Caspar Johann Nepumuk Scheuren (1810-1887)

Die lustige Rheinfahrt (c. 1870). More information (in German) here.

Dog's Nose

We are having a Dickensian party tomorrow, with authentic Dickensian drinks taken from Cedric Dickens's Drinking with Dickens. One of these is the Dog's Nose, which I made this evening so you don't have to, ever.
Dog's Nose
1 pint Guinness
2 fl oz gin
1 tablespoon dark brown sugar
nutmeg
Heat the Guinness and the sugar together in a small pan until hot, nearly boiling. Turn off the heat. Add the gin and sprinkle nutmeg on top. Offer to Marian. Watch and laugh as Marian takes a sip and then rejects it in revulsion. Take a sip yourself. Realise that this is no laughing matter. Plan what to do when the fifteen people who drink it tomorrow evening are all found dead in a ditch together somewhere near Vallecas. We shall see. Watch, as they say, this space.
The picture at the top of the entry is from here, a blog written by a braver soul than I will ever be.

Disconcerting Fictional Encounter of the Day

We neared our destination, The Trade Towers. Smoke still drifted near the base of the south tower, where the latest blast had occurred. Our operations were located in the north tower, as was Mister Dryden's downtown apartment. To the right of the towers, near the river's edge, stood the beginnings of the floodwall. When the possibility of the Green first showed itself, years ago, the city borrowed funds from the Old Man toward the construction of a fifty-foot wall intended to surround Manhattan. The funds were no less liquid than the waters to be fought and were mostly diverted to other campaigns. The floodwall ran only from the towers south to the Battery. Traditional American handicraft was employed in the wall's construction, and so most of it had collapsed.
Jack Womack, Ambient (1988)

She Was Poor But She Was Honest

The above is a 1965 reworking of the glorious original (the lyrics I remember are below): both are worth at least few minutes of your time.

She was poor but she was honest,
Victim of the squire's whim,
First he loved her, then he left her,
And she lost her honest name.

Then she ran away to London,
For to hide her grief and shame;
There she met a wealthy Captain,
And she lost her name again.

See her riding in a carriage,
In the Park and all so gay:
All the nibs and nobby persons
Come to pass the time of day.

See the little old-world village
Where her aged parents live,
Drinking the Champagne she sends them;
But they never can forgive.

In a rich man's arms she flutters,
Like a bird with broken wing:
First he loved her, then he left her,
And she hasn't got a ring.

See him in the splendid mansion,
Eating partridge with the best,
While the girl that he has ruined,
Entertains a sordid guest.

See him in the House of Commons,
Making laws to put down crime,
While the victim of his passions
Trails her way through mud and slime.

Standing on the bridge at midnight,
She says: 'Farewell, blighted Love.'
There's a scream, a splash — Good Heavens!
What is she a-doing of?

Then they dragged her from the river,
Water from her clothes they wrang,
For they thought that she was drownded;
But the corpse got up and sang:

'It's the same the whole world over;
It's the poor what gets the blame,
It's the rich what get the pleasure.
Ain't it all a blooming shame?'

Lyrics

She was young, she was pure, she was new, she was nice
She was fair, she was sweet seventeen
He was old, he was vile, and no stranger to vice
He was base, he was bad, he was mean
He had slyly inveigled her up to his flat
To view his collection of stamps
And he said as he hastened to put out the cat
The wine, his cigar and the lamps

Have some madeira, m'dear
You really have nothing to fear
I'm not trying to tempt you, that wouldn't be right
You shouldn't drink spirits at this time of night
Have some madeira, m'dear
It's really much nicer than beer
I don't care for sherry, one cannot drink stout
And port is a wine I can well do without
It's simply a case of chacun a son gout
Have some madeira, m'dear

Unaware of the wiles of the snake-in-the-grass
And the fate of the maiden who topes
She lowered her standards by raising her glass
Her courage, her eyes and his hopes
She sipped it, she drank it, she drained it, she did
He promptly refilled it again
And he said as he secretly carved one more notch
On the butt of his gold-headed cane

Have some madeira, m'dear, I've got a small cask of it here
And once it's been opened, you know it won't keep
Do finish it up, it will help you to sleep
Have some madeira, m'dear, it's really an excellent year
Now if it were gin, you'd be wrong to say yes
The evil gin does would be hard to assess
Besides it's inclined to affect me prowess
Have some madeira, m'dear

Then there flashed through her mind what her mother had said
With her antepenultimate breath
"Oh my child, should you look on the wine that is red
Be prepared for a fate worse than death"
She let go her glass with a shrill little cry
Crash! tinkle! it fell to the floor
When he asked, "What in Heaven?" she made no reply
Up her mind, and a dash for the door

Have some madeira, m'dear, rang out down the hall loud and clear
A tremulous cry that was filled with despair
As she paused to take breath in the cool midnight air
Have some madeira, m'dear, the words seemed to ring in her ear
Until the next morning, she woke up in bed
With a smile on her lips and an ache in her head
And a voice in her ear 'ole that tickled and said
Have some madeira, m'dear

Bring us in good ale

Bring us in good ale, and bring us in good ale,
Fore our blessed Lady sak, bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no browne bred, fore that is made of brane;
Nor bring us in no whit bred, fore therin is no game:
But bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no befe, for ther is many bones;
But bring us in good ale, for that goth downe at ones,
And bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no bacon, for that is passing fat;
But bring us in good ale, and give us inought of that,
And bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no mutton, for that is often lene;
Nor bring us in no tripes, for they be seldom clene:
But bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no egges, for ther ar many shelles;
But bring us in good ale, and give us nothing elles,
And bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no butter, for therin ar many heres;
Nor bring us in no pigges flesh, for that will mak us bors:
But bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no podinges, for therin is all gotes blod;
Nor bring us in no venison, for that is not for our good:
But bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no capon's flesh, for that is ofte der;
Nor bring us in no dokes flesh for they slobber in the mer:
But bring us in good ale.

Anonymous (later 15c.)

Blood Sucking Freaks!

For some reason this passage has been playing in my head recently, each time I see Oliver asleep after a feed:

'There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half restored. For the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey. The cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion.'

But, you know, cuter and less crimson.

Griffins

From the etymological dictionary:

grifo (animal fabuloso), s. XIII. Tom. del lat. tardío gryphus, y este del gr. gryps, grypos, id. En la acepción 'llave de cañería', 1884, se explica por la costumbre de adornar con cabezas de personas o animales las bocas de agua de las fuentes.

That is, 'taps' in Spanish are called 'grifos', which is also the word for 'griffin'. This name arises because of the custom of decorating the mouths of springs or public fountains with ornate heads of people or animals.

Happy Festive Etymology to you all!

Enrique Serpa (1900-1968)

More information (in Spanish) here.

Get Thee Behind Me, (Mrs.) Satan! (1872)

John Malkovich (1953- )

This is a clever man. Biography etcetera (and why does he make so many terrible movies?) here.

Partie de Campagne (Jean Renoir, 1936)

I saw this for the first, and second, times yesterday. It's only forty minutes long, so that's not such an investment of time as it might sound. It's wonderful. More information here.

Travellin' Man

We have been busy these last few days. On Saturday I caught the train up from Madrid to Gijón, and then to Avilés, which is a port town that was (according to a doctor friend of ours) known in the sixties for being a focal point of 'black placenta' syndrome (which I have just looked up in the internet and which people claim is an urban myth, but I trust doctors more than the internet, so in it stays). Marian had gone on Thursday, and I met her at the SELIN, the independent publishing book fair.

As with last year, we were sharing a hutch with Salto de Página, and now with the great and friendly Sajalín.

This is the view from inside our little love-nest.

This is the view from inside our little love-nest if I squat and pretend to be arty.

This is Julio from Sajalín (background) and Ismael Martínez Biurrun who is one of Salto de Página's authors. I always addressed him by his full name in the hope that he'd say 'no, no, no, call me Ismael', but nothing doing. I'm sure he'd never heard that one before.

The saturnine Pablo Mazo of Salto de Página talking to Marian.

He has hollow legs.

The morning after (urgh...) was wet and still quite pretty.

This was as close as I got or wanted to get to the royal wedding.

Friends: David, Patricia, Jesús, Miguel.

Cabin-fever set in by Sunday morning.

This is Marian and Julio and yr. humble servant just about to catch the bus to Gijón.

Avilés seems nice, although we only saw it from inside a box.

Gijón on the other hand definitely is nice, misty and how I imagine Whitby to be, but probably erroneously.

Miguel, Audrey, Marian.

Jesús, Tao, Miguel, Audrey (invisible for moving so fast), Marian.

The train to Pamplona: industrial and post-industrial landscapes.

Pamplona.

The Gothic cross.

Space-age architecture.

¿Runes?

Jesus in a shop window.

Street art.

A city that is proud of its gigantic civic monument of men being trampled by bulls certainly has some cojones.

And this is the train station on the way home.

Friends

In the same bar as the previous post, with our friends Eva and Joe. Picture of Marian and Eva by James; picture of Joe and James by Eva.

Michel Simon (1895-1975)

One of the great faces. More info here.

Current Favourite Soft Drink

Kas Bitter tastes of slightly sweetened earwax. Here's the Wikipedia page on the whole gamut of Kas drinks. I like the fact that one is advertised as being greenish-yellow. Mmm, more greenish-yellow please, barkeep!

Tio Pepe

Miguel Covarrubias (1904-1957)

More information here.

Anatomy of a Murder (Otto Preminger, 1959)

Ladislaw Starewicz (1882-1965)

My new favourite artist.