Sunday, November 27, 2011


My dog Daly died this past Friday.  She was 11.

She came into our family back when I was in the late phases of junior high.  Childish innocence and wonder had long been exchanged for a personality more junior high-friendly, and I immediately didn't accept the dog.  My dog was our old dog, Lucky.  My dog was the dog that arrived in my house days after I did.  This was the dog that grew as I grew, who gnawed on the furniture while I broke dishes in the kitchen.  My dog was a golden retriever with long flowing hair that needed to be sheared yearly, at the same time as us boys buzzed our heads in preparation for summer.  This new dog was hardly a replacement for my dog.

We all gathered in the mud room to meet the new family pet.  She was still quite small, and as I pet her a little she started to wag.  She was a goldenrod color, except for the nose and ears, which looked as if they had been dipped into a pool of black oil.  She looked at me with a sense of frenetic enjoyment, and couldn’t seem happier as she bounded around her circle of new friends.

Days grew into months, and I inevitably got closer to her.  Her energy and adoration was constant, and no question it was nice to have a dog around the house again.  She was now the family dog, but she still wasn’t my dog.  Daly was a joyful creature who would wag her tail equally hard for every person who came in that door.  Daly didn’t care if she recognized you or not, upon seeing you her excitement boiled over until she wagged her tail so hard that her backside literally moved.  She would have to reset her feet after each wag from side to side.

But that was for everybody, that wasn’t just for family.  How did I not get special treatment?  I saw her every day of our lives, I occasionally played with her, I even fed her on the rare occasion.  Not that it was difficult to feed the dog, it just seemed to me that whoever serves them food should be shown a little higher level of respect.  This dog was simply a joy mercenary – ready to show love to anybody with a pair of hands.  Everybody else embraced her as she was, but my adolescent id wanted more.  He wanted confirmation that he was special.

Months grew into years, and soon I was in the last few months of my time at home, headed to college.  Her black snout and ears were starting to turn gray, but her energy was as strong as ever.  One day after school, dad showed me the most recent trick he had taught Daly to do.  He would take half a dog treat, raise it up, and Daly would stand on her hind legs only.  He tossed the treat to Daly, and Daly snapped it out of midair.  It was impressive – I didn’t think she had the coordination to sit up like that, and the aerial pounce revealed some of her old predator genes.

I wanted to try the trick.  I got a treat and held it out, and she immediately responded in the same position.  And when I tossed the treat gently in her direction, she snapped it out of the air equally ungently.  All those previous barely-earned pets I gave her felt justified.  I did it again, and laughed as she sprung a little higher to snap this treat out of the air.  I spent that day, and probably too much time over the next couple weeks tossing treats at an upright dog.

Coming home that Thanksgiving after freshman year, I remember wondering if Daly would remember me.  She would obviously be happy to see me, she was always happy.  But would she remember, or would I be just another guest to pass through?  I entered the house, and there she was.  Her tail wagged so hard I thought she might pull something.  A series of barks escaped her mouth until Mom told her to shut up.  I pet her, still wondering.

The next morning was slow to start, and I found myself alone in the living room to start the morning.   Daly showed up in the living room soon thereafter, ready to be pet.  I reached over and gave her a good scratch behind the ears.  She sat, silently enjoying it until I went back to my book. After a second, when she realized I wasn’t coming back in to pet her, she let out a quick bark under her breath, and turned and backed up a little bit.  She then, fully facing me, gets up on her hind legs.  She wanted to play.

She remembered me.

She knew that I wasn’t just another houseguest at the end of a cul-de-sac in Suburban Minnesota.  She knew I was a friend, that we had a history together.  She remembered me.  I couldn’t get to the treat jar fast enough.

Over the years, I settled into a routine which would bring me home about once every 4-6 months.  I’d always be there for Christmas, and likely I would come home at some point in the summer.  Every time I came back, Daly would be there nearby.  We would say hello, I would pet her back, and she would wag uncontrollably.  And the first night would never feature the trick.  But the next morning, when we returned to old times and I came downstairs, I would inevitably find a little goldenrod creature facing me on two legs, looking to squeeze another treat out of her old friend.  And I would always oblige.  

On flights back home, I often caught myself looking forward to seeing Daly.  Outside of pets, that sort of unbridled passion is rarely seen in the real world.  Love that makes your tail wag so hard it employs extra laws of physics wasn’t a daily observation for me in Ann Arbor or Boston.  But I knew that as soon as I got home to Minnesota and walked in the side door to the house, there’d be a dog who wagged a little too hard, barked a little too loud, and cared a little too much for everybody.  

I just saw her this past July, and she had seemed older but happy.  The tar had all but faded into the color of the snow which covered our lawn 5 months a year.  She also didn’t wag quite as vehemently anymore – the feet moved, but just barely.  She was really just shifting weight.  Our game was less spirited too; if the toss wasn’t right on point, she would let it fall to the ground before eating it.  But she still got up on her two hind legs, letting me know it was time to play. 

Her decline came pretty quickly.  I was informed over email in mid-September that a bunch of little lumps had been found on her body.  After a series of runs to the vet, a tumor about the size of a soap bar was found in her lung.  Some basic medications were given to her for the pain – her last few days would at least be more peaceful.

Two months earlier, she was fine.  Two months later, she was gone.   

I got to see her the day before she died.  I skyped my family as they were headed to Uncle Jerry’s to celebrate Thanksgiving.  As the siblings and cousins started to filter out of the room, Dad panned the camera down to the floor, where I saw Daly sprawled out.  Her pose was like that of a lion sunbathing, but her pain was obvious when Dad called to her and she barely could get her neck to crane up at the screen.  This was a dog that was not long for this world.

The next day, I got the email.  She had been put down.

I teared up once when I heard the news, and I’ve done so again in writing this piece.  But I don’t think it will really sink in that she’s gone until the first time I come home and am not greeted by that little canine nymph when I open the side door.  Until that next morning when nobody comes up to me and demands a treat.  Until the end of the trip, when I don’t pet her for the last time and say “See you later!” like she understood what I meant. 

I miss my dog.  RIP Daly

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Potpourri #7

One of the things I've gotten used to down here is eating bruised fruit.  It doesn't sound like that big a deal, but when you're used to avoiding any brown spots in apples, or soft patches on a kiwi, it takes a little getting used to.  Practically every piece of fruit you get down here has a blemish on it somewhere, or is still horribly unripe.  It makes me wonder how much genetic engineering is actually going on with the fruit we eat in the states, or if the people down here are just that much less careful when handling their fruit.

On the fruit tip, another odd thing down here is how peach juice is more common/popular than orange juice.  The company "Watt's" sells just about every bottle of juice down here, and I'd say 1/3 to 1/2 of everything bottle sold is Peach, or "Durazno".  Other popular flavors are Apricot, Pineapple, and then Orange.  I'd have to say that I like peach juice better than orange juice.  If only Georgia had outhustled Florida in the US fruit juice races.

I saw a "traveler" today with his big backpack and some assorted stuff trying to bum change for a bus ride earlier today.  I didn't give him anything, because he was already well equipped to walk wherever he was going.  This was at about 11:20 AM.  When I returned to Estacion Central at about 3:00 PM, he was still on the same corner, looking for change.  I guess the "weary traveler" is just his angle that he plays.  Whatever, I'm still not giving you any money.

Also, a very important decision has been made regarding my sports loyalty.  I've thought about it long and hard, and...vamos U de Chile!  Colo Colo es el equipe de flaites!

In real sports news - it's Michigan-Ohio State week.  Michigan opened the week favored by 8.5 points at home.  If Urban Meyer is really going to OSU next year (and I have no doubt he is, that guy's a snake), then this could be our best shot at beating them in a long time.  Please, please, PLEASE Michigan, take home a victory this weekend.  Break the streak.  Let me see my first OSU victory as a Michigan fan.

Ok, I'm off to substitute for a class.  It's a 5:15 class, which means it's likely all schoolkids who are fulfilling their English requirements outside of their bad school. If they end up being another unruly group of shitty little kids, I might quit.  If they're good, I might teach them some creative English curse words.

Mini Quiz:  In English, what is the difference between when you use the word "They", and the word "Them"?

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


One of the things I pride myself on down here is that I work out harder than just about everybody else I see in the park.  There are a pair of twin male ex-gymnasts that have an insane workout routine (decline pushups on kiddie slides, pullups where they flip up so the bar ends against their waist, etc), but other than that I rarely see anybody else push themselves like that in Parque Bustamante. 

Today after my normal 30 min run, I jogged into the little exercise area where I do my pullup/pushup/situp/dips routine.  I had finished everything except for pullups when one of "those guys" walked into the park.  For those of you who frequent a gym, you know the exact type of guy I'm talking about.  This is the guy who spends more time manscaping than actually lifting weights.  Everything he's wearing is perfectly color-coordinated, his arms are all evenly tanned, and his hair is thickly gelled into place.  No matter how profusely he sweats, the bonds of space-age technology supporting his hair follicles will not be compromised.  This is the kind of guy whose bedsheet laundry routine involves paint thinner and a chisel.  As I was standing on one of the two pullup bars next to each other, he hops on the one next to me, and starts doing pullups himself.  Game on.

With my blood rushing from the douche proximity, I snap off 18 pullups to his 10 or so.  I didn't really count his, I just made sure that he had stopped long before I did.   I threw in a quick set of decline pushups on the same machine just to make a point, then hop off and sit in the shade for a minute.  He stands on the machine while he rests, making sure all parts of him receive even sunlight.  Giving myself less break time than normal, I jump back onto the machine, choose a slightly wider grip on the pullup bar, and then rip off another 12.  He jumps in halfway through my set, and we both finish about roughly the same time.  I throw in some more decline pushups, and retreat to my spot in the shade.  He turns around, making sure to let the back of his shoulders feel the sun as well.

Man, this guy is driving me nuts.  I wait about half my normal break time, and then hop back on the bar, this time choosing the widest possible grip for my pullups.  It's hard as hell, but I manage to bang out 8 before having to give up the ghost.  The other guy doesn't even look in my direction, doesn't even try to do another set yet.  In fact, he starts looking around the rest of the park, to anywhere but where I was.

Blood in the water.  Time to go for the kill.

With no break, I return to my narrow grip pullups and bang out as many as I can again.  I want to scream on a couple of them, but remain completely silent.  I end up getting 7 or 8, and then am totally exhausted.  As I finish, I look over and see that he's stopped looking around, and is now concentrated on another set of pullups.  This set is weak - he's only going about halfway down, and his legs are twitching as he ascends - a sure sign of fatigue/loss of control.  I feel comfortable in my victory, and walk to the water fountain to grab a drink.

The water fountain is in the other direction from my house, so I had to repass the pullup area as I started walking home.  As I looked up from the water fountain and glanced over at the pullups, I noticed that he started to bang out another quick set of his half-assed pullups.  "What a joke," I thought to myself.

Then I noticed a beautiful little chilena in painted-on workout clothes walk up next to him.  She was just finishing up a run herself, which might as well have been a runway show for every male in Parque Bustamante.  This girl was also perfectly tanned, with radiant skin and piercing brown eyes carried by a photoshopped-figure.  The guy comes down off the pullup bar, plants a kiss on her lips, and they both walk away, hand in hand, towards the other side of the park.

Damn it, he won.

Monday, November 21, 2011

Street hustling and weight watching

On Friday evening, as I was walking back from class, I saw a street vendor selling chocolate bars along the side of the road.  Ever the connoisseur, I decided to evaluate one that I hadn't tried yet.  I chose some obscure one with almonds in it, and then reached for my wallet.  The chocolate bar cost 1000 pesos, and I only had a 20k bill in my pocket.  So I asked the guy if he could break it.  He nodded, and reached into his pocket.  He pulled out a roll of bills.  Judging by the color of the stack, they were all 1k, 2k, and 10k bills.  He slowly peeled off two 1k bills and one 2k bill, and then slowly grabs a 10 and hands it to me.  I hold my hand out to receive it.  He slowly started to put his money away and started to look in the other direction. 

Now, for those keeping track, I just received 14k change on a 20k bill, where the cost was 1k.  He started to look around for other customers, while my hand was still hanging out there, waiting for the rest of my change.  I literally raised my hand about a quarter of an inch, and started to say "oye...", and before I could get a second word in, he whips out his wallet (in his other pocket) with a stash of only 5k bills in it, and quickly gives me one of them with a smile.  I shot him my nastiest look, and then continued walking down the street.

I suppose I can't hate the guy for trying to hustle me.  And even then, it's nothing that would hold up in a court of law.  He could argue that he was just taking an extra-long time to pull out all the change from his pockets.  But he was clearly trying to scam an extra 5k pesos off what he thought was going to be an easy mark.  Guess again, bitch.

In related, yet opposite news, I am now down to 68.0 kilos. For those who think in pounds (like me), that's 149.6.  I haven't been this light since I was cutting weight for wrestling in 12th grade.  And before I get any strongly worded emails telling me to eat something, just know that I feel great.  I'm running, working out 3-4 times a week, and I walk everywhere.  I haven't cut calories in any discernable way, the only difference is I don't eat normal American portions at most meals, and I've avoided refined sugars for the most part.  That's it.  And in doing so, I've managed to shed nearly 20 lbs in 3.5 months.

One of the other consequences of that - many of my pants currently do not fit me.  Even the skinnier pair of jeans I used to have are now just regular jeans.  I guess I'm going to have to go shopping down here at some point...

Sunday, November 20, 2011


I went on a long run yesterday, and as I have no earphones anymore, it's given me a lot of time to think/let my mind wander.  As I came up to a cross street a few blocks from my apartment, I saw a girl walking out of a store with some paints and brushes in a plastic bag, waiting for the light to change.  She was waiting for a moment where she could make art.

It got me thinking about what she was going to capture - what she was going to paint with those materials.  Was she going to paint a landscape?  Maybe something she saw on the metro the other day.  Perhaps it was the way the sun rose over her apartment, which was just begging to be captured.  To capture a moment in time.  And then, I realized that the main goal of any artist is to stop time.  To freeze, capture, construct, assemble, pare down, and/or rewrite a moment in time.  A small slice of their experience of life, frozen for all to see.

What does a painter do?  He sees something and recreates it, using as much time as he needs to recapture that one vision.  What does a musician do?  He searches for chords, progressions, and lyrics to capture an emotion, an idea.  What does an actor do?  He rehearses, reads, and searches for the perfect emotion to carry a scene.  What does a comedian do?  He searches for the perfect laugh in a given moment.  What does a writer do?  He crafts, searching for the right word to convey the idea of a piece to the rest of his readers.

Practically all art involves revision.  I don't know any great piece of art that wasn't toiled over, struggled with, and hated by the artist before eventually becoming whole.  Even just typing that last sentence, I had to revisit the phrasing multiple times before I let myself continue with this one.  To capture a moment, one must make many decisions.

In a way, sports are a form of art as well.  Scripted plays are drawn up, practiced, and hopefully executed to perfection when the moment is right.  High School and College football teams often talk about being "perfect", where their choices as a team have lead them to a season wherein they have taken control of every moment.  Their search for perfection is captured in stories, numbers, emotions, and highlight reels.

Finding my own unifying theory of art in 30 minutes?  Maybe running without headphones isn't such a bad idea after all.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Potpourri #6

My headphones broke about a week ago today.  It´s made going for runs much more boring, and I feel much more disconnected from the US because of it.  I used to have a couple semi-daily programs that I listened to, but as of now they´ve all been eliminated.  It´s probably for the best, as now my mind wanders on the subway to think about what the advertisements mean, or trying to eavesdrop on the conversations happening next to me.  In the long run, I´ll probably be better off for it.  It´s just not fun now.

Typing on foreign keyboards is a huge pain.  None of the punctuation buttons are in the right place, and they have extra symbols and settings that I keep inadvertantly hitting.  For example, the @ symbol is a secondary function of the Q key, and to get to it, you have to hit "Alt Gr" and then the q key to pull one up.  It took me a solid 6 minutes of guessing to figure that one out.  Also, the apostrophe is in a different place, so each time I try to type "it´s", I end up typing "it{s", then I have to look down at the keyboard and find the proper marks. 

The institute is now a solid 2 weeks behind on payment for this month.  I´m starting to think about trying to find other employment around Santiago, just so I could count on a more regular check coming across my desk.  The pay here is good, but I´d prefer a place that is fair and consistant.  Stay tuned to see what happens next.

I revisited the teacher´s lounge bathroom today.  I used a wad of paper towels to keep the door from swinging open. 

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Trapped in the underground bathroom

Last Saturday after class, I stuck around for a while answering a few questions from students.  Most classes get out at 11:45, but there were still a few stragglers hanging around when I got out at 12:10 or so.  The teachers usually just take off right after class, so the basement teacher lounge clears out.  I went downstairs to check email and see if my next class was still on for that day (it wasn't).  After spending a couple minutes on the computer, I use the teacher's lounge Men's bathroom.  I walked inside, and closed the door behind me.

As soon as I started to turn around, the door bounces right back open.  I deliberately close it.  Still doesn't take - the moving part of the doorknob is stuck inside the box.  I contemplate just going with the door open, but as the lounge is inhabited by mostly women, I decided to be a gentleman and make sure the door closes.  I close the door, and as the door is fully closed, I reach down to set the lock on the door, using that to hold the door into place.  The lock snaps closed...

And the handle breaks in my hand.

I stared at it for a second, then set it down on the sink.  Before even thinking about it, I decided to relieve myself first.  I'm sure even MacGyver wasn't MacGyver on a full bladder.

 The bathroom window.  Escape was not an option.

(I came back a few days later for pics.  Note how the door is still uncloseable.)

The handle itself didn't look warped from broken metal - I figured it was just a lose pin or something inside the door.  I tried gently slipping it back into the socket, and twisting around to try and lock into something inside the door, allowing me to try and gently slip it back into the unlocked position.

I tried this for about 5 (felt like 50) minutes, to no avail.  Humility and decency having run out, I started banging on the door, hoping that somebody could get a facilities manager to help me out.  No luck, no acknowledgement of hearing me.

I noticed that usually when I would catch the door handle on something inside, the whole frame of the handle moved a tiny bit.  I started simultaneously jiggling the door handle and moving the frame itself with the other hand to try and align anything inside it.  After getting a feel for it, I felt out what felt like screw grooves or some sort of locking position.  I hold the handle frame in place with my arm, and then gently try to unlock the door.

And the frame slides out of place.  I have to fit the piece into place again, hold the frame down with all of my body weight, and gently feel out the lock until it slooowwwwwly starts to move. 

30 seconds later, the door was unlocked and out of position.

As I walked out the door upstairs, I noticed that everybody had gone, except for one old janitor and one secretary, cleaning up.

Monday, November 7, 2011

Excercises in Whiteboards #1

I've now been teaching for a little over 3 months in Santiago, and I'm finally feeling pretty comfortable as a teacher.  It's gotten easier, to the point where I can pretty much walk into a random classroom, open up the book, and teach on whatever topic they are currently discussing.  I've also been able to start injecting more of my personality into the classes, which translates into (I think) fairly interesting whiteboard scribblings.  I started taking pictures of some of my whiteboards over the past couple weeks, and I thought I'd share some of them with you here.  I imagine this will also become a recurring segment.

First out of the gates - a quick breakdown of some of the differences in academic words in Spanish and English.  Notice "alumno" is current student, and "colegio" is high school.  Not exactly intuitive.

 This one features silent letters, questions and statements using "to be", and how the Chinese put their last names first simply to spite the white man.


Explaining the present perfect, use of "since", and how taught should sound, but not be spelled.

Possessives, my now infamous "this that these those" grid, and bragging about my chair to the rest of the chumps students.

And finally, a little something to reinvigorate the fires inside America's oldest haters...

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Cajon de Maipo, part 2 / Clasico

Before we continue with Cajon de Maipo, I realized I never gave the answers to the grammar quiz from a couple days back.  In case you forgot, here are the questions:

1)  What is the difference between saying "have been..." and "have gone..."?

2)  Many words that express preference, like "like" and "love" can be paired with both infinitive and gerund (-ing) verbs.  Can "would like..." be paired with both too?

3) When do we use the present perfect continuous (have/has + been + *verb + ing*), and when do we use the present perfect (have/has + past participle)?


1)  You say "have been" when you go somewhere and come back.  "Have gone" is when somebody has left, and still has not yet returned.  For example, right now I have gone to Chile.  But when I return to the states, I will say that I have been to Chile.

2) "would like" can only be paired with the infinitive form of verbs, never the gerund.  You can say "I would like to ski...", but you cannot say "I would like skiing..." as it is poor grammar.

3) The present perfect continuous and present perfect both imply that things started in the past and continue in the present, but the present perfect continuous has a stronger implication that the action will continue on.  For example, the phrase "Metallica has been making studio albums since 1983" conveys a stronger implication that it will continue on into the future than does the phrase "Metallica has made 9 studio albums".


So, back to Cajon de Maipo.  We awoke the next day to the electronic music still playing outside.  I guess the music literally continued constantly from 8 pm the day before through the time we left, around 4 pm.  Before we left, I got a couple shots of the river (Rio Maipo), and the campground in the light.

 Looking out at the Rio Maipo.  I caught this kid in the middle of deep inner reflection.
 ...And 180 degrees from the same spot.  I think I caught this kid just zipping up his pants.

 The "dance floor".  Notice how practically everybody's hiding out from the sun under some form of shade.  The sun is a bitch down here.
Shot of some of the mountiains on the drive back.

After we got back into town, we all immediately went to one of their friend's house to watch the Clasico.  The clasico is a soccer game between the Universidad de Chile (no relation to the actual Universidad de Chile) and Colo-Colo, the two most successful soccer teams in all of Chile.  They play once a year, and the games are always very tightly contested.  This year was no exception.

The viewing room.

I ended up watching with about 5 U fans, and 2 for Colo-Colo.  It was a great learning experience, because now I am intimately familiar with all possible derivations of the filthiest words in Chilean Spanish.  The game itself matched the ferocity of the vulgarity, as there were 7 yellow cards and 2 red cards handed out over the course of the game.  It was a very back-and-forth affair, with the U scoring first, then Colo Colo scoring 2 goals in the second half to go up 2-1.  The U was playing with only 9 people (thanks to the red cards), but in the ultimate minute of the game (102nd minute), a U player found the back of the net to tie the game at 2-2, and keep their 15-game unbeaten streak alive.

Now, for those of you who may know soccer might be thinking to yourselves "why were there 12 minutes of stoppage time?  A normal game only includes 3-4 maximum."  To which I reply "Well noticed, soccer/blog fan."  The reason that there were 12 minutes of game time added was because a bunch of colo-colo fans climbed OVER THE 20 FT BARBED WIRE FENCES and were screaming at the players on the field.  The refs stopped the game, and the coach of colo colo himself came over and bitched at the fans for a solid 30 seconds.  Latins, am I right?

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Cajon de Maipo, part 1

Hi Everyone,

First of all, I'm sorry for the lack of posts of late.  I have, and always will have, plenty to write about, it's just a question of me sitting down and dedicating the time to these postings.  Moving forward, I will attempt to make them as regular as possible - ideally, I will update on average every 2 days.  Ok, disclaimers aside.  Now onto the good stuff.

This past weekend was a long weekend for the people of Santiago.  Once again, it's a mystery holiday whose origins completely elude me, but so be it.  If I already have the day off, I figure asking questions about the holiday can only get me into trouble.  So we had the 31st and 1st off, and I'm very grateful to Saint Halloween and Saint Hangover for their gracious contributions to Chilean culture.

For the long weekend, I went with my friend Wasi, and his two friends Carla and Rey to a campground in Cajon de Maipo, a river-basin area just outside of the city.  It was a beautiful hour-long drive out there, which featured a lot of the Chilean flora and fauna.  Sadly, my camera was never ready for the fauna, but the flora has been captured in detail.  Here are a few shots of the drive out there:

Something that doesn't quite translate in these pictures is the steepness of these mountains.  Most of the mountains I've seen in my life have been from the Appalachian range, or some of the Rockies.  These mountains are STEEP.  Many of them are to the point where you'd need to have 4 points of contact on the mountainside to make it up.  But don't worry, this hasn't dissuaded me from climbing at all.

After about an hour's drive or so, we made it to the campsite.  It was a very cool area just on a side of the river.  The tents were set up like so:
 And my friends posed like so:
Dinner that night consisted of rice, potatoes, chicken legs AND steak.  It was easily the heartiest I've ever eaten while camping. 
The steak was cooking when this picture was taken.

Afterwards, there was a music show played in the front of the campground, which was mostly trance/electronic music.  Not usually my favorite, but it was an interesting change of pace.

I have to cut this post a little short - I was just called in to teach another class today at 5:15.  So, we'll pick up with the rest of the trip tomorrow!  Or maybe later tonight!  But probably tomorrow!

Also, for those of you who haven't seen my mug in a while, here's a shot of yours truly.
Que se vayan bien!