This journal has lost its focus.  I've rededicated my blog here as parsnipart.livejournal.com

Back in America. 

Sorry about rubbing Europe in everyoneś face for the last few months, but I have to give you one more.  I thought that France was special, but now I am in Barcelona.  The Catalan language brings me to my knees, but my Castillan is stronger than I could have ever expected.  All you have to do is speak, speak, speak and you will survive.  I loved France, but in crazy, lazy, just plain dont give a fuck Spain I am home. 

I have eaten more greasy mystery meat in the last two days than in the entirity of my life.  The beer is cheap (thank mother cockfuckingshitfuckfuckfuckcockfuck god finally cheap beer!)  I have tasted the face of the pig and it is good.  I have seen the Sangrata Familia and it is not a church, it is a space station.  I have practiced my Castillian with an Eastern European.  I have ruined my favorite shoes.  I have conquored tripe.  I have not conquered Catalan, but I will eat my way through it.  I have exchaned death stares with my hostel dorm-mates.  I have conquered them.  The food is cheap.  I have conquered the metro.  I have written poetry.  I have embarrassed myself in a comic book store. 

Life is incredible.  I have only good things coming my way.  That is all.

-M

Saint Chapelle, Paris.

Paris from the Center Pompidou.

Brook and her steed Coleman in the Louvre's sculpture garden.

Paris is cool.  Hail Satan.

A middle-aged Christian desecrates a votive stone dedicated to the Roman god Silvan. 

In turn, a pigeon disregards the statue of St. Anne on the Cathedral of her namesake in Apt, FR.

A woman chooses for her gravestone both the traditional Roman blessing (D.I.M.) as well as the Christian Chi Rho.

This is all stuff I found at the market in Angouleme.  It is a glass palace filled with wonderful things.

Wintertime is the best time to get fruit confit (fruit preserved in sugar) and Apt, the town just ten minutes from us is the fruit confit capitol of all of France.  I haven't eaten any because while it is very pretty, it's looks too much like fruitcake filler.

Things you would have a hard time finding in America: Pates (emulcified liver paste) of all kinds, boudin noir (blood sausage), head cheese (not a cheese, let's just say that), andoille preserved in aspic (reduced bone stock jelly), whatever the fuck those manta-ray patty things on the left are...  Most of this stuff is gross, but I'm glad that it's here.

Fish!  Not just fish but shellfish, eels, enormous congre things.  Oooooooh the smell was incredible. 

A secret meeting, Marseilles.

Domination.

The fog over the Luberon.

Ain't nothing to do but listen to this guy and draw.

What's the French word for "sandwich?"

Everything you've heard about the French and their baking;  it's the motherfucking truth.

A Pieta in front of Notre Dame de la Garde in Marseilles.

Gordes

Bonnieux

Avignon

Viva la france.

In color, complete with portfolio plastic reflection for added value.

I am going to Atlanta.  There, I will fulfill my destiny.

It's becoming a tradition for whoever's in my car heading up I-95 to SPX to stop at South of the Border.  For those who haven't been, it's a decaying neon monstrosity of an all-purpose family attraction just below the North Carolina border in a town called Dillon.  You're allowed to wander around at all hours of the night while most everything closes down, but the lights stay on.  For all my years of serious writing, I cannot explain to you how bizarre this place is. 
Jon took this picture of me riding a giant fiberglass jackalope, complete with saddle.  This place makes me laugh and then makes me shudder and then makes me laugh again.  Later in the car, around the time we cross into Virginia, the clammy dead hand of another shudder tiptoes up my back.

So the squirrels that live in the crawlspace between my ceiling and the roof are back.  Winter is coming.
( 23 pages of comics under the knife! )