v Not like wearing tights and sporting goatees like historic times either. I mean eclecticism. It isn’t da Vinci I want to be. I have no ambition of drawing penises in profile for a living. Nor do I care to paint a Mona Lisa, which would be defecated upon for centuries to come in the form of penned-on-mustaches. No, no, it is merely the fact that this man was good at everything he did. 
Which leads me to ponder, does talent exist? Can we be good at whatever we chose? The answer has ascended down upon me like in Angel from heaven in the form of Colin Don, whom of which touches scat and turns it to gold. Personally I have not had the same luck, and choose not to touch such objects. However, I have the patience to believe life is a journey, and thus along my journey, I will learn lots.
In my pursuit of Renaissance Man Stardom, I’ve met many shams. Most recently of which, I have begun working at ______ Ranch Summer Camp (this is my failed attempt to remain anonymous to the interweb world (impossible)). Not to say that working there is a sham, but I witness mostly charades throughout the days, which pass by mostly harmoniously.
Teaching the mountain bike division of camp, kids often confuse my for the horse back ridding instructor. From 9-11am, I explain why no more horses occupy the stables mutant-horse-eating-chupacabras), and attempt to wheedle them into actually enjoying the two wheels they’re obligatorily riding upon for the next hour with yours truly. Each day we embark on junior journeys, most of which result into campers riding off the trail babbling, “my vision’s gone, I can’t see anymore” as they are inevitably defeated by the 105 degree heat of Tucson. I attend to these campers with my best Mother’s voice, which sounds more like Dana Carvey acting as a woman, as they proceed to vomit on my vintage yellow and brown Nike’s, which were pristine BEFORE camp began. I have a father’s voice too, which alternatively sounds like Rocky yelling “Yo Adrian!” minus the “Adrian.” It concerns me to discipline youngsters, as I feel too much like the father I’m not ready to be. It doesn’t come naturally at 21 to show authority to a little man of 8, of which nearly a decade ago you would have hated that type of restraint. However, I get over it all by realizing I’m a patient fellow, and the combination of my Mom and Dad voice gets them chuckling. Also, try explaining to a 6 year old why your arms have a perfect perforation of different pigment (farmers tan), as they will just call you “weirdo,” and vomit upon your shoes once again.
