Month: April 2007
Escapee: carcass in field with not a bureaucrat in sight
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I’m now doing most of my work from locked-down government machines in rural internet centres, which means using online applications for almost everything. Here’s my first clip, using something called Jumpcut, of a guy on a beach in Co Wicklow: [ There was a brilliant video here of an Irishman rubbing his leg with seaweed…
The EU says that you have to take animal carcasses found in the high mountains down to the bottom, truck them half-way across Spain to an abattoir to make sure they’re really dead, and then, to stop the vultures starving to death, you are allowed to bring them all the way back and leave them…
Apparently the four corners of a square reel used in this Huesca village in hemp yarn production represent four horses bound for France. I wonder which horses these were: those that awaited the Duke of Calabria, when he sought with three others to flee the court of King Ferdinand of Aragon, or others? (If folksy…
Check out the extraordinary selection of animal-love videos on sale at Guirilandia’s local Chinese supermarket in Barcelona.
By my almost-neighbour EJH, who, having discovered Daniela’s 120 tits, seems to have stopped posting.
Check out these wonderful cylinder recordings at the Donald C Davidson Library at UCSB.
Amando de Miguel says it owes its name to the colour of Capuchin friars’ habits, both concrete and abstract–apparently they were notorious sybarites. I find the colour hypothesis slightly unconvincing, but it’s confirmed here. Evidence of their bizarre taste in this serendipitous find, a description by Nathaniel Parker Willis, Summer cruise in the Mediterranean on…
Would those who say that we should hang on to a few Francos because it was how things were, weren’t it, say the same of images of Marx? I’m something a fan of the Roman custom of leaving statue torsos intact and swapping heads as each dictator came and went.
Transhumance is in the air, so here’s a smutty song from a commie from Zaragoza: Los pastores se van, se van, Los pastores lloran, lloran: ¡ay de mí, pobre pastora! ¿con quién follarás tú ahora? Rejigged: The shepherds are going, they’re going again, The shepherds are weeping, they’re wailing this strain: “Alas, alack, oh Phyllis…
There’s some excellent decorative stonework in the posher parts of Barcelona’s Eixample, but the Italians are in a different league.
Great tunes, great doggerel, small simians