There’s a feeling of newness creeping over the land of the smiling mule. Summer’s end. The other Andaloo has packed his satchel and returned to school, my work phone will start ringing again next week and the whole circus we call real life is about to start again.

The village sits on the side of a hill and its road winds up to the castle, but if you miss the (unsigned) turn at the top you find yourself lost in a maze of small, very steep streets. The old crones that live at the top of my street love the summer. They drag arm chairs from their houses and set up camp on the cobbles, their sport, cackling at the traffic. As drivers turn the corner and see the width of the street a look of terror spreads over their faces and they stop to assess the situation right where the crones sit. Big mistake. They’re told there’s no way their car will fit the street and the best idea would be to reverse back around the corner and up the hill. It’s a cackle fest, but by the end of August it’s just not fun anymore. The arm chairs have gone and the crones have gone back to watching television at ear splitting volume.

I don’t have a television, so listen to the radio instead. I love local radio because it’s so bad, but during the summer even that plummets to mind boggling lows. I heard an interview with a ventriloquist … nuff said. Another day they had a twenty strong group of flamenco dancers in the studio, so they aired two hours of foot stamping. Best of all though was the day they did a make-up demonstration.

All that will start to change from now. As the shadows get longer the lost tourists get fewer. As the local politicians return after their summer break the radio station will have scandal to report again. As for the crones, they’ll always be here; they’ll just have changed into their over-sized orange cardigans.

Taken from "Boomster" -

I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian

I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.

I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.

We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.

I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.

I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.

I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.

I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.

We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.

I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.

I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.

I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.

I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.

I am the man who died when the paramedics stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.

I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.

I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.

I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love.


Re-post this if you believe homophobia is wrong.

You turn your back for five minutes and what happens – everything changes. We got back from Barcelona to find they’ve changed The Land Of The Smiling Mule into a metropolis. OK that’s a slight exaggeration, but believe me it’s a slippery slope from here…or so I thought. They’ve built a car park and a bus shelter *rolls eyes*.

I’ve just been up onto the roof to have a look at said new addition and smiled smugly to myself. Instead of rows of shiny parked cars there are two horses and a donkey. Now that’s what I call a result.

Single gene country folk 1 – town planners 0.

The Basque Country, covering regions of northern Spain/southern France, has been for a long time unsettled. Apart from the collective campaign for independence, there is also “in” fighting concerning language, political superiority etc. It was recently reported that the various regions have pulled together and managed to form a football team. Seeing this as a big step toward unity the team was invited to play in England. The team arrived in London and settled into their hotel, the Dorchester. They arranged to meet in the hotel lobby for a night out, the atmosphere high with excitement. The cabs arrived and the team all ran for the exit, a revolving door. Chaos ensued and several of the team had to be taken to hospital with broken arms and legs.

The moral; Never put all your Basques into one exit.

Talking of points north, this country boy is off at the weekend for a few days of culture in Barcelona! Ahh…all that Gaudi, Picasso, and cows…COWS?

I looked to see what was on at the Liceu while we’re there…a festival of Andaluz dance. Maybe we’ll sit that one out.