Goat dissecting on December 24, 2013

My uncle killed two goats for Christmas dinner, so I had the opportunity to do some dissecting. Since their throats were sliced and their blood was drained, their blood vessels shriveled up so that they are almost indistinguishable from its muscles. It's digestive system was incredible. I had not really understood what the Greater Omentum was, (omentum means "fat" in latin). It is this sort of curtain of adipose tissue that envelopes the GI tract to keep it from getting displaced during peristalsis. I could see the food (chime) in its different stages of digestion until becoming feces.
The pancreas was a disappointment; it got destroyed when the guts were removed from the carcass. The spleen was also an underachiever. Compared with the spleen of the very male cat we dissected in lab, this one was half it's size. The gall bladder has to be carefully removed from the liver, without perforating the sack, so that the liver is edible. If the bile fell on any part of the goat it would render it useless. The stomach was sketchy. I think there were at least two sections. I didn't want to open it since it was rather full.
 The lungs were very pink, showing, I think, that he was breathing hard to the last moment.
They are now roasting in a brick oven. It is a completely different experience to see the whole life cycle than just dissecting a dead carcass in a neat lab: to know exactly how the goats body works, what every organ does and how they function together to maintain the goat's homeostasis, what muscles it uses to run away from you, how it raises it's diaphragm to expel air so it can bleat, what course the blood takes in its body until it is rudely interrupted by a knife slicing its jugular veins and its common carotid arteries. It takes a whole new meaning once you have a simmering plate of tasty meat in front of you. That the goat dies so that your own body might be nourished is a reality that we shouldn't be guarded from. The analogy of Jesus being led like a lamb to the slaughter is renewed in my mind. It is easy to forget the raw and bloody portion of the gospel when surrounded by warm Christmas lights and nativity scenes. Don't get me wrong, I love everything beautiful and adorned with Christmas cheer. I think that it is the sacrifice of our Savior that allows us to have all the warmth and goodness that we enjoy this season. But it is that guttural truth that allows us to be more grateful for the blessings we receive, and covering it up or forgetting it through neglect will also reduce the beauty of  salvation from death.

Ramblings

Make everyday the best day of your life. It is an unexchangeable gift from your Creator; don't spoil it. Bless others by giving of yourself instead of taking to satisfy your selfish desires. God will take care of you. Flee to Him in your troubles. Lose yourself in his presence like a child in his father's lap.

It has been too long. Rip van Winkle has finally risen and feels morally obligated to write. Who knows? Maybe someone is starving for my scribblings. (Which would be weird, since I try to keep this blog a secret. To make me feel a little more accomplished than just keeping word documents; and maybe one day some unsuspecting web surfer will stumble upon it and enjoy.) I think that my writing has atrophied. For the last semester in school I haven't had to be creative with words except for a history paper. My issue with history papers is that they make me feel boring. There's a little voice commanding me how to write, "Regurgitate information! Draw connections! Sound interesting! Don't use expletives!" History papers shouldn't be like that, that was just my natural tendency; commanding those little vowels and consonants to march, march, do my bidding, parade in a circle in a way that makes their poor little legs sore. I, their master, have enslaved them for my selfish purposes.
We used to be friends, language and I, and we shall be again. I'll have the joy of trying to  embody an idea and see a word peep out, fulfilling all my dreams and more. All that just for the reader to quickly glaze over it. There are few authors who deserve their readers' eyes to graze over their writings, seeking those clever hidden treasures that make you a little wiser. A hidden secret once discovered. A moment where the author gives a little more of himself for those more faithful companions, this followed by sadness when you realize how many will go without knowing about this literary morsel.
My problem with writing is that I feel compelled to teach something, distort the story so that an obvious moral is taught, (e.g. the passive voice should not be used!) my older self is starting to realize that the experience of journeying through the story brings one farther, teaches more, and is more enjoyable. It is the diffusion of a lush experience filled with growth, to a starved soul yearning for escape. So no more moralizing! Just adventure! No expletives to make a weak point strong

Forgiveness

I am a Christian, the son of many generations of Christian. My father is even a missionary. If any belong to the elect it is us missionary kids who feed on Bible verses from conception. Grace has surely been bestowed upon me. My Father also serves as pastor, so I sit on the front pew. All eyes are on me, to see if I live sanctified. If anyone is holy it should be the preacher’s kid. I can do this, I can play this game. I will live up to everyone’s expectations; and when I don’t, I will at least look like I do.

This “Christian life” is hard to live. I can quote Habakkuk when called, but did anyone ever ask me if I wanted to be like this? Why am I expected to live differently, better, than the rest of my elementary school classmates who seem to have more fun and slightly worse grades? I get the best grades, and all they say is, “He’s Joseph.” With this explanation they are satisfied. This is sweet poison to me. I hate that they come to see it as normal for me to do better than everyone, but at the same time, I come to expect it, and love it. I am seen as being better, and I enjoy that reputation.

Slowly, I grow and recognize that what I do is called hypocrisy. I do my best to change. I want to be what everyone thinks I am. My perfection mask sometimes cracks and something ugly peers through; there’s a woman on the TV screen, and all she seems to be wearing would barely keep my Chihuahua warm during winter. I look away. How holy I am; but part of me also wonders if anyone noticed that I looked away. That dramatic hand motion to cover my eyes as I turned away should have helped them notice how holy I am. I wake up early to go and pray with other saints. As I leave, I can’t help frowning at my roommates for sleeping in. They should be more like me, who sacrifices sweet slumber for prayer.

I have come to love the praise of men. Do I memorize the liturgy to worship God more fully, or so that I can close my eyes as I sing and look holier? God, look at me, I have done all you have commanded, what you ask in your law. I am not a Pharisee, I am better than them because I actually do what you ask! My cries echo in the darkness of my soul.

Is there hope for me? I saw the light and I did not really understand it. It was too elusive. I would try to obey and, somehow, it always came out wrong

I read Augustine, an older saint whose passion moved me. He awoke in me the desire to find rest from my vain attempts to keep an image I wish was a reality. I wanted what people believed of me, that I was good, to be true. And even then I realized that I shouldn’t want this because of what people thought. I wanted to be loved by God and love Him in return without all those judging eyes telling me if I’m doing it right.

So maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe I have misunderstood this gospel, this message that promises freedom, maybe having it thrust to my face all the time has dulled me to it and made close my ears dismissively.

            In Lordship class Mr Appel expounds on the parable of the prodigal son. I begin to see my problem. I am that older brother who does everything the father says, and when your younger brother has been forgiven, I cannot forgive, even though the sin was not towards me. I think, “He doesn’t deserve to be called a son anymore. He should have been dismissed for what he is, a sinner.” And I am right, but I don’t deserve being a son either. I have misunderstood forgiveness, no one deserves it. I am worse than my younger brother because I have come to expect it; it is only the payment for my righteousness, for my success in living the Christian life so well. All filthy rags…

If we began a Pharisees anonymous group, and we were all sincere, we would confess the same sin, pride. We would say it appeared in all areas of our life. When we volunteer to clean the church, to babysit the pastor’s children, doing the actions that would be seen by all, and praised.

“Not of works, lest anyone should boast…” (Ephesians 2:9). A gift is too simple, why would God want to accept something as pathetic as me. Let me work on cleansing myself Lord, so that you can accept me.  

But His forgiveness covers my wretchedness. I hear His still small voice. He doesn’t praise my works or encourage me to greater ones. He tells me what He has been doing all along: “Your sins are forgiven.”

A relationship between a child and his father is not based on the actions of the bumbling toddler trying to measure up to his parents’ expectations; that would be pathetic and I would have been an orphan long ago. Flesh of my flesh, I was made from them. That is why they love me. It is the same with my Creator. I bear His image, however badly, and He loves me.

Gratefulness, this is how I should have carried His easy yoke, but I wanted to drag it with my feet. Now I understand my actions should be a reciprocation of His love, His grace towards me.

My love was misplaced, what I wanted was good but misplaced. I wanted acceptance, but I searched in the wrong place. I wanted love, but I was seeking it in myself. He tells me to stop trying to impress Him with a meal and sit at His feet, and then He feeds me an eternal meal.

Cleansed in Baptism, nourished by Communion, shaped by His Word, and strengthened by prayer, my life is given back to me. He restores it and makes is new once more. Like a child who hugs his parents at Christmas, showing his appreciation for receiving just what he always wanted, I want to give my life back to Him. The prophet Isaiah compares our souls to a dessert that God turns into a river. Only Jesus could do this. “Only the Greatest of a Becoming greatest of all can make Himself small enough to enter Hell.”[1] Becoming greater than I am requires more than what I have. He not only descends to Hell, but raises me with Him. I have a barren field, and nothing grew from it when I was the gardener. But I have ceded I have torn down my barbed wire fence and let a perfect landscaper in. With a smile in his eye, he tells me there is still some hope in me.

He has changed me. Another brother has decided to turn prodigal. I don’t curse his name and wish his death. I run after him, trying to get him to come back. I don’t wish his hurt. In my flight to God I will raise whomever I see, for He did that for me.

            I don’t say I’m perfect, and I am fine with that. It grieves me to hurt His creation, but I can turn to Him and know He will not turn His back to me. When I fail, His grace cleanses me. When I sin, His forgiveness sustains me. I don’t work for it, I can’t, and this keeps my pride imprisoned.

I am a character in a story, and my mistake was believing that I played the role of the hero. Nate Wilson belabors this point in Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl. We are placed in this grand story God wrote. Being prideful, I thought I had center stage. I wanted to be more than a glop of blue painting overlooking some sunflowers. But knowing that I’m not the star brings me contentment. The heavy yoke of trying to achieve something I could never do is taken off my shoulders. This was the answer to my pride. Running away from it would never be enough, it was one speedy beast. Having someone to run to, a hope of something greater than I who would do what I couldn't  to be perfect, succeeded in giving me rest. And in His perfection He raises me with Him. My life is in His hands; the hands that have written my story, and since He loves me, I can trust that it is a good one.    

Poetry to prose- Empty Chairs and Empty Tables from Les Miserables

       There is a grief I cannot bear to utter. There's a pain that never ends. Empty refrigerators and empty pantries, where the food once happily rested like those pixar blue birds before their downfall. At the Belschners they spoke of eating poppy-seed chicken, and we salivated for tomorrow, when Mrs. Belschner would return with her arms full of groceries. But the chicken never came. How could we know that those chips and salsa would be our final supper. Oh my roommates don't ask me, where all the milk has gone. Eric ate it with a pound of cereal. Those froot loops are digested and no more. And those donuts from Rosauer's- Devon ate like there was no mañana. . Oh my roommates forgive me, that I ate fettuccine and you did not. I gaze at those empty shelves. All that is left is that nasty Canadian ice-tea. Phantom bagels on the counter, spectral cream cheese on the floor. As my roommates waste away, hoping for salvation, I secretly eat my scones from wheat berries.

Running off

     It stares at you defiantly, and you stare back wondering what is emptier; the blank page or the brain attempting to fill it. You rack your brain trying to think of the perfect sentence to begin your paper. The truth is, there is no perfect line. "Once upon a time" is too cliche; "the man entered the room" is to postmodern. Everything else appears boring. But in truth, that only reveals your boring imagination. "That stubborn goat had a blue tail..." Now there is a story I would read.
     It is the end of week seven and all that is left is a week of final exams. Time is like a rug that is pulled from under you. You are left rubbing your rear end and wondering where it went. But there is no point in looking back regretfully. Forget the pain, remember the lessons learned from mistakes, and hold on to those dear moments that changed your life. After that, look ahead and change the future. I always thought that was a funny sentence; how can you change something that hasn't happened?
     As you get older, you begin to see your life as a large roll of fabric with a mysterious pattern that you are trying to figure out. The more you unroll, the more you understand and the wiser you become. But it unrolls so slowly. We must be impatient, however, since every moment is a gift and worth living in.
     Enough platitudes, let's get this baby off the air and actually do something with what I'm writing.
     Finals' week, these are the times to try men's souls. Being a couple days before it begins is like standing in front of a precipice you know you must charge into. It's dark and you somehow need to make it to the other side. You search you puny frame for valor. When that doesn't work, you look up and mutter a quick prayer, promising to be a good boy the rest of your life if you make it to the other side alive.
     OK, it's not that bad, but it's fun to imagine so. I shall charge into that darkness, slay the beasts within it, and rise triumphantly on the other side, waving a victory flag.

The Escape Goat

     The snarky goat escaped his pen again. Too long had the trees suffered the abuse of that salivating brute. I braced myself for battle. The land shall feel his terror no more. My skin chilled as I remembered the wet stench of his hide, that stench that had seared my nostrils in our previous encounter ten minutes ago. Many times we had fought, and he always escaped my grasp; but not this day. I would vanquish this villainous albino demon. 

     I tiptoed silently through the dry grass with the dexterity of a ballerina on stilts. The red-eyed savage’s ear pricked. My fingers tingled at the thought of them around the throat of his pestilency. 

     He continued his placid mastication, and I approached. I was ten feet away when his tail stopped moving and he began turning his thick head. 

     The adrenaline made me feel like time was traveling through jello. I leaped. Whoever said man can’t fly did not see me that day. I joined the realm of the gods for an eternity that was too brief. The goat did not know what hit him, but whatever it was wasn't conscious enough to chase after it when it bolted. 

Writing for fun

To write. What a hard task when you are uninspired. I was talking with my mother today and she told me to write her an email. That made me realize I should write more. It’s not that I think that I am imparting great knowledge from above unto your insipid brains. This exercise is actually for me, and you get to tag along. Today I took a walk. It was evening and the partially visible sun was nearing the horizon. There were splotches of blue escaping from the dull strangling clouds. It was slightly cold and there was a chill wind that made my ears complain. The neighborhood I walked through had many trees and some grass that was defying the death of winter. I realized that no matter what we do, the sun is there, whether we see it or not. This made me want to write a poem. “I love you like the sun rises. You may not see it, but even behind all those imposing clouds and storms of trouble, it is always there.”

 I suddenly realized I had not been paying attention to the path I was traveling, but that was fine. I took the road less traveled by accident; but I took it, so it still counts. I wasn't worried either; the worst that can happen in Moscow when you get lost is that you find yourself in the outskirts of the town. All you have to do is turn around.

This past week was hard but memorable and epic. Then there was the Ash Wednesday service at Trinity. I felt convicted by the line that went something like, ‘we confess the impatience of our lives.’ I realized how restless I had become; I had started to look down on school and wanted to start doing other things, like preparing for the future. I wanted to already graduate. I know I must prepare, but this goes hand in hand with school. I must be faithful in the little things, like music worksheet handouts.

Three more weeks until Spring Break; It seems so close but unattainable. There is final’s week to get through, and papers to write; but the hope is defiantly making its presence known, like the sky. In a declamation I jokingly used the metaphor, “It was like the dream I never had, which, by the way, was blue.” Maybe these words were prophetic. The future is a dream that keeps changing never becoming truly what we expected to be. But there it is looming promising something better, or at least, different. 

Valentines invitation

This declamation was out of the ordinary. My classmate, Reuben, and I gave a declamation together. We wrote two sonnets. I said my firs quatrain and he interrupted me from the balcony of the Nuart with the next quatrain. Then, as he ran down the stairs to join me in the front, I said the next quatrain. Best declaiming experience ever.

Joseph: Today we celebrate Saint Valentine;

Defended love and marriage with his life

From Emp’ror Claudius’ ban which was malign.

And thus he quelled the ever sad’ning strife

Reuben: We will forget traditions of the past,

But love forever stands and lets us know

The trials that we face we can outlast;

Our hope-filled hearts will vanquish any foe.

Joseph: My son, the words you speak are very trite-

For freshmen love is not allowed to be-

Your sorry quibbles, put them out of sight.

Think only of “associate degree”.

Reuben: Your constipated soul you must release!

Joseph: Your mushy little feelings must now cease!

Reuben: But so insensitive you have become;

Delighting things of beauty you ignore.

Your unimpassioned self must now succumb,

For freshmen celebrations do adore.

Joseph: Dear chap I do believe you got me wrong.

I don’t command festivities forgo.

In fact, you know, I’ll gladly come along,

And Honor to Creation’s Crown bestow.

Reuben: A feast in house of Courtney we will host,

So bring your party faces and some pies,

And to your health dear classmates we will toast,

To gladden all your days with this surprise.

Joseph: And Valentine’s tradition will be kept.

Reuben: We hope our invitation you accept.

Crazy Creative Sketch

The greatest state man can achieve- sleep- was cut short by the infernal cry that Doug and Burrow’d into my ears. Devon’s alarm once again made me lose all the fruits of the spirit. “Devon, what time is it?”

“What?” His vacant face reminded me of the dream I never had, which, by the way, was blue, like the color blue.

“What time is it?”

“What?” I was about to berate him, saying, “can’t you understand English? I said ‘what time is it?’” Then I realized that I had been speaking in Spanish.

“I’m sorry Devon.” He conked out like my imagination in this sentence.

I went to my desk and stared at the blank page that yearned to be inhabited by a belly-quivering-worthy declamation. Having psyched myself up, I attempted to write: “He snored like a victimized cow in the hands of Gary Larson…” The metaphors oozed out like the drunken slobber of a hobo. Maybe one day I would be able to command them to descend from my brain to the page like glorious paratroopers in the midst of victory. I will make the Grinch green with envy, the dying elephant in the room howl with excitement! I want fame, glory, applause, and vanilla twinkies!  

Declamation about Latin, using commonplaces

     What am I to thee that thou shouldest command me to love thee, and be angry with me, and threaten me with great mischiefs, unless I do love thee? Death is nothing, but to live with a minime is to die daily. Think of Latin as Christianity. The grammar quizzes are the Ten Commandments and they are there to condemn you. I try to enjoy a slap in the face and love the unexpected, but Latin is a continuous onslaught. But if Latin was purely pessimistic and opposed to life, I was prepared to blow up Friendship Square. But Latin is not that terrible and it’s always better with cocaine. It teaches us humility; to imitate Jesus, Socrates and Hans Oerberg. Magister took from us the right to be boneheads; we no longer stand around grunting and pointing. Logic will take you from A to B, Latin will take you everywhere, like purgatory, Magister’s office, hell, the bagel shop, a psychiatrist. Latin keeps us sane, because those who really believe in themselves are all in lunatic asylums. And always remember: The true discipulus studies not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him, his tergum.

First Encounters of the Snow Kind

     Staring up at that gargantuan snow-covered hill on Sixth Street made my entrails reenact the Mexican war for independence. It was an upset. I was wishing to reach the top on my smooth soled shoes that now felt like bananas under my feet. I gave my first step. My foot slowly slid back down like butter on a hot frying skillet. In my reality, snow was as fictitious as Santa Claus and the curious little elves he chose to surround himself with. I gathered in my hand a bunch of that cotton-like death threatening material. I inspected it. It smelled as boring as this limpid metaphor. “It’s not too bad.” I thought, and then changed my mind as soon as my hand was crimson with complaints at the foul tortures I perversely imposed upon it. I gave two speedy steps onward and wrapped my arm around a tree God predestined for my salvation. I don’t make fun of tree huggers any more. That solid unmoving mass of reliability restored my hopes of survival. I tearfully left that friend for another one six feet away. Four trees later, I stared at an empty sidewalk. I decided I would prefer to deal with cars honking maniacally and driving towards me. 

To Marry or Not to Marry

     Tradition! Although NSA is like a fledgling extending its wings, it has quickly established traditions that have made it scandalously drool inspiring. But one more is lacking. As courtship term approaches, guys and girls are daydreaming about Dorian modes. Right, what’s a cubit? Like Pandora during Latin class, fantasizing about courting is quite diverting. It doesn't help that Mr. Appel will sound like the Princess Bride priest. Longly I pondered, and finally found a tradition that will save us from GPA collapsation. Let’s import a Jewish matchmaker. She’ll haunt the halls, stalk the students, hack their Facebooks and seal their fate with her romantic wiles. There’s just one predicament; you girls will bribe her to get matched with me. But I’ll sacrifice myself. Guys, you won’t have to be distressed about the seniors swooping down and taking your girl, she is already yours. Girls, now you won’t worry yourself sick on whether you should marry the sixteen-year-old self-deluded demigod wannabe; or Nathaniel, who believes he eliminates competition by bashing Reuben, who bashed himself. Imagine how exciting graduation would be if along with your diploma you get handed your surprise Mrs. degree. This ain’t secret sister, it’s secret mister. After all, this is what NSA stands for: Need spouse ASAP.

Coffee (alternate version)

     Once upon a time there was a little boy who went to college. At first, he was able to sleep enough, but slowly he succumbed to the workload and became sleep deprived. One Monday morning, he was in Bucer’s and he had a vocab quiz. He was very sleepy, so he decided to drink a sixteen ounce Americano. As he readily consumed that dark liquid, all the secrets of Latin were revealed to him. He had his best quiz grade that time. He was happy, too happy.

     Most of you are slaves to a dark formless master. You have all been victims of its evil clutches. It has tainted all of you with its elusive promises of excessive energy and eccentric thought processes. Evidence of its destructive embrace can be seen in NSA. You might see a girl, with her head absorbed into the table, laughing hysterically in her sleep. The Muslim’s drink makes you believe that you can hyper actively function properly throughout the day without any sleep. Even the fulfillment of this promise is not good.                                                  Once, in distress, I succumbed to temptation and drank a sixteen-ounce Americano. Many of you know about that. But what y’all don’t know is that I wrote some of my thoughts down. Here are a few memorable ones: “My heart is palpitating like a cackle of hyperactive hyenas in a washing machine on the spin cycle “I could swear I can see how fast Pastor Wilson’s beard is growing!” “I believe that skeleton is a living entity, and it’s grinning at me?!” “My leg has decided to rebel, I bet it will soon pop off and join a hippie community.” Twelve hours after I drank coffee, the effects wore off. I was like an abandoned piece of burned bacon swimming in the white grease of disappointment.  Pope Clement knew coffee was the devil’s drink; Clement foolishly thought that he could steal it from him and “Christianize” it. Do you really want to trust the word of one of the wickedest popes in history? Why didn't he also steal Old Scratch’s pitchfork and sanctify people with it? As you can see I am in a coffee high. A coffee high is not a desirable state.

.”  “There is nothing more dangerous for me than a notebook in front of me, a pen in my right hand, and in my left, coffee!” The problem with that quote is that I am left-handed

Coffee

     No Christian imbibed the Muslim’s drink until Pope Clement sanctioned it. What’s wrong with that? He only was one of the most evil popes in history. Coffee is not my cup of tea. It has terrible effects upon me. Drinking coffee is like giving your brain a laxative. I can prove this by reading to you my notes from that fateful day when I drank a quad-shot sixteen-ounce Americano to get my highest grade in a Latin quiz: “My heart is palpitating like a cackle of hyperactive hyenas in a washing machine on the spin cycle.” “I could swear I can see how fast Pastor Wilson’s beard is growing!” “My leg has decided to rebel, I bet it will soon pop off and join a hippie community.” Most of you are slaves to this dark and formless master. You have been victims of its evil clutches. It has tainted you with its elusive promises of excessive energy and eccentric thought activity. Even if this promise is fulfilled and you do feel high like a fly in the sky eating the apple of my pie, the effects will wear off, and you will find yourself feeling abandoned like a burnt piece of bacon swimming in the white grease of disappointment.   

People Should Have Pets

Children should have pets. Owning critters builds character. I learned many valuable life and death lessons from my pets I would not have learned any other way. I discovered mortality because of an experience with a goldfish. One day I returned from school and Goldy was hovering in the waters downside up. My mom had poured chlorinated tap-water into the fishbowl. Therefore, Goldy shriveled and floated up like a dead goldfish in a fishbowl.

Another enlightening experience that happened to me was with my pet rooster. Chanticleer had the chicken flu, so I decided to ease his passing. That was the plan. I flourished a machete and set Chanticleer on the stump. I swung, but at the last moment, I chickened out. Whenever you decide to do something, do it with all your might. If not, you could end up chasing a half decapitated rooster over the river and through the wood and finishing him off the hard way.  I did not hit him as hard as I should have, and Chanticleer sprung, ran off and I exclaimed.

There is no better way for children to learn these serious and important lessons than through first-hand experience with pets. Get yourself a pet, a goldfish, or a rooster.

Fuego en la Sangre

Fuego en la Sangre is the greatest Mexican soap opera of the last decade. Like all soap operas, the storyline is unoriginal. What matters then is the way you present this cliché story. Because of this, you only need to see three or four episodes to understand it. The storyline is this: Boy likes girl, boy gets girl, loses girl, loses his memory, gets memory back but does not like the girl anymore, falls in love again, and finally gets the girl. If you exclude the partial nudity, violence, and some language, this show is for all audiences. One of the greatest benefits to watching this is that you might learn some Spanish, although you would not want to use in around the table.  A couple lines, though, you could use to woo your love. Stonewall Jackson called Spanish “the language meant for lovers”. A phrase that would sound too cheesy in English is suddenly turned into the most romantic love phrase in the universe. For example, “Hey, te acabo de conocer, y esto es una locura, pero aquí está mi número, así que llámame, tal vez.”  Which in English means: “Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so call me, maybe?”