing classic Chinese oldies from their childhood, and at other times, they would play duets. I remember slowly falling asleep on the bed that we shared, head resting on mother's lap, savouring the feeling of utter comfort, as I watched the swaying and flickering lantern and listened to my parents make music, admidst the chattering sound of bullets showering on distant rooftops and the rainless thunder of war instruments further into the distance.

If I had to guess, the very earliest memory in my mind is probably the time my parents brought me to visit my mother's elder sister, whose family was wealthy and had a black and white television. I believe I was probably about 2 years old. I remember seeing a lady with a baby and a cat sitting on a chair in the television set. The cat suddenly moved onto the ground and out of view. I remember being disappointed and moved right up to the TV screen. I tried in vain to find the cat, trying to look into the screen, thinking the moving pictures were real. My aunt's second of three daughters came up to me and asked if I could see the cat. I shook my head. She laughed.

Thanks to Sunday Scribblings for 10 writing prompts that have encouraged me to write more than I would otherwise. And, thanks to Jamie's blog for initially inspiring me to go there.

Friday, May 26, 2006

First Love

"Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment
Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie."

I found the above lyrics, part of an 18th century French song by J.P.A. Martini, which I learned in elementary school, to be very fitting for this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt.

This week, I would like to share a poem I wrote a number of years ago that I feel pretty much sums up my thoughts on my "first love":

Our Box of Haunting Memories
Our box lies temptingly there.
No, I can't.
Haunting memories will return.
Oh, I must.
Those browning photographs.
Just this once.
The thoughtful greeting cards.
Here I go.
Beautiful images come to life.
There she is.
She was sitting by the fountain.
By my side.
Reflections of her moonlit face.
Oh, so sweet.
Birthdays, Christmases, Valentines.
My heart stops.
Tears were in her lovely eyes.
I awake.
Haunting memories in my mind.
She is gone.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

I Salute Parents With Kids At War

This past Monday, my son Justin was accidentally hit on the forehead by a hardball, while playing catch with his buddy. My heart sank when I first lay eyes on the huge, blackish bump on his head. My heart sank further when I saw Justin sobbing from the pain. As a parent, I don't want to see my child go through any pain what-so-ever. I am all too aware that bumps and bruises are a necessary part of growing up, because I (we all) have been through them. Justin will be a better catcher because of the accident. Nonetheless, as a parent, it's very hard to bear. I can't imagine what it must be like for a parent to have to see a son or daughter at war, whether on enemy ground fighting for the freedom of others or in a hospital bed battling the enemy within. The unbearability those parents endure must be thousands time more than what I felt on Monday.

I salute all parents with kids at war.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Three Wishes

I truly believe anyone who wishes for something they need should be granted those wishes. Often a wish equates to a want, and let's face it - wants are insatiable.

As for me, I don't have much, but I am comfortable because I seem to have everything I need - a small but cosy home, a beautiful wife, a wonderful son, loving parents, a great brother and an amazing group of friends.

I really don't need to wish for any more for I am grateful for all I have, so the best I can come up with are these three wishes:

1. I wish to those around me continue to be well.
2. I wish to take my career to the next level.
3. I wish all of my nine-year-old son's wishes will come true, which at last check were, as written by Justin himself:

"If I had three wishes i would wish for world peace,a genie so i could wish for more wishes and i will use the last wish for a white grand piano!_!"

I will have to talk to the boy about being too greedy...

For Sunday Scribblings.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

The Books I Would Write...

I'm very grateful to Sunday Scripplings for inspiring me to write every week, albeit this week a little off the Sunday mark.

The other sources of inspiration are the people around me. In my profession, I get to meet people from all walks of life. This is why I love what I do. If and when I were to contemplate writing a book (forget about "books" for now - just "a book" would be a dream!), I would write about the struggles of the people who have crossed my path. I would give a voice to the voiceless. I would shine a light on those who find themselves living in the shadows. I would derive and share the inspiration from those who seem to shine brightly.

The book would not be about me, but perhaps I can find a little bit of me in the stories of those around me.

I recently met a lady I'll call Ms. H., who is a widowed mom of five children. Ms. H. finds herself living in a government housing complex raising her five children. She is a loyal worker for meager wages. She looks beautiful at fifty-something. At a recent birthday dinner for a friend, she conjured up the strength to be the happiest person alive. She laughed and laughed, and drank and drank. However, deep inside, she was thinking about her husband; her children and their future; her future. Ms. H., tell me about you and how you derive your strength... I want to know everything.

I met Mr. N. some time ago. Mr. N. is a builder with a checkered past. Through the testimony from his friends, he is a changed man; a family man. Mr. N. is someone who will say whatever is on his mind, sometimes to his own detriment. He is a loyal friend, his new gang of friends will assert. He is often misjudged, but he is who he is. Mr. N., tell me about you, your old gang of friends, and how you left your checkered past...

I have met individuals whose families have "made it big". They give me inspiration of a more materialistic sort. I want to write about their struggles, their history and how they they became.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

My Shoes

Sunday Scribblings...

Coincidentally, my wife bought me a new pair of beige shoes this past week to match a new beige shirt she also bought me! (I know; she's wonderful!) I wore them for the first time showing some homes this past weekend. I always take off my shoes when entering a home, unless instructed not to or the floors are unbearably dirty. Wouldn't you know it - on every occasion of leaving the homes this past weekend, I had to pause a moment to look for my shoes, even though at times they were the only ones there becasue I was the last to leave. I was so used to finding my black shoes! I guess, as with everything, and to state the obvious, it takes time to get used to something new.

Saturday, April 29, 2006

Why I Live Where I Live

I am inspired this Sunday by Sunday Scribblings #5 to continue this little story I wrote some years ago: Always Saigon.

The trip from our refugee camp in Kuala Lumpur to the airport was exciting. We were taken in a small open bus at night through the streets of the Malaysian capital. I recall the sights and sounds of a very vibrant city. I particularly remember the night markets with shanty-looking noodle joints and strings of light-bulbs that adorn the fruit stands. There were people going about enjoying their night activities. To say the least, this was a welcoming change from nine days in a life-and-death struggle with the seas, fifteen days on a small and barely inhabited island waiting for the Red Cross to pick us up, and four months in the prison-like compound of the refuge camp, where the four members of my family shared a bed in one of the many small concessions lined in rows and rows of what resembles an outdoor flee market. That ride on the bus was an eye opening view to freedom. At that moment, it seemed, all of the past five months didn't matter, because we were alive and we were on our way to a new beginning; a new life; a new land - one with apples and chocolate!

Much of my first airplane ride was a blur to me, except the memory of my mom being sick from the flight and the constant worry of my parents of what will come next. Understandably, my parents were still operating from a position of fear and anxiety. I remember my parents tightly gripping their only worldly possensions, which consisted of some clothes and a couple of one-hundred US dollar bills sewn into the hems of my brother's and my shorts, and firmly holding our hands as we were lead from one point to the next through the airport and into the plane. I am so proud and grateful of my parents for all of their struggles to bring us to where we are today.

Strangely however, I do remember enjoying the airplane food - it was, as you can imagine, quite enjoyable. I also remember the cute little stainless steel airplane cuttery and a photograph of an Air Canada airplane that my brother and I each got from one of the flight attendants.

When my family got to Canada, our first destination was Edmonton, where we stayed for three days to endure much needed full physical examinations. Our initial impression of Edmonton was how simple it was. The houses and buildings weren't as spectacular as we had imagined they would be in the new world. We weren't particularly impressed, but we were nonetheless grateful that we were there.

We were housed in a military base during our three-day manditory visit in Edmonton. To our relieve, we got a fresh change of clothes. My most memorable experience in Edmonton was the first meal my family had in Canada, in the buffet-style cafetaria of the military base. Everything was new to us (well, at least to me) - the crackers for the soup, the jellos, the roast beef and mashed potatoes, the salads, the ice creams and (in hindsight, most hilarious of all), the lemons, which were so big that my parents argued over whether they were actually oranges!

Our translator in Edmonton told my parents that our final destination was going to be Toronto. To the relieve of my parents, she also said that we were very lucky to heading to Toronto because it was a clean, safe and multicultural city. She was absolutely right.

My family arrived in Toronto on October 10, 1979. At the airport, we were greeted by our sponsors, a group of Christians from United Church, including the minister and his family. I remember the confusion of my parents as all of these folks came to our aid. They were still operating in a mode of fear and anxiety and continued to clutch tightly onto their bags as they were being assisted, but I sensed that much those feelings dissipated when the minister, Mr. Rodgers, introduced himself and his group, and warmly welcomed us to Toronto.

The group gathered for a few pictures with my family, making us feel so special, when they were the special ones. We stood in the centre of those pictures, but I don't feel we were the centrepiece - our friends from the United Church were. To this day, my family feels indebted to the generosity and warmth of our sponsors.

From the airport, Mr. Rodgers drove us to our new home. Along the way, he gave us a guided tour of the city. I didn't understand English at the time, but I understood him. My family and I were incredibly impressed by the beauty of Toronto - the skyscrapers; the CN Tower; the wide, clean streets.

I can distinctly remember the smell of the pine cleaner when we entered the lobby of the apartment buiding on Woodbine Avenue in the east end of Toronto. It was like a dream come true. Our United Church friends had given us a wonderful home. The apartment was fully furnished. The fridge was full of food. The closet was full of clothes. Our life was full of a new sense of hope.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

How to Please a Woman with Chocolate

If a diamond says forever and flowers say beautiful, chocolate must say sweet, sweet, sweet! Chocolate alludes a sense of indulgence that leaves a sweet after taste, like the warmth of longing after a passionate embrace. By the twilight of a lazy evening, under soft moonlit piano melodies, a small morcel of chocolate fed to a lover's lips with a gentle caress of fingers' tips, melts more than the sweet stuff. Not a word needs to be said.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Surreal Day In Saigon

When I was oh so wee
I sat upon grandma's window sill
And watched the sky with glee
The day they stopped to kill

Flying machines filled the sky
Like swarms of buzzing bees
One with a cross swoshes by
With a soldier's wounded knees

Propellers fluttered overhead
Such a marvel to little me
As I dipped my slice of bread
In my condensed milk tea

I watched well into the night
And wished it would never end
But mosquitos began to bite
And grandma said to come again

I snug a final hopeful glance
As I bid a fond so long
To lights that seemed to dance
That surreal day in Saigon

This poem was inspired by a Sunday Scribblings writing prompt, "When We Were Wee".

Saturday, April 15, 2006


They'll say fate is a tough competitor
Never bow your head to their pressure
Success only comes when you strive
With both your hands together

Friday, April 14, 2006

Ten Ways To Better Health

While shopping in one of the numerous Chinese malls in Toronto, I came across a rice bowl with the following inscription, in both Chinese and English, that gave me a joyful moment of zen:

Ten Ways To Better Health
Less Alcohol, More Tea
Less Meat, More Vegetables
Less Salt, More Vinegar
Less Sugar, More Fruit
Less Eating, More Chewing
Less Words, More Action
Less Greed, More Giving
Less Worry, More Sleep
Less Driving, More Walking
Less Anger, More Laughter

Then I thought, wouldn't it be great to come up with a few more? Here are some that came to my mind:

Less Hate, More Love
Less War, More Peace
Less Sitting, More Dancing
Less Television, More Reading
Less Drugs, More Herbs
Less Judging, More Accepting
Less Arguing, More Listening

If you are so inclined, leave me a comment to add to the list!

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Real Life

Real life is writing a Sunday Scribbling on Thursday!

I struggled with the meaning of "real life" for a while because of my computer engineering background. I went through university contemplating artificial intelligence, artificial life, virtual reality and the like. So, do I contrast real life with these concepts? Or, do I write about the daily realities of life? Perhaps I am taking too literal an angle.

No matter what the angle, real life is complex.

Engineers and scientists can build hugely powerful systems to try and predict something as unpredictable as the weather, but they struggle to mimic the simplest of the simplest forms of real life. Perhaps real life is not meant to be mimicked, and yet there seems to be a great fascination with the creation, duplication and prolongation of real life by artificial means.

The question becomes what is real? If (wo)man succeeds in creating a being, a robot, a computer program, a nose, a heart, an eye that can mimic all mannerisms of real life, does that make it real? Is it real life?

I believe it is definitely real and it is definitely part of real life, and, with some struggle, I believe it must be real life. My reasoning is this: if it looks like, feels like, smells like, acts like real life and was created by real life, it must be real life!

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

What would my son attempt if he knew he wouldn't fail?

I had the pleasure of being introduced to Jamie's blog, which by the way, contains some very awesome stuff. From there I came upon Sunday Scribblings and their first prompt:

"What would you attempt if you knew you would not fail?"

Rather than answering this myself, I instead asked my 9-year old son, Justin, who is also initialled, "JET", what he would try. His answer with his usual wit:

"If I knew I wouldn't fail, the first thing I would try would be to convince you that I could fail!"

Monday, April 03, 2006

I've Alive!

Jetism has not yet made it to the Oxford dictionary, but today it debutes in the world of blog!