gravy boat 17.08.07

sometime in august the gnarly hunchback tolled the end of an era. the sopranos, after 7 glorious seasons of pillage, butchery, plucking, shlurping, and thats just to make a parma ham sarmie it all ended before my very eyes. it's sad. monday nights will never be the same, a void has opened up in my life, a GAP on my hooded sweatshirt.
As dan stood before the burning bush in his leather strops he belted at the top of his air filled lungs, 'what am i to do, oh deary me, what am i to do?. Moses led a nation, i just wanted Sopranos back on the tube.
it was a year ago that klotzy plotted, preempted the down fall of monday nights. but not only did he add the double cheese to that steers burger, he also supersized that coke and made a megalomaniac out of a packet of freedom fries. the whale trail had our names graffitied on the pebbles we weren't allowed to nick and there we would lay tread where our tread had never been laid.

we flew Kulula. it's kotch green colours gave me the heebeegeebees and i nearly blew. i clutched those faux leather seats hard and read the information card like it was my blueprint to survival. thank goodness Kulula pay reasonable salaries cos we were on terra firma and ready to make a blitzkrieg for a wee town called infanta, just a sesame-seed coated bread stick's length from the hiking jump off point-de hoop nature reserve.
our two hyundai atos rentals- jam jars on raisins made Subaru rally cars look like old lemons marching over a pedestrian crossing. these wee shoe boxes took us from pop-up book readers to real live whale watchers in 3 blazing hours. we made a dust storm outta the gravel roads and punished all in our wake.-sorry beatrix potter

one thing the Monopoly board doesn't sell is southern african coastline, well
it didnt 20 years ago when me and my carpet-burned knees used to roll dice. why rissik street is still primo, beats the living sheeite outta me.
the whale trail begins in de hoop nature reserve, rises up steeply through the potberg mountains, where Potley was christened, plateau's a bit like a top deck chocolate bar and then like pamela andersons low cut top, plunges rapidly down towards the icey blue ocean and so begins to skirt along the craggy coastline. the path the 5 of us-milies, potley, leeroy klotzy and a russian bear hunter trudged upon steeply ascended the mountain range which was blanketed like an all american quilt stitched in the glamourous yellows, magentas, and flaming oranges of the majestic protea. the vultures did donuts above our heads leaving skid marks on our psyches-we weren't here to die man, we were here to harpoon ...uh i mean see whales.
the treacherous, yet beautiful coastline hasn't been defiled or violated by tuscan warts and the gangreen on the landscape that is shoppping malls. it's an oasis of unscarred earth. this was nature at its most prestine, syrupy, nice like hazel nut praline.
we spent 5 days bashing through the fynest bos of them all-kinda western cape .i packed nice and good-tuna, beans, noodles made soft in 2 minutes, ah and you can bet your bottom dollar i didnt forget to dip an ouma-went 4 rounds with her, it was a TKO.
this was no fast food extravagance, we worked like pigs, grinded out a foot path for other travellers to scuff their boots on. short of munching and foraging on maggots and live fish- Bear Grilles you complete me-we were the ultimate survivors, cooking on flame grilling gas, eating without utensils, and washing our own dishes.we did it like they did it on the Discovery Channel. our story wasn't filmed- it' was in our heads man, in our heads.

we drained the camels back thrice over and i was pissing triple distilled, as crystal clear as swedish absolute and as pure as morning dew. i coulda just added lime for a cool,sweet sundowner.
this was a no tolerance journey, the Hyundai Atos rented vehicles were super frugal on desert juice, and their carbon emissions low as a four calorie chocolate bar. solar power was our energy. had i not crushed that poor dung beetle, i could have cashed in my carbon coupons and antarctica could have been saved.
trudging at the coast the smell of the sweet sea breeze caved our nostrils in salt- we couldnt wait to hit beach and let the sea lap our limbs. Milies and I took the plunge daily, it was cold, ask my 3rd nipple.
we saw whales-, loads of 'em, bobbing, weaving, spyhopping and breaching. this was no scene from a jimmy bond flik, it was real, the real juice company real. the huge clunks of blubber bobbed in the icey waters safe from the mouths of sushi munching japs and norwegian trawlers, at least until the breeding season was over.

on the march, we sucked super c's, silly sucking champions we were, till our tongues were yellow and our worries dissolved. it was the dried fruit and nuts that caught me with my pants down. it was a soil enriching experience.

its marvellous what Milo can do for you, when you got mates drooling at your feet for a taste of the good stuff. i didn't need other's Milo, cos i got high on my own supply.
we kipped in huts, bunk beds, showered under the stars. there were no sounds just the heave hoing of our lungs against our rib cages and no odours, just the sweet smell of fynbos-it was chronic.

the journey ended at the end, where the sand dunes meet the sea and a coke machine greets you. we made like the swiss and roll-ed into Bredasdorp where the lady without her front teeth suggested we munch our fish and tsips at the corner cafe.it was straight outta the sea...of oil. it was so lekker. my heart thanked me by pulpitating. and with a greasy hand it was time to bid my fellow hunter-gatherers adieu, and off to Cape town i journeyed with Leeroy, pilot of Atos 2.

i crashed landed at the Haar-bingers place in sea point and that night went to a restaurant in the city called Mesopotamia, it was kurdish. i can now understand why Sadam went all bride of chucky on these people. the bird served up to me was an insight into what appears in little glass jars filled with formaldahyde found in biology museums.
cape town is always spritely and after many years Fishhoek greeted me.
what a journey it was. gotta dream, gotta see,gotta hear,gotta munch, gotta breath gotta keep walking

goo goo catchoo, its been a while since i last scratched the surface. hope alls well west side, east side, state side, sea side

be cool , stay cool
dna(my name as seen by dyslexics)

quote by unknown tag artist about scratchings on the streets of new york, 'reading has never been this much fun.'

Nintendo thumb 18.06.07

jozi. trying to find super exciting things to write about in this here urbis is like trying to suck fillet medallions in a mushroom sauce through a straw. but every now and then a residue of steak breaks through the firewall and so spawns my taste for the eventful.

this is a story, a true story about a pair of boots, a pair of timberland boots.

i bought a pair of timberlands-sawft and leathery to the touch, cheese griller rugged underneath and with a shiny orange dot emblazoned with a tree. these skones would work harry potter magic through the snowy climes of finland, to the harshest of russian landscapes. i was now to test them under super extreme conditions in the dry rockyness of africa, rahh.

dring dring the blinger did ring.jingles was on the otherside inviting me to the drakensburg. friday rolled through and i cut the day in half.
we rode in one car- jingles, tijen and me, i felt good about it. 'al gore, let's talk carbon credits?'

the hilly hills of the drakies enveloped us with its open arms.
i unravelled my smurf pj's, shoved my chimpmunk cheeks full of marshmellows, warmed me gulliver at the open fire and viewed the Texas Chain Saw Massacre, all this in our thatched bungalow. i wanted to draw straws but they were too high.

the sun arose as an egg yolk and i saw Leatherface in my spilled milk.
it was hike time, and my boots new it.their rubbery soles grasped on every surface making a leach to a blood clot look like a pimpled, bespectacled harry potter sucking his forearm for kissing practice. these leather-upper skinned boots were amphibious cutting Thorpedo-style through lakes and streams up rocks and past savanna, it was dry but i couldn't smoke it. the crags,they were sharp, they were splintered-i was wearing run-flats. they knew my every move, they had intel inside.the icey wind turned my Aero chocolate cold and me into a milky skinned, red cheeked pommy. but thank goodness, my toes were safe from frosts bite.
the grunt of the man-eating baboons did little to scare my boots for they, like the goddess of speed, are nimble. those apes weren't gonna get my pastrami sarmy
hiking for 8 hours, dehydration is as common as 10 dollar monopoly money.a human in need of a kidney would do well to retrieve mine after i flushed those pie-fillers with 3 litres of H2O, some from the taps others from the sweet streams we waded through.
i could not have asked any more of my kickers.
on that rocky mountain i was introduced to a black cat peanut butter bar- peanut butter should only be found on toast. there at the top of the world with my heart clinging to my rib cage I found myself nibbling a peanut butter bar at 600 feet above sea level with the ever chirpy kev. Clearing my sticky palate, looking back at the footpath we'd carved, thinking 'gees i wish i was watching currie cup rugby now, oh wait, not really.'
but then we reached 900 feet, my lungs heaved under the strain of thin, fresh oxygen and fear kicked in. Me and my flashy kickers stared death, that's D.E.A.T.H, in the eye. and then death, or was it heights, ate me like a jelly donut, leaving the centre for last. it was time. the front of the mountain saw the back of me. i skidded down, my pants soiled.
'i came here to conquer you, but you drop kicked me like Naas Botha's boot to a pap rugby ball.'
this pair of boots trekked the second highest peak, but they didnt give a sh*t for being second best, the prom queen was still mine.

wow i left the drakkies feeling groovy and high on my own supply.
that experience and the landscape have clung onto me like a fat kids jam smeared fingers.

ey all my friends-androids an imagined
be cool, stay cool and keep reading cos watching telly'll turn your eyes square.

the dan, russian bear hunter master swordsman and the carbonated water in a fizzy drink.

tony soprano 20.05.07

Oh crikey, it's been a couple of months.
Like a ray barb through the heart I've been energized into exploring the landscape that is South Africa.

I witnessed over-grown 18 year olds, looking like chickens on steroids play in the local easter rugby festival at st johns college- a college, immaculately designed on a ridge dividing Jozi into north and south.

along with lil mikey razzo, i experienced the wrath of inebriated small town folk, loaded up with booze, skimmed stones, rode rough quad bikes till our jeans stood up on their own and ate hake in the trout fishing capital, all in the wee town of dullstroom.

I let my golf game slide a slippery slope and instead got sunburned like a gas- torched peppadew, suffered lex lutherian megalomania on crushing termite mounds, was confronted by large man-munching gorillas and soiled myself at the prospect of bumping into one of a gazillion indigenous snakes as featured on the snake chart of South Africa, kicked my kit off and plunged toes first into the string of pea-pod like pools and allowed the gushing Lipton's ice tea to wash the red dust off of my parched African lips. This was all in a day on a hike with the lyrical Jingles, the Chuckles chocolate ball that is kev and a peach, dijan, in the red earthed, rocky landscape of the Magaliesburg.

Li'l dan and I traversed every Spar and every petrol station that Roodepoort has to offer to navigate our way to the Roodepoort botanical gardens. There we saw the lesser spotted black eagle and her two eggs, and were denied the right to toss Frisbee.

And then just as I thought the bloodied graze on my knee that was my nature experiences was about to clot up, along came this past weekend.

Alice, invited me to lecturer Heinrich's, Thabaphshwa. It's a massive farm set betwixt the hills of potgietersrus, spotted with wandering cattle. the camp we crashed at, 'kanniedood' is a hut perched on the rocky face of an outcrop, isolated from humanity, electricity, pizza delivery vans and jehovahs witness knock-on-door conversions.
It was only two days so we needn't forage for fruits, nuts and berries. It was all carnal, grr, raah. The undulating landscape was our bedroom, the cool breeze was our ventilation, a bamboo screen was our lavatory protection, the roar of baboons our morning call and the sunrise our eggs, sunnyside up.

I barbequed chicken like no Nando's slave could. the big bird lay flat pack against the grided fish grill, and simmered over a low coal as I punished my windhoek draught and lemonade. I was keith ffloyd.
Gazing upwards, the African evenings are a wonder.
The night skies are a sensual, gorgeous Claire Forlani in a, glittering, sequened, turquoise evening gown.
Shooting stars blitz the heavens, is it a bird is it a plane or is it kulula.com? everyone is an astronomer when the stars come out-the 'milky lane' was splendid in the autumnal sky.

The final day left us without water, and monkeys on the rampage. We were in a situation in which 'we coulda died.' But my pig skinned water bottle was my swiss army knife.
I'm still getting to grips with nature. I do believe I'm a city boy, but I think beneath the chocolate coating, the sprinkled almonds and the nougat, lies a caramalised nature lover.

Anyhoo all my fans, Albert Einstein once said, 'life is like a bicycle- In order to keep balance, you need to keep moving.' Johnnie walker confirmed this.

Stay cool, be cool
The dan Ger, russian bear hunter, master swordsman and soon to be action figurine. safari khakis sold separately.

paper cut 28.04.07

29 the of april was a wee man-eating two-tone bee to a sticky koeksuster.
Like a geologist scrubbing rocks, and picking cavernous caves, so I've been searching the crusty cracks of this sprawling megalopolis to expose my serotonin.
Christie, a wee lad who I worked with in londres strums the lonely bass in his rock band called 'Bonsai'. Bonsai are gathering fame not from being picked, probed and clipped by mr Miyagi, but rather by their lyrical, sunny side up expression of afrikaans rock.
I hadn't seen the kid in a well rounded 8 months. He was gigging with his lads at back2basics- a live gig venue splashing out greasy grub on wooden décor. It's as cheap as east London chips, but lively as a punctured lung. It's perched just left of the energized centre of the cbd at the far end of the bowling lane that is over looked by johannesburg's two premier universities. One as liberal as a hooker and one formerly governed with an ironic fist.

Bonsai belts out rock in the trekkers tongue-afrikaanse. I hadn't been exposed to much of this genre of rock, rather close to a doughnut's worth. this was the eve that the radiation that is afrikaans rock would turn me from a green banana into a ripe one.
This Bunch of good lads, the guys that'd invite you over for a barby on a Sunday and share their smokes, dressed in Sunday's premier best, got me jumping and foaming at the mouth. Although the lyrics were alien to me, I was there to greet the wee li'l green men with open paws.

Foto na dans,the main act, robed in black skinny jeans with jewels breaching the boundaries of zippers, were bigger than the stage. Trying to fit these four pimpled skinny teens onto that raft of a stage was like trying to squeeze a t-bone steak through a straw. Their groupies were everything they weren't-blonde, sexy, lolly pop sucking sweet apples ready for the winter harvest. The lead with, a popsicle stick of a body and an oversized cotton ball for an afro, lead his charges into afrikaaner rapture. This was no boer vs british, it was the fight for the royale cause of rock n roll, Afrikaans rock.

The raggedy rag doll trumpeter, keyboardist and squealer, flung his mopped melon so hard I thought it'd pop off and bowl him an impressive 360. His blood shot eyes raged in fury, and bulged out of his head. Their industrialized rock made the iron ore manufacturing process look like a chocolate bar purveyor. These dudes were poets clad in cast iron battle armour. frenzied, their energy exhausted carbon monoxidous rage.
My Afrikaans is like the part population of iraq-sheeite, but I needn't 'praat die taal' to dig these dudes.

It was a cracker of an eve in which I had too a revelation. My new choice of brew is Windhoek. Sorry amstel it was all you my friend but then you shoved that blunt rusty meat cleaver through my heart.
stay well , be cool all my far flung, short sprung friends. from the scratchings of a Dan Ger ous lad.ole ole

rubber ties never break 23.03.07

I dropped back into jozi and all is pretty cool. My lungs have adapted to the altitude and my blood has cooled down. my toast pops up after 3 minutes, gently toasted to a fine crispy crisp. The peanut butter melts just like I like it-from the centre outwards to the four corners of the crust. I munch my corn flakes just before they get soggy and the coffee takes 2 and a half sugars to leave its drinker sweet. I walk to the tv room and all is fine. I continue thinking of the next opportunity to do some scratching, I feel that no time can be wasted. Yip, it's true, the Big Cheese holds the griller, the George Forman griller, and when He wants us grilled, He 'flicks' the 'on' switch. So I need to take every opportunity that falls me merry way.
A round of golf cancelled, the key to my office so fat it couldn't fit into the key hole and hillary rodham clinton's autobiography. This was the borsht of Sunday morning the 16th and it was only 8.30 am.
The 14th hundred hour had rung its chime and Berger was waiting at the haloed gates of the home of Transvaal cricket, the Wanderers cricket stadium-a fortress of invincibility. A form of cricket has engrossed the masses in these parts and I'm not convinced, it's gross. It's called pro 20/20. 'You call that cricket?', I enquire. Pro 20/20, is a feckin abomination of the old age imperial game of sticks, bats and balls. It's an absolute corrupt form of a gentlemanly game. Vissie calls it 'soek and moer.'-another name for garden cricket.But I loved garden cricket-grass burns, broken windows, grazed knees, WWF aggression, red juice drinks breaks, neighbourly meetings and ball searching sorties. But even this form of the game didn't have a time restriction. One had to grind out an innings, or bowl a consistent line and length taking into consideration the mole hill just off leg stump. Only at the fall of the sun when ball sight was restricted or your mom called you in for toasted cheese snack-wedges would the game be called off. These were real concerns. Pro20 20 you have nothing my friend.Aside from the 'cricket', the day was a ripper, for as berger explained it, 'it's the only time jo'burgers get out in public and consume loads of booze'. It's our sandy beach and we love it. The game ended and I walked home numb. Instead of killing bob woolmer, maybe they should have beaten the guy who invented 20/20.
Back in jozi, I tend not to breach the ten kilometer radius that surrounds my house, largely cos I find all that I need is within the 'golden circle'-fresh milk, oven baked bread, my place of work, the tv remote and my mom's spaghetti bolognaise.
Anyhoo Saturday rolled in like Hymie and Abe's Sunday morning game of bowls- slow, dry and not much room for action replays. But then I spoke to Tal about Saturday night. tal had exhausted me while eating a dry mint icing cup cake, about the fact or non fact that there is loads of sheeite to be done in jozi. one just needs to be the carrot top from CSI New York to find it.He'd been gnawing on my left calf, chewing it to the bone demanding that I head off on one of his rendezvous' and so, short of my calf catching gangrene, I obliged.
The venue was the Red Room. it's red 'cos the lighting is red(I noticed the energy saver light bulbs, niice), the 80's Carpeted wall is plush red, the ceiling is, well, red, and I wore a red Tee. and it's a whopping 30km out of my 'safe zone'. Thank goodness I didn't need a schengen visa for this excursion, I just needed a tank full of cream soda-unleaded Iraqi jet fuel. My Toyota tazz was going to take me to the far ends and beyond.
The red room probably once featured as the dining hall/ bar of the road side s*x motel in which it sat with its cheesy terracotta tiles, strip timber ceilings and wooden bar tops. It's tacky and stuck together with chewing gum, but that's rock n roll, and I love it.It's a rock, indie venue stuffed like a meaty blintze with tagged teens, leather pipes and greasy metal junkies. The music ranged from the 'scream-your-lungs-out-of-their-ribbed-cavity, to the slow melancholy of radiohead, to the bash-your-melon squeals of pearl jam. I sat alone propping up the bar, sucking on one of the last locally brewed Amstels ever, awaiting Tal, the craziest yid I know and his side kick, robin's, (no not batmans' robin) imminent arrival. The Prodigy mix was spinning and so we wiped the parquet floor to a polished amber glow with our slides, jumps and moonwalks. It was a sickly tiring experience. I quite enjoyed the journey to the unknown and hope to do it again.
Well my friends far and oh so wide, ill leave you with a cracking quote i saw on the side of the road on a johnnie walker advert.'i'm a slow walker, but i never walk backwards.' abe lincolnfrom the scratchings of a content laddan, middle name GER

dip a ouma 21.01.07

as is customary with our action hero,no journey is as easy as two minute noodles.

i didnt enjoy sleeping on a sweat,kotch and snot stained heathrow couch,nor did i enjoy sleeping on a leather lounger in schipol airport,nor did i find it pleasant not showering for 2 days. nor did i find it pleasant missing every connecting flight that id booked, nor was it true that sheremetyavo 2 and sheremetyavo 1 (moscow airports terminal) were within walking distance and nor was it a dream missing a day of my tour to russia. for those 2 days the only solace i got was reading albert einstein's biography in an aiport toilet cubicle.

the russian airline dropped us skidding on the frozen runway safely. like a furry moth to a fluorescent light, so the greasy taxi drivers were drawn to me by the glint of my smile. having parted with loads of my US dineros, i was driven in a car built pre-yuri gagarin's orbit and dropped in the safe hands of a 3 star hotel.
St petersburgh is straight out of a james bond movie, i was now in russia and i was full of love.
st petes wasn't white with snow, but Mars dusty. she's large,rather large,with vast boulevards wide enough to accomodate a tank, a missile launcher,mig fighter jets and ten thousand troops side by side. the boulevards are lined with buildings stark,edgey, intimidating and brutal. i was a bumbling idiot,shivering at the knees.
the nevsky prospekt is her primary artery, it left my blood pulsing at the beauty of russian woman, what with their icey blue eyes,porcelain smooth skin and a seemingly unknowing awarness of their powers of attraction.many most adorned in furs,and furry hats. PETA wouldn't dare be flashin naomi campbell in these parts.she'd be shot,gutted,strung up to dry and woven into a pair of snow boots.
the icey cold of russia is surely intimidating. the cold is made colder by the harsh environment that russia is.
i visited the winter palace and its guilded interiors,walked on a frozen lake,shat a load but i was safe.i avoided indoors as much as possible,i needed the frosty environment to burn my withereing dry skin,i needed to feel russian.i needed to allow my long johns to play an active roll,they didnt. i criss crossed the city on foot,covering as much as a poppy seed on a hamburger bun. the massive river throbbing through the city was frozen stiff,the ice flaked like a wedding cake. it was awesome.

pskov a once trading port at the confluence of a number of rivers, took boiled bay leaves and beat the living blood outta me,heated me to 80 degrees celsius and dumped me into a frozen lake.where im sure i dislocated my arm having slipped on the ice.i was no eric roberts screaming, 'pop it'. but i sure couldn't feel myself after that. we certainly did over kill on the cathedral front,but joy came to me as i slid down hills,drank rusky vodders,munched russian naartjies and punished russian bears...uh i mean beers.
we hit a rusky club real hard. after heading to the bar more than 5 times i was awarded a chuppa chup.it was the dream gift to keep my drool in me and not on my blue suede shoes.
the pechory monastry is alongside estonia. we snaked its under ground cemetry,i wasnt scared, cos i dont ssee dead people.

me and the XL chuppa chup i bought boarded an over night train to moscow. i was in a cabin with our rusky guide, my chuppa chup and this other rusky. so i figured i'd pull out my best russian and start chatting. so im struggling with the word zdravstvu..zdrasv, then he belts out, 'i speak english.' gsus i felt like a bit of a left over burnt chop on a sunday barbeque.

moscow is a far more globalised city than the quiet st petes-it's bustling, energised, and frikking freezing. this city too is so huge if id walked it im sure id be a midget by now,wearing myself away. their underground is efficient,negotiable and rife with pigs. each station is unlike any other.the decoration is detailed,the spaces vast. the trains-wooden ply and leather. the network is in the 30's,its in the past, and i was loving it.
saw an ice hockey match,didnt know my a*s from my elbow regarding rules and stuff,but if millions of americans dig it, it must be alright.
i stumbled and slid on the black slate stoned iced red square and saw lenins embalmed body.was the red granite monolith housing the body russia's answer to madame tussauds?.
i peeled the veneer of most moscow post cards and revealed the tangible,fairytale of the detailed onion domes and magnificent colours of st basils cathedral. it left me in tears.

moscow is full of wealth.it was like a showroom of ganster vehicles, louis vuitton, bentleys and my weary levi's jeans. it constantly felt as though i had someones eyeballs plastered to my back. i didnt know what i could photograph,or who i could stare at. the intimidation factor felt huge, left me uneasy like an egg fried in a non-teflon pan.

so its not very often that wrigleys gets you in trouble. but again surprisingly the fresh mintyness of the wrigleys bead did a hulk hogan bear hug on me,threw me against the ropes, slapped me in the face,then had me in a hold on the floor as the 3 count was called and left me shouting, 'mommy'. it was along side the Kremlin that me and katya were nabbed by the po-lice for exchanging the cool flavoursome wrigleys bead. all of a sudden those russian blood filled veins sewn throughout my body,sank back into the depths of my nervous system trying to look oblivious.
the pigs demanded identification and after like 20minutes they begrudgingly let me be. bastardos

gorky park, sounds a little dorky but it was an organic ice skate park.ey i dont do ice skating,so i watched the russian antics from behind the can of Baltika 7,its a russian brew,rather tasty,it warmed my blood up like alphabet noodle soup.

unfortunately the only bear i saw was the unshaven me in the mirror,scary,real scary.

got my a*s from behind the iron curtain by flying home via amsterdam. i was treated to a flight in a fokker 50. its a dutch designed 50 seater turbo propelled plane. i sat window seat. ive never been in a plane with propellers so i had one or two safety concerns. i just hoped that the kotch stained seat infront of me was no indication of the rippin ride i was about to venture on. it turned out really cool,probably the best flight experience to date.

most of my journeys have been driven by the lure of architecture,this journey to russia was an exploration,it was a journey of discovery-scratching away the shrouds,the heresay.
russia seems to run parallel to the western world. seldom did i see points of intersection between the two. she appears as relevant to any place in europe that ive seen although operating a wee bit differently. i will return someday to exhume my russian roots.

hope you all enjoyed the last of a series of european adventures.stay well my far flung friends.until another day in the sunshine tossing frisbee barefoot.
the dan russian bear hunter,master swordsman and soon to be action figurine,russian blood sold separately.

ps when eating this email it might contains traces of nuts.