I used to drink too much. I loved it all, except Scotch. I particularly loved gin. GIN. In a short glass with ice and triple olives. And I gave my heart away early: Beefeaters. None of the new-fangled gins could tempt me with their sexy ads and their wanton come-ons. Gin is made in Britain. It is dry. It is not smooth and it is not rough. It has a taste.

The cute little dictator that could, Kim Jong-il, in what can only be construed as an attempt to show America, “Hey, we like your style and your many, many celebratory explosives,” has emulated America in the only way North Korea could: test firing 7 ballistic missiles.

I’ve been chatting up a local bird this evening.

By bird, I mean literally either a Brown Creeper, a Loggerhead Shrike, or a Blackpoll Warbler. (I know for a fact it wasn’t that trashy Northern Cardinal who likes to sashay his scarlet red ass all up and down the railing on my deck, especially when I haven’t left half a bag of crumbled-up stale hot dog buns out there. Where were you when I needed you, Northern Cardinal!!11!/?)

Anyway. Just to clarify, by “chatting up” I mean whistling. At first I began whistling in my normal style, a series of increasingly shrill staccato notes in a variety of ear-piercing pitches that I thought approximated the language of our avian friends. When that produced less than desirable results, I decided to adopt the auditory guise of the noble Whippoorwill, whose majestic call sounds like “whip-poor-will,” at least when you whistle it.

Well what do you know, but my new friend, “Buddy,” the Brown Creeper, Loggerhead Shrike, or Blackpoll Warbler, came right up to my screen and began pecking at it with an urgent ferocity that I knew signaled that our status as BFFs–birds of a friendly feather–had been sealed! That’s so like Buddy.

This may be the last post you get from me in “human language.” From now on, I’m going to be submitting MP3 files for your enjoyment. It’ll just be me at first, with my manwhistles, but I’m sure Buddy will want to chime in from time to time!

Along the coast of Andalucia there is a deep cave the locals avoid. Here you will find that rare vintage known as Fuego Eternal. It will singe the edges of your extremities and cause a ringing in your ears, which will sound like someone talking endlessly about a graduate thesis or home repair.