Microphone Check 1, 2, what is this?

For those who forgot we brought a microphone with us, prepare yourselves, and a special shout out to Samuel and Jim and the laughter you continue to provide!

First up, an oldie but goody, and one of the few Mp3's remaining on my computer. I listen to it daily: Voila

Another interpretation: enjoy!

This is the product of a rainy day, rudimentary Spanish and a lot of adrenaline. I can't figure out how to embed the audio directly into the post, perhaps an engineer of Nantesian or Swedish extraction can help me. By the way, comments to these posts are welcome.

Here's a little something I like to call: Dia Quatro

Finally, the first episode in a telenovela entitled "Estrellas del Corazon"

Peace!

Operation Coup de Poing

tututu tututu toooyoo
tututu tututu toooyoo
ayaya yayayayaya
brigadier savary

Hello everybody and thank you Andrew for inviting me as a 'Guest post' on your English-speaking-only blog. Now let's check it down the boogie style (that one was pour te faire plaisir). What can I say? Everything's cool. The operation Hula Hoops is running smoothly. The dudes abide. Buena onda. Good vibes as in Alpha Blondy's own operation, which happens to be recurrently heard here and there in this trip. One day Andrew asked me 'What does it mean Operation Coup de Poing?'. This question was no surprise to me. Andrew has been asking me, in a very calm fashion, many weird and 'out of nothing' questions lately. I got the 'Do you like this village?', as we were both peacefully contemplating our toes and the horizon on our Montanita's terrasse, or, while staring at a pair of scissors on the table 'What are these scissors for?', or the sudden late night 'Can you moonwalk?', etc, etc... 'Yes, I kind of like this village', 'I use these scissors to cut my nails (-Fingers or toes? -Both)', 'If I
can Moonwalk!!??'. Reading your so well written and funny blog my friend, I understand how high in the sky and clouds your spirit is. By the way I want to tell this to your readers : Andrew is not as unlucky (and I'm not as lucky) as he seems to write. It's just that his great ability to 'auto-dérision' does spice up the trip, as when he made this birdshit thing become a real 'theme of the night', and saw an excellent reason to celebrate this election from the sky through a wild party that same night. I like your sense of sharp and funky observation my friend.
And don't worry, une opération coup de poing is not necesarily a fist fighting operation, no war zone, no troubles. It's actually close to an operation hula hoops: intense and productive. Ours operation has a big plus: fun and chill out. You know how it goes, life is a beach.

grosses bises
ben

Recap pt.3: Cuenca, war zone

If you've made it through the first 2 recaps, I salute you. We've nearly reached the present moment, which certainly beats living in the past.

The ride to Cuenca from Alausi included the largest concentration of backpackers we've seen in one bus. Mostly Swiss and German, but with a couple of loud Americans as well. One of the Swiss guys we met, Larssen, who would go on to become my nemesis due to his drunken buffoonery and untz untz attitude, suggested that we go 'to a paarty hostel, ja' called El Cafecito. He then suggested we all split a cab to get there, because the 1.00 dollar fare was clearly too much for one man to bear. So to the Cafecito we went. There we met the first of two homosexuals named Andres, who took an immediate liking to Ben. He spoon fed us whiskey and wine until we were ready to discover what Cuenca had in store for the drunken tourist on the go. One of the Andres' suggested we check out a dance club in town, and so once again we piled into a cab with Larssen, a nice German kid called Peter and an American named Michael who shares my love for NBA basketball. The club was empty except for us for a good hour, and then reinforcements came. Mostly locals, mostly couples and then the Andres' came and hit the dance floor with an eye on our friend Ben.

Ben dodged their advances nimbly, escaping their tentatives with deft precision and well-timed trips to the bathroom, but we all knew that he couldn't defend himself forever. He was playing hard to get, but inevitably he would surrender himself to them in a tiny Ecuadorian hostel room. Kidding. Perhaps I'm just jealous because no one seems attracted to this pale gringo. No surprise really, given that I spend most of my time traveling the streets with a blue fishing cap, shorts that are too short, and my passports strapped to a shabby fanny pack. Anyhow, the club was followed by a rave party in another part of town where more hijinx ensued. Andres number two drove us there in his jeep, stopping to drop off a despondent Andres number one at his home, no doubt upset that Ben had managed to elude his advances.

At the entrance, Ben went to work, claiming that the Glish had sponsored the event, and that all of us should be allowed to enter for free and not the 10 dollars that was required. His claims were rebuffed by the bouncer, who did let the girls in for half price. Ben did not give up, and asked to speak with the host of the party, who was an acquaintance. When asked for the host's name, Ben suggested that it was 'Miguel', taking a wild stab in the dark. It turns out the party host was right in front of us. He wasn't named Miguel, and he didn't remember Ben. Still we managed to get in for half price, and partied fairly hardy for the next few hours. Good times.

We worked off our hangovers the next day by roaming the streets of Cuenca. By one o'clock I had been hit by two water balloons, one launched from a balcony, the other from a moving car full of laughing teenagers. Coupled with the fireworks exploding intermittently, the random power outages accompanied by loud pops and the low-flying planes going in and out of the local airport, I spent the rest of the day in fear that Cuenca was at war. Now I look over my shoulder for more drive-by balloonings and always seek cover while wandering the streets. Apparently the water balloons and fireworks are part of the pre-Carnaval celebration, so you can imagine how excited I am for the real thing, which starts next week.

Finally, we've found a non-party hostel and we've gotten back to work, which feels good. Also, we have a standing invitation for a guinea pig roast this evening... I'll keep you updated.

Recap pt.2: The Devil's Nose

The train ride to El Nariz Diablo was far less diabolical than expected. We would have liked to climb up to the train roof to see the view from there but that's been banned due to the death of two Japanese tourists who managed to behead themselves somehow. Damn you Japan! You'd think that the nation which brought us Godzilla, origami and DragonBall Z would have briefed their nationals on the dangers of low-hanging objects. Also, our train wasn't really a train, but rather a converted bus with a motor. The real train was overbooked and we didn't manage to get tickets, despite our 5:30 am wake up. The 'conductor' of the train/bus (or 'truss') was the real star of the show however, as he insisted on turning the steering wheel with grand movements despite the fact that it clearly had no impact on the train's route. In fact, he often steered in the opposite direction that the train was turning. Funny guy; we have photos I think. Ben befriended two little Ecuadorian girls sitting in front of him. They were cute and curious. Their grandmother says they watched too much TV. I argued that they watched too little. We left it at that.

The train left us in Alausi, where we, as well as many other of the train's passengers were to take a bus to Cuenca, a popular burgh known for its colonial architecture. I had high hopes that it would be a place of tranquility and inspiration for our writing... and still do. The bus to Cuenca was thankfully livestock-free, though it did lose a tire on the highway, and we were treated to the beginning of several pirated dvd's which cut out midway through. Also, a bottle of water fall on my head from the overhead storage bins to the delight of other passengers... a sign of things to come.

Recap pt.1: Bikes and baths

Hola. I'll organize those photos at some point and remove the less-flattering ones, it just took a Herculean effort to discover how Picasa and Blogger work together. I think I have it figured it out, so that bodes well for all of us, doesn't it?

We are now calling Cuenca our home. Contrary to villages past, this is a small city featuring a number of telephones and internet cafes. The food is also better here, more choice, less gristle to their chicken. But how did we get here? Why are we being pelted by water balloons on a daily basis? And why are we tasting guinea pig with a pair of ultra-feminine homosexuals this evening? All good questions. let me start at the beginning.

After spending an evening in Rio Bamba, a sleepy industrial town without much charm, we took a day trip to Banos, a touristy village known for its natural hot springs and density of German and Swiss tourists. The bus station in Rio Bamba is adjacent to a huge market, which featured animals of all sorts: Chickens, puppies, guinea pigs, rabbits, turkeys and more. Some of the chickens were kept in burlap or plastic bags. Now that is the life for me.

Once in Banos we decided to rent the first mountain bikes we found and cycle the 80 kilometers to Puyo (given my peak physical condition, this idea was appealing). The road, we were promised, was mainly downhill, had waterfalls and provided glimpses of the beginning of the Amazon (jungle). The bikes we rented were 'pas top' and didn't shift to lower gears, which would have been helpful on the many inclines that peppered our route. I took revenge on my bike by crashing it into a tunnel wall. That will teach me to wear sun glasses in a dark tunnel shared by trucks and cyclists. I admit it, I was scared, and the prospect of being crushed under an Ecuadorian truck is perhaps even less appealing than the idea of dying on a Ecuadorian bus with a live chicken on my lap. I don't know why I have these thoughts; I can't imagine I'd like to die under any truck, or in any bus, regardless of the country. In any case, I like to keep you apprised of my fear of an unfitting (Ecaudorian) death.

Anyhoo, bike crashed, thoughts were collected, and we moved on, stopping at a very nice waterfall with lush vegetation on the way. We met a Quebecois couple there, who used the verb 'luncher' as I recall, to describe the act of eating the meal we shared. Onward ho... but 10 kilometers from Puyo we decided to call it a day, as rolling a doobie in the jungle seemed infinitely wiser than struggling upwards towards another telephone-free village. Before this could happen, a bus flew by, and we managed to hail it, and for a fee of one extra dollar, one of the bus assistants (the money collector I believe) climbed up a steel ladder and swung our mountain bikes onto the roof in one motion. It was impressive, I won't lie.

Back to Banos for the evening and our hostel 'Blanco y Plantas' (White and Plants), which we had chosen on the basis of its name, and the connotations it inspired. Again, mistaken. It was alright though, a nice terrace and film collection with French influence. Actually there were French signs everywhere informing us how to dispose of our toilet paper, how to open our curtains and that dirtying our towels is frowned upon. Nice touch. The next day we planned to visit an active volcano, which would have thrilled my mother I'm sure, but the clouds were everywhere, so we settled for a hot steam bath in our hostel. Taking the bath entailed getting into an enclosure made of wood and metal and sitting on a small bench with a valve spitting out hot steam. The bath is closed off with a wooden plank that fits around your head, so that only it remains outside of the enclosure. I like to think of it las a new age guillotine, without any blades or revolutionary connotations. After 15 minutes of intense steam and sweat, a local would open up our steam prison and pour ice cold water on us for 30 seconds, then usher us back into our sweat box. I don't know how that guy stayed in there all day, because Ben and I barely made it through an hour. After our last steaming was finished, the dude sprayed us down with a hose, directing us to turn and bend and stretch so that he could spray in appropriate locations. Then, in a moment of cross-cultural homoerotica, the likes of which I have not seen since the steam rooms of South Korea (point 7), the guy gave us each a hand job. Scratch that, he actually massaged our stomachs in a clockwise motion, in order to stimulate the digestive tract. Mission accomplished.

That was the Banos experience, in all its graphic glory. We returned to Rio Bamba in the afternoon in preparation for a train ride to the 'Nariz de diablo' early the next morning.

Photos?!

Technology is finally working for me. After a lengthy struggle, I invite you to try the link on this post or on the left hand column.

Captions to follow.

Peace out!

Rio (la la la) Bamba

So much to recount, but you´re not going to get here, because I´m tired and a little bit drunk. Plus there is a small Ecaudorian child coughing behind me in a way that really scares me. I think she´s got Tuberculosis or Cholera or one of the white man´s diseases we´ve bequeathed to this country. In any case she might need a tetanus shot, and though my repeated viewings of Pulp Fiction qualifiy me to administer such a shot, for insurance purposes I am reluctant to do so.

We´ve finally left Canoa, the tranquil beach lifestyle was becoming a bit too stressful for us. Now, after two solid days of bus and beautiful scenery, we´ve arrived in Riobamba, in the lowlands of Ecuador. The bus ride offered the first real glimpse of the natural beauty of Ecuador, plus I saw a lot of animals. Sure, they were your garden-variety farm animals (with the exception of a well-coifed llama) but here´s the rub, they were hanging out on mountains and along sheer cliffs. I´ve taken to naming each animal in my head in both Spanish and English as I see them. It´s a little game that keeps me from going crazy after the death of my Ipod in mysterious fashion. Instead of jamming out to the sounds of Public Enemy or National Public Radio, inside my head I am trying to remember how to say duck in spanish. So far I´ve seen a ton of creepy chickens, some unhappy black pigs, wallowing in their own filth, as they are wont to do, many horses, a couple of jackasses (or burros for my spanish speaking donkey lovers), plenty of sheep, multiple cows, a possible goose sighting, and at least seven unicorns. I do have other anecodotes to regale you with, as well as a new book report, but I´ll save that until the child behind me is safely quarantined. I will say this, please add ´on an Ecuadorian bus´ to my list of places I would hate to die. Thank you

Guest Spot

I´ve been trying to convince Ben to write a post on this blog, but he´s too busy writing to his quote unquote ´family´ and these so called ´loved ones´. Little does he know that if you stop writing to people, they eventually stop writing to you. Take the example of my family for instance. As far as my father is concerned, I´m still teaching English to small Asian children in the Demilitarized zone of Korea, or possibly fighting off syphilis in Bangkok brothel. For all my brother knows, I fell victim to the hypnotic teachings of charismatic mujadheen leader, and have dedicated myself to the struggle against the Kurds of Afghanistan. And my mother, well, she actually did e-mail to inquire if the recent volcanic activity in South America had put an end to my existence. So much for that analogy. In any case, if I had to speculate on certain common themes to be included in any hypothetical post written by Ben, I would suggest the following: 1. An introduction either in Spanish OR a greeting delivered in the guise of Borat Sagadyiev. 2. Catchy words and phrases in Spanish. 3. References to surf. 4. Catchy expressions in English, possibly including ´life´s a beach´ or ´check it down the boogey style´ 5. Some sort of virtual kisses, perhaps of the bisou or beso variety.

Taking a wait-and-see-approach.

Poodles.

Food

I´m totally killing time here before we board the bus back to Canoa, (we had to take a day trip to San Vicente to visit a cash machine) so i´ll discuss food. For the most part, the seafood here is solid (as opposed to liquid or gaseous). Lots of shrimp and squid, which we prefer breaded, but also comes with rice, grilled or with garlic. The fish has its moments as well. Beef: also good. The only thing I´m really not sold upon is the chicken. There are exceptions of course, but oftentimes the chicken here tastes tough and gamey. I´ve always loved chicken the meat much more than chicken the animal, because their creepy gait and large talons don´t do it for me. Here there are plenty of cocks, hens and chickens of all types roaming freely. Though this might lead you to believe that they are delicious and free-range, again, color me skeptical. I´m just going to try to avoid chickens of all kind, in meat or bird format for the duration of the trip altogether. Wish me suerte.

Shout out

Benoit Pineau: Prince among men.

Books

Travelling is good because I read, which makes me feel, you know, like a real human boy. Not just sports websites and support e-mails, but actual books. So far I´ve been lucky. I brought 2 books with me, one is full of mostly-finished crossword puzzles, the other was a giant soft cover edition of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (or some other configuration of those 5 words) by Jonathan Safran Foer. Funny and smart, plus a ton of Jew references for the entire (Cohen) family. Finished that one in a couple of days (there were pictures in it, but it´s a real book, I promise), and was not looking forward to lugging it around with me through the muddy roads of various telephone-less villages. Ironically enough Ben purchased the pocket edition in French before leaving, which fits in a pocket (technology astounds). Fantastically, one of the Americans in Montañita was willing to trade books, the only problem was that she hadn´t finished her book, a gigantic, sweeping ´literary non-fiction´ book called Shantaram and there were 900 pages in it. Basically, I stood over her and forced her to finish it, threatening her playfully from my hammock. Finish she did, and an exchange was made. For the next week, I ate Shantaram up, and it wasn´t even that good. I tried to explain the plot to Ben, and he suggested it was Indiana Jones meets Die Hard. He then asked if Bruce Willis was winning against the bad guys. He just doesn´t understand me. Anyhoo, it was a fun read. I managed to find a David Sedaris collection of short stories in a Canadian ´surf shack´ in Canoa. It´s magical. That gay man is hilarious, and his short stories are well-written and brutally acerbic. I am a fan. Very much enjoying it. I know how much you care about what I´m reading, so I´ll be sure to give you frequent updates. It´s not looking too good after this, the book exchanges in Canoa feature a lot of German books and a few novelizations of Spiderman. I´ll keep you posted.

Some non-linear ramblings

Canoa:

Many moons have past since I last wrote. At that time we were still searching for a lone telephone in the village Montanita, known for its nippley stray dogs and its loud reggae music, blaring out of speakers at roadside cafes. We've learned many lessons since those days. I, for one have been badly sunburned, briefly lost my passport, and did lose my cell phone. Ben has practiced yoga, lost his camera, and been surfing regularly. Now as I type this, we are in a rooftop apartment in a hostel in Canoa, known for its canoes, I suppose, if my Etymology is any good. Even as I write this, I am crushing tiny bugs into my laptop screen and picking them out from in between my keys. This apartment is something. A big living area, a little kitchen, a huge balcony overlooking la playa, and three beds. The 5 flights of stairs between us and the ground lead me to believe that with the right supplies, I could live the rest of my days out from here. No, I kid. Despite my horrible sunburns, I do enjoy a brief hackey sack session on the beach every once in a while. Speaking of hackey sack, our limbs have grown tired from twice or thrice daily sessions. I think we have stopped improving after making quick progress early. I can barely lift my right thigh any more, and have a tendency to break down in fits of wild laughter after half an hour of hacking. Ben is getting much better, and saves most of the passes I send over his head with a series of well-placed kicks and knees. Twice, in Montanita, a dog stole our hackey sack. The first time I quickly pounced on him and rubbed his head until he gave up the precious beanbag. The second time, we were not so lucky. It was a hit and run, the mutt took the bag and ran happily into the ocean, where he doubted we would follow. Little did he know that Ben was as determined as he was, and pursued him into the waves, where he did battle with the labrador and emerged victorious, with a footbag in hand and intact. I wanted to take a photo for my photo journal of the dogs of Ecuador, but our camera was in the hostel.

Quebec

I will master the Quebecois accent before I leave Ecuador, this much I promise you. Also I will memorize a rap in the guise of a Ukranian dancing bear. Bank on it. Toodles.

No Comments

Lame... that is no way to encourage me. Alas, I will continue without your feedback. Today, on a scale of 1-10, was a solid 7. Good hackey sacking, lots of sun, and a cool fossilized starfish that I found on the beach while ben was surfing. Plus the first phase of operation hula hoops is finished, now begins the editing process in earnest, which will no doubt lead to fisticuffs and bloodshed. No photos... sigh. Patience my pets.

Nicolas

I knew this blog is all out of order, it´s a result of irregular internet access, poor knowledge of the time-space continuum and the fact that I am writing everything backwards. On our first full day in Montañita, it was decided that a surfboard must be procured. Our visit to one of the several local surf shops yielded a lithe swedish vixen, eager to give her advice and sell Ben a board, however our friend wasn´t biting. Luckily a local drunkard, or borracho, sitting just next to the surf shop came to the rescue.

It was around 11 am, yet this man had the stench of a long morning of cerveza already upon him. He offered us an abundance of ´hang loose´ hand signs and high-fives. Beside him lay a small surfboard, which he was eager to show us. Ben gave it a once over, inspecting it for whatever one inspects a surf board for. Nicolas claimed he was the nephew of the shaper, and that Tio Waly Waller was a big name in Lima. Nicolas made an offer of one hundered euros. He then demonstrated how well one could surf with this board using a variety of whooshing ocean sounds and bringing his arms to his side and waving them like a bird. We were impressed. He asked us for a second time where we were from.`France´, Ben replied for the both of us, quickly cutting me off before I told him that I hailed from America, lest the price of the board increase. Finally Ben told him that the board pleased him, and, barring a test for seaworthiness, he would take it. Nicolas responded with a whooshing noise and an off-balance wave. He would accompany us to the ocean for the test surf.

It should be noted that I rented a longboard as well, with the intention of flopping around for a while and swallowing some sea water. Away we went to the beach, Nicolas in tow, still whooshing and asking us where we were from. As we neared the water, ben gave me some final instructions for not drowning, and lifting myself from my belly to my knees, as if this would ever happen. Meanwhile, Nicolas continued to interrupt drunkenly, informing us that he was a a qualified surf instructor, then making the whooshing noise and flailing in demonstration of his skills. It was at this time that he called me ´chunky´, as I recall. We laughed, then surfed. The board met ben´s qualifications, and we set off in search of Nicolas, to complete the transaction.

We found him sitting in a bar across from where we had met him, slurring his speech and conversing with some scared looking Germans over a beer. He had my shirt with him and thank god, because it spared me the indignity of walking through the village half naked. Ben made his counter offer of ´nothing, not even the fee for the gaming commision´, and the two settled on 90 dollars and a final hang loose sound. It was the last we ever heard from Nicolas, but sometimes we still hear the wind whispering ´whoosh´.

Night of the birdshit

The night we went out and partied our little hearts out deserves a mention, if only because a bird shat on me, and I´m still upset about it. Apparently it´s good luck, but I´m not having any of that. I suppose it´s important to note that this was perhaps the only night we brought our camera (now since departed) with us to the village during the entire trip so far, so it´s fitting that 95% of our photos are of us drunk and trying dance the salsa. Apparently we both have the right to veto two photos, but I took so many that we´ll be hard-pressed to choose which ones to censor. This night also features two ridiculous videos that, if ever discovered, could cause serious rifts in the universe and irreparable damage to our sterling reputations. On this night we danced in mud, listened to a concert in which a Colombian band covered Coldplay, Santana and Bob Marley, and finished with a bit of Pink Floyd. I spent the better part of this night following dogs in preparation for my photo-essay. Photos to follow.

Montañita, I hardly knew ye

As we´re rarely connected to the internet, I find myself needing to recap a lot, and as we´ve moved on from that bastion of loud reggae and dreadlocks, the village of Motañita, I´ll do my best to give the highlights.

Hostel: I´d give it a 4 on a scale of 1 to 10. While their cockroaches were huge and fearless, their large lawn area was ideal for hackey sacking. Ben and I have dubbed that space Wimbledon, while the beach is known as Roland Garros. (It´s not clay, but the sand is similar, kind of). Our room itself is not fantastic, our shower is sandy, and the entire space has become a breeding ground for mosquito larvae, who are no doubt living it up in the cosmic soup of the toilet. Our balconey is good. We spend a lot of time there, plotting, scheming writing occasionally. I would give reports of Operation Hula Hoops, but our ideas have changed so much that it wouldn´t make much sense to elaborate. Just know that we spent a full two days trying to come up with rhyming verses for a rapping hippo.

People: The balconey also provided us the occasion to meet our neighbors, Brandice and Alexis. Brandice, a belly-dancing surfer from Santa Cruz, and Alexis, a trek-loving seemstress from Los Angeles. We have befriended them on the strength of Ben´s accent and my awkward charm. When they left for Guayaquil and Mancora respectively, Brandice gave us her business card: A photo of her in a belly dancing costume looking sultry. I use it as a bookmark and can´t help but laugh every time I see it. I would take a picture and post it, but we´ve lost our camera along with my cell phone (see future post on bus rides).

¿Do you have telephone in village?

Today is the 5th of January if I´m not mistaken, which means that Ben and I have been in Ecaudor for about 7 days, and yet this is only the first post of this long-promised blog, so there is some recapping to do.

Our current location is Montañita, somewhere on the coast of Ecuador. At some point I will consult a map, because I´m not sure where we are in relation to anything else except stray dogs (see forthcoming photo essay). I know exactly where the dogs are in relation to us, for they are everywhere. We´ve been in Montañita for three nights now, long enough for me to shave my beard, lose our apartment key and have nearly died in the ocean in some sort of tsunami which I like to call a riptide, but ben prefers to call a current. The weather here has been somewhat lame, in the parlance of our times, but we have high hopes that the sun will come out tomorrow.

What can I say about Montañita? There is one main street here, which quickly transforms from sand to mud during rainy conditions. There are street performers, bracelet-makers, mango-vendors, artisans, and hippie drummers on every corner and if I had a peso for every stray dog with enormous nipples that I´ve seen, then well, I´d be laden with pesos and nipples. Ironically enough the currency here isn´t a peso at all but rather the good old-fashioned American dollar, so I suppose my analogy is neither funny nor approriate. In any case, this place can be nice at times. It´s a surfing mecca apparently, though the waves haven´t been great lately, though the one that nearly killed me seemed to be a decent sized.

We´ve rented a room in a hostel 5 minutes away from the village. Mauritio, a nice ecuadorian, helps us out with clean towels and throws us a roll of toilet paper once in a while, and in exchange, we limit our hackey sack playing to daylight hours. We spend a lot of time on our terrace, plotting and scheming. We´ve managed to befriend our neighbors, a pair of California girls who love ben´s accent, I´m sure of it. They like me too though, so much so that they told me that a bird had shit on my shoulder last night, rather than let me find out the hard way. Thank god I had a t-shirt on underneath (you can never layer too much in 70 degree heat), otherwise I would have spent an evening with a little bird (shit) on my shoulder, and not the good kind of bird on your shoulder, the kind that gives me good advice and sings and shit.

Testing 1,2

I hope you´re right about this ad. I reserve the right to talk about dogs and nipples in this blog... go go google referencing!

www.gymglish.com