Do You Wear Socks With Converses

Surrounded

Bad news for everyone. Enric González censors in the country. Enric, for whom at this point still do not know, is one of the best writers in the English press, an educated man, quiet, intelligent, sensitive, ironic, desperate, wild-profile detective. A man attentive to the human heartbeat of each story, an unmasking of trileros an outstanding stylist, a guy who conveys honesty when he writes, and that's a lot, that's almost everything. It also gave us two great books that I would not label as "travel." Londes Stories and Stories of New York are different. Stories of Rome will also be something else. Many days biennacieron the phone call from a friend. Have you read the article by Enric? Then all was well. One entered his gallery, I enjoyed it and knew that this day would not be time lost. Enric wanted to many times, many times we said, damn, how we would like to take a whiskey with him in the back of every bar, while the other side of the glass the night promises to open its wings and several hours of gentle confidences, wild laughter, of respectful silence. So today is a shitty day, day bastard, lost day. Enrique Gonzalez has said what we think and we all suffer in this neighborhood. What if I wanted to mention it's an unmasking.
Every blog, every city under siege, every Constantinople, each market, each old neighbor Bar reproduce this article. We multiply. You feel a little more decent this morning doing this, making the speaker tried one of ours. With your permission. With all due respect. SURROUNDED




I have not yet seen the start of Operación Triunfo, in Telecinco. In fact, at the time of writing (19.30 on Wednesday), the body asks me to abstain. But when the hypothetical reader has this newspaper in your hands, or on screen, things have worsened. And I, in all likelihood, I will have self-harmed to an appliance, a television, specifically. So, I've seen OT. And I will have attended the presentation of Ramoncín, champion of intellectual property and copyrights, as a member of the illustrious jury. Presumably, then, my morning and today, I will go even worse mood. Who would tell one that would end up longing for Risto Mejide.Lo can go wrong, goes wrong. We already knew. Still, it is difficult not only to the alleged signing of Francisco Rivera, known as Kiko or Paquirrín, by Know What You Did (La Sexta). The grace of this program usually consisted of the apparent distance which addressed the television monstrosities: issued pieces of garbage, but garbage was employed, geeks phenomena other spaces, other chains, and wrapped the product with a sarcastic irony. The addition of Mr. Rivera, as stand-up comedian, stand-up comedian apprentice or whatever constitutes a qualitative change: Know What You Did incorporates their own monster. If Ana Rosa Quintana Esteban is in Bethlehem, they have to Mr. Rivera. Frankly, I do not think they can laugh at each other. If anything, they can compare the magnitude of their respective tragedias.Todo this leads to pesimismo.Uno sees everything black. I do not wish the worst, but any day, any company, will cut the salaries of workers to finance the gambling stock owners. I know I exaggerate, that these things do not happen. But before things happened not like Ramoncín and Paquirrín, and you see. As I said Manolo Vázquez Montalbán, we are surrounded.

Kidney Failure And Foam In Your Pee

Sweden (I)

I exiliaré to a cold country where mid-afternoon but did not enter a coffee Haga, for example, to look at the candor of the parishioners. In a city whose center extends a forest of leaves frost and bare trunks behind which the deer hide. Semidesert sail between islands where gray crows is related to the penguin and there is always a guy who pushes a cart in the yard left. Let me carry the cargo of timber when the ferry is gone. Göteborg, pronounced Jiotevor. Industrial city in southern Sweden with less than a million people heading for a pit in the North Sea. We owe to the hospitality of my cousin Louis's stay and a bottle of rum Santa Teresa a few afternoons in glory while the other side of the lake near the temperature drops to five degrees below zero.

four days were barely enough to take the pulse of a place that moves with looseness between the fantastic and the everyday pedestrian. The tourist has spoiled perpetual temptation to remove the camera lens of the domes of the churches and photographed with a mixture of anger and devotion holes free parking in the center, anywhere. The miracles of public transport, a tram network as taken from a spy movie, a specific bus service, naaaaasda haaaaarlaaaanda. The Swede played first language seems a goofy, vaguely related to English. The Swedes, lived at first, some guys seem willing to discuss anything but. Confident, smooth. Even the proud local Hell's Angels, aesthetic part, are willing to open the door of the smoking room of the Rock Baren, yes, if you take one drink in hand. Special attention to the blackjack tables in which the positions are paid with tokens exchangeable for mixed drinks.

must be it, bad habit of tourists accustomed to horror, which makes the animal is feeling joy instant snow in the dense forests or stepping on the thick ice of a large lake. In the Midwest there is another much bigger. As the province of Andalusia or so. That must be it, a thirst quenched at once ancient and alluvium.

Several times I thought that there (Or a similar place, I miss Norway - and I hope to carry that on account of Comtessa installed and as temperatures rise - and Finland, an old obsession I owe to my friend Jesus) would be happy. Could be folded into that life and those terrible images. Sorry for italianófilos of the blogosphere, but the Mediterranean at the end going to be that I have just. If anything the bay of Javea and the rest I can be. In fact they are already doing. Of course, eventually, if I go to visit, let us know in time so they will not open in long underwear. None of you deserve to go through such a predicament. There

I leave a penultimate challenge is the city Göteborg of lost gloves. Guess why? The solution in the second report of Sweden.

All this, of course, with the brown, excellent travel companion and exile.

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Holmes

Holmes Detective late. Should be in the village of Lougbrought before dinner, but a strong storm was obstructing progress horses car wheels sank heavily into the mud of the road. The water became exhausted smoke in contact with the rump of the horses and the coachman, wrapped in the box to not only be a shade between the quivering yellow lanterns, did not remove them one step further however much abused blasphemy and whip. Frustrated, Holmes, came to the window of the door, stuck his head and shouted to the man to stop. He was about dusk and asked him to stop right there and the car departed from the path. We spend the night here, he said, the shelter of the trees. The man in the box did not argue. They followed the main road for hours, happily trotting from the golden autumn trees and wide stretches of red earth. After the driver followed a shortcut with the hours of darkness and storm, hopelessly lost in the middle of nowhere. When they were off the road, the driver unhitched the horses and got out to open the door of Holmes. Sherlock Holmes protested and in no way going to consent to share the cramped cabin with the man overnight. I remind you sir, Holmes said smugly, that the fault is yours, so do well to sleep with the horses. Here I leave a blanket if needed. The driver, something dark and dripping, opened anyway. A flash fire at night and Holmes saw the black gleam of the barrel of the gun that was pointing to his forehead and cold anger, resentment stale completely familiar eyes. Watson Damn, you! Elementary Holmes friend ...

First anniversary of the Cretin Comèdia

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night Forgiveness and the three men

That day was windy, a big man wind, wet, violent, it often causes them to delay flights between Orta and Flores and shakes the boat Basque Pneumatic when loaded again and she hopes garopa on the cliff with binoculars, that makes us close our eyes because it guesses within her sizzling ground cavalry. The three men, however, not close their eyes. Their eyes undaunted resist the onslaught of the elements and history and if not for the greasy bangs the third, the shortest, would know nothing what happens. The three men decided to kill hundreds of thousands of troops to protect the safety of many others. Not exactly. The three strong men decide to kill hundreds of thousands of men to see what happens, just do a little reluctantly, I suspect, like the boy who sort their toys to quiet criticisms of utilitarianism stupid parents. The three big men decide that hundreds of thousands of men must shed their blood with abosorto fury with which the child puts toys in the wicker basket that will soon give the five, soon will give five and Dad return from his walk and maybe a snack, and then maybe Nutella TV, pictures, and then, well, then that matters, then everything will be fine and the couch is so warm and yes, the boy, good boy, is about to finish stretching the sheets with her hands clumsy fingers and fans as a missile falls into the green line center Baghdad's telecommunications. The three men are furious love. The three men asked white wine.
That photo and the wind long ago. The wind is devouring the coast of the Azores islands and hundreds of thousands continue to die, but the three men left their palaces, leaving empty rooms, desks abandoned, melancholy tapestries, moon slices, cards, socks, cries. Two have already apologized. The Englishman and the American attended to its people and against the wind and repented, painfully, honestly. The two good men, most Christian, became an act of contrition and hung from the balcony of linen sheets stained with the blood of his lies and his crimes. The two men, strangely, were spared. O no, it does not matter. The two good men were at peace with itself and I could afford the luxury of huge public and die to return to the carpenter's father to learn the art of the crosses and doves.
But what about the third man? The third most Christian man apologized. He left the palace with the gesture irritated, stiff shoulders, intestines in a package solid, fingers clenched. Upon his departure, the multitude of torches that surrounded his dream for days quietly broke the passage of Moses. An insult thin out their ranks, some wanted to hand fly the gallows or send the stone. Everything froze overnight. The Christian man, the third, the short, won out steadily and was lost in March looking leaves his carriage.
The third man is also good. The third is compassionate and knows well the advisability of contrition and rites. There is vanity, therefore preventing it from asking for forgiveness before he died. It's another thing. Immortality is assured.