I am not Shambal Brambel, but I know him. He is a greasy *spic* who sleeps on park benches beneath seven month old newspapers. You smell him from several hectometers away. He produces expansive and even at times artistic puddles beneath his place of rest simply by drooling during his slumber. I plan to kill him. Perhaps I already have and do not remember. ----------------------- The purpose of this post is to test whether blog_to_mongo.js still works on my new system. If it does not, I shall kill Shambal...
> The weeds, as they term them, teem with thriving insects in an ecosphere unknown to neighbouring lots This could be an analogy of the multiverse concept, but I'll distill it down to something more simple. Humans, even in the same city, divide themselves into different peergroups. Perhaps *peergroups* is not the best word here. I'll go with *penguins*. So, humans, even in the same city - even in the same *barrio*, divide themselves into different *penguins*. These *penguins* are mostly oblivious of each o...
Tuesdays come at us from all angles. And by that I mean *every* angle possible. This includes those angles not able to be perceived by human grumpiness. Truly, Tuesday is a day of change, and, as the omniscient Michal says, every day is Tuesday. Therefore, every day is a day of change and of opportunity. This Tuesday is bright and full of clouds - a good beginning. If all goes as planned, I leave Fresneda today for *home*. Currently, as any reader might recall, home is Logroňo. Several things await me in L...
I have found a bizarre error in the *Martenblog*. It is not a, as they say, *show-stopping* error, but an error nonetheless. The last six or so entries are always rewritten to mongoDB (locally) when I call the aptly named executable *blog_to_mongo*, which is actually just a link to a node script in a distant directory not covered in my *PATH*. At first, I *put this down* to a change of date format in some new(y) version of *nodejs* - the *fs* module to be specific. **Yes!** My fetoid brain insisted that the...
Marisa is mopping up *un monton de agua* whilst talking to herself. Her father and a number of other locals were standing near the door to the building and since she is technically not supposed to be in my room with me - or rather, her father may *flip* (her opinion - not proven to me). My room in fresneda is as such: Note: I don't have the patience to get bluetooth working on galictis-vittata, so the photo will be added later. My semi-crisis from earlier has passed to an extent. I do not feel any particu...
They sit on the couches before me yelling at each other. Or so it seems they are yelling. Their voices are naturally very piercing to me. I have bearly entered the room less than 10 minutes prior and already feel like fleeing. At least the television is not blearing. It surely will be a bit later, however. The hated instrument of stupidity is perpetually in the background in this house. How anyone can have a free thought is beyond my comprehension. I discussed my alienation with Marisa yesterday during our...
This morning is *Thinking Plague* morning since, in reality, they are the only civilised music from the only civilised band appropriate for a civilised morning in a semi-civilised village in a pseudo-civilised country on a laughingly civilised planet. *Ayer*, Paco and I took a long walk together in the evening. Marisa and Mari José were away at the doctor in Graus. Marisa is always seeking medical help for this or that ailment and it will eventually end in her demise, methinks, but that is another topic al...
I failed to wander back to yesterday's blog entry and therefore complete it. So, the next morning, here I sit in bed with Marisa drowsing beside me. The bed is a fold out of a sofa type, with a matress both old and terribly uncomfortable. Surprisingly, however, I slept better than I have in weeks. Fewer inquiet episodes mirrored my customary insomnia. Today is day six of what I call *recovery days*. That is, it has been six full days since my last alcoholic drink. I feel fantastic mentally. The most import...
While I am sitting on this balcony full of plants that impale buckets of soggy soil, I sip my café con leche. I have neglected this journal and that is surely a pity, as many bizarre things have occured between the last entry and this one. They will be lost in time like, um, never mind. ### Today we go to **TORLA**. The village named *Torla* reminds me (in name, only) of Tuzla. There are obvious connections here and if you cannot, at a glance, recognize them, then you will surely die the flame death. Mari...
I forget exactly what year it was now, and definitely what month, but when I was living with Jana in Praha, I began to go to [Alcoholics Anonymous](https://www.google.es/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CCwQFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.alcoholicos-anonimos.org%2F&ei=i2hkVdLtC8apygPPzIKACQ&usg=AFQjCNF97MQJFxZi4cZxTt1BKN6QGmdR0w&sig2=giFBJqRYdAdVPtp8LdvHEQ&bvm=bv.93990622,d.bGQ). I have no exact recollection of how long I actually attended, but it was probably on and off from between ...
Around the corner, out of the plaza and a small jog along the road is the so-called *guest-house* in which I have stayed one night and in which I am typing this. The *living room* is comfortable in a sterile sort of way, mocking what may be thought as an *ideal* for *living rooms* in *guest houses* in this part of the world. I am sure that each apartment in this building has one strikingly similar. A television with a blank screen stares off to my right, burning its needy hole in the space on which my *abri...
