Calle de la Barranca and Calle Hospicio
at 9:24 a.m. on 28 October 2012.
I have settled on this fountain as my favorite fountain of the 45 public fountains in the central historical district . . .
. . . you cannot paint your fingernails in the central historical district without first getting approval of the color by the local central historical district people, which requires a consultation with the United Nations historical preservation people as well as one other world level historical preservation concern, the name of which escapes me. I am not complaining about that. It is simply a point of information for you. Paint your fingernails before you walk into the central historical district.
Where was I? Oh, yes . . .
Everyone can now breathe a sigh a relief that my choice of favorite fountain in the central historical district is settled now and forever. Furthermore, I shall never take a public oath not to publish any more photos of fountains as I have done with regard to doors and churches. (All public oaths recorded in this blog are binding on my heirs and assigns as well as on me personally, by the way.) I will take a public oath right now–sign an “alfred david,” in the words of that unforgettable Dickens character, whatsisname–that I shall never take a public oath in the future not to publish any more photos of fountains. Why? Because I so loooooooooooove fountains!
Since I am in a chatty cathy mood this morning, and since none of this text is mandatory reading anyway, let us remedy a situation in this blog relating to this fountain. I recently stumbled upon the 18 August entry featuring this same fountain. The black and white image is fine. In fact I remain rather proud of that. It was the second photo of mine in that entry that mortified me. Here is the substitute rendition that I wish to be remembered by.
Calle de la Barranca and Calle Hospicio
at 8:19 a.m. on 28 October 2012.
I renounce that other rendition and cast it out, figuratively speaking. The point here is that one can legitimately enhance a digital photograph in many ways with software, but one should not try to alter certain unalterable facts such as the time of day and the weather conditions when the photo was shot. I know that y’all already knew that. I am just letting y’all know that I know that now. I am letting you know that I know that now because I am ever so grateful to every one of you for being so patient with me while I learn this stuff with the usually patient assistance of the unhinged Québécois. One does not have to go too far back in this blog to see–not to put too fine a point on it–some truly shitty photographs.
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While I am at it, there is one other thing that I want to get off my chest about this fountain. I am never able to take a picture of it without someone up on that rooftop patio putzing around with the plants or something. You can verify that by looking closely at both of the photos above. More importantly, the people up there putzing around are always gringos, which leads me to believe that gringos own that cool residence behind my favorite fountain. I writhe in an agony of envy as a result. Because, my friends, if there were any justice in this world, that would be me up there putzing around amid those plants. I would own that home behind my favorite of the 45 public fountains in the central historical district where you cannot paint your fingernails without having the color approved in advance.
What’s more, if I did own that house, I would invite each and every one of you over periodically. We would sit up on that rooftop patio together and chat about our portfolios and incompetent brokers while we look down on the little people in the street below and sip fruity beverages with tiny umbrellas in them and nibble on delicate canapes delivered to us in a never ending supply by beautiful young . . . you get the idea. Suffice it so say that we would all look stunningly attractive up there. And I would own that house were it not for one simple fact. Since you have stuck with me thus far, I shall explain.
I have pissed away every cent of whatever hard currency has come into my hands over my lifetime. I have touched, ever so briefly, a small to medium-size fortune, cumulatively speaking, over my lifetime. But only touched it as it flowed by, flowing in from one direction and flowing off into another. I managed to grab and retain nothing of it for myself. I stand here before you bereft of any explanation of how that happened. I do not know how it happened. It may have something to do with the fact that I am the grasshopper in Aesop’s fable of the grasshopper and the ant. (Was it an ant or some other energetic little creature?) Oddly enough, exactly the same thing occurred with the unhinged Québécois over the course of his lifetime as well. We have spent a good deal of conversational energy trying to sort out what went wrong in our own particularly sad cases while the fair Ginette sits quietly at her needlework and listens.
To tell you the truth, though, none of that has ever bothered me before. Not a whit. It never bothered me until I saw those gringos putzing around on the rooftop patio of that charming home behind my favorite fountain of the 45 public fountains in the central historical district where you cannot paint your fingernails without first obtaining approval of the color. That home ought rightfully to be mine were there any justice at all in this world because I would love that home far more than those gringos could ever possibly love it. Therefore, I now writhe in an agony of jealousy and envy.
The dimension of my agony would be sufficient for sainthood were it not for the fact that the source of my agony is a mortal sin.
Can you see her prosperous looking rear end peeking out from behind the column to the left of the landing to the rooftop patio?
Yes, that was a somewhat ugly remark. That is not like me at all, I assure you. It is the envy and jealousy at work.