anythingarian bubbles and troubles from the land of the fretting nun
GA Walker Arnott, A tour to the south of France and the Pyrenees in the year 1825:
As far as regards the natural productions, the fine climate of the coast of Catalonia gives to them a vigour unknown even in the south of France. The Agave Americana planted here along the road-sides as hedge-rows, flowers at [...]
I just met a gentleman of gypsy ethnicity (as they say here) who claims to know a man who claims he was paid by gamblers to debilitate favourites at the Canódromo, the old dog stadium up on Barcelona’s Avenida Meridiana (good piece by Javier Tomeo), which the regional government under pressure from animal rights nutters [...]
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Apparently some ladies & gents with whom I sing when the big geezer is off doing other stuff are going to be on the telly quite a lot.
Apart from the odd bit of arranging, the barrel organ is the thing at the moment, when I get time. It’s a somewhat more lonely path, but I’m not very good at dance steps or 80s music anyway.
Kalebeul wouldn’t watch a hagiography of a faghating totalitarian fuckwit like St Paul, so it sees no reason this weekend to take cinema seats away from Barcelona’s chiliastic masses in their nostalgic lust for Hispanic dictators and good-looking saints. Paul Berman’s piece from 2004 applies. Even the regime sociologists seem to have noticed that Cataloonia has lost track of reality.
Graffiti of Camarón de la Isla and guitarist, somewhere in Barcelona, I think in Carmelo, so overlooking the place where he died:
More here.
Kabe-Otoko/Wall Man, neither human nor demon, observes the world from within walls:
“Velen verzeggen Schiedam, maar sluiten dadelijk een verbond met Barcelona.” Is it about drinkers swearing by Dutch gin/jenever, only to turn to Spanish wine and brandy?
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