Irregular flow

Here's something beautiful...



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One year on

Saturday, 24th March marks my first year in Belgium (more or less).

So, I thought of having a celebration of sorts; a bit of a soiree (with singing, if desired) at my flat on the same day.

It will start around 16h00 and continue until the wine has run out. It's pretty much a come-as-you-are, pop-around-if-you-feel-like-it affair. Chilled. Like the wine.

If you fancy popping over, give me a call on +32 494 144 781 and I'll give you all the details.

The Sarajevo Rose

Every image has a story; have a look at this street art in Sarajevo:

And the story explaining it from Wooster Collective:

"As I was passing through Sarajevo I couldn't help but notice the effects of the Bosnian War. It's everywhere, in the buildings, in the people, in the graveyards that stretch blocks and blocks. But the most impactful of these markings are on the street. While walking the city you are sure to come across a splattering pattern of pock-marks from where a mortar round hit.

To signify places of significant deaths, the explosion marks are filled in with red resin to create the Sarajevo Rose."

Ik ben van hier

I’m a local and I’m from here… well, it’s beginning to feel like it.

It’s been a while since my last post. But for good reason.

February is Carnival Time in most parts of Belgium; something to do with celebrating Lent … or something. Whatever the reason, the streets of many local towns have been lined with confetti, marching bands, men dressed as women, women dressed as men, kids dressed as aliens and policemen dressed as policemen. Awesome, see:





I had the fortune of experiencing a Carnival in one of East Flanders’ smaller towns; I had such a good time, and the entire experience has left me feeling like a local! Here’s why:

It all started off at a local night club; an evening to kick the Carnival Season off. My oh my. I’ve never seen anything like it.

The venue was decked out in 70’s dance-floor chiq. And this was after the “refit”. And trust me, they were not trying to be 70’s cool or anything. The décor just was… despite itself. It was 70’s cool by mistake. We’re talking mirrors and syncopated lights here, baby.

But that’s not it. You had to wait until the music started. When the locals began to dance. I tell you… every style of music, danced to by every type of person, in every possible dance style.

It was a menagerie of people (farmers, their daughters, the dude who ran the chippie down the road, his mom, her husband) dancing to their own beat to as many styles of music.

It had the kind of innocence and hyped anticipation that a high school dance had for me back in the day. It was awesome. Everyone just having good, honest, fun. And they pretty much didn’t care who you were or how you danced. Good and downright honest fun. I was sucked in and am now tainted for life. Loved it.

Levels of localness were heightened when – after a mere 11 months of intensive practice – I poured a glass of Duvel in the proper manner and achieved the acceptable amount of head; that is, with enough white stuff to cap Everest. See:



You see, for some strange reason, Belgians – one of the biggest brewing nations in the world – have figured out that drinking a beer with at least a few centimetres’ head, is a good thing. And they’ve told no-one else.

And as such, there is an incredible technique (well, I’ve found anyway) combing wrist twisting, angeled pouring and some inert chanting that allows you to pour the perfect glass of Duvel beer. And this was the weekend that it was perfected for me. I am such a local, now.

My local pub had also just started a sing-along night on Sundays. Most songs are in Flemish. True gems like “Dis altijd lente in de ogen van die tandaardsassisente” (It’s always Springtime in the Eyes of the Dental Hygeniest) and others. Just have to love the Flemish. If you don’t count the coughing, spitting and choking, I almost sound Flemish (and local), too.

Top cap it all off, the lady at my local Fruituur (chippy) complemented me on my Flemish. The very same lady that giggled at my first attempts at ordering chips some months ago.

Oh, what it is to be (almost) local.


P.S. Snow had also come to Antwerp. At last! As an African boy, I still revel in it! Though riding in it on my bike, I had a few small minor wipe-outs. Thankfully the snow broke my fall.

I have built a treehouse!

At last, here it is! My video of I'm from Barcelona, appearing at de Nachten. It's only 25 seconds long, so there's another proper video just after the jump of the same song.





I'm From Barcelona-toilet concert @ Virgin Radio

Global warming 'man-made'

These news headlines made me smile.

Experts, scientists and clever folk around the world have now concluded that global warming is almmost certainly man-made.

Well done on that remarkable observation.

Sure, there's been some talk about our current spate of weather just being part of a huge meteorological cycle.

But come on... who else could have created pollution, de-forestation, CFC gasses and volumous carbon emissions? Oompa-loompa's? Hobbits from the Shire? Ewoks?

Next, they'll be confirming that beer, drunk in sufficient quanities, produces all the effects of drunkeness.

The Nights in Antwerp

Last weekend was supercool music fest De Nachten at de Singel; a truly eclectic and incredibly out-of-this world musical experience. Typically Belgium. Or at least Antwerp. In fact, I am so convinced that there is something in the air, the water or the (whatever is left) that makes Antwerpernaars what and who they are. Quite strange. But David Bowie Strange. Not Boy George Strange.

A fantastic celebration of music it was, too. Prima Donkey. Stijn. Daan (a male Alison Goldfrapp). Absynthe Minded. Fellow South African Gert Vlok Nel. And the wired happy-go-lucky-balloon-throwing-confetti-tossing-29-member-strong group of I’m from Barcelona. Words cannot describe their performance! Truly out of this world. Filled with joy and much tom-foolery, they designed, built and then detonated a happy bomb at de Singel. They’re living proof that it doesn’t take much to make humans happy: some balloons, confetti, happy music and some dancing around. Here’s a pic; I'll try to publish some video later, but having hassles with YouTube:



Here’s a thought. I enjoyed a lovely set from Canadian group Cowboy Junkies. Beautiful wrist-slitting music in the style of Tori Amos and Eddie Reader. But at several times during the performance, the lead singer would turn her back to the audience; even walk off stage to have a natter with some other bloke… during a song. It was like the audience was never there. Rude or artistic? I dunno. Anyhow, apparently Miles Davies used to do that too. So it’s ok, then I guess.



At one point during the festival, I was asked to help the backstage crew pack up. Sure. I mean, how hard could it be? Tell you what, I’ve never felt so idiotic in all my life. I was asked by big burly backstage riggers (each had a name just one syllable long), “Do you know how to roll cables”. No. I do not. “Do you know how to dismantle a speaker tower?” No. I do not. “Do you know to de-rig a whatchamacallit?” No. I do not. What’s a whatchamacallit?

All I could do, after 30 years of intense training for what was to become my life, was push. Yes. That was the extent of it. Pushing storage boxes and trolleys, packed with the said cables, speakers and whatchamacallits. Mid-way in the process, I ran away, under cover of a big speaker flight case, never to be seen by the crew again.

Anyhow, the night did leave me with a new found respect for all things backstage. And for the folk that work for the theatre companies – they have to do everything.

But in all, de Nachten was a musical treat to behold and be-enjoy. Highly recommended, if you can make it next year.

See some of my pics of the event are on Flickr.

Anyhow. Back to this Antwerp-iness. Bunch of cool-ness all around. Check out this guy I spotted at de Singel...



Possibly no older than 3, smoking a pipe. Cool or contrived? Answers on a postcard, please.


And tonight is some kind of pancake night in Antwerp. Could it be Ash Thursday? I dunno. So, I have bought ingredients. And will make pancakes. But those of you who know and appreciate my skills (or lack thereof) in cooking could quite rightly be justified in thinking that the evening will end in unmitigated disaster. Or at least the completely unnecessary destruction of several eggs and a spoon. Which is why I have also bought pre-made pancakes as backup – just in case the originals do not work.

Like most things in life, I'll give it my best shot. But there's always a back-up plan. I think, yeah?

Feel it in the air tonight

Naturally 7 dans le métro à Paris
Video sent by yom_

Books and Revelations

I've got Barry playing at the moment.

No. Not Manilow.

White.

You really get all of it here. Diana Ross, Madonna, etc. I know. Dodgy taste in music. You should see what I wear.

Anyhow. My word. What a past couple of days. Tough. All self-inflicted, I may add. But most of the truly worthwhile stuff usually is, I'm beginning to think.

South Africa (what, was it as long ago as 2 weeks, now?) was truly wonderful. As I mentioned, it was to visit my family. Eight years since our last Christmas. And now, hopefully just 11 months until our next. Good news, indeed.

But South Africa is a different place. No, that's wrong. South Africa is the same, beautiful place. I'm the one who has changed.

After being away for so long, I am so out of touch. And I've forgotten just how harsh the African sun can be. On a mission to get a tan to show off to the folk back here in Antwerp, I scoffed at the use of sun cream, t-shirts and hats. After all, Bushmen do not require these things. And therein lay may first revelation of the trip. I am not a Bushman. I was - for all intensive purposes during the first few days of intense sunburn - a Twit.

I was given a fantastic book while on holiday. It's called 'Pale Native' by Max du Preez. It's described as 'memories of a renegade reporter'; it's Max' memoirs of his time as southern Africa's top investigative journalist in the apartheid years, the transition to democracy, and the early governing years of the ANC.

It was such an historical eye-opener! During my early school years, we were taught so many historical truths about heroes. But many historical inaccuracies, too. It was so interesting to read about the real history of South Africa; about heroic Afrikaners, Zulu's, Xhosa's and others who inhabited the land.

Max' style is un-relentless. Therein lay my second revelation of the holiday. That to pursue the truth at all costs and to tell it like it is often causes you to be labelled a maverick. A loose cannon. The rewards can be high. But the punishment is harsh.

The third revelation was this: in the years when the apartheid government was still in power and the ANC still banned, secret meeting were held out of the country with the exiled ANC leadership, and Africans of all kinds and from all backgrounds. Business, religion, art, literature. The thing that was a revelation to me was the art and literature bit. But I guess if you look through history, artists, poets, writers - they all make a significant impact on present-day thoughts and feelings. Amazing.

Anyhow, if you're interested in South African history, I'd highly recommend it.

Another good read is Frank Peretti's The House. Horror book. And I hate horrors. Why? Because they're generally horrible. They clue is in the title. Good book, though. Couldn't put it down.

I've also never laughed so much in a long, long time. I went canoe-ing. In the big ocean. What a silly thing to do. Particularly off a launching beach called Shark's Rock. Again, the clue is in the title.

But, combined with the encouraging and hilarious instruction from my brother, it was an unforgettable, and thankfully shark-less, experience.

I've also re-discovered my love of gardening, having worked with my mum and dad in theirs. Well, 'gardening' sounds awfully convoluted. It's really just digging in the dirt, isn't it? Just like when you were a small kid. I love it.

I'm free (as in available, not as in for nothing) for any gardening you may need done. My contact details are on the homepage.

Anyhow, I'm looking forward to the year ahead. On return to Belgium, it's been a roller-coaster, shaky, uncertain ride so far. But that's a good thing, yeah?

Oh yeah - check out some of my latest pics on Flickr.

Get ready to Jump

I've recently returned from South Africa, spending time with family. Food for the soul. What more can I say. There'll be other posts, but there's something on my mind at the moment. And the best way to express it is with music I guess.

Here's my song of the moment. It really expresses where I'm at. Apologies for being wet. It's just how it is. Chat later.

x

There's only so much you can learn in one place
The more that I wait, the more time that I waste

I haven't got much time to waste
It's time to make my way
I'm not afraid of what I'll face
But I'm afraid to stay
I'm going down my own road and I can make it alone
I'll work and I'll fight till I find a place of my own

Are you ready to jump
Get ready to jump
Don't ever look back oh baby
Yes, I'm ready to jump
Just take my hand
Get ready to jump

We learned our lesson from the start
My sisters and me
The only thing you can depend on
Is your family
Life's gonna drop you down like a limb from a tree
It sways and it swings and it bends until it makes you see

Are you ready?

There's only so much you can learn in one place
The more that you wait
The more time that you waste

I'll work and I'll fight till I find a place of my own

It sways and it swings and it bends until you make it your own

I can make it alone.

Message

Sinatra, chicken and Christmas

“I did it my way”, as Sinatra sang. Not the best piece of advice, to be honest – particularly when it comes to cooking.

A few Saturday evenings ago, I invited 3 of my newest friends for dinner. And then proceeded to produce something awful. It's amazing the clarity that comes with age; as I now clearly believe that I should stay as far away from the kitchen as possible.

Of course, I based my cooking on a recipe I had found online. Darn internet. Cannot be trusted.

So, recipe on screen, I still thought I’d do it my way. And there were no survivors.

Seriously, though. Digestion aside, it was a fantastic evening – and my friends are still my friends. Still teaching me much about life, love and bee-keeping.

Christmas has hit Antwerp, too. The Christmas Markets are looking great: (see more on my Flickr pages):

Still, Antwerp turns something rather simple into something rather special and fantastic. Typical.

I’m off to South Africa for Christmas on Saturday, too. Going to spend it with my family. It’s quite significant – we haven’t spent a Christmas together in many, many years. I’m really looking forward to it.

So, there may be no blogging over the next weeks. There may be no photographs. But by golly, there will be dancing.

Warm and fuzzy feeling

I stumbled across this video; it'll either leave you warm and fuzzy or cold and ill. I hope it's the former ;-)


Video powered by Metacafe

The Ex-pat Manifesto

Here's something I picked up on gapingvoid. I like it; it kind of embodies where my heart is at the moment. Hope you like it, too.

The Expat Manifesto:

1. I live here because I want to. Just because I could be paid better for the same job back home does not give me the right to complain about it. In fact, just because anything at all is different here, I do not have the right to be rude about those whose country it really is (”the locals”).
2. Having infinite patience means it goes on forever, or, no matter how long those *&#!@ locals take to process a form or fix the plumbing, I’m the only one that cares if I loose my patience.
3. Even if I am conned, robbed, humiliated, lonely or homesick, it is worth remembering afterwards that I decided to step out of my comfort zone in the first place.
4. It really doesn’t matter if I hang out with the locals or with other ex-pats, as long as I am happy…
5. But those who continually complain about their new surroundings are to be avoided. It’s contagious.
6. Wow, everything is… new… it’s not the same as where I came from! What a chance to stimulate my senses! I will take photographs, maybe write a blog or keep a diary, produce podcasts, videos - I’m enjoying the fact that my new point of view is necessarily different, I’m revelling in these new opportunities to feel creative!

Family is good for you

It’s been a while since my last post – I’ve been away. My family had come out from South Africa, and we’ve been exploring the sites, smells, sounds, tastes and stuff of Antwerp. It was fantastic. Not only was seeing my family food for the soul, it was also fantastic to have a holiday. I love the stuff I do for a living, but I’ve not had a holiday since, well, my last holiday.

Much to write of.

Been up the Boerentoren, yet? Do yourself a favour, and do so, if you can. 26 (?) floors, with some stunning sweeping scenes of the city. And some great samples of Antwerpian humour, too:

In case you can't see it, it's a layout of the horizon ahead of your view, including the Pyramids, Taj Mahal and they Sydney Opera House, with a foot note that these are only viewable on a clear day. Only in Antwerp.

Take a walk in the underground city ruins too. 3 hours of walking in the ancient rivulets and canals, looking up (as opposed to down, which we've all done) manhole covers – really cool stuff.

Then, tried many new tastes and restaurants in Antwerp. I'd particularly recommend Restaurant Rambaud. Please eat there before you die. I am a veggie, and the chef gave me a partridge to eat. It was delicious. Oh, the unlikely combination of remorse and finger-licking taste.

And my favourite local restaurant Lenny’s comes highly recommended, too. Though they are guaranteed to forget your order, make you wait, give you something you never ordered, make you wait a bit more… but whatever you end up with is so utterly scrumptious, enjoyable, delicious and served with such Antwerpian charm that you can do nothing but enjoy. Here is Lenny's:

I dunno. Maybe the effect of having my family here has made me all loved up.

And speaking of love, we went to Paris, too. A lovely city. Not Antwerp, of course, but lovely in any event. Some pics below, with more on my Flickr pages.

It's my house, and I live here

It’s Sunday evening. It’s twilight and there’s a warm glow everywhere.

I’ve got a glass of red wine – it’s going down very well, I might add – and Diana Ross on the CD player. She’s a Sunday CD, you see. I had a friend back in London who had a set list for Sunday. Whenever you went to his house on a Sunday – for a chat, Sunday roast or whatever, the playlist was set. Always Dolly Parton. Always Donna Summer. And always Diana. I guess I caught on to the habit. So, Diana only gets played on a Sunday. And I love it. What a beautiful day.

It was a chilled weekend – perhaps the first I’ve yet had in Antwerp. But full of surprises, as it happened. Again, Antwerp never fails to surprise me.

I went for a walk both on Saturday and Sunday. I find that in Antwerp, you don’t really need to know where you’re going (good thing, as I’m really rubbish with maps); things generally find you.

I stumbled across a dance festival in Groeneplaats, and saw a duo performing an interpretation of the meaning of love with a mixture of acrobatics, contemporary dance and dialogue. Hmmm. Then I found a troupe of Brazilian drummers that got a crowd dancing and swaying for almost an hour. Part of another festival.

And then I followed some couple (sounds dodgy, but I was just curious, and it looked like they knew where they were going) into one of the most beautiful buildings I have yet seen in Antwerp – the Felix Library.

It was housing an exposition of the best home gardens and living architecture in the city. Go, if you get the chance. Even if the topic doesn’t interest you, the building is amazing. See:

And I had a bit of a Terry Gilliam fest, watching Brazil and 12 Monkeys. Fantastic. From my new local and favourite video shop. Favourite because the guy behind the counter said that my Dutch was “mooi” which I think means beautiful. Or pretty. Or something. Anyhow, point is, I like them over there.

Anyhow, back to Diana. She sings “It’s my house and I live here”.

Really happy to – have a house and live here – that is. I guess as a natural result, I’m getting interested in the how’s and why’s and wherefore’s of everything local.

Today is voting day for Belgium. Residents have to vote. And I did some listening about local politics. I never read up on politics. Or read the hordes of garbage the political parties put in my post box (even the Green Party – surely they know there’s a forest somewhere to save?). I like to listen to people talk about politics. Much more truth comes from what people perceive than what a leaflet can tell you.

And during this week, in my house, I heard some music, and thought there was a concert of sorts going on. So I walked outside, followed the sound, only to find it was a rally for the Vlaams Belang - a racist party.

But I only know this because locals have told me that they are racist. I’ve not read it anywhere, nor logged on to the party website or read their gumph.

So, naturally curious, I stayed about to listen and watch: there were more security guards at the gathering than actual attendees (well, almost); all the surrounding businesses - in a square that is usually thriving with life – were shut and boarded up; and – although my Dutch is still poor – I listened to their speeches – and the amount of times they mentioned “Safety” and “Security” outnumbered the security guards.

Preying on fear? Seems to be working. Ain’t nobody else wanted to be around at that rally – well not on the opposite side of the security guards, anyway. Hmmm. Got me thinking.

It moved me so strongly that their speeches incited fear and loathing in Antwerp. In a city that – in such a short space of time – I have really come to love. I don’t like this party. Are natural human emotions like love, empathy and care cancelled by fear? Even if that fear is… a myth?

Anyhow. Enough of that.

Antwerp – and it’s people – are still beautiful. See:

I spent some time walking around with my camera, too. See my pics on Flickr. Even the ugly bits of Antwerp are lovely.

Our Man in Antwerp

Patrick. That’s the name of Antwerp’s mayor. I’m on a first-name basis with him, you know. Well, actually so is everyone else. I’ll explain.

Two Saturdays ago, he threw a party for the people of Antwerp – a free ‘open-air ball’. We all got invitations in the post designed by this cool illustrator Jan Van der Veken. And I tell you, it was such a good night. A couple of thousand people crammed into one of the Hangars dancing to all the cheap and cheesy tunes of the 80s and 90s, played by some top DJs. Fantastic! And such a lovely spirit about – young, old, merry.

And I heard that this is the 3rd year Patrick has thrown the party. As far as I can tell, there’s no particular reason for it. It’s just a party for the people.

In fact, speaking of parties, I’m not even sure which political party – if any – he belongs to. In his campaign around the city, you don’t see the usual party political posters that make you want to reach for the black marker pen. No, Patrick’s posters feature Antwerpians. Beautifully-shot photographs of the people of Antwerp. And just with Patrick’s name scrawled across the top.

Do you think he a political marketing mastermind or… just a good, honest, natural charismatic, likeable leader? I believe in the latter… even if it’s not true. You just have to like Patrick.

Anyhow. Lots to do and see in Antwerp these past few weekends. The tallest tower – the Boeretoren - is celebrating it’s 75th Anniversary. So to mark it, they threw another party, projecting art and lights up the building – it was cool. And get this – they had the City’s poet, Bart Moeyaert, write a poem about it. What’s cooler – the fact that Antwerp has an official poet or the fact that now they commissioned a poem for one of Antwerp’s most recognisable landmarks? Antwerp – city of poets, artists (and baby motorcyclists) – I love it.

Last Saturday also saw the penultimate event in the International Fireworks Competition up in Deurne. Two thousand people looking into the sky – it was amazing. See:

Oh yeah. I’m trying to grow a beard. Why? Momentary lapse of sense. And my friends called me Robinson Crusoe this morning. Some people get all the best lines.

Anyhow, talking about poetry – I found this one that touched me. Here it is. You don’t have to guess too hard who wrote it. It may a bit heavy, but it kind of touched a nerve over here. See what you think…

We grow up and we are learning all the time.




Here is where you sleep. Where is where we’re driving today.




This is the news. There are lies and these are half-truths and you have to work the rest out for yourself.




This is want and this is need. The two are different.




These are the words to the songs you know you know.




These are the words to the songs you didn’t know you knew.




These are songs with no words, but they are screaming.




This is what blood looks like, and this is also how blood can sometimes look, and this is the taste of blood and this, this is how it feels to bleed.




We get older fast. It was quick and relentless and there was nothing to stop it.




This is you when you were small, in a photograph. This is you on your first day of school,, and this is that time we went out. These are just bits of you when you were 21 or 22 or 23.




This is you as a statistic on a graph, and this is you as a number, and this is a graph that shows the lights will soon go out and we will have no more power and the world will change and all along we could have maybe stopped it.




Never look me in the eye unless you mean it. Keep your secrets safe, they are your secrets. This is concentration and this is focus. This is how we bend for what we love.




Here is nostalgia. Here is sentimentality. Kill them before they get you.




This is what dance music sounds like. This is a beat, this is a band. Here are idiots dying for their art in your stereo. Here is a record shop, here is were dreams are kept after they are broken. This is how it feels to be one of the ten people shaking their heads to a band in an empty club. This is how it feels to be one of a hundred.




This is how it is to be one of thousands.




There are no more millions anymore, we are all split. The millions of the world are hungry and they are far from and because of this rich land.




We’re responsible.




This is how a guitar feels through your t-shirt. This is what drumsticks does to the hands.




These are the lessons we learnt, and they were hard lessons, some of them, but we kept trying.




This is the sum whole of another year, and this is how it feels when the drum kicks in.




This is my debt, this is what I owe and were I stand and what I have, and this is my penance. It isn’t much and it isn’t someone else’s fault. Its how blame is dealt out. These are jus the cards you get.




This is our history and this is our origin, and this is how we got here.




This carries on.

Sublime

More from band of the moment (and now, probably for life) 65daysofstatic.

Finding neutral...

It’s between one and two. That’s where neutral is. Now, generally speaking, I’m good at counting. But finding that little step between one and two has become my latest challenge.

But I’m jumping ahead of myself. Let me explain.

On Saturday I bought a motorbike! Well, kind of a baby motorbike. But if you tell anyone that I’ve just called it a baby motorbike, I’ll deny it. It’s more of a motorbike for… well, small people. Now, I am not a small people, but I thought if I matched my bike skills with the size of bike, then all would be well. Check her out!

She’s (yes, it’s a she. I don’t know why. She just is) just for zips to work and back – I guess I could have used my bicycle, it’s just that that would have required movement of pedals, which in turn required effort. 15 kilometers of it. Which in turn I was not particularly inclined of give.

I do love my motorbike! I’ve spent most of Saturday and Sunday riding – I’m loving it! Smiling at pedestrians, and giving “the nod” to grown-ups on real motorbikes.

Anyhow – earlier on Saturday, I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought I would just go to the shop, hop on the bike and ride her away in the sunset. But this was not to be. You see, a bike has gears. And a clutch. One you control with your foot, the other with your hand. And not like a car. Oh dear.

And of course, the salesperson I picked up the key from, was a lady. Who was a bike rider. And here, before her, stood I, trying to look cool, and doing a good job, until I got on the bike. “So, which thingy do I push to start moving?” I ask in my best masculine, butchy voice. “Try facing towards the handlebars” she quietly nods.

But I jest. The biggest challenge was finding the neutral gear. Fourth is my best gear – I jump quite easily and naturally from first into fourth – even when stationary. Anyhow, She was more than helpful, promising me that all motorcyclists (I’m not really a motorcyclist, kind of a pseudo-mini-motorcyclist) have the same challenge when they begin.

I do love it, though! And tomorrow is my first journey to work!

Here it goes... on the treadmill

;-) ....