Social Skills

Last Sunday it rained buckets. Mercifully PL packed me into my sherpa, jumped into a gypsy cab and I emerged to be greeted by Guinness, a brindle Frenchie, younger than myself whose parents were hosting brunch. And quite a brunch it was, his parents are in the wine and food biz and the fare certainly reflected their educated palates- lobster filled brioche, mini pittas stuffed with lamb and yogurt to name a couple of the tantalizing selections that of course neither Guiness or myself were allowed to partake in. Sigh. However Guiness is a very energetic play partner and I certainly had a good time with him. He is also interestingly, like myself- a muse. His Mom, Phoebe, a writer with a recently published book Service Included writes about him when he was little in this short story here:


Social Skills
by Phoebe Damrosch

In the hour it takes to walk my twelve-week-old puppy around the block, I meet more people than I used to meet in a month in New York. That was back when I could stay out until four in the morning, sleep until noon, and carry keys, wallet, and phone – as opposed to keys, wallet, phone, treats, pooper-scooper bags, leash, paper towel in case he barfs like he has been recently, squeaky toy to distract him, bottle of water, and makeshift water bowl in the form of an old cream cheese container.

The upside of it all is that I have finally met my neighbors and bonded with my super. The downside is that we have very different tastes in people. Guinness loves Jehovah’s Witnesses. He agrees wholeheartedly that rampant homosexuality is the first sign of the apocalypse – as long as they keep scratching his ears and handing out those deliciously shredable pamphlets. Ditto underemployed dog walkers and trainers who love him like a paycheck when he barks and gnaws on their hands and jumps up on their legs.

Because he has practically no tail, he wags his cute little ass at the kind of people who point out “Guinness’ mommy” to their own dogs and talk to him as if he could answer back. He cannot, I want to tell them, tell you how old he is, that he is a French bulldog, or whether he lives on the block. Instead, I look at him as well, waiting for him to answer until they get flustered and go away.

My encounters with these people do not go as well as his and I find myself hoping for a cockroach or pigeon to scuttle close enough to distract him and free me from my misery. While he is licking the toes of the sandal-clad Jehovah’s Witness, I am trying to hand back her pamphlet. As I coax Guinness away with the heralding call of his squeaking rubber chicken, she seems put off.
“Well God bless the dog anyway.”

Yesterday, Guinness went over to visit a homeless man and began chewing on the sign propped against his crossed legs that read “I’m hungry. Please help me. God Bless.” Apparently, Guinness thought a bite missing from one corner would add a visual dimension to the man’s plea. This was after bringing a well-meaning elderly gentleman to his knees, weaving his leash into a moving wheelchair, and wrapping it around an unstable, terrified, and soon sobbing toddler. All of them held me responsible.

Then there was the woman who accused me of animal abuse when she found out that I was exposing him to the disease-ridden streets of New York City before he was fully immunized at sixteen weeks. There is some debate about whether such precautions are necessary, I told her, explaining that I considered introducing him to children, traffic, and loud noises as early as possible was just as important.
“That’s what puppy kindergarten is for!” She countered, adding home schooling to the list of my abuses. “It’s a real shame,” she said with tight lips and shook her head at Guinness’ future of debilitating illness, improper socialization, and the tyranny of a heartless owner.

The only people we don’t speak to – although Guinness seems hurt by this – are the people who explain that their dogs aren’t friendly as they lean back like firemen with a hose to restrain their lunging, snarling beasts. Is this what happens to dogs who skip kindergarten? Will Guinness become a maladjusted menace who can’t sit, stay, or relieve himself on command? So far, I have depended on a growing stack of training guides, but he only sits when a treat is involved, never stays for more than three seconds, and resists my choice of “Ronald Reagan” as his trigger word for defecation.

This was beginning to worry me – until my friend Susan told me that she had brought her Chihuahua with her to her weekly therapy session and was relieved to find out that, counter to what her jealous fiancée believed, Lola really was just a dog. Clearly, I have graduated into a whole new level New Yorkerdom. It is only a matter of time before strangers will be touching my pregnant belly and offering unsolicited advice while I worry about which nursery school boasts the highest predicted collage acceptance rate.

So from now on, I plan to train him New York style: walk fast, eat well, choose your friends carefully, and when it comes down to shit, it’s all about location.

Rear View

So my troubles are behind me now. Behind being the operative word. You heard about my ahem maladie derriere- thank heaven that sorry tail has come to an end.

Not however without three visits to that place where the dogs howl. 'That place' is a complete set up- first yay we're going out, scramble happily into my sherpa,then a nice lttle walk, then uh oh that place where lots of people are happy to see you and fuss over you and then bam its off to a small room with a lot of innapropriate, invasive, probing with fingers and foreign objects.

OK there were some benefits. For two weeks dinner came with dessert. There was the faint sinister taste of something vaguely chemical in it but it didn't ruin the exquisite sweetness of mashed banana or the tang of kefir counterpointed with a drop of miel de lavande.

Yes thats right I said miel de lavande as in from France or to be precise the South of France. PL got a lovely parcel fom the Côte d'Azur a little while back. Both he and I have struck a friendship with Jilly who writes Postcards from Pension Milou who sent us a delightful care package all the way from the South of France. I thought she might have preferred me over PL as she has written some very nice things about me and even has a picture of me on her wall but the contents of the package tended to favor PL somewhat. He was clearly thrilled with this box of Mediterranean goodness. He sniffed the hand milled soaps (he let me have a whiff too- lovely), spooned rich red pastes onto his lunctime sandwiches or snacked on cubes of pickled cheese or slices of sun dried tomatoes, his eyes closed, transported as I was when I had my (small) share of the young Parmesan to somewhere sunnier and far far away from cold NYC.

Butt I digress. Now what was I saying before I got sidetracked to the outskirts of Monte Carlo.....I've completely forgotten how I started this post. Oh well, onward.

Me Vs. You

So my old pal Magnus was just here for the week. We played, we napped, we walked, we sniffed, we competed for lap time, and we sat nicely for our treats. All in all a good time was had by all.

We are very different, we look different, we like different things but one thing we both love is a good scrappy tug of war and PL's got the footage over in the Cinema Room

A Turn for the Worse

I returned from a visit with Maisie on Friday with a case of the pukes. OK maybe I shouldn't have been partaking of all the stray morsels that I found in their kitchen or the stale kibble that lurked in the corners of the laundry room. By Saturday I had puked four times, but that was just the beginning of my malaise.

On Sunday morning, the puking had subsided but a new symptom reared its ugly head. I peed maybe four times, the last time being just two drops. PL's face changed color, his breathing seemed to stop as he saw the two drops stain the gray pavement blood red. We hurried home where he scrambled for his phone and I hear my name, in full, Etienne, as he makes arrangements of some kind. We spend the day very quietly, for some reason, I don't feel inclined to do anything but lie unmoving on my bed.

On Monday morning I have a rather nasty discharge but my appetite has returned to normal. Shortly after breakfast we are, surprisingly, preparing to go out somewhere. There is something wrong with the trains. We go back out of the station and catch a cab to the place where we go once a year.

Its a strange place full of people and other dogs. Everyone seems very friendly, they seems to know who I am but I have a strange vibe about the place. I am usually put on a table and prodded and examined but it usually ends and we leave. Not this time. This time, just PL leaves. I go into the back where they keep giving me water to drink. There are are a few dogs back there. The energy is not good.

I am laid on my back, I struggle, they insert a needle into my bladder. They lay me on my back again in some kind of machine. I start to worry about where PL is. They are handling me again. I begin to notice the cold blue fluorescent lighting, the smell of institutional disinfectant and the worried barks of my caged neighbours. After what seems an eternity, I'm brought back out again and PL is there. Hallelujah. Its over we leave for home. I have my dinner and sleep, exhausted by the ordeal.

On Tuesday morning things actually seem a little better, my appetite has completely returned and I do my morning business without any variation. I gather that I had a sterile urine draw for a urinalysis and culture, an x ray, and a prepucial wash. We have to wait for the results. I am more myself and by the afternoon I surprise PL by dropping Jitterbug, my Zebra toy on his foot after giving it a good shake. He smiles. "You wanna play huh?" he says almost with relief.

Coulda Been

I got class. The blood of champions courses through my veins. I draw heritage from the finest American families like the Coxs and the Enstroms. A notable ancestor being Terrette's Tourbillon D'Gamin. I coulda been a contender.

My English grandfather brings bloodlines from names that regularly crowd that other show across the pond, names like Glenlee, Nokomis, Twinhoe. Have I not the poise, the looks? I have however been told my pasterns are not high enough, but I could have worked on that.

Unfortunately its never going to happen. Ah well tis the life of a muse and companion for me. I confess, I do allow myself the occasional fanatasy about the big win and do the victory lap at the run.

I wonder what Maisie's thinking.

A Light Snow

Its gone now. A pale powdery sheet that softly cloaked our morning walk. By evening only the chalky crust of salt that had been diligently applied to thwart it, echoed its short visit.

What a walk it was, the brilliance of the light, the softness of the shadows and how deliberate were the marks of our footsteps and the curve of the park attendants vehicle tracks. The smell in the air was clean, the white blanket slicing away everything else but the air itself to be breathed in uncomplicated by the the odors of the pavements and sidewalks. How strange too was the quietness that the snow rendered and yet sharpening the crisp sound of our footsteps and accentuating the rythmn of our breathing.

When we got to the end of Harlem Lane and turned back, I looked down the length of it with an uncontrollable urge to run at full gallop right to the other end, but first swerving into the basketball courts where it was pristine and unmarked. I tugged and pulled at my leash to no avail. PL did however let me mark three small mounds along the way home, to my great satisfaction.

The first time I saw snow was when I was six months old, except it was deeper than I was tall. PL had to pick me up and carry me to my usual spot. It terrified me, this cold alien material. I scrambled so quickly into our apartment building that I actually ground one nail to the quick.

How wildy different that was from this morning where it was nothing but dazzling and beautiful and peaceful and like all the rarest experiences to be enjoyed so very briefly.

Jack Nasty

Mr. Frost may have been AWOL a few weeks ago, but Jack's back with a vengeance. NYC woke up to 10 degrees Fahrenheit this morning with the wind chill in the minus teens. Our morning walk was short and to the point. We actually bumped into Star the Rottie who we haven't seen in a while. Back in the day, Star, Alex and myself would run off leash down Harlem lane, chasing tennis balls and sticks and rolling in the long grass. Those carefree but outlaw days were brought to a screeching halt by the long arm of the law. I wasn't there the that day, it was just Alex and Star, their moms both got tickets. Sometimes if we bump into each other we might be allowed to have a quick lap off leash- nothing like the long sessions we used to have while PL and the two moms would chat and laugh while we played or just hung out. Not even a quickie today. PL and Star's mom exchanged hurried greetings in a cloud of icy breath and we were trotting quickly back home. We open our apartment door to the sweet sound of clanking steam pipes and hissing radiators as they work furiously to keep Monsieur Jacques at bay.

Hordes at the Gates

'That's a bad dog', PL said. I was napping in my usual TV watching position which is lying on PL's chest when I heard an almighty racket and looked up. It was the Dog Whisperer on TV. 'You're not like that are you Eti?' PL asked rhetorically glancing at me with an arched eyebrow. I cocked my head in earnest.....No, not like
that.....well that's not completely true. I was the teensiest bit bad today.

PL's deadline has passed hence the TV watching and this morning to celebrate, we went to the Dog Run, something we don't normally do on a weekday morning. Today, just like the weekends, PL sneaks me into the Starbucks near the 96st station. Hidden in my Sherpa, I breathe in the blistering aroma of ground and freshly brewed coffee and peer curiously at the pastries in the glass cabinet on the counter while PL orders himself a Grande.

We are soon at the dog run when another Frenchie arrives minutes later. I've seen this kid before, he's pretty good with a soccer ball, in fact he's obssessed with them. His owner mentioned to PL that he can't have any balls in the apartment because its a problem- he's only allowed them at the dog run and sure enough within seconds of entering the run he's got a tennis ball in his mouth. I remember that he's really not much fun because he's basically not interested in anything else but the tennis balls.

Just as PL is settling into a pleasant chat with the Frenchie owner there arrives a dogwalker with a pack of 6 or 7 dogs. By the time they are in the double gated entry there is a huge commotion, once inside the run we can see that a snarling and snapping Boxer is the center of the melee. The other dogs are by now all heated up. This sets off a frenzy of barking and yelping, an English Bulldog is racing towards the fray. Rock and Roll. I dash to join the heaving mosh pit. Within seconds I am yanked by my harness and whisked over to a bench, I'm leashed and told to sit. Actually I didn't hear a thing, I had an adrenalin rush so intense I had literally lost my mind including my sense of hearing and was finally brought round by PL tapping his finger on my rump. 'Oh yes, I see OK, sit, yes, OK, wait, what the heck are they doing in there, OK, I'm sitting.'

The dogwalker had taken all his unruly charges into the small dog run. The 5 or 6 other dogs and their owners in the main run went back to their business of chit chatting and ball chasing. PL let me off the leash and we walked over to the other side of the run. He picks up a stick and I am cued for a little round of fetch but waddya know another dog walker arrives at the gate with another 6 or 7 dogs, not quite as badly behaved but nevertheless agitated and also headed for the small dog run. I dash towards them as they manouvre through the gate. There's a small opening I might just get through if I'm fast enough. PL calls, I hear him but I didn't hear him if you know what I mean. I'm almost there the gap grows increasingly smaller and .....a booted dogwalker's foot thwarts my efforts. He laughs at me with evil glee,slamming the gate shut. I turn to look at PL who is fast approaching with a not terribly amused look on his face.

The small dog run is starting to look like Middle Earth on the eve of battle teeming with disgruntled Orcs. But they are all fenced off which is probably why PL decides to walk back to where we were. 'Come on' he calls picking up the stick to resume our game. And waddya know horde number three arrives at the gates. Seven or eight of them -all small dogs, Chihuahuas and Dachsunds and a wailing screeching banshee of a Pug. The Orcs are riled, the pug will not shut up and PL picks me up and walks over to the bench where my sherpa is and I am leashed and we are marching out of the run.

Wait. Hey. I lunge manically at the perimeter fence of the small dog run but Mr. Buzzkill marches forward. We walk silently all the way to 72nd street to catch the subway home. When we get in , the usual custom is that I sit and wait until PL takes of his coat, goes into to the kitchen to get a damp towel to wipe off my paws. I often sit then inch towards PL when he takes off his coat then again when he's in the kitchen I might move a few inches towards the dining room . Its like musical chairs, when PL turns to look or returns I sit bolt still. This time I decided, in view of the selective hearing, lunging, and general delayed responses, it would probably be best to stay absolutely stock still without moving a hair. When PL returned from the kitchen he found me exactly where I had sat on entering, faced completely away from him, calmly, quietly, obediently.

He sits on the floor to wipe my paws. A smile has crept into his stern face and he whispers in my ear. "You're a very good boy aren't you?"

Unseasonal Greetings

A couple of days ago walking to the dog run at 103rd and Riverside I noticed a tree blooming with clear disregard that we are still only in early January. Other trees are more soberly bare some even still wrapped in christmas lights and the pavements still thick with yet to be collected christmas trees that have been recently discarded.

Today on a stroll through the farmers market in Union square, people are in T shirts although the farmers are still offering the limited winter fare of root vegetables and apples. The weather is mild, the temperature a whopping 70 degrees.

I know this strange cross dissolve between the seasons is something that we've been warned about but can I just say- Global Warming doesn't completely suck. I thoroughly enjoyed the balmy weather. We came home and PL immediately opened all the windows. I chilled on my day bed, enjoying the light breeze that filled our apartment chasing away any trace of winter and gently succumbed to an epic siesta.

I'll be home for Christmas

No sooner had Magnus left on Christmas Eve, PL was racing around wrapping things, packing a bag, on the phone and shortly after, out came my Sherpa. I could smell the food he was packing in the Kitchen-one, two, three meals-looks like we're staying overnight somewhere. We're not going to be home for Christmas.

We raced along 125th St to the the Metro North train station and were soon on our way to Mamaroneck. Christmas was going to be spent for the second year with Maisie. In fact that evening we were joined by Ernie, a tall gangly fellow, French like myself, a poodle without the fancy haircut. The three of us worked the room, quite dilligently, by that I mean we scoured the floor for rather interesting tidbits mainly crumbs of a variety of cheeses, a little goose pate, a splash of shrimp dip, one entire pig in a blanket. That was the amuse bouche. For main hardly anything- I did have some of the steak the next day. In my boredom I barked at Ernie just for the hell of it- he growled back rather passively, his tail wagging the whole time so it was for nothing.

Christmas morning was fun, Maisie and I were completely into her tongue ball. I was completely tortured by a laser light that I could never seem to quite catch. I got my very own stocking and my breakfast was ground Venison.

So why is the title of this post "I'll be home for Christmas" when clearly we weren't. Last year, as he often does PL was taking a look around the FBRN site and saw a photo of a Frenchie who was waiting to be adopted. A beautiful cream frenchie lying on a rug. She looked as if she was daydreaming. The thought that flashed in PL's head was that she was singing quietly to herself.

"Christmas eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams"

He immediately worked on the design of a card which he donated to FBRN. The design was made available again this year in their CafePress store.

She's no longer waiting to be adopted so she must have found a home now and for her just, like me there was 'snow and mistletoe, and presents on the tree'

Ok there was no snow. But there's always another Frenchie daydreaming about going home over at FRBN. Read about their stories and think of them as we do at this time of year.

Guess who's coming to town

My usual ploy is this- casually pick up toy then hop playfully over to PL, while shaking toy like a polaroid, then sit and stare. I will do this for oh I don't know three minutes. If there's no response, I drop the toy, turn around and walk over to my daybed and plop myself down facing the other way from him. I don't do the whole digusted by the lack of attention thing too close to dinnertime just in case.

Then I try again. I lay on the bed thats right under his work chair and I kick and snort and roll around and make all kinds of guttural noises like I'm having a lot of fun and somebody's really missing out. This usually elicits a peek over the side of the chair and a laugh. Interesting. Didn't happen this time. I guess its time for the paws on chair accompanied by pleading begging mournful look. He looks at me, a thought crosses his brow and then the dreaded response-"I'm Busy".

There's been a bit of that lately and if memory serves me right its going to get worse. The conditon is called "deadline". They come and go, like a fever. The attention decreases, the walks are hurried, treats are forgotten, hours go by without even a glance from the computer, and then it breaks. Huge long meandering walks will follow with extended nap sessions and lots of TV.

I've been a good boy, I mean really, I've been nice, hardly pouted or cried-been good for goodness sake. And its paid off. Just when I thought was looking down the barrel of a mind numbing deadline episode guess who shows up with enough food and treats until Christmas Eve- Magnus. Welcome dude, lets get this party started.

The Gang's all Here

On Saturday we made our way up to Astoria where Magnus lives and had a fun time meeting up with a gangload of Frenchies. Check out the fun in the Cinema Room.

Chanson D'Automne

Now, as fall draws inevitably to its close, I come to the realisation that it is my favorite season.

First let me tell you about Autumn Leaves. A song for some, a visual feast for others, for me, a confession- its my favorite substrate. Its the very first outdoor substrate I encountered and their arrival each year, well it gives me goosebumps just to think about it. At first there's just a few, here and there,then.. a few more trapped at the feet of wire link fences to be scratched and freed. And then it increases and there are piles and mounds and huge great stretches of it that I dive into and kick up and then ahem well you know, like I said its my favorite substrate.

The cooler weather means walks, nice long ones with no fear of overheating and no worries about what time of day it is. PL seems to enjoy them more too, we go more often and we're out longer. And then, when we get home the radiators hiss and I nap with my nose pressed aginst the one in the dining room. "You'll burn yourself" PL scolds, but I ignore him.

This season of mellow fruitfulness also means apples from the farmers market. I will often find my lunchtime kong filled with cold cubes of a Braeburn or Mutsu or Fuji apple sealed with a dab of peanut butter.

International Treats

We are still in an international state of mind here at Chez MC and ask the question: Are treats more delectable in more far flung places in the world?

Over in Mumbai, Chorizo has what looks like a very interesting Treat Kebab, and what colors- a feast for the eye to boot. In Malaysia-Amber enjoys big and I mean Big treats-yes thats treats as in plural. Wait a minute, I sense a theme here, Gunter in Norway is also enjoying something considerably larger than anything I've ever been given. Obviously people food like sushi and popsicles are not a no no in Okinawa. Lucky Tigersan. Here we go again with the gigantic bone-nice for you Loui in Blighty.

Conclusion: Treats are more colorful and bigger outside Manhattan.

Update: I just had a little heart to heart with PL about this whole Treat situation and he assures me that we are being very cutting edge about all of this. We are practising what Trend Forecasters are predicting as the start of a massive new trend-"The Nu Austerity". Conspicuous abstention-Great.

All the Leaves are Brown and the Sky is Gray

There's nothing better on a cold rainy day in November to lift the spirit than to take a magic carpet internet ride to a warmer clime and to imagine what it may be like to be, say, in a five star hotel on the Cote D'azur. Like the Pension Milou, a mediterranean canine haven described as 'a spacious house that opens onto a large covered terrace which in turn leads into a large totally secure garden, fully fenced, where dogs can wander and play freely.'

If that in itself isn't already immediately a warming thought then read the heartwarming story of how it came to have its name. The owner of the hotel, Jilly Bennet writes a blog called 'Postcards from Pension Milou' and a recent post entitled 'Milou's Bench' tells the story of Milou, a beautiful black American Cocker Spaniel who its named after.

"One day in 1993, when Milou was three years old, he was brought to me by Madame Dana’s chauffeur. He booked him in for ‘about a month’ as Madame had to go into the Princess Grace Hospital in Monaco for an operation. The month became a year and eventually it became obvious that Madame wasn’t going to recover..."

P.S. Did this guy call it or what.

Running in Packs

On Sunday PL and I went to see a yearly NYC custom that very much resembles an ancient canine pastime - running in packs. The pack in this case was a formidable 37,000 strong, the event better known as the Marathon. We had a special reason to be there cheering on the runners as Maisie's Mom Heidi was out there running her first Marathon. We positioned ourselves first at 110th st and 5th Ave. The runners were a delight to watch as they hit the uppermost corner of Central Park, their faces lifting visibly as they recognized the last stretch .

We got a call from Maisie's dad tipping us off that her shoe tracker had indicated that she would be at 125th st in 20 mins. We made our way North-past live rap bands, African Drummers, Loud Speakers, a sea of crushed paper cups and most of all New Yorkers in force urging the runners on. Go Brian, Go Tom, Go Sarah....they shouted reading the names of strangers written across the runner's chests...it was just one gigantic NYC pack.

Sadly we missed Heidi, she was running faster than her predicted time and had zipped by before we got there- and then went on to finish her first Marathon in 4 hrs and 12 Minutes -Awesome.

Scary Monsters and Superfreaks

Halloween in New York City is superfreaky but in a good way. Our urban Halloween kicked off on Sunday at the Tompkins square Annual Halloween Contest and parade. What a creative crowd. The themes ranged the gamut from autobiographical; political; seasonal; to Asian, in fact Asian was very popular with the Pugs. Some were quite simply not thrilled to be there but most just lapped up the attention.

For a real scare we packed up my punk costume and PL's pumpkin and headed off to classic Halloween country-the suburbs- where a graveyard had mysteriously appeared overnight. The horror is on display in the Cinema Room .

Smart.......Like This

So apparently in the ranking of how smart is your breed, mine lurks embarrasingly somewhere in the lowest third. Number 58 , to be precise. Understanding of New Commands-40 to 80 repetitions. Obey first Command-30% of the time or better. Ouch. But this is all about obeying orders and commands...all very left brain. Left to our own devices, we can be very creative about learning things, for example I figured out that a rope swing can be converted into a very interesting plaything. Speaking about left brain, it took PL forever to figure out how to upload a higher resolution video onto the video hosting website, but he's turned the corner on that learning curve. So here's my right brain creative reinterpration of 'swing rope' properly uploaded in the Cinema Room.

One of the greatest Books ever Written by Anybody

Truman Capote had this to say about a book by one of his favorite authors:
Truman: Have you read the fantastic book by J.R.Ackerly called My Dog Tulip?
Andy: No
Truman: Well its one of the greatest books ever written by anybody in the world.

From Truman Capote: Conversations

Punch magazine declared it the "first highbrow dog book ever written". Christopher Isherwood considers it one of the "greatest masterpieces of animal literature". Its a book that often makes the list of undiscovered jewels or little known works of literature.

This contrasts with another more widely known masterpiece of animal literature-
Call of the Wild by Jack London. The books dark tone however like the more eccentric relationship detailed in Ackerly's book are examples of 'adult' animal tales that have since disappeared from the literary scene in more recent times.

I Love Soccer

So I was featured back in September on flickrDogs with my Soccer Ball. Cute as that picture was, it doesn't really give you an indication of what my soccer skills are truly like. Problem solved. Fueled by a Bebel Gilberto remix, and with help from my tomboy girl Maisie, my fancy footwork is captured for posterity in our latest feature over in the Cinema room.