I have two girls. Two beautiful girls. A little princess. And a slightly bigger angel. My girls. My life.

My girls they love to dance. Ballet. Jazz. Hip Hop. Tap. Crazy. You name the style and they have it. Just a shame their dad was born with two left feet…

I have the dancing ability of the Elephant Man. Some say it is cute. And then laugh when they can’t keep a straight face. Others just burst into laughter straight away. But it hasn’t stopped us from dancing our life away. It hasn’t stopped us from having our music moments. Let me tell you a bit about those moments…

I lie in on Sunday mornings. Not too late. But a little. My beautiful and suffering wife takes on Sunday mornings. Making Belgium waffles or pancakes or vetkoeke. And bacon. In the words of my little princess… “I loooove bacon”. But it sounds more like “I luuuuuuuuv bay-kin”. It’s Boston you see. It is rubbing off on her. But I lie in like a lord while the smell of love fills the air.

But I don’t lie alone. My big angel comes to join me. Just the two of us. Little princess is in the kitchen with mom learning how to cook. So we lie in bed. She lies in my arms and together we listen to music. No. We “play argue” about music. Channel hopping between VH1 Classics and MTV. She laughs at the big hair of the 80s and the crap music back then. I laugh at the lack of proper lyrics and new styles in the music of today. And we argue about who has the best music taste. She rolls her eyes when I go “Yeah” to Springsteen dancing with the Courtney Cox or do my MC Hammer impressions to “Can’t Touch This“. I laugh at her doing a hip hop impression with her skinny legs and the girlie voice when she goes “Yo!”

But sometimes we go quiet for a moment. A song comes up that makes us go quiet. And we just lie there. She in my arms. And I hold her a little bit tighter than before. It’s then that the music knows no age. It’s when the music goes straight to the heart. And the stomach. It just tells you to lie back and listen to the voice and melody. The words doesn’t even matter. It’s just a song that reminds the two of us that we are lucky. Lucky to have a mom who loves us. And a mom we love. And a little sister that’s a little bit crazy. And lucky that we have our little Sunday morning of music. And love.

We always goes quiet when Sinead O’Connor tells us Nothing Compares. Because we know. Nothing compares. Nothing compares to the laughing and the music in our house. To the love you can almost touch in our house. And nothing compares to the big angel and me lying back and enjoying our Sunday morning of music. Just a dad and his girl.

Sinead always does that to me. I look at her face and remember that she was the first crush I had. But it was just that video. And when she cries. When the tears starts rolling down her face. All I wanted to do was just hold her and say “It’s okay Sinead, we love you”. Of course I knew it was just a video. Just a song. But I always felt that she just needed a hug and a whisper that “it’ll be okay”.

But there is a new song that also makes us go quiet. A song of today. It’s not the words. Like Nothing Compares wasn’t about the words. It was about Sinead being lost without love. She reminds me about those out there with no love. Those with no Sunday mornings. This new song just reminds me that there isn’t enough love out there.

It’s different from Sinead. This song doesn’t make me feel sorry for singer. The song doesn’t tell you about the love that is missing in that life. But this song hits me. Always. I don’t know what it is. But it reminds me that most people don’t know that love. Love that hurts because it is so good. Love that makes you cry because you are so happy. This song haunts me. It makes me miss people I don’t even know. And I can see my angel feels the same when we lie in bed and listen to this song. Watching the tv. But not seeing the song. Just letting it flow.

That’s my Sunday morning of music. And love. And then there is the Sunday afternoon of music and love. Crazy music. Crazy times. Crazy love. That’s my little princess. And Love Is In The Air.

It’s from one of my favorite movies of all time. Strictly Ballroom. Make no mistake. I am not into ballroom. Or musicals for that matter. But this is one awesome movie. This guy can dance. And you should see me and my little princess make our moves on this song.

It’s just crazy. I never tell her when I am going to play it. Never. I just switch it on and watch her reaction. She’ll be in the lounge and I’ll put the boom-box on in the kitchen. Loud. No. LOUD! All she needs are those first few keys to play. And then she runs into the kitchen and shouts, “Louder dad! Louder!” So I turn it louder. Max. And then she jumps up for me to catch her. And hold her. Hang on baby, here we go!

You start off with a few slow swings. Her legs clamped around my middle. I take her hands and she falls back. Her long hair almost hitting the ground. And I wiggle her arms for her whole little body to shake. I swing her up and grab her by her middle. And flip her up in the air. Her head almost touching the roof. Her eyes jumps open wide with a mixture of exhilaration and happiness. I can hear her laugh and giggling throughout the song. I swing her around my body – over my shoulder and around my back. Her feet never touching the floor. It’s wild. And it gets wilder. She stretches out like Superman while I hold her up in the air and move her forward and backwards. And spin her a bit more. And then the song hits a high note and beat. And I swing her head back. Holding her head with one hand and her back with the other. And I start spinning. Around and around. Keeping up with the beat. And going faster and faster as that piece builds up and builds up. And then… BANG! “Love is in the air!” Full swing. I see nothing but her face laughing. Her mouth open with the happiness of just dancing. Her eyes wide open with pleasure. Her arms swinging outstretched. Complete trust that her dad will hold her tight enough no matter how fast we go. Her complete love for her crazy dad dancing his silly dance on a Sunday afternoon.

And when it is over? “Again dad! Again!” Love Is In The Air. On a Sunday afternoon.

But this song is also different. The words are true. The beat belies the words. The words…

Love is in the air
Everywhere I look around
Love is in the air
Every sight and every sound
And I don’t know if I’m being foolish
Don’t know if I’m being wise
But it’s something that I must believe in
And it’s there when I look in your eyesLove is in the air.

Love is in the air
In the whisper of the tree
Love is in the air
In the thunder of the sea
And I don’t know if I’m just dreaming
Don’t know if I feel safe
But it’s something that I must believe in
And it’s there when you call out my name

Love is in the air
Love is in the air

Love is in the air
In the rising of the sun
Love is in the air
When the day is nearly done
And I don’t know if you are an illusion
Don’t know if I see truth
But you are something that I must believe in
And you are there when I reach out for you

Love is in the air
Everywhere I look around
Love is in the air
Every sight and every sound
And I don’t know if I’m being foolish
Don’t know if I’m being wise
But it’s something that I must believe in
And it’s there when I look in your eyes

Love is in the air
Love is in the air

Love is in the air
Love is in the air

Sometimes with music. Always with love. Sometimes on a Sunday. Always every day. Love is in the air. In my home.

Love Is In The Air

Love Is In The Air

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I love Saturdays. Come on, don’t be so cynical! No, not only because it is weekend. See, Saturday is my day at the dancing with the little one.

My girls love to dance and they are always off at some dance class. The older one does tap, jazz, ballet, hip-hop, modern, post-modern and existential. I think the last one is a bit of a rip-off. The teacher only shows up if she wants to and it is a continuous hit-and-miss as you never know if you want to go in any case. Even if you do, you pick your own time to show up anywhere you believe a dance should take place. I think Jean-Paul Sartre’sinterpretation of the Nutcracker hurts in any case…

Wait… Where am I? Oh yes, dancing and Saturdays…

I miss all the dancing sessions of my oldest daughter. Her classes are during the week when I am at work. I don’t think she would like me there in any case. Dad’s cool but also a little bit embarrassing. As you will see…

My lovely suffering wife lets me lie in a little bit on a Saturday. Just for a little while for the little one to hop into bed with me and for the two of us to play draw-on-the-back. I draw a picture on her back with my fingers and she must guess what it is – and she does the same on my back. Heck, it’s the only way I get a bit of a back tickle in our house. I don’t know whether it is the hairy back or just a girl thing, but none of the girls likes giving me a back tickle – including my lovely suffering wife (Yes, the same one that gets a back tickle almost every single night.) I’m not too picky, but I do think that my daughter is cheating. How many times can you draw a ball? A round one? And how many times can I say, “I don’t know what that is. Draw it again!”

Anyway…

We lie in for a few minutes and then it is a rush downstairs to slurp down some serial – Coco Pops! And for me to get my coffee fix. Then we race upstairs (with a giggle or two) to brush our teeth and for me to get rid of some of the coffee…

And then I dress the pretty ballerina.

That takes a while. First I rub her body with some cream so that the stockings and ballerina outfit don’t make her itchy. She’ll stop half-way through with me still trying to get her clothes on - she stops just to do a little twirl and to shout, “Look at me dad! I’m a pretty ballerina!” We are now officially running late. Again… It happens every Saturday morning. We always run late. We always have to work out an excuse for being late while rushing to at least try and make it in time.

“Hurry up you two! No time to play!” That’s my wife reminding us that it we really don’t have time for this. Especially not this morning. It’s a special day at ballet today…

My wife does the little one’s hair while I put on the rest of her clothes. The ballet tag team. I’m not good at hair but can do pants and shirts. Done! Get jackets on. Hats. Gloves. Scarves. And anything and everything else we need to face the cold outside. Then we jump in the car and rush down to ballet class – swearing softly (and sometimes loudly) at the slow driving oxygen thief on a site seeing cruise ahead of us.

I usually go on my own to the dancing with my little one. We are not allowed inside “the room” to watch in any case. So I sit outside in the hallway and read a book and listen to my iPod. I sometimes even blog from there. But not today. Today I can watch! And…

Every now and again the family can come in to watch. And our gang always goes in full force with all the troops accounted for. No one left behind. Today was going to be even better – A special holiday show just for us. The Nutcracker!

Only the little ones and a few of the older and more experienced dancers to show them the way. Always a ball. They were all there – the Nutcracker, Clara, the Mice, the Russian dancer, the Chinese dancer, the Spanish dancer and the Arabian dancer. No, I don’t mean that the class is very international – I think it is a bit of a twist of the original one. I laughed my ass off so many times that my wife had to tell me to shush a few times. And to tell me and the oldest one to keep quiet because we kept on whispering and giggling while pointing at the little one. She was just so damn cute. Our little ballerina. What fun. What a Saturday. And with any luck, it might just get even better for me today…

And then came my moment. The one I have been waiting for. I was made for moments like these. All my years of training. Just for this. Deep breathe…

“Any of the dads want to volunteer to come and do some dancing with us?”

Yeah! Wait…

Play it cool…

Don’t look to eager…

Let them beg just a little…

“Oh, come on dad!” from my kids and the teacher saying “Come now Mr H. We know you want to!”

The big African-American guy sitting next to me gave me the “look” and laughed. The look of you-are-not-really-going-to-do-this-are-you. I laughed and noticed that he never took off his Timberland boots before sitting down. Amateur…

Ha! I took my exact matching pair of Timberlands off before I even came in. I left it outside knowing that I can’t dance in them. I came prepared…

I shook my head as I got up “reluctantly”. A few laughs from the crowd – especially from that section where my gang of girls were sitting and my new boet sitting next to me. I went over to my spot and took a deep breath. Closed my eyes slightly to compose and then… First position…

Or what I thought was first position. The “proper” guy dancer looked over at me and gave me the “sorry sod” smile. He’s a nice guy. But he is about 16 and I am turning… hum… slightly older tomorrow! (Yes, 14 December is my birthday!) He was going to “lead” me through my steps. As if I needed any instructions or help…

Plié.” WTF? Oh! No. Wait… I know this one. Bendy knees!

Head straight and bendy knees. Done. Just look at that composure!

“Again!” Damn… I hardly got up from that last one…

“Again! Three times and then a jump like this!”

What? Who? Where? Hey!

Bendy knees and a jump. And again. And again!

I started losing track of the stuff we were doing. Changement de pieds could have been one. And fouetté rond de jambe en tournant must have been one. The twirling around 360 degrees. No problem… (Getting slightly tired and maybe a bit of huffing and puffing…)

Running around in circles and jumping those scissor jumps or whatever they call it. It looked like I was doing hurdles unsuccessfully. I was losing track of what the guy is shouting at me. More of the jumping in the air and bendy legs stuff. And all I heard was, “Again!” I couldn’t really hear much else from all the heavy breathing and wheezing…

Damn! I was actually enjoying it. But that young dude sure had a wicket little smile on his face. Did he like seeing pain like this? Better watch it buddy… Hope you can handle pain when I grand sas d’action or frappé him in his Nutcracker…

Me? I saw glimpses of Mikhail Baryshnikov whenever I saw a bit of myself in the mirror. So gracious… So composed… So stupid!

I love it. I love watching my wife and kids look at me making a fool of myself. Hearing the other dads (and moms and kids) laughing at the stupid guy doing the silly ridiculous attempts at ballet. I just love it and kept on doing it with a big stupid grin on my face.

I’m a pretty ballerina…

Okay. I’m not.

But boy, do I love doing it. I love it when it was done and I did a little curtsy to the parents and to my danseur. The big smile and big shiny eyes I see from my little one. The high five and giggle I get from my oldest one. The smile and you-silly-you-I-love-you look I get from my wife.

Yes…

I love being the stupid dad that always “volunteers” to go do the silly stuff. That’s me. Just call me Volunteer Dad. Anything to see those faces and feel their love. Anything. Especially when I can be silly and have a laugh as well.

Next time you see the guy doing the stupid thing in front of his family – that’s me.

You should know this by now. Remember Things To Do Before You Die? Or When Dad Came To Watch? That’s me. Stupid, silly and madly in love with my gang of girls. Anything and everything just for them. Because it is also for me.

And me dance pretty…

ballerina-plate

You read those lists? The things you should do before you die. For those who love adventure… Go climb Everest and drop a nose on the way down. Go to space with a big wallet and not spaced out on a big joint. Trekking through the jungle on the back of an elephant… And you have to clean up afterwards. Dive with sharks and get to know the meaning of shark bait. Oh, the adventure of it all. But that’s not for me. No thanks.

I don’t mind the adventure. Just too much of a hassle. Not funny enough. Except when things go horribly wrong. And less funny when it happens to me.

Or maybe you want to go for the romantic version. You know. Ride a gondola in Venice. And pinch your nose because of the stench of dirty stale water. See the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. And wonder what the hype is of this small little painting and whether she is hiding her bad teeth or a retainer. Witness a solar eclipse and realize your all new eco-friendly car relies on solar energy to start. Go smell the roses in Indonesia and get stung and chased by killer bees.

Nah. Not fun. No thank you. Not for me. Sounds interesting, but it’s just not for me. I like to do edgy stuff. Things I can share with others. I don’t have a long list. I’ve done many of the things I wanted to do. But I have a few left on my list. You’ll see a trend. I give you my Top 5 things I have to do before I die.

5. There’s a party going on right here:

We don’t eat out often. We like home cooking too much. So it is always a special occasion when our little family of four go to eat out. I always look at the other people in the restaurant thinking, “Why aren’t they smiling more or talking to each other?” People tend to sit there and eat. It doesn’t seem to me like they are really enjoying it. Where’s the party? What I really want to do is get up and start dancing in the aisles singing Celebrationby Kool & The Gang. Grab people by the hand and get them to follow me in my dance through the restaurant. Get everyone to join in. Old and young. Singing, “There’s a party going on right here… let’s all celebrate and have a good time…” Wouldn’t that be cool? Unfortunately I can’t sing and life isn’t a music video. But I still want to do it!

4. Dancing in the street:

This one is a bit similar to number 5. It involves dancing and singing. But in the streets. I commute each day to work and back. I listen to my iPod and off I go. And most people look so sad and miserable going to work and even going home. Tired and not having fun. I wish they could hear my iPod song. And cheer up a bit. So what I really want to do it start singing my old favorite – Love is in the air. Tell them that love is everywhere they look around. And get them to join in the fun. Start running and singing through the streets like a bad 80′s music video. Okay, so they can’t hear the music. But they can believe in it right?

3. Sing-a-long:

Another song. Another setting. I’m at a conference speaking. It’s the last session. Everyone just wants to go home. And I want to end it in a bang. What better than A little less conversation? I can pull off all my dance moves right there on the stage. Even try an Elvis shake of the leg. And pointing to the crowd. The splits might hurt, but it might just be worth a shot. I can get them to join me on stage and do a sing-a-long. Wouldn’t that be cool? Everyone having fun and going home with a smile. I think that might just give them something to actually remember. I don’t think I’ll be invited back to come and speak again though… But it will send another strong message. Less talking, more doing.

2. Pull my finger:  

No more singing. I can’t sing in any case. This one is pretty straight forward. I want to be at one of these high powered meetings I sometimes attend. Somewhere with a CEO or ex-President (or future President) or big wig from the UN or G8 or something. It’s photo-op time. We all stand there in our best suits. Getting ready to smile for the cameras. Looking all serious because of course we don’t have a real life. I lean in to the guy next to me and say in a whisper as if sharing a deep moment with him, “Pull my finger”. I just wonder what he would do. Will he laugh loud enough for others to turn around or would he be too serious and turn away from me? Will he pull it? And if he does, what should I do? And do I need to learn this little phrase in different languages to “pull” it off?

1. A little tap dance move:

I’ve been burning to do this one for ages. This one and the restaurant one. I have gotten so close to doing it before. But then stopped before I do it. Maybe one day just before I retire. It’s a big client meeting or a small high level meeting somewhere – maybe the WTO. The group is sitting around a table and deeply involved in solving some or other “complex” issue. Negotiating this way and that way. Frowns everywhere. Serious people doing serious stuff. And I jump up and do a little tap dancing number right there and then. Maybe even jump on the table for everyone to see it. But I’ll be okay with just a short little Fred Astaire or Gregory Hines move next to my chair with my tongue sticking out as I concentrate on my feet tapping. All I need is 5 seconds. I can live with that. Just a quick one. A little tap dancing number and I’ll sit down as if nothing happened, “Now, where were we?” That I really would like to do. And I know that I will. Sometime. Somewhere. Somehow.

You see the trend? It’s about people. And how they react to different things. I do things just to see how people will react. Sometimes I get punished for what I do…

One of my favorite things is to dance in the car. Suffering wife will be driving and I’ll be making all my dancing moves in the passenger seat. You might think being stuck in a seat will limited my movement. No way! I move baby! My head and arms are free. So I can do the wave-to-your-friends-and-to-the-heavens-while-swinging-your-head-from-side-to-side-looking-slightly-down-and-bobbing move. The let’s-make-as-if-we-are-washing-windows-while-biting-the-bottom-lip. And my personal favorite, the arm-extended-pointing-to-a-person-in-the-crowd. Oh, that’s just a few – I have so many moves. And it doesn’t take much to get me going. Or to get me into trouble.

We were driving back from taking the girls to the park on Sunday. And Pink came on the radio singing her new song. I can’t even remember what it sounded like. But it had some disco-type beat. Enough to trigger a “smooth” dance routine. And enough for me to start singing songs dedicated to those driving in the car or cars next to us. But actually, it started before that already.

I love waving at people. Especially people I don’t know. It gives them something to think about. I always imagine them in their cars. Bored and grumpy. And all of a sudden they see a guy waving at them from the car coming from the opposite direction. But in a flash the guy is gone. And they think, “Who was that?” It’ll keep them busy for a few minutes. I generally time it perfectly for them to wave back on instinct and then do the “wondering” as they carry on in the opposite direction. I love it. Hell, my oldest daughter and me sit on the front porch and do it at the cars driving past our house! No clue who the heck they are. But I bet you they’ll remember us for a few minutes while they try to figure out who those two idiots were. Haha! Some even wave back when they drive past us our house on another day. Spread some love baby.

But the suffering wife isn’t always that impressed. She just laughs and shakes her head. And say the word I hear so often, “You!” It generally goes with the shake of the head. And the more she shakes her head and laughs the more I’ll do it. The girls love it. I start the dance moves up front and they do theirs at the back. And the three of us wave at cars as they drive past. Fun in the car.

But on Sunday the suffering wife pulled one on us. We were dancing and waving at cars and she stopped the car. She has promised to do this so often. This time she did it. She kicked us out the car and told us to walk home! It wasn’t that far to walk but still. Actually, she kicked me out the car and the girls decided to join me! So we walked home.

This is what I’ll remember though. My wife decided to take another drive around the block to make as if she is “driving away”. I laughed and so did my oldest daughter. We were in a silly mood already and the wife was joining in. But the little one? She cried. Scared that mom just drove away. Scared that she won’t come back. Shame. We made it into more fun by hiding away (very unsuccessfully) behind the bushes from my wife. She started laughing again. Nervously.

But all I wanted to say to her was, “Don’t worry girl. Mom’s not going anywhere. Because the thing we do is love each other”. I don’t have to do anything before I die. Because I am already doing it.

Can you feel it?

Can you feel it?

What ya lookin' at?
What ya lookin’ at?

You’ve heard me say it before – hear me roar. I’m a Lion! No. Not really. I’m a Zebra. White with some black stripes. Or is it black with some white stripes? It doesn’t matter. I am South African. I’m a bit of both. That’s the great thing about being from South Africa. You stand a damn good chance of having a bit of everybody in your family tree. I am damn proud of it. A bit of everybody. 100% pure South African. A little bit of everything. A buffet of blood running through my veins.

Now, like I said, it shouldn’t be a bad thing. And it isn’t. It works most of the time. For most of us. But sometimes it doesn’t work out so well. It doesn’t always work out all that well for me. My problem is that I got the short stick on both sides. The bits that’s bad is really bad. And the good bits are missing. Well, mostly. 

The problem is that sometimes I am way too white. So white it’s scary. In way too many ways. And not in any good way. Look at the music I listen to. Bruce-Bloody-Springsteen. Cold-Flippin-Play. Pearl-Damn-Jam. David-Hum-Grey. I mean really. Couldn’t I get some blood with a bit of beat in it? I even listen to Toto’s Africa when I miss home too much. Really. It’s so sad. Just plain sad.

Wait. The Toto song reminds me of that Castle Lager ad of the South Africans watching sport on the roof of a New York apartment. Drinking Castle Lager. That’s why I listen to Toto. Castle Lager. Hmm… Charles! Somewhat dry, somewhat bitter, never sweet.

Anyway… I am getting off topic.

I am so bloody white I was born with two left feet. I can’t dance to save my life. Really can’t. It’s not a pretty sight. I have seen grown men cry when watching me dance. And not for any good reasons. The pain it causes will leave an everlasting mark etched into your brain. You will wake up screaming in the middle of the night sweating and shouting, “Just don’t dance please! Just not that please!” I make Freddy Krueger look like the ideal prom date for any close dancing. Let’s just leave it at me not being a great dancer shall we? The white blood is strong when it comes to dancing. Too damn strong.

And to complete my whiteness? Singing. You don’t want to hear me sing. Really. It’s been banned under the Geneva Convention. I can peel lead paint off walls with one rendition of Roxanne. Or, as my lovely wife always says, when I go busking people pay me to shut the hell up! I think I might not be gifted with a strong voice.

But I can live with this part of my whiteness. I can bob my head up and down instead of dancing. Or in my case, look like someone who is really disagreeing with the person standing next to him. You know – with all that head shaking. Because I can’t even keep a head beat. And with an iPod on my side? I can listen to my music and no one will know that it’s some skinny white dude singing. Well. With the singing? No problem. I just follow my loving wife’s advice and shut the hell up. Or sing softly to myself while taking a shower. With the extractor fan on – full blast. Yes. I can hide the whiteness most of the time. At least the scary bits.

But now I am being hit with my bad black blood.

I got away with it in South Africa. I played soccer like a maniac and ate my putu with pride. I got away with it most of the time. Except for my dislike of the beach. Hated the sand sticking to my body. And the awful salty water. The sun baking while you are lying on a towel doing nothing. Nothing! And if God wanted me to swim he would have given me gills and webbed feet. The Big Four S’s of bad taste. Swimming, sand, sun and salt water. Don’t like it. It’s bad. And it makes me look even worse when standing on the beach squinting and spitting out sand.

But I got away for it for most of the time. Until I got to the US. It caught up with me. My bad black blood. Another “S”…

Snow…

It looks nice. When it is mixed with a strawberry or two to make a daiquiri. Oh, wait. That’s way too white.

Snow. Nice to look at. Even nice to shovel. Almost. But when it comes to those sports. Man. Man, man, man. It’s not made for these legs and this blood. Talk about a frog in a blender. Just arms and legs everywhere. And a trail of blood following. That’s us Africans. Can’t do snow. Won’t do snow. It just ain’t on man. It’s meant to be a mix and not a sport.

And let us run out in the veldt. No problem. We can run for days. Or at least a minute or two. But snow. How the hell do you even walk in snow? With all those layers of clothes on? I look like the Abominable Snowman on steroids stuck in quicksand. The more I move my legs, the less I move forward. And I slowly sink away into the snow. Never to be seen again. Until summer when they find the lone body of an African with a permanent frown on his face. Bloody snow.

Yes. I am a Zebra. A little white and a little black. A little scary and a little bad. Just a shame I got the pieces all mixed up. But hey, that’s South Africa for you. That’s South Africans for you. We always get the pieces mixed up.

So why am I telling all of this now? In the middle of summer? Because I know that it is waiting for me. It’s coming – the snow. I can sit here and drink my daiquiri. But the crushed ice is a reminder that my days are numbered. The snow waits for no man. And no Zebra. It’s coming and I am scared. And there is no place to hide. My true colors will show in the snow. And it’s gonna be bad baby.

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