Bird Roast

Sometimes a rash proclamation becomes a creative germ.  Thought itself generates existence:

I flamingo therefore I am

This is what happens when a friend mentions they need something to decorate their door—or more accurately, require an identifier in order not to drunkenly stumble into the wrong room in hallway of nondescript doors.  I gathered intel that this person is a fan of philosophy, art, and flamingos, and so whipped up a cartoonish illuminated manuscript to grace the entrance of his abode.

The easygoing pace of work in Shuttles has also allowed me to volunteer some time in the bakery.  This year’s bread guy is great, churning out delicious sourdough, rye, seeded, and all manner of excellent loaves.  He didn’t even really need help with the 2,000 Thanksgiving dinner rolls, but I was nostalgic for manual labor, and he was happy to let me scatter some flour.

Highlights of the holiday weekend included: 

• a reunion show by the band Condition Fun, featuring original tunes about eating bacon and C-17 planes; sunny-blue-sky hike to Castle Rock
• shotgunning my first beer (I’ll do better next time!)
• laughing until breathless while my suitemates played the hit new video game Euro Truck Simulator 2, wherein you real-time drive a semi on a highway from, say, Olsztyn to Gdansk, including stopping at red lights, getting gas, and sleeping
• debating the merits of parenting a seal pup versus a human baby

And there was ham, so I didn’t have to eat turkey, which was fabulous.

Here’s another postmodern sculpture piece, brought to you by the airfield:

Suck it, Rothko.