Socialism vs. Capitalism

27 November, 13

A few years ago, Susan and I were visiting Spain. We were hanging out with Julio and Toñi and having a discussion about the merits of Socialism. Our discussion was taking place on the balcony of their beach house. Julio owns his own business. Toñi is an O.R. nurse in one of the best hospitals in Spain. They were at the beach for the month of August. Their kids have braces, which cost about a third of what they would cost in the USA. They have a nice house in La Alberca. The schools are great. I had to admit that this brand of Socialism wasn't too bad. What is not to like?

That was 2010. Now I live here, and I have studied more subjects than this one family. Not many people have the same lifestyle. Heck, most people in America don't have that kind of lifestyle. So what about the Average Jose? What is his life like?

In general life is pretty darn good here. Public services are efficient. The trash gets picked up. The lights stay on. The sidewalk gets swept everyday. The education and healthcare systems are excellent. They actually run pretty lean, from an administrative standpoint; much leaner than what I have seen in the USA. You can get a wonderful education all the way through a Master's degree at little or no cost. Many people here have taken advantage of that.

So what is missing? Our English class has peeled back the curtain a little bit for us. We have 15 students now, and about five of them are unemployed. They are all young and well-educated. Most of them have Master's degrees. Why can't they find work?

That is the big deal-breaker for me on Socialism versus Capitalism.

In pure Ayn Rand style Capitalism, nobody looks for a job. Everyone makes his own job. Ice Cold Capitalism allows people to starve on the streets, because hunger is a great motivator. When I have traveled to third world countries, such as Nicaragua and Peru, I have seen people living in landfills. They are some of the most creative entrepreneurs I have ever encountered, transforming trash heaps into marketable goods. Theirs is a barely existing lifestyle, but they are living, and doing so in a broken economy with little to no government.

Here in Spain, it is very difficult to open a business. They require reams of paperwork, and you must have a physical location and proper insurance. That sounds nice. They are trying to limit the risk of failure, but risk/reward is what makes businesses thrive.

Right now in America and all over the world, homegrown biotech labs are popping up everywhere. People are doing genetic experiments right in their very own living rooms. We will either all become zombies after the outbreak, or somebody is gonna cure cancer and ton it. Basement Economics drive innovation. Think Apple and Microsoft.

Risk is the fuel for the business engine, and Socialism, at its core, is risk-averse. Socialism seeks to protect every citizen, to provide a safety net, or better yet a safety belt, to keep you from falling in the first place. Let's just keep the high-wire two feet off the ground. Capitalism is like a bunch of teenage redneck boys, hollering out, "Hey! Y'all watch this!" In Capitalism, the role of government is not to protect every citizen, but to allow citizens to create their own economic protections or die trying.

So if you are a business owner here in Spain, you have a pretty good situation, because the government has erected artificially high barriers to entry for your competition. If you are a young, well-educated person looking for work, you are on the outside, looking in. The fact that so many young people have their degrees has created a classic Supply and Demand Economics equation. Demand for employees is low. Supply is high at 25% unemployment. Therefore the value of that education MUST drop. "Oh you have a MBA? So sorry, Maria has a PhD."

Another layer of complexity is the relative security government employees enjoy. They are the un-fireable. That is probably the case in any country. You never see a bunch of bureaucrats walking the bread line.  So you have a bunch of well-educated people with no jobs, desperately looking for work and government workers with no incentive to work, desperately looking for another vacation.

Now the economic driver in the European Union is the search for which country has the most free services, nicest climate and best lifestyle. It's not innovation, but preservation. Many Britons have moved to Spain, because Spain's healthcare is so good. Since they are part of the EU, they automatically have coverage. This created unintentional pressure on the healthcare system here, so Spain has changed its laws to make it tougher to get coverage. Our family is not privy to that free healthcare, and we have to pay for health insurance. We get better coverage and pay less than in the USA, so it's not all bad.

We cannot, however, start a business or get a job. In other words, we can spend money here, but we can't generate it. That's why America has more millionaires than anywhere else in the world. If you can make it to our shores, the sky's the limit.

Now if we could just import more of the food and wine from Spain...

Cartagena

24 November, 13

A big part of living in Spain is the ability to travel across Europe. Every available weekend we are trying to take a trip somewhere, even if it's only around the corner.

Yesterday we took a flier and looked for a twisty road into the mountains around us. We ended up climbing Carrascoy y El Valle in our little Nissan Micra. I should say we ended up climbing the mountain in our friends' Nissan Micra, which is even better. There wasn't a street per se; more like a road less traveled. Most of the way up, I had to drive in first gear, and that was almost not enough. On a few of the switchbacks, I had to back up and turn more sharply to get up to the next level. Then on the way down, I had to dodge, straddle or pass across big ruts in the road. After we finally got back onto a real road, we stopped at the nearest gas station restaurant and had a surprisingly good meal. I ate some kind of rabbit thing with garlic and potatoes. I think it's called Conejo al Salmorejo. There is no Spanish fast food. Other cultures have come in to try to fill that space, but the Spanish people are mostly resistant to the allure of poorly made, homogenized, fat-laden, chemically preserved, mass-processed food. They are so behind the times.

We had already planned a trip today to Cartagena with Julio and his family. Cartagena was founded around 227 BC, which makes it pretty old, even by Spanish standards. It has been an important port city for much of that time. Several different empires have left their marks--Roman, Goth, Visigoth, and a whole host of North African Muslim kingdoms.

Cartagena is only about 45 minutes away from La Alberca and is part of the region of Murcia. This is a touchy subject for the people of Cartagena, who want to be autonomous or else be the chief city in Murcia. They call Murcianos "barrigas verdes" or green bellies, because Murcia is an agricultural center. Murcianos call Cartageneros, "aladroques", which is basically a crapfish, due to their coastal locale. 

We toured a few maritime museums. Julio was very proud of the "first submarine" in history, which was invented by a Spanish guy in the 1880's. I had to inform him that the CSS Hunley predated his country's submarine by twenty years. He was disabused but handled it well. The Spanish version did have a working torpedo, so that was significant. 

After visiting the museums, we met up with some of Julio and Toñi's friends, who are from Cartagena. We are here to have a robust cultural exchange, so I am constantly looking for opportunities to engage in conversation with the natives. We walked into a bar to get something to eat, and I told Lola, their friend, that I really loved to eat fish. This made her really happy, since Cartagena is known for its seafood. I told her I especially liked "aladroques" and that I heard Cartagena was famous for them. She looked at me. Then she looked at Julio. Then she commenced to dog-cussin' both of us. I am not sure of every word spoken, but I am fairly certain most of them would not make it past a TV censor back in the States. That was fun. After she calmed down, we all had a big laugh. Cultural exchange. Check.

We also got to see a magnificent Roman amphitheater that is still used today. It seats about 6,000 people. I was having a good time imagining the Cartagena premier of Oedipus Rex or some other Greek tragedy. I got Julio to quote a little Cervantes, but he wouldn't belt it out like a Roman or Greek actor. Stage fright. 

Holiday Traditions

23 November, 13

Living in a foreign country can be pretty liberating sometimes. It is an opportunity to be "other than". You can try different foods, act a different way, explore different hobbies. It's kind of like building a real world avatar of yourself. The trouble is the avatar IS you, so old original self bumps into new different self at weird intersections. Holidays are one of those crossroads.

My first experience here with American holidays was Columbus Day. Now we all know how important that holiday is for us, right? I don't know of any particular tradition around it, other than everybody saying, "In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue." We all congratulate ourselves on knowing an incredibly important date in American history, and making it rhyme, then we go back to work, because it's usually not even a day off. Unless you work for the government.

In Spain, this is a huge holiday, but not for Columbus. He, and America, is an afterthought. "Oh yeah, we discovered the Americas and totally dominated there for a couple hundred years. (yawn)" They celebrate the unification of Spain under Ferdinand and Isabella, the same set of royals that commissioned Columbus and that also drove out the Moors from Spain.

Halloween was an interesting experience as well. We decided to have a big party at our house and told everybody they had to have a costume to get in. Surprisingly most of the people complied, youth and adults. One parent told me that his child didn't have a Halloween costume, but he did have a Spiderman outfit, and he hoped that would be alright. They think you have to be scary to count as a Halloween costume. We gave candy to all the kids. At the end of the night, they were in a sugar-induced coma. Candy is not a part of their normal diet, not even for birthdays and holidays.

At school, they have a "Week of Terror" and decorate the hallways with spiderwebs, coffins, etc. Then they would have random people go screaming through the hallways and busting in classrooms, wearing scary masks. If that happened in the USA, somebody would be shot, and the whole school would be on lockdown for the rest of the day. News helicopters would circle overhead and the S.W.A.T. team would hustle into position. The funny thing is that, to the Spaniards, Halloween is an American holiday. They are getting their ideas from us. This is what they think we do for Halloween.

Susan and I decided to host some Thanksgiving meals, as a way of demonstrating our thanks to a few families that have helped us out in Spain so much. I have sampled every ort of food my friends have put in front of me. You know it's gonna be good, when they tell you to try something, but won't tell you what it is. Then they snicker conspiratorially, like a bunch of middle schoolers trying to get the new kid to run through Old Man Wilson's backyard, knowing he has a huge angry pit bull just waiting for a kid-sized snack.

Thanksgiving is our opportunity to introduce our friends to some American cuisine. Susan busted her tail cooking up a "for real, no holds barred" Thanksgiving feast. I ordered the turkey from Pepi.

Now keep in mind that our stove is just slightly bigger than an EZ Bake oven. Susan did a fantastic job on the whole meal. We had:

1. Turkey
2. Mashed potatoes
3. Gravy
4. Green Beans
5. Stuffing
6. Sweet potato casserole
7. Homemade apple sauce
8. Cranberry/pomegranate compote
9. Apple pie
10. Ice cream

The only thing that was store-bought was the ice cream on top of the apple pie. Everything else was from scratch. Susan rocked it. While she was cooking, I thought it best to get out of her way, so I played an intense game of padel. My only big job for the day was to get up close and intimate with the turkey, rubbing it down with olive oil and spices. We smoked a cigarette and watched Johnny Carson afterwards.

If you take a hard look at the menu, you will notice about 10 pounds of sugar. Items 1-5 are savory. The rest of the meal is sweet. And this is normal for us. "Us" being Americans. 

Our first family was Soledad and her three kids. We had an impressive display of food on the table, and Soledad wanted us to describe each dish. She had that look on her face that said, "I don't know what the hell I am about to eat, but I will keep this grin on my face the whole time, if it hairlips the President." It was funny to watch her reaction, as we described each item and 50% was sweet. She had a confused look, questioning in her mind why we had so many desserts and so little food. I think Soledad genuinely liked the meal. Her kids didn't go for much of the food, but they do love gravy. 

We have introduced Spain to a new way of life. Carbo loading a dessert for the main course. I guess our work here is done. 

The Redneck's Guide to Food--Paella

13 November, 13


I am all about some eatin'. There aren't too many things I won't eat. Even mayonnaise has become, well not a friend exactly, but a neighbor I don't mind talking to across the fence. I have eaten some crazy stuff in my life.

One day at Carowinds, we were in line at the Hurler roller coaster. As you wait in line, you pass under the coaster, which is a huge wooden monstrosity. On the ceiling of the tunnel, you will find a sea of chewing gum stalactites. I don't know what possessed me that day, but I took down one of them and put it in my mouth. Luckily it was mint flavored, which is my favorite. The kids around me were appropriately grossed out, and I got some free gum. It's amazing how long the flavor lasts in gum these days. The old Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum or Big League Chew would only take about 5 minutes to turn into a bland mush.

Then there was the time at Mama's house, when I was hanging out with all my nephews and nieces. We found a good-sized worm, and I asked them what they thought it would taste like. Nobody seemed to know, and nobody was willing to find out. So I did what crazy uncles do. They taste like dirt. It's funny, you say they taste like dirt, but when we speak of wine, we say it has an earthy taste, as if that is very much better.

Now you know that when I recommend something to eat, you should probably ask if it's been eaten before and left behind by others. That's my disclaimer...

Paella is one of my favorite dishes in Spain. Everybody in Spain loves Paella, and every region has a little different spin on it. Some use chicken, others pork or seafood. Basically, though, it is a big pan of rice, colored with saffron. You add other ingredients to taste. You never cook paella for yourself. It is, by its very nature, a fiesta food, which helps explain its popularity with Spaniards.

The other day, we got a paella lesson from La José. Her name is actually María José, but everybody calls her La José. She reminds me a little bit of Ellie Mae Clampett.

Given the choice of wrestling Ivan "The Russian Bear" Koloff or La José, I'm taking the Russian.

But like Ellie Mae, she is pretty and sweet and happy at the same time. I have no idea what she's saying most of the time, but when I do understand her, it is usually something that I cannot repeat to my children. She was born the middle of 13 kids, so I guess you have to learn how to defend yourself and fight for groceries at the dinner table. They all prayed with one hand on the chicken leg, if you know what I mean.

So La José showed up on Saturday and she got us jumping around like grease on the griddle. She and Susan started cooking up the chicken and red peppers. Then she threw in some artichoke hearts. The last step was adding the rice and saffron. Then you step away and wait for the yummy goodness to all come together.

If you're really serious about paella you go out and buy a special pan, called a paellera. We just used our frying pan, and it was still awesome. We are thinking about trying to cook up a batch over Christmas with the family. Vamos a ver...

The Redneck 'Fesses Up

15 November, 13

I tell the truth. Most of the time. I mean, come on. Who is going to tell me they haven't told a little white lie before? Maybe even today. No you did not like your co-worker's dress, or the fact that she got to take an extra 15 minutes for lunch. In fact, your jaw hurts from holding that fake smile a bit too long.

So let's work under the assumption that I have a lot of company when I say that, sometimes, I don't tell the truth. I don't want to be Bill Clinton here,

but I don't tell lies so much as I withhold information, until it is the proper time (read convenient) to disclose said information. The "not telling" is really just as bad as telling the wrong thing. It depends on what your definition of "is" is.

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, we do spy on our citizens. Did we not tell you that before?"

Part of the decision to move to Spain involved figuring out what to do with our cat, Princess. We had two cats, Buddy and Princess. Buddy bought it trying to cross the street. Princess was a little smarter.

I am not a pet person. My brother and sister have pets. I appreciate pets. I admire people who have pets, except when they let their dogs bark ALL NIGHT LONG. We have a dog in our building that sounds like Gollum.

I swear he is gonna show up with Precious on his collar one day. When pet owners let their dogs poo on the sidewalk and don't clean it up, that fires me up, too. That's another blog post, coming soon.

I'm just not a pet person and neither is Susan. The girls have wanted a cat or a dog for years, but I was able to hold out, until I went on a business trip, and two little fur balls showed up on our back deck--hungry, cold and a little abused. Buddy's whiskers had been singed. The proletariat rose up and overthrew the dictator. It was never really up to me.

I have to admit that I liked watching the kittens grow up. They would play together and romp around the house. My only condition was that they spend the nights outside and we would have no litter box in the house. Ever. Even in defeat, a dictator can have some sway over the terms of surrender.

Then we decided to move to Spain. That threw a big wrench in the works, as far as a cat goes. You can't just move to Spain and show up toting a cat crate. My sister was gracious enough to offer to take Princess, sort of on a long term loan. Becky is like a real world Snow White. Wild birds perch on her shoulder and tell her the secrets of the forest. Lions limp up to her, looking for help with the thorn in their furry little paws. She has trained the squirrels in her backyard to eat at her neighbors' bird feeders. That's the "real world" part.

Our girls accepted Becky's offer, knowing her true love for animals. We brought Princess down to Hartsville and spent our last week or so there, to give Princess and the girls a chance to get used to the new arrangements. Then we left for Spain.

Two or three weeks later, Becky told me that Princess had run away. Houston, we have a problem. That was not part of the plan. Apollo XIII had duct tape. There ain't no duct tape for a missing cat.

And this is where the truth gets a little delayed. Princess disappeared in early September. I just told the girls about it the other night, two months later. I justified it by saying the girls were going through enough transitional issues. They didn't need another problem. Another concern. Another reason to not live in Spain. I didn't want them to get hurt. Those all sound nice, but the reality is that I didn't want to deal with it. I was more concerned with dealing with the fallout, than with telling the truth.

Elizabeth and Katherine were understandably upset. Elizabeth had laid claim to Buddy, so she had already gone through the mourning process. Princess was Katherine's cat. She went to her cave and closed the two foot thick, nuclear bomb proof, steel doors. Susan tried to go in once, but was rebuffed pretty quickly. I knew better.

The next day, we went over to Julio and Toñi´s house for a cookout. They have a kitten, so it was a perfect way for Katherine to emerge from her cave. Julio was even kind enough to offer us their cat, along with food and kitty litter for one year. If I pressed him, I bet we could have gotten free vet care as well. I refused his kind offer, knowing how sad he would really be at not having a furry companion by his side.

So the moral of the story? I learned to give my kids a little more credit for having some fiber in their backbones. They are resilient. They are tough. They deserve to get the truth, even when it's inconvenient for me.

Elizabeth and Katherine, I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I love you both.

God is not Santa Claus

11 November, 13

In America, especially in the South, we have churches on every street corner. If you are a Redneck, and you are not at a NASCAR race, you WILL be in church. Or else your mama will whup you with a fly swatter. You don't have to believe. You just have to go. We have a saying, "The undertaker always attends the biggest church." When he goes, he sees potential customers. I suppose it's the same way for insurance salesmen and the mayor, too. In black churches, it's an opportunity to wear fancy hats. I love attending black churches. They know how to do church! (It is ironic to me that the most segregated place in America is church on Sunday. Shame on us!)

All the churches in Hartsville are coordinated, to allow Mr. B's and Yogi Bear Honey Fried Chicken to serve the whole population, while avoiding those awful long lines. The Methodists get out first. If you are not out of a Methodist church by 12:00:25, you must be the preacher. George Atkins used to stand up at 12PM, whether the preacher was done or not. Sometimes the new guys needed a little training. Presbyterians follow about 8 minutes later, just so they can say they aren't Methodists. Southern Baptists are a little more disorganized. The ones in the back row closely resemble Methodists. Altar call attendees usually ate a big breakfast, so they can leave the church later, without too many hunger pangs. Then comes the Assemblies of God, Freewill Baptists and Church of God. They have to pick up all the bodies off the floor, which takes awhile. They are out the door about 1:15. Right about 2:30, the black churches come up for air. They have clapped, swayed, sung and prayed all morning and into the afternoon. I have profound respect for black churches and the sacrifice they make every Sunday, to allow white churches the opportunity to eat first. It is a true demonstration of humility and grace. To be sure, they will be at the front of the buffet line in heaven. “So the last will be first, and the first will be last.” (Matthew 20:16)

I am a washed in the blood, sprinkled AND dipped, once saved always saved, Christ follower. I have been since my sophomore year at Clemson. My life was radically transformed one night after a Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting. 

This was a difficult and painful transition for me. I realized that I would have to walk away from many friends, good friends, because I was too weak to be around them. They weren't bad people, but they were practicing a lifestyle that I needed to leave behind. It was my problem, not theirs. Although salvation is a free gift, the subsequent life does come at a cost. That is when I realized church was something very different than my experiences growing up. It is more than a prelude to lunch.

My Christian walk has ebbed and flowed over the past 25 years. I have been a Bible-thumper. I have been a backslider. I have been conservative, liberal and moderate, sometimes all at the same time. I am a mess, but God loves me anyway. Thank you God!

The lifestyle here in Spain is nice. The people are kind and basically moral. They don't want to hurt anybody. Spaniards love their families and their friends. In this respect, they are just like most Americans, most people all over the world, really. There doesn't seem to be much interest, however, in having a personal relationship with God. He is relegated to festivals and cathedrals, but not very present in homes or daily life. He is more like Santa Claus. Fun once a year, but every week gets a little stale. Every day? Well that's getting into meddlin'.

Our family attended a small Southern Baptist church last night. It was in Murcia. Susan had been searching online for a place to worship and had narrowed down to a couple of choices. One day last week, I was getting gas for the car. There are no self-serve pumps here. You have to wait for an attendant. I struck up a conversation with the guy, and somehow we got on the subject of church. He must have brought it up. When I asked him where he attended, it was the same church that Susan had found online. Weird. This was the third gas station I visited that day. The other two were either closed or only had diesel. Weird. His name is Danilo. Weird. The pastor of the church is from Texas. Weird. Is God trying to get my attention or something?

Back at Thornwell Elementary School, we had a huge playground. We could run for days. There were shady spots and jungle gyms and a baseball diamond. It was big. Alongside the playground was a line of railroad tracks that led into Sonoco, the paper mill. All the boys used to gather around one spot in the fence that didn't reach all the way to the ground. You could easily scootch under it and go down to the railroad tracks. We had all that playground, yet we wanted to go play on the tracks. Every now and then a teacher would come along and shoo us in the right direction, thus avoiding any ugly confrontations with a freight train full of pulp wood. That is kind of the way God works in my life. He lets me live my life, until I walk up on the fence. Then he pulls me back over to where it's safe. He's been tugging for a while now, and although I don't always like it, I am thankful for His care over me. This Redneck needs a Savior. Not a Santa Claus.

En América, especialmente en el sur, tenemos iglesias en cada esquina. Si estas un Garrulo, o Redneck, y no está en una carrera de NASCAR, sin duda se encuentra en la iglesia. Si no, su madre le azotar con su palo. No necesitas a creer. Solamente va. Tenemos un frase, “El empresario de pompas fúnebres va a la iglesia más grande.” Cuando va a la iglesia, él va para futuros clientes.  En Estados Unidos las iglesias están separado por raza. Iglesia el domingo es el lugar mas separado en América. Esto es una vergüenza para nosotros. Los gentes negros saben como hacer iglesia.

Todos las iglesias de la ciudad en la que nací son protestantes y cada iglesia es poco diferente en la forma de hacer iglesia. Cada congregación termina sus servicios en momentos diferente. Eso es bueno porque después los servicios, todos comen en los restaurantes. Por lo tanto, no hay largas colas para el almuerzo.  A veces el congregación están pensado a comer, y no escuchan el sermón. Para muchos, la iglesia no es más que una formalidad. Van a iglesia sólo para ser vistos por otras personas.

Para mi, la iglesia es un parte de mi vida. Es más que un preludio de almorzar. Yo soy un seguidor de Cristo, lavado en la sangre de Jesucristo, bautizados en el Espíritu Santo. Me transformé completamente cuando fui en universidad. Mi caminar con Cristo ha ido y venido en los últimos 25 años. Ha sido un radical, un reincidente, un conservador, un liberal y un moderada. A veces al mismo tiempo. Soy un lío pero Dios me ama. ¡Gracias Dios!

La moda de vida aquí en España es muy simpática. La gente es amable y básicamente moral. No quieren hacer daño a nadie. Españoles aman sus familias y amigos. En esto respeta, son como Americanos, de verdad como la gente en todo mundo. No parece ser mucho interés en una relación personal con Jesucristo, sin embargo. Dios es relegado a festivales y catedrales pero no está presente en las vida cotidiana. Él es mas que Papa Noel. Divertido una vez al año pero cada semana es poco viejo y aburrido. ¿Cada día? Ahora que se está entrometiendo.

En la escuela primaria, tendría un patio de recreo muy grande, con lugares con sombre y lugares para correr y lugares para jugar. A lo largo de la zona de juegos,  en el otro lado de una cerca, había una vía para ferrocarril. Los chicos les gustaba jugar allí. A veces una profesora venía y los decía a jugar en otros lugares donde estaba a salvo. Dios trabaja en mi vida como un profesor en mi escuela. Cuando me alejo, se traslada a un lugar seguro. Ha estado tirando desde hace un tiempo, y aunque no siempre me gusta, estoy agradecido por su atención sobre mí. Este Garrulo necesita un Salvador. No un Papa Noel.

The Redneck's Guide to Art

11 November, 13

This is my first blog that is written in both English and Spanish. Many thanks to Google Translate and my friends who have helped me learn this fascinating language. I apologize in advance for butchering it.

Yesterday, Susan and I went to Mercadona and MercaChina to buy a few things. While we were driving, we came across a graffiti artist. I have been fascinated by this art form in La Alberca ever since we got here. Really, ever since I was a kid, when I would see trains rumbling down the tracks laden with colors and words that were some sort of verbal and visual puzzle. 

In June, our family traveled to Germany. We saw many examples of amazing street art there. The Berlin Wall that separated East from West was a grand canvas for the West. Over 28 years the wall crumbled under the weight of freedom, signified by graffiti. Now the only sections of wall that still stand are left as a gallery for street art.

A big part of the attraction for me is the fact that graffiti is against the law. How can a painter complete these huge pieces over two or three days without being caught? Surely the police could see the work in progress. The painters are like Robin Hood, stealing walls from the rich and giving art to the poor. Instead of a sword, they have a paint brush or aerosol can. 

One painter here has captured my imagination. His nom de peinture is "Dolor", which means "pain" in English. What is his story? Why would he call himself Pain? When I ride to the mountains on my bicycle, I see many examples of his work on the streets. One street in particular is tagged with Dolor on both ends of it. It is a short street, and I call it the Street of Pain. This is a double entendre, because it is at the end of my rides, and I am usually in a great deal of pain when I finally get to the street. 

My first impression of graffiti was one of disdain, because I didn't understand it. I didn't understand art in general. I am a Redneck, after all. Now I think I like it for the same reason I like "Breaking Bad" and all the sports sponsored by Red Bull. They are counter-cultural, like me. Walking against the herd reveals "the why" about the way we live. Sometimes the normal path is the normal path, simply because nobody bothered to think of another way. We are too often like lemmings, rushing to our death, texting all the while. Sometimes the normal path is there because it is the right path, and the counter-culturalists become roadkill, trampled under foot by the crush of humanity. I guess that makes me a possum.

This graffiti artist, my new friend, walks against the herd. He is not brash or boastful. He doesn't want to fight. He simply walks to give people a vision of what might be possible. He paints the questions we are afraid to ask of ourselves. Maybe his art is a map to guide us. We simply need to learn how to read it.

Ayer Susan y yo íbamos a la mercado para comprar algunas cosas y MercaChina también. Mientras conduciendo a las tiendas, encontramos un pintor de grafiti. He estado fascinado con los ejemplos de grafiti desde llegué en La Alberca. De verdad, comencé a interesar muchas años pasado. Los trenes en la ciudad de mi nació se pintaron con palabras en muchas colores y con formas inusuales.

En junio, mi familia estaba en Alemania. Vimos muchas ejemplos buenos de grafiti. La pared en Berlín que separa este y oeste fue un gran lienzo.

Un parte de el atracción de grafiti para mi es porque la forma de arte es contra la ley. ¿Cómo puede un pintor completar su proyecto sin ser capturados? Necesitas dos o tres días a completar un proyecto. Sin duda, las policías pueden a ver el trabajo antes se finalización.  Los pintores son como Robin Hood, robando las paredes de los ricos y dárselo arte a los pobres. En lugar de una espada, tienen un cepillo de pintura o un bote de aerosol.

Un pintor aquí ha capturado mi imaginación. El nombre es Dolor. Dolor significa “pain” en inglés. ¿Por qué el tiene el nombre “Dolor”? ¿Qué es su historia? Cuando monto en mi bici, veo muchas paredes con “Dolor”. Un calle pequeño en particular tiene “Dolor” dos veces, al principio y al final, en letras grande. Yo lo llamo “El calle de dolor.” Este es un juego de palabras porqué, el calle es la última calle en mi ruta de bicis y normalmente tengo dolor en mi cuerpo. 

Mi primer impresión de grafiti fue desdén porque no lo entendía. No entiendo arte en general. Yo soy un Redneck. Ahora pienso que si me gusta grafiti por la misma razón que me gusta "Breaking Bad" y los deportes patrocinados por Red Bull. Ellos son contracultura como yo. Caminando contra el camino normal del tráfico revela muchas cosas acerca de por qué vivimos como lo hacemos. A veces el camino es el camino único porque nadie tuvo la osadía de preguntar por qué. A veces el camino normal es correcto y las contras se convierten en animales atropellados. Supongo que eso me hace una zarigüeya. 

El pintor de grafiti, mi nuevo amigo, anda contra los gentes, pero no para a luchar. Anda para a dar los gentes un visión de que es posible. Quizás pinta una mapa para nosotros. Simplemente necesitamos a aprender como a leerlo. 

You can find more pics of another artist at http://wakearte.blogspot.com.es/. You can also go to http://jhoez98.blogspot.com.es/2012/07/jhoez-siento.html