A closer look at mountains and other things

It's easy to not see mountains.

I don't mean, like, "what did I just trip over?" and then you turn around surprised to find the Grand Tetons laying there.

I mean it's easy to not see mountains for what they are. For what they're made of. It's easy to overlook the kabillion bits and pieces that make up the panorama we typically see when we "see" mountains.

How come? Well, mountains are big broad bastards. Overwhelmingly so. Wrapping our head around them requires far-focus, a suspension of disbelief, and some serious peripheral chops. It seems that clearly establishing a sense of distance is key to understanding mountains at all. 

But unfortunately this sense of distance also creates, I don't know else to say it, a sense of distance.

I've spent thousands of hours in the mountains – boarding, biking, backpacking, catching brookies, and just generally dicking off. I'm wildly comfortable at elevation. I feel as one. But still, when I'm there I tend to look at a mountain range as if I'm looking at a photo of a mountain range. I take in the beauty, of course, but abstractly so. Like most, I tend to focus on the tallest peaks, the deepest valleys, and the farthest horizons: happily wallowing in the wallop of scale while I miss the rest.

What got me on this path? I spent last week in Utah which included some time in the Wasatch Mountains. Over the course of seven days, Big Cottonwood Canyon got 61 inches of snow. Of course this sort of weather system makes for damn fine snowboarding. It also makes for piss-poor visibility. 

As a result, there were no stunning vistas in the Wasatch Range last week. No panoramic photo ops from the chairlift. No mountain's majesty, purple or otherwise, in any direction. There was just snow and clouds and, down in the valley, fog.

And so that's how things went down – me in the mountains, slicing long soft turns through an empty grey. 

I have to say it took a while for my mind to recalibrate, for me to stop looking toward a non-existent horizon for perspective. Over time though, I gradually surrendered my need for the far-away for what was right in front of me: dark stabs of douglas fir, non-negotiable walls of stone, the gloved transfer of snow from mountain to mouth.

Once I noticed these smaller things, of course, I couldn't stop noticing them. Thanks to the weather's veil, my view had shifted from macro to micro. I found myself seeing, and maybe even coming close to understanding, some of the individual pieces that make up the usually inscrutable mountains.

Hoping to find a lesson here, or at least an obvious metaphor to jump to without a properly fleshed-out transition (as I do!), I'm left with this:

We're living in stormy times; an era of uncertain horizons. I feel it every day.

I'm saddened that the forecast for tomorrow, January 20th, 2017, calls for more of the same.

I know that eventually, inevitably, the sky will break. So I plan to keep looking outward with patience. But in the meantime, I'm going to appreciate what's right in front of me too. The kabillion bits and pieces of life are far too important to overlook while I'm busy scanning the horizon for something more.

On fewer but righter things

December 30th, 2016, Presque Isle, Wisconsin 

I spent the last few days alone in the woods.

I was camping on a rise of conifers in northern Wisconsin, a spot I discovered years ago while grouse hunting. It's an area I call the Cathedral. I borrowed the name from one of my favorite writers, Gordon MacQuarrie. He called a rise of conifers that he discovered in northern Wisconsin while grouse hunting the same.

If you're making your way by foot this time of year, snowshoes are required. As are a good amount of resolve and a layering system that allows for the quick ditching of clothes. Put simply, pulling a sled through heavily crusted snow is a bitch. The progress I made was largely thanks to increments and incentives of my own invention: Counting my steps in groups of 17, for example, seemed to speed things along, as did "Make it to that next birch tree, Johnny, and it's Snickers bars for everybody!"

Well, I made it to that next birch tree. And the one after that. And so on. Until finally it was time to turn off-trail and push through a rolling pincushion of sled-snagging maples. Eventually, they gave way to the rise of fir and balsam and pine. To borrow again from MacQuarrie, the Cathedral took me in.

Camp sets up quickly in the winter; meaning your tent, your situation, your supplies. For the first few hours, anyway, there's little time for dicking around. Stomp out a spot for the tent, get it up, get your gear inside. You do it as quickly as you can so you can move on to a more important matter: the business of fire. Although actually, the busy-ness of fire might be a more accurate description.

They say you should gather three times more wood than you think you'll need before striking a spark. I say that's cutting it close. I collected some dry birch and cedar bark from fallen trees on the trek in, so getting the fire started wasn't a concern. But man, keeping it fed! A new fire, especially in the winter, is a hungry fire.

Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. 

But eventually. Eventually. You'll find yourself with a good bed of coals. You'll have dried your gloves. You'll have a pile of wood and a place to sit and a single bottle of Dogfish Head 90-minute IPA that you sledded in, weight be damned.

On the edge of the fire's glow, you'll see your tent protecting the barest of necessities: a tiny camp stove, tomorrow's breakfast, an embarrassment of goose down. You have tropicalia music that you'll play through your phone speaker at dawn like a transistor radio. You have a candle lantern and a bag of jerky and the solitude of the outdoors.

Everything you have with you has a purpose. Everything earned its spot on the sled. 

As we move into a new year, I'm hoping to carry that mindset forward. I don't need more things – I just need the right things. I don't need more undertakings, more accomplishments, more checks added to my list – I just need the right ones.

Taking a look over my shoulder, I've come to realize that I've been pulling an unnecessarily clumsy load. It's time to tip the sled and start over. It's time to think in terms of fewer, but righter, things.

Happy New Year everyone.

Happy holidays? Let's give it a try.

2016 was a full year. Much in the same way that a diaper might be described as full.

Over the past 12 months, I've lost faith in more people and more principles than I can count. I've come to learn that much of my country hates those that I love – because of how they worship, or who they screw, or the shade of their skin. I've watched the overriding principles of our nation grow mean and loud and dumb.

And yet.

On a daily basis, I find myself surrounded by kind people. People full of love and respect and, even still, full of hope. They've brought me into their fold, and I've brought them into mine. And together, even still, we're strong.

For the next week, anyway, that's what I'm going to focus on. The strength of my children, my family, my friends. The strength of the sun and the moon. The strength of what I know is inside my heart, even still.

Happy holidays.

Let's dance. Yes?

I know what you've been thinking...

"Bring Limes" is okay I guess, but it could really use a few more Friedrich Nietzsche quotes.

Well, have I got just the thing for you!

“Those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

So with no further ado, I present Matt Bray, this perfectly silly dancing guy that will make you happier than Nietzsche ever did, even during your angsty freshman year of college when all you did was quote him and Kierkegaard and Morrissey, like some goof-ass, when you could have been dancing instead.

Bruce Gold: Last of the surfing hippies

I love people that love something. I mean people who really really love something. Every day. For all their days. 

The age of the person shouldn't matter I suppose. Passion is passion. But, for me anyway, somehow age does matter. Which probably explains why I've done more than a few posts featuring old people who are still committed to doing their thing. This includes one of my favorite things that I've shared here: A skier named Snowflake who advocates loving something so much that you forget to go to the toilet. 

With all that said, here we are again. This time we're being invited into the life of Bruce Gold who surfs Jeffreys Bay in South Africa. What's most impressive about Bruce isn't just his passion for surfing, but the extreme life decisions he's made as a result of that passion. As Bruce puts it, "It's hard to be a hobo. But it has it's rewards."

Jim Whittaker on a life well lived

A life well lived indeed...

Jim Whittaker is the first American to summit Mt. Everest. He did it in 1963. As you'll quickly see, thanks to this pretty stunning archival footage, they had to do things a little differently back then. 

But it's Jim's take on nature, adventure, and existence that really rings the bell for me. He's lived a pretty awesome life. I'd say getting a sense of it might be worth 3 minutes and 42 seconds of yours.

Let's keep our cheeks dry today

It's the bee girl.

I'm sorry, but if you're not down with the bee girl we just can't hang out together anymore.

Can't find the perfect island? Make your own!

Happy Island, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, July 18th, 2013

A while ago I wrote about finding the perfect island to live on. One of the assumptions I made is that the perfect island actually needs to exist in order for you to live on it. Wrongo! 

In 2013 we spent some time on Union Island which is part of St. Vincent and the Grenadines. Union Island is an island that actually exists. But out in the Clinton harbor sits Happy Island which didn't exists until one guy, Janti, decided to build it. He started in 2002 with a pile of conch shells, a couple small palm trees, and a cooler full of beers that he'd sell to passing dinghies. Today, Happy Island is considered one of the classic Caribbean beach bars and a must-stop destination for anyone in the area. It's really a helluva story.

But it's the kind of story I assumed could only happen in a distant corner of a distant sea. The Caribbean consists of 28 different nations and more than 7,000 islands. I figure nobody's going to get too worked up about a guy building one more.

But surely, building my own island in North America would be frowned upon and/or wildly illegal. Then I came across this video and now I'm not so sure! Freedom Cove is a Wonka-esque island/compound/sustainable-living garden built by artists Catherine King and Wayne Adams in a cove on Vancouver Island. One main difference between Happy Island and Freedom Cove, besides latitude, is the fact that it's entirely afloat. I'm assuming there's some legal reasoning for that. I'll definitely need to look into it before I officially unveil my island nation of Limeland.

You can read more about Freedom Cove here. But start with this video!

Dear Left Side of My Brain

Apollos Hester is there to help us up

If you were like me in high school, you were kind of a shithead. Too worried about being cool, too afraid to let all the wonderful things inside you out, too busy maintaining facades.

Then there's this kid Apollos Hester. I saw the following interview a couple years ago. My friend Katie reposted it today and, yeah...

Try something new this weekend! Yeah buddy, you!

Sanibel Island, Florida, 2009

You know what's almost gone? August! And it's taking summer with it!

A few months ago there was something new you were thinking about trying this summer. Stand up paddle boarding perhaps? Chess? That green stuff in jars that yoga people seem to enjoy drinking or eating or whatever they do with it?

Well, it's now late August. Did you do take on something new? Summer isn't over, friend, but you can see the end of it from here. You better get cracking. 

For what it's worth, I'd suggest something that's completely new and an entirely different than anything you've tried before. Sure, trying tenor saxophone when you already play alto saxophone puts you ahead on the learning curve. But do you really need two goddamn saxophones? When you could have a saxophone and a unicycle instead?

Of course, this isn't about "having." It's about "doing." And for me at least, doing something completely new puts me onto the fastest funnest part of the learning curve.

The part where every single thing you do is learning something new.

The part where you have zero ego attached to the activity.

The part where you can revel in your ineptitude and be a child again.

Last summer, when I was learning to play the ukulele, I came across this Ted Talk video. It's about how to learn anything in 20 hours. The rumored 10,000 hours it takes to be an expert at something? You probably don't have that kind of time this weekend. But 20 hours? You could get a good jump on that.

Why Your Life Is Not A Journey

Hm. Here I've been messing around with all this Bring Limes gibberish when I could have just played this Alan Watts video and called it a day!

"We missed the point the whole way along. It was a musical thing and you were supposed to sing, or to dance, while the music was being played."

Wanna live on an island? Yes! Maybe! How the hell should I know!

Over the years I've done just about every goofy thing you can do on an island. Some may have been illegal. Others just ill-advised. I've also done a few things that I regret. But the one thing I've never done on an island? I've never lived on one.

Some (slash many slash most) would say living on an island is a cliche. But in the words of Prime Minister Pete Nice, of seminal '90s hip hop trio 3rd Bass: "I beg to diffa." The real cliche isn't living on an island. The real cliche is thinking about living on an island while you're driving your pale ass through another Lansing or Lincoln or Lafayette winter with one of those grinning Life Is Good hammock dudes on your ice-encrusted Jeep Wrangler spare tire cover.

But we've probably all thought about living on an island. And I suspect with this year's election cycle, some of us are thinking about it more than usual. This inkling usually leads to researching what different islands might be like. Which inevitably leads to watching those horrible island real estate reality shows on tv. A guilty pleasure? From my perspective I'd say no because "guilty pleasure" implies that there's some sort of pleasure involved. For me anyway, "guilty anguish" would be more accurate. Although some of my distress is rooted in "oh man that looks nice," most of it comes from a much darker place.

For starters, the Americanization of faraway places drives me crazy. And yet that seems to be the measuring stick for every home buyer on these shows. Is the location convenient to beaches, mountains, rainforests, yoga studios and Whole Foods? I love the house but can we "open up" the kitchen? Is there a photogenic palm tree nearby that will help me boost my Instagram following? You know what though? In this regard, reality shows are pretty accurately capturing the reality of many Americans abroad. So I'll let it go. 

Beyond that though, there ain't much reality in those real estate shows. I've been to more than a few of the islands they've featured and they were damn near unrecognizable. Although the production crew must be going to these different places to shoot footage, by the time they cut it together and lay in that same damn steel drum song, they all seem exactly alike: wide beach shot, our home-buying couple trying out standup paddle boards (or kayaks when clumsy), some local flavor via woman selling sarongs, cocktails with comically oversized hunks of pineapple jammed in 'em, a walk along the beach, awkward backlit kiss, steel drum crescendo, cut to commercial.  

I'd say the travel magazines give a better sense of a place than the tv shows. But they're travel magazines, not "live there" magazines. So you're going to get plenty of "While on St. Whatever, be sure to visit Quaint But Clean Beach Bar and ask Bar Owner for their special Rum Drink With Fruit Juice!" News you can use if you're just visiting. But not much help if you're really trying to get a handle on a place. 

Of course ultimately, and obviously, you're going to need to put sandals in the sand to really understand an island and the people who live there. But since you can't visit them all, it takes some narrowing down.

Google is fine for the officially sanctioned tourism stuff, and a click on Image results gives you a quick sense of an island's purtiest places and/or most convenient scenic overviews. But to start digging in properly, I'd suggest a Wikipedia search. It's the perfect dashboard for the factual underpinnings of a place. 

If everything checks on the Wiki page, then I do a blog search.  If there's one thing ex-pats love more than being ex-pats, it's blogging about being ex-pats. Every island I've ever looked into has at least a few people living on it who are blogging their every move. Throw in an additional mix of transient yachties, backpackers, and "digital nomads" (maniacal bloggers all!) and you'll have more first-hand information on a place than you'll know what to do with. 

I can also recommend this: My favorite "one-stop-shop" site for island investigation is Women Who Live On Rocks. It's run by Chrissann Nickel, a Californian who's been living the island life since 2006. While she writes a lot of posts (really well), the beauty of the site is that it also features living-on-rocks wisdom from women all over the world. And they're organized by island (click HERE, then go to "Meet The Women" in the upper menu, then scroll down.)

Given the name of the site, you'll gather it's got a female perspective. Which means, yeah, I'm the pervy dude in the corner eavesdropping on girls' night. But the posts are consistently real, occasionally raw, and always well written. It's the best perspective I've found yet on what it's really like to live on a particular island. The ups, the downs, and the in-betweens. 

Once you've got your prospective islands narrowed down, of course, the final step (and the finest step!) is to start investigating your short list in person. I've been fortunate to visit quite a few islands over the years. As ongoing research projects go, it doesn't get much better: a mix of cultural investigation, historical education, spiritual adventure, and high grade rum. 

I still have no idea whether I'll ever actually pull the trigger and make a move (if I'm being completely honest with myself). But I know I won't stop looking either way.

Cue steel drums. Dramatic sunset. Awkward backlit kiss. Cut to commercial.

One year in

I just realized that this past weekend was the one-year birthday of Bring Limes. It went entirely uncelebrated, as I believe all one-year-old birthdays should.

Francis Bay, St. John, USVI

I've been to more than a few of those first birthday parties: the ones where the guest of honor is focused mostly on shrieking, random naps, arhythmic clapping, and the shamelessly frequent pooping of pants.

This description might also encapsulate Bring Limes to date.

A year in, I'm still not sure exactly where this is headed. I know I love water and music and, occasionally, words. I know I love curiosity. I know I love having a positive worldview.

I also know that if I don't actively seek out support for a positive worldview, I'm going to get buried in these increasingly grim times. The past year has been a rough one in that regard. The dumb and the mean and the loud have only gotten dumber and meaner and louder. Although I've chosen to avoid politics here, and commentary on world events in general, I see the atrocities just like you do. They affect me, and my world, just like they affect yours.

My carefully considered response? Sweet-ass surf vids and pictures of sea urchins. This is silly, of course. Ukulele-ing while Rome burns. But I need it.

As a distraction? Yes, I need it as a distraction. More important, though, I need it as a reminder: To go. To do. To be. No matter how weird shit gets.

This time last year, my schedule was such that going and doing and being weren't in the cards. So instead, late at night, I'd put on the google goggles and write about what I found. About other people who were going and doing and being. To remind myself it can be done. 

And I'll be damned if it didn't kind of work. Bring Limes has led me to palm-lined islands (literal and figurative both). It's led me to yoga and ukuleles. It's led me to some non-hippie stuff too.

So now it's a year later. I have no idea where to go from here. But I'll keep going anyway. And doing. And being. 

Thank you so much for coming along. 

"What a better way to die. Having fun!"

Oh I like this woman.

It's not because Dilys Price has been around for 82 years. In and of itself, that doesn't mean much to me. By this point in life, I've come to find that our allotted time on earth is largely luck of the draw. Someone reading this will see 100 years. Someone else won't see Season 7 of Game of Thrones.

Sure, our habits related to diet, exercise, and high-grade gin might throw a few extra tickets into one bucket or the other. But in the end this is still a random drawing. I've been surprised too many times to think otherwise. 

So. The fact that Dilys is 82 years old is neither here nor there. The fact that she's the world's oldest woman skydiver? Okay that's pretty cool. But what really gets me is this: listen to the dance in her voice. Watch her eyes. She exudes excitement about doing what she loves, naysayers be damned. She's good energy at 82 years old and, I bet, she's always been.

Lots of people aspire to be cool old people (myself included). Thinking a switch will flip when we hit 65 or 75 or 85 and viola! We're lovers of life! Suddenly we're parasailing and starring in viral videos where we're dancing to hip hop at wedding receptions. 

But it's not like that. There's no switch. Loving life doesn't get easier as we age.

The best way to be a cool old person? Be a cool middle-age person first. And a cool young person before that. Find what you love and do it. Regardless of age. Naysayers be damned.

Along the same lines, you might also enjoy meeting Snowflake: Love Something So Much You Forget To Go To The Toilet

What to do on an island

Coleman. St. John, USVI.

There's lots of things to do on an island. There's also lots of things to not do. Typically, I'm there for the not doing. I'm a man of leisure after all. But dang! Doing nothing is getting hard!

For the last week or two, I was on St. John. It's a U.S. territory which means that, among other things, normal AT&T data rates apply (unlike the much better named LIME network which covers most of the Caribbean but involves international roaming rates).

So your phone on St. John works exactly like it does at home. This makes it easy to check in on things. Stay on top of a few issues. Touch base to keep things moving while you're gone. It allows for travel in a way that wasn't remotely possible just a decade ago.

And that's a friggin' bummer bro!

Regular travelers know there are a number of ways to fine-tune the features on your phone: Only receive calls from certain people, eliminate all incoming data, etc. Feel free to Google the options (if you're a total nerd). For the rest of us, I recommend this:  

Bring Limes Tech Tip!

1. Go for a long morning hike to a beautiful area (e.g. Ram Head, Saint John, USVI). 
2. Take lots of unnecessarily selfies, in square, panorama, and video formats.
3. Make your way back down to the water (e.g. Salt Pond Bay) where you've left a cache of snorkeling equipment.
4. Wade into the water. Savor the coolness. Slip on your fins and mask. 
5. Decide where to snorkel: Reef or grass? Fish or turtles?
6. Notice the clarity of the water. It's unbelievable. You'll never ever get used to it.
7. Realize that your phone is in your pocket.

Phone problem solved!

Now here's a few pro tips if you're really looking to maximize your enjoyment of the above plan: 

First, see if there's a primary provider of cell service on the island (in St. John it's AT&T). Then make sure the phone you're dunking is the only one in your group which uses that service (the rest of my family is with Verizon which won't help you at all on SJ.)

Second, go to an island where electricity, wifi, and cellular service are prone to random outages (which is to say, any island). This will limit your opportunities for alternative solutions.

And then... ENJOY!

Honestly, not having a phone was fantastic. Instead of calling ahead to see if a place was open, it required physically going there (like some kind of a caveman!) and talking to someone.

Weaving around one of the most beautiful places in the world, Jeep windows down, local radio at wild volume, shoes in the back (probably, who knows), old-school paper map flapping around. These are not bad things. 

I'll admit that I did miss having a handy camera. And an infinite jukebox. And a flashlight. But that's all I missed. That was it. That was completely and entirely it.

Been naked much lately? Me too!

St. John, USVI

I'm currently perched on a cliff above the waters of Kiddel Bay, on the southernmost edge of St. John, USVI.

I should probably mention that since I've been here I've been naked. Quite a bit. As a jaybird. As the day I was born. But I'll get to that in a minute.

We arrived to St. Thomas late Sunday afternoon. Spent the night in Charlotte Amalie, grabbed a bite, and had a generally fine evening. But we were just staging, actually, for Monday morning's ferry to St. John. 

It seems I'm the only person I know who hasn't been to St. John. Its popularity as a travel destination is what a vexillologist would call a red flag. I would call it the same. (A vexillologist is a professional flag maker. I am just a guy with a strong distaste for tourists.)

But we're here anyway, my family and I, based on reports of a kajillion killer shore dives and hiking trails for days. 

Straight off the ferry, we bought a bag of genips (aka skinips on Grenada, aka chinups on Carriacou, aka spanish limes on google), and we pointed the Jeep to the remotest corner of the island we could find. From Cruz Bay to Coral Bay to the end of the paved road to the end of the dirt road to here.

So far, I have to say, the place has lived up to its reputation. Stellar reefs and deep-water boulder fields. Shark, turtles, tarpon, 'cuda, rays, cero, squid, plus all the reefy regulars flashing every color in the crayon box.

But this isn't a freaking travelogue. You're here for the nudity.

So okay. Down here, as it turns out, I'm the early riser in my family. No idea why. Given my taste for late-night rum, this is a goddamn miracle, not to mention a troubling indictment against the up-and-at-em-ness of my squad. But I'm not complaining because it means dawn is entirely mine. And these dawns have been especially good.

I've mentioned that I recently became a fan of early morning yoga. I wouldn't say yoga is entirely "my thing," at least not in the same way that, say, the sound of the ocean or being a smart-ass are my thing. But I like yoga enough that on my first morning here, it's how I decided to greet the day. There's an overlook next to our place that seemed perfect. I carefully considered what I needed to bring with me. But slowly I realized I didn't need jack shit.

Happiness, I'm convinced, is the result of reduction. Of removing everything that's not absolutely necessary so you can focus on what is. In the case of yoga, all you really need is you. Or in my case, all I really need is me. And so that's what I've been going with. Just me and the sun and the sea.

It's a helluva thing when the waves are crashing against the rocks and the sun is pressing warm against my skin. Birds are flitting all around me and singing like I'm in the scene from that old Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah movie. Except with less racial stereotypes and more dangling and flopping.

I have to say it's a great way to kick off the day. Especially when it's followed by some time in an outdoor shower. Of course my teenage boys think the whole thing is weird af. Mostly because, you know, the whole thing is weird af. But I'm going to stick with it while I'm here.

They're sleeping at that hour anyway. And. I so rarely get a chance to drive life into the corner, as Henry David Thoreau put it, and reduce it to its lowest terms.

At least not without the cops showing up. 

144 Days Ago

On a truly crappo day in early February, I put together the details for a dive trip. Scheduled for late June. I blathered on about it at the time, naturally, as I do. But now it's June. Now we're packed. Now we're almost on our way. 

The timing isn't the best, as it turns out, with lots of work related whatnot afoot. If I hadn't already planned it then, we wouldn't be going now. But it was planned then. And as such, we're going now.

The packing is complete (see photo, it didn't take long), Heading to St. John Sunday morning. In the meantime, I'm thinking I might start planning for something 144 days for now.

Your summer anthem is ready for pick up: Wow by Beck

Well, it's officially the first day of summer. And I've found my official summer jam.

I didn't realize this was the case the first five or six times I heard Wow by Beck. My initial take was that it's another one of those interesting style exercises that Beck does from time to time. A reverb-y flute-EDM mashup with a hip hop bottom end. AKA "interesting style exercise" right?

But no! Upon the next 500 listens I came to realize it's as good as anything he's ever done. His downbeat 2002 album Sea Change is one of my favorite records of all time. But nothing beats happy Beck. And this is Beck at his happiest. 

Wow shimmers and glistens. It makes you wanna shake your ass, but slow and grind-y even though you know you're too old for that shit. And the lyrics, a perfect mix of positivity and wtf.

It's my life, your life
Live it once, can't live it twice
So nice, so nice
Song's like a tidal wave, take you on a getaway
My friends, your friends
Love 'em every day like it's just about to end
Now we're pissin' in the wind cause it's so pine fresh
Right now
Yeah I, I wanna get it like

Wow! 

I love this song.