far too much writing, far too many photos Wednesday, February 06, 2002 Update, post-hair-frenzy: No screaming. Most of today's moment-to-moment responses have wavered between a reassuring, half-pleased, "Oh, that's not so bad," and a heartfelt, "Oh, bugger!" Depends on the moment, on the light, on the angle, on whether I catch my hair behaving in ways it really shouldn't. For instance: dragged my sorry ass to the gym this morning like the good boy I am. Afterward, I'm stretching, etc. in a big studio whose walls are entirely floor-to-ceiling windows (the Narcissus room), and I'm thinking Hey, fella, all things considered, you're doing all right. Really, no kidding, considering the accumulated mileage, you're looking pretty buf– DOH!!!. The D'OH moment: me noticing the hair over on the right side of my head, which seemed to be waving excitedly to someone I couldn't see. "If you don't settle down," I warned it, "when we get home I'm getting out the shears." No effect. I think my hair is laying odds that I may have shot my wad yesterday, and it's walking a dangerous line -- I can only be pushed so far. On the way home: made a trip to El Corte Inglés -- the monstrous local department store chain that sells everything but nuclear weapons -- for groceries. After loading up with goods (discovering my inner pack animal in the process), I trudged a long several blocks to the Metro line that would spit me out down the street in la Plaza de Chueca so that at least the trudge on this end would be mercifully brief. The local weather people and news programs had been issuing strident warnings about cold weather moving back in last night, which turned out to mean 48°F instead of 54°F today, so by the time I make the Metro station the extra layer of clothing I'd put on for winter's return had sponged up my rivers of perspiration very efficiently. I get in the train. Three stops later I get off the train. I climb the two flights of stairs and one escalator that bring me up into the plaza. I make the 60-second walk home. As I near my building I see a guy standing at the front door, with a large toolcase, all bundled up, holding a motorcycle helmet, intently dialing a number on a mobile phone. "Perdón," I say, he shuffles aside. Then he pauses mid-dial and says my piso number, question-like, asking me if I live there. "Sí," I respond. "Estoy aquí para su caldera," he says. ("I'm here for your water heater.") A blank half-second on my part, followed by another major D'OH! moment. The water heater [see journal entry for Nov. 1, 2001]: a unit maybe 3' high by 1-1/2' wide by 1' deep that hangs on the far wall of the kitchen, near the sink. It's dripped since I moved in, a problem that's worsened with time, reaching a point during the last few weeks of leaking with joyous, effusive abandon. Two days ago my landlords gave me the okay to get it fixed, yesterday I called the repair dudes and made an appointment. "A partir de dose," they told me –- "After twelve." Meaning sometime between 12 o'clock and the end of the year someone would show up to take a look at the unit. What I did with that information in my little teeny tired brain, though, was to hear 'dose' as 'dos,' me thinking they'd told me to be home from 2 o'clock on. It was pure luck (or not, depending on your belief system) that I got home before the guy had successfully called in to his office and gone off to another job. After ten or fifteen seconds of groveling apologies on my part for making the guy wait, we climbed the five flights of stairs to my flat (this is an old building, there is NO ELEVATOR), he got to work. An hour later, he'd finished up and disappeared, leaving the kitchen strewn with debris but with a working, more or less watertight caldera. It's beyond me how the Spaniards have garnered a reputation for laziness. They are industrious, intelligent, hardworking, efficient folks who have transformed their country in the twenty-five or so years since the death of Franco from a backwater into a modern, technologically-advanced state that now holds the European presidency for the next two years and is making the most of it. It may be that Americans interpret the daily work schedule -– 9 or 10 to 2, long lunch, 4 or 5 to 8 -– as a sign of a slack, indolent lifestyle. The fact is that they work long days, many starting early and working late. From what I can see, they easily work as many hours a week as Americans. I've heard some Spaniards claim they work more hours than the English and the Germans, but who knows? What I can say is that the stereotype of the lazy Spaniard has nothing to do with the reality I've encountered. Ah, the whole cultural stereotype thing. But that's a can of worms for another entry. Later. rws 2:50 PM [+] BLATHERINGS August 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 June 2009 July 2009 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS Travels: London '01 Pamplona Italy '03 U.K. '03 Sevilla Casablanca Stoke-on-Trent Barcelona Québec/Ottawa Boston/Lisbon/Madrid Italy '04 Montréal La Sierra Events: Madrid -- arrival 9/11 Emergency Room I Holidays 2001 Holidays 2002 Holidays 2003 Holidays 2004 Holidays 2005 A neighbor's passing Madrid -- March 11 bombings   and aftermath Emergency Room II Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon Madrid -- Royal Wedding The DELE exam GONE, a novel: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF JOE ROCCO, a novella: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 BURBANK SHRUGGED, a screenplay: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4 Short stories: Murphy's Wife Another Autumn La Queja de Una   Hermanastra Muy Conocida Autobiography -- Personal History -- Hormones On Parade -- Accidents, Random Mishaps,     Personal Problems .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT People/Weblogs: dooce foxvox fudge it fear not rebekka bookslut 802online idle words madhaiku wockerjabby grow-a-brain rebel market letting me be out and about kung fu grippe fanatical apathy baghdad burning wfuv's music blog kexp's music blog mimi smartypants between the miles just a hippie gypsy the impossible cool tomato can brushes vermont homestead sugar mountain farm Good Clean Fun: gizmodo futurismic postsecret dave barry human clock mcsweeney's spaceweather book-a-minute internet archive self-portrait day my cat hates you out of context quotes surrealist compliment   generator strindberg and helium Makin' Musical Whoopee: last fm stereo8 pandora soma fm .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . ABOUT RWS/CONTACT This page and all its contents copyright © 2001-2011 by runswithscissors unless otherwise noted. runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done. 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