oily fingers

Yes, the hot stove that is A-Rod's positive steroid report doesn't really do much for the disinterested fan; baseball became much more boring when it became inextricably linked to Republican values. The same principles have already destroyed my fledgling NFl fandom (The Eagles high-wire-choke-artist act has also worn thinner than a vegan at the Beachcomber in St. Simon's Island, Georgia).

Everyone in Spain is quite content to stay in bed til the early afternoon on Sundays. Today I got up at 9:30, and felt like I'd overslept for days; I've been making a habit lately of going to be earlier and getting up earlier. Pelirroja and I decided that we are cyclical creatures of habit, so these things are to be expected from time to time. Hopefully we'll have a lovely picnic today; the sun's warmth manages to counteract the brisk winds (on a great day the wind's blowing out and Huelva becomes an olfactory hitter's park as the factory's smoke heads towards the eastern part of the province, rather than right towards us capital denizens). We've got a Tortilla de Patata, some red onions, some red pepper, some cream cheese, some bread, hopefully some fruits, and plenty of activities to keep entertained. Just yesterday, Red made it across the slack rope line 4 times; that's some impressive shit, as my greatest gains have been no more than 2 or three steps.

If a dog's urine was the colors of the rainbow, Huelva might be the prettiest place on earth. Sometimes you have to really turn things on their head to find positivity; everyone here is always complaining about one thing or another. On the daily I hear Spaniards cry out, to nobody in particular, "Ay, qué frio..."(Ugh, such cold). On a completely unrelated note, I never quite understood how I was supposed to read a book like "The Enormous Room" by e.e. cummings if I had never studied French, several credible sources had recommended it to me as a great reference point for comparing WWI-era international relations with the age of access we are now living in; then, I got about 100 pages deep in to "Down and Out in Paris and London" by George Orwell, and probably because I live with a french woman, and because I'm relating more and more to the story of the privileged poor, it seems to flow quite nicely with his interspersed French as it appears as dialogue. My original problem with Cummings was that he felt he had the liberty to switch between English and French with no particular rhythm; as if it was written by decoding from a third distinct language that cannot be translated exactly in to just English or French. Like I said, rainbow...Ronnie James Dio's first band.