Mastering Spanglish

Currently I’m sitting comfortably in an overnight bus ride across northwest Spain headed to Barcelona from Madrid. I decided Friday I would fork over the 150 euro round trip ticket (not a bad deal) and fly into Aeropeurto Madrid-Barajas. Originally I planned to stay two days in Madrid and four in Barcelona, but after talking with my Turkish friend Elif, she suggested that if I’m going to do Spain between Madrid and Barcelona I might as well spend more time in Barcelona, “You will know when you get there, just trust me!” is what she repeated multiple times through her noticeable yet still understandable accent.

             We ended up talking a good amount of time educating each other about our two vastly different countries. Turkey, largely located in Western Asia is still awaiting approval from the European Union to become one of its members, and for this reason Elif needed to acquire a visa just to visit Ireland. This made me grateful to have a US passport and I explained to her that although everybody thinks America is this amazing country, it's flawed in so many ways, beginning with our grossly indebted economy to our crooked political leaders. She told me that Bush made a bad move when he sent troops into Iraq, because this ultimately caused a civil unrest in her country. I never try to have my blogs too opinionated on political issues, so I’ll just end it there. 

            Back to the point, I ended up tweaking my itinerary (flexibility is key) and decided to spend an extra day in Barcelona, taking one away from Madrid. In effect, today was similar to the two day excursion I had in London a few years back. There’s just too much to see and do in these cities for only a couple days. I ended up flying into Madrid Friday night around nine o’clock and these are some of my first impressions of visiting a country where I was unable to speak the primary language, albeit while travelling solo.

Working with two Mexicans at a pizza shop the past few months turned out to be somewhat helpful, but what I was learning was mostly Mexican slang. You don’t hear people in Spain greeting each other with “Capassa Wei?” and cat calling “Chicas”. It’s more of a “Que-tal?” type of vibe. This made navigating the Spanish metro, which for some reason seemed even more confusing then the tube, a little difficult. However, it only took a couple trips to make sense of the layout. Without having European service with my iPhone I was, and still am left with relying on the old fashioned ways of maps and human interaction to reach destinations, which I enjoy. The difficult part is picking out the people you think speak English. There are many, many white skinned Spanish which throws a wrench into simple skin identification logic. There are also many dark skinned Spanish who speak English fairly well.

The first English speaking interaction I ended up having was on my first metro ride while sitting across a girl wearing orange soled Nike frees. I told her her American identity was a little obvious, which she agreed when I pointed out her black Northface backpack. She was from Raleigh, North Carolina and thankfully ended up directing me to Puerta del sol, the heart of Madrid just a few blocks from my Airbnb. I already knew from the emails I was getting from my host Lorie, who also lived in the two bedroom apartment, spoke zero English. Compare that to myself who spoke zero Spanish and our interactions made for a lot of pointing at objects, smiling and laughing. She ended up being very friendly and helpful however, as much of the Spanish are, by helping me find plug converters, maps and food among other necessities.

Casual Selfie with Lore, my AirBnb Host

Staying only one night in Madrid I knew I needed to experience the nightlife firsthand. The first bar I went to that night was essentially a disco party playing old American hits and some other English songs I had never heard before. The DJ even had a soul patch and a curly black afro. The first handful of Spanish girls I came across, who also thankfully spoke some English, greeted me with the double kiss I had thought was mainly customary in France. It’s actually quite mind boggling how open and affectionate the Spanish are. There really is no such thing as frowning upon public displays of affection here. The metro, the café shop, the street corner, the museum exhibit, you name it, there’s face sucking happening. If your're at a club they’re also very forward about asking your sexuality. I think it’s definitely good for some because if you're questioning yourself and mildly attractive you will be forced to declare a side, so to speak, if you have one. Take for example the bearded fellow who put his hand out as if he wanted to  shake mine while I was sitting on the edge of a stage chatting up a short-haired, bandana wearing Spanish gal who looked easily twenty something (she revealed she was thirty something and eventually went on to shut me down because I was "too young"). Back to the handshake from this spunky Spainard. I obliged his handshake only to have my hand lifted and kissed. He then put his other hand out and said, “Your turn”. I took his hand and brought it to my forehead, avoiding his advances yet still having some fun about it.

I can't judge a whole population on a single experience, but I can say that no matter what sexual preference they may have, the Madrid nightclub crowd seem like a ruthless bunch. The girl who I was talking to said she had been with only a few Americans before and that their respectful ways often threw her for a loop (this was not working in my favor). That made sense to me as some just want to cut to the chase, and  others may be drawn to arrogance for whatever reason. The Spanish really enjoy their drinks as well. You’ll often see three to four beer taps at the front counter of simple take out restaurants. Where as in America most bars that primarily serve beer will have decent food, in Spain restaurants that primarily serve food will have beer. It would be like Chik-fil-a serving bud light on tap. Tough to picture, yes?

Waking up yesterday morning with only a day left in Madrid I had a rough agenda set. What I was able to squeeze in included seeing Madrid’s most famous museum, The Reina Sofia, as well as their most famous park, Parque de El Ritero. The highlight of the Reina Sofia is hands down Salvador Dali’s most influential and critically acclaimed piece of art, “Guernica.” Originally part of the Paris 1937 Art Exhibition, the piece was used as a political statement against the oppression Spain began experiencing from the German bombing of Guernica the same year the piece was unveiled. So famous, that even using non-flash cameras were banned from the viewing area. Coincidentally, I choose to do an art review of Guernica in my art appreciation class a few years back, which may have influenced the chills that ran up my arms as I walked up to the over 25 foot long piece.

After the museum I took a jaunt across the street to Ritero Parque, a massive tree laden park with towering statues and a glass palace set on the edge of a lake. Like most parks around the world on a sunny day, Riberot was buzzing with activity. Everything from frisbee throwing, to roller blading to just lounging around seemed to define this park. It wasn’t until I reached the final strip when I got some much needed human interaction. Along this strip area they had ten foot long hubs attached to one another selling different genres of books. Off to the side of one I came upon a dark skinned Spaniard punching away on an old fashioned typewriter. At first I started looking around for a place to give tips, wondering what kind of act she was putting on. I soon realized Silvi, as she would later introduce herself, had no monetary incentive, she was writing her friend Mario a poem. Mario, a kind, dark haired fellow who offered me a sip of beer from his clear plastic cup was standing next to Silvi and grinning as he watched her punch away on the antique writer.

As she continued to type I told her about my writing background and she asked what kind of writing I did. I explained I had several preferences, poetry being one of them. She immediately asked if I wanted to write something and we somehow came to the agreement we would swap poems about each other. She typed mine first as I scribbled down in my notebook what I would type for her. When she finished she gave me a quick tutorial on how to work the dated machine and I was off, realigning the type face and crossing out several letters in the process. 

            While I was writing several of Silvi's friends came up to me and started asking what I wanted to do in Madrid. I told them what I had already done and then pulled out my notebook to to show them suggestions from friends. I went down the list and mentioned bull fighting might be something to check out. They immediately shouted, “No!! Do you know what happens at those fights? They slaughter the bulls!” I vaguely remembered hearing something about this and said, "So, you want me to cross it off the list?" "Yes! Justin, cross that one off!", Silvi pleaded with me. I agreed one hundred percent. Upon hearing my name, and in an extreme bout of coincidence meets divine interconnectedness, one of her friends immediately said, "Oh, it’s Justintime!" I replied, "Yes! You are correct (origins of this name can be traced back to here). Once Silvi and I finished typing we asked who should read who's first, and at first we said, let’s do it at the same time! Then it dawned on us that although this was an interesting proposal, it may not work out so well. So, she read first, and myself after. She had a nice free verse style, and mine was more of an attempted end rhyme scheme. Both equally genuine. This was Silvi's: 

During our poetry slam, an otherwise perfect seventy-five and sunny Spain day quickly became partly cloudy with some light rain. This became a subject in both our poems; hers is pictured above, along with a photo she took of me typing below. Before we parted ways she invited me to come out with her group of bohemian amigos who were headed to a restaurant just outside of the park. Had I not had a bus to catch to Barcelona in less than two hours I gladly would have joined them, but this is how life typically goes when your living day to day. She did offer me one of her pickled vegetables (a baby onion I think?), which I was originally turned off by, but then thought, sure. I accepted and we said our goodbyes as the Spanish do, with some cheeky kisses. That onion was quite scrumptious...

So far the Spanish experience has been much different than anything I have ever come across, but in a fresh, new way. It’s become quite obvious that you can find friendly and open people no matter where you go. Just make sure they’re not too friendly, or you may have a story or two to tell. Cheers!

Wickets In Dublin

            Three days into my second trek back to Dublin and already a different kind of journey has begun to take shape. When I was here three years ago I was studying abroad, but mostly touring, confined to an itinerary with a set stipend each week along with due dates for writing assignments every few days. Looking back now this gave me the structure I most likely needed at the time, so I’m grateful we had some amazing professors guiding us along the way. However, having a premeditated itinerary can create many limitations. What if you enjoy one town more then another and would like to stay longer and go back? Maybe you meet a group of people and they give you more reason to stay in a certain location? Many of us can’t imagine traveling without a specific plan set in place. There’s just too many unknowns. You may feel you are not in control when you’re living day by day, and yet, this is the journey I’ve chosen for myself.

When living in the moment is the only thing that matters you feel more alive and more real because of it. Now I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy my study abroad just because I had calendar planned out for a few months, I made some of my best friends and did some of my best writing on these trips, but I am saying  that having plans did tie me down, and when you’re untethered there’s no feeling that compares. Conversations can go anywhere, along with your feet. Expectations go out the window (another key part to living a satisfying life) and you tend to be focused in the present and overall you begin to start living at your best.

Take my first day in Phoenix Park for example. While I was experiencing the park for the first time I was awed at the sheer amount of open space in such a dense city. I had the opportunity to nap outside on what most locals were calling the nicest day of the year. After being awakened from a dream into seemingly another dream I started pacing the rest of the park only to come across a soccer field in the far distance just across the street at the parks end. Naturally I began walking toward it and to my surprise it looked like nobody was playing. Out of the corner of my eye I ended up spotting a group of guys playing what looked like cricket. And cricket it was. There were five of them; one from Pakistan, one from Brazil and the other three from Iceland. The Icelandic folk met the Pakistani while he was traveling in Reykjavik. The Brazilian they had just met in Dublin.

The Crew

As soon as I snapped a quick photo, one of the very few on these first couple days, the ball I had just caught frozen in the air on my camera had rolled right to my foot. It was the most cliché introduction of my life; I picked up the ball, threw it back, and then I heard “Hey! You want to come pay with us!?” For the next two hours I spent my time learning how to hit and pitch a cricket ball (a little harder than it looks). Afterwards the fellas cracked a few pounders and we began explaining the different paths that brought us to Dublin. It was nice to spend some time with people with similar mindsets, who understood the rewards of travel and joys of being in a fresh space. Reh, the Pakistani orchestrator of the group, invited me to come watch his actual cricket match the upcoming Saturday and I told I’d definitely come if I was still in Dublin. We then went our separate ways and I checked into my hostel which continued to literally and metaphorically open the doors to adventure stories and instantaneous connections.

Some of the closest fellow travelers I spoke with included a couple graduates from the University of Wisconsin, a Turkish Erasmus student currently living in Czech Republic, a  future Brazilian lawyer, and a pair of fighting Illini twins from chi town. I also had the good fortune of meeting a fellow American student at a show that was being played by an American electronic/pop group the night before. This American was spending the summer in Dublin with her family and working for an organization whose goal it was to prevent and solve the homelessness problem in Dublin. With all these new connections I was also able to strengthen some old ones as a good friend from our JMU club soccer team was in the area for his study abroad. Meeting new people is always a good time but there’s nothing that compares to seeing good friends overseas. It’s like seeing a new side to old friends because neither of you have ever been in a similar space like this before together. It also helps when their second to last night in a five star hotel is your last night in a country without having made prior bookings. Robby, if you’re reading this, you’re the man! Currently I’m in Spain and the next post will have some first impressions on that country, the people and their culture (so far). Cheers!

Karma Happens

            This blog sure is getting dusty, and to all my dedicated reader, mom, I apologize. As many of you may or may not know, the past few months (actually more like 7) I’ve been working at a pizza shop in my hometown of West Chester, PA called Saucey Pizza. I’m actually really surprised I have yet to write anything about it here, I guess my excuse is I’ve been busy with grad school. Some of you are probably wondering, "What kind of name is Saucey?" It comes from ether the saucey swirl we put on our pizzas or the state people are in when they walk through our doors on a Friday or Saturday night at 2AM. Both suit the name well. If you’re from this area you know that because Saucey is set up in a college town within the vicinity of roughly 20 bars it acts as a refueling station for those sober enough to remember its location (the main intersection of town across from our three story courthouse). This job has offered me the opportunity to deliver pizzas to the crack dens of downtown West Chester, clean up vomit off the floor, break up fights over nothing, and party with my boss. Aside from the crack dens it’s like college all over again! I actually did get to party with my boss in college (shout out to the Rickster if your reading this), but thankfully I never had a reason to knock on the doors of any notorious Harrisonburg meth houses (this is the only blemish to JMU’s otherwise friendly mountain town). I studied English at JMU, and lets just say my knowledge of W.E.B Dubois and the concept of double consciousness is useless at Saucey. The majority of people I serve have no consciousness. But that’s neither here nor there. The reason I’m writing this piece is not to inform you how wonderful my life is, but instead to offer some proof that the sometimes misinterpreted idea of karma does in fact exist within our lives. The story I’m about to share is a pretty extreme example of how it works, but it is still an example nonetheless.

            Let's first set the scene. It’s Thursday night somewhere between the hours of 10pm-12pm, essentially the lull between the hungry college kids who just finished a late night of studying and the stampede of booze hounds that arrive after the bars let out. My coworker Gage, a few years out of high school, is in the back chatting with our cook Jose as he swings around a foot long piece of dough by his waist side. There’s a brother hunched over the corner counter with a hazed over look in his eye munching away on a couple of slices. I’m at the register helping a sweet girl who’s acting extremely giddy. I can’t tell if she’s taken aback by my good looks or if she’s just this way all the time. As I take her order I glance at the door and see an older gentleman walk, sorry, stumble in and he begins to start a conversation with Gage. I couldn’t hear what he was saying initially, but from what Gage later told me the man excessively used the word “jamoke” to describe the brother hanging out in the corner, adding this extremely racist piece of advice, “You make sure to tell your boss you keep all N****** outta this establishment. I won’t accept that.” (Sadly this still exists in our world and if I had heard this at the time I would’ve refused service on account of bigotry). What I did hear was, “That guy (pointing to me) is he a jackass too?” By this time I had finished serving the girl and was now staring straight at this forty something year old white guy wearing an orange polo and a navy windbreaker. He had a disheveled comb over and a face like John Calipari. This is what ensued.

            “Are you talking to me?” I replied.

            “Your damn right I am.”

            “So, you always go around calling people jackasses?”

            “Just you.”

            “Ok. Do you want pizza?” (Surprising how fast people change their attitude when you have something they want.)

            “Yeah yeah, I’m just fucking with you!” He extended his hand as if to conjure up some type of formality. “Billy Edwards.”

            “Billy, I’m not shaking your hand. What do you want?”

            “Come on. Lighten up!”

            “Ok. What, kind of pizza do you want?”

            “Come on, just shake it.”

            “Tell me what kind of pizza you want or you can leave.”

            “Alright. I’ll take that one.” Billy pointed ambiguously toward the the glass display case housing the pizza.

            “Um, pepperoni?”

            “Sure, sure, whatever.”

            I looked over towards Gage who was standing behind the glass display and gave him a nod. He grabbed a slice of pepperoni and slid it into the oven. Billy now had his arms folded with his elbows resting on top of the counter. I decided to see if I could piece this guy together as I waited for his slice to warm.

            “So, what do you do Billy?”

            “What do I do? You wanna know?

            “Yeah, I do.”

            “I run the fuckin’ mafia.”

            “You run the mafia. The West Chester mafia?”

            “NOPE. The Italian, the Irish. Run ‘em all”

            “What about the German mafia?”

            “The German? Just know that I run this goddamn town. Don’t even think about fuckin’ with me.”

            “Alright, not fuckin' with you. I think your pizzas done.” I turned around towards the over, opened the door, put the slice of pepperoni on a paper plate and dropped it on the counter. “It’s going to be $2.50" 

            “$2.50!? You know what, how about I try your pizza before I even think about paying you for it?" He reached across the counter, picked up the slice with one hand and sloppily raised it above his mouth and chomped down on it like only a smashed forty something year old man could do. “Hmm, pretty good.” He dropped what was left of the slice back on the plate, threw his right arm in the air, middle finger displayed and slapped his left hand against his right bicep and casually blurted, “Fuck. YOU”. He then turned around and slowly staggered out the door.

            “Don’t ever bother coming back here again!” I yelled at him. Feeling as though that didn’t quite do justice to what just transpired I tried for a more personal insult, “I hope you drive!” Being an otherwise gentle soul I almost said, “Don’t” instead of “I hope”, furthering the frustration of the moment. By that time he was already out the door. The next customer in line was a couple who just witnessed what went down and bursted out laughing at my departing comment to Billy. They tried to make me feel better by joking about Mr. Edwards mob connections, but there was no denying the awkward tension still in the room. Gage was pretty dumbfounded by the whole situation, and afterwards he called his stepdad who owns a salon in town and is apparently friends with all the big wigs of West Chester. He had never heard the name Billy Edwards in his life.

            The next fifteen minutes of that night went along pretty normally, and then I looked out the window and saw a police SUV parked in front of the shop. An instantaneous feeling of redemption came upon me as I left my post behind the register and went outside to investigate. Located on the corner just to he left of our entrance I saw a group of three police officers surrounding a man in an orange polo. I immediately went up to the police officers who were standing with their hands on their hips staring at Mr. Billy Edwards, head down and shoulders shrugged with his hands in his pockets. I introduced myself to the officers, explained what had happened just a few minutes ago and told them all I wanted was an apology from Billy. He apologized, but it wasn’t gratifying at all, only because it felt like a parent making their child apologize to a neighbor for wrecking something on their lawn. If they didn’t catch Billy there’s no way he would’ve apologized, but at the very least he did pay for the slice and even gave a dollar tip. That also didn’t mean much to me. When I asked Billy what were supposed to think next time he comes in the shop, one of the cops interrupted and said I’ll most likely never see him again as he was “out of state”. I thanked them and as I began to head back I saw one of the officers detach a pair of cuffs from their belt as they motioned for Billy to turn around.

            When I got back to the entrance of the shop there was a group of five or six people congregated outside. They had seen me talking to the officers and filled me in on how Billy got nabbed. Apparently he had been walking in circles up and down the block and when he decided to cross the main intersection to get to the other side of the street (ignoring all crosswalk signs of course) a police car coming the opposite way almost hit him before laying on his horn. Billy was stunned by the horn and just stood in the middle of the street glaring at the officer. After he continued walking across the street the cop circled back around the block and found him on the corner in his inebriated state.

            While this remains the most belligerent customer I’ve ever dealt with, it comes nowhere close to the drunkest, as Billy was still able to form coherent, albeit offensive sentences. It's never fun dealing with bigots, but I was thoroughly entertained as I am most nights. More importantly, that run in reinforced my belief in karma, an age-old concept derived from a balance of morals and actions that run our universe. As most of us understand, the more good you put out into this world the more you’ll receive, and the same goes for the bad. I’ve seen it work both for me, and against me, and it seems the older we get the more we become aware of this universal truth. There remains however, a fine print that goes along with this theory, and that is for those who commit good acts only on the basis of expecting something good in return, the less likely some kind of good will be reciprocated in the way they are expecting. This is because karma isn’t a predictable system of exchange created by humans, its driven more by faith and a willingness to believe that everything you need and deserve will be provided for you when the time is right. That’s why people who ask themselves daily, “What about all the good I do? I’m always doing the right thing and I never see anything in return!” don’t seem to receive the benefits of karma.  It’s like watching a tree grow. You can give it all the sunlight and water you want, but if you sit by it and stare at it all day you will never see any growth come about. However, if you come back periodically with the belief that it will in fact grow, the more easily you will see the change and benefit from its fruits. In the case of Billy Edwards, he burnt down whatever kind of tree he had and got to experience an instant kind of Karma.

            With all that said I hope you go about your day doing good things and spreading love because it’s the right thing to do, not because you expect something in return. Know that all good deeds will eventually be repaid and that all wrongful actions usually find a way to come back around and bite you. 

            Thanks for taking the time to read this and keep stopping by the blog, as the summer months begin approaching I will be updating it more regularly!

Merry Weather

All these spots reversed the clock

Where we found blue hen glass made to last

Ribbon burnt along the road

And brought us through to Timbuktu

Cheese and butter was the other 

Grilled by hands without a brother

Roots reached through empty glass

Out the window overpass

Now or former was rewarded

To the man from which smoke distorted

Buying vegan water from a martyr

Didn't make us any smarter

But the show goes on

And kids still dance on our lawn

We never tried to play for keeps

Each of us a daydream feat

Duct Tape Hustle

White page, neon heart

Tell me, when did the beating start?

I found it underneath a triangle frame

And made it spread to quench a flame

Just like you I dreamed of cardboard robots

Designed to kill but still unable

Made from shoeboxes and broken cables

At the height of schools we learned much

and from tap dancing on hollow floors,

Forgot it such

Dreams disappeared like the corners of your toast,

Then landed on my shoulders,

Chipped until arms couldn’t be raised

When the wire snapped I switched the string

The bridge hadn’t broken but the cracks remained

It plays back now into a broken record,

Into a crescendo of only seconds

Little did I know

The song was written before we tasted it.

You wrote the melody.

I, the words.

The Friendly Lion

I took a time machine back to being a kid again thanks to my six-year-old niece this past Thanksgiving. Days were spent playing micro-machines, kinex, legos and the occasional American girl doll tea party (these were short-lived). We even progressed from our free style music sessions this past summer to actually crafting our own songs with lyrics.

One such song was titled “Gobble, Gobble, Gobble,” a thrilling tale of a turkey who flys away “High above the farm” so as not to be eaten for thanksgiving dinner. Guinevere came up with all the lyrics herself, I simply handled the melody by plucking away on the ol’ fiddle. These songs were put on in front of family members and at my own request, without the use of video.

We also performed a riveting rendition of Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer in the family room. I again led on acoustics, and Guinevere starred as lead vocalist with the occasional back up mumbles from her two-year-old sister Isabella. We couldn’t hold these “concerts” without some kind of colorful backdrop, so of course, arts and crafts were another necessary component to the weekend. I was glad to guide the way on two vibrant holiday posters, one of which my drawing of Rudolph looks a little “creepy looking,” as she put it. All the creative energy that flowed from my room could have powered a small toy-making factory to say the least.

What really brought me back down to earth and feeling like a kid again was when Guinevere came up to me on our last day together, looked me in the eyes and said, “You know you’re my best friend.” I started thinking wow; I can’t remember the last time someone’s told me that outright. And then I thought, can a twenty-three-year-old and a six-year-old really be best friends? Of course they can! My own feeling, that were all just big kids at heart came rushing back to me. Even one of my friends that works as a secretary at the art center told me the other day, “I just never choose to grow up.” And I ask, do any of us ever really grow up, fully? I don’t think so.

The weekend wasn’t quite over yet. The rents thought it would be a good idea to take the kids for a ride to Christmas village, this insanely rigged mini-town that must take a hundred thousand light bulbs to light up. It’s nestled just behind a lake close to Reading, and when you pull up over a telling hill you think you just hit the Christmas village from Nightmare Before Christmas.

Guinevere suggested we ride to together, and so we did in the backseat of mom-mom and pop-pops car. She fell asleep on the way up and when she awoke I asked her if she dreamt about anything. She said she had been petting a lion, and no one else was around and the lion was letting her pet it. I suggested maybe she become a zoologist when she grows up. But nope, she said she wanted to be a “volcanologist” (I didn’t even know that profession existed). Then she said she wanted to be a teacher, and then she told me she wants to be something different every day. I told her I thought that was awesome.

We left finding a profession for later and pulled up to this real life Christmas village where we were first greeted by frosty, and then Rudolph. We got to walk around the town and follow model trains, Cardboard cut outs of Winnie the Pooh and Charlie Brown characters, and even got to see Santa; no pictures though, that was an extra eight dollars.

All of this culminated into a ride home where Guinevere asked If I had any games on my phone and I told her I didn’t, but I did have this job search app called “Glassdoor”. We began searching teaching positions, and then music instructing jobs. I was making up the descriptions of the jobs as I read them out loud and we finally found one as a music history teacher.

In this game though, I told Guinevere we couldn’t get the job without going to college first, and so we made up a class schedule for Guinevere, complete with theatre and creative writing classes. Things then got a little too real when she started asking what days she was going to class and how she could afford a meal plan.

As great uncles do I switched the subject when we got home and gave her a piece of paper and a pencil and said, “Why don’t you write a story?” And so she did. It’s called “The Lonely Giraffe”:

It’s tough to tell from the pictures alone but the moral of the story has something to do with human (or animal) connection. As Guinevere told me, the days the Giraffe was sad she was missing all her spots. The day the Giraffe got some of her spots back was the day she met the lion.

What she understood as a six year old is we all need the help and connection from others to gain a true happiness. Even if its just a few spots we gain everyday, it still adds to our overall demeanor and well being. Remember, its only real when shared.

Obama Drama

A lot has been going on these past few months with our mighty American government. Lots of unhappy citizens without insurance, lots of national parks shut down and a lot of money squandered in the process.

This was my interpretation of our government three years ago while taking a general Art class. I was assigned to make a collage and apparently I choose to make it political. Take notice how the weather is part of his brain.. 

You may ask, is it still accurate today? And I ask you, is that a football located on the donkey's ass? You can decide.

Also, there's some kind of general election tomorrow. Let your voice be heard!