To each his own

The chicken-and-beer diet: lose 15 lbs. in 40 days.

I’m not surprised. A half-chicken + Pit-Tatoes® (from Nelson’s) < 400 kcals.

Do you know what else is good? Pollo Gus.

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I read another great little Sciascia novel: To Each His Own (1966), which is as Chronicle-of-a-Death-Foretold-ish as The Day of the Owl. On the evidence of these two shrimpy works I’d say this guy should have been given the Nobel Prize.

“To each his own” is unicuique suum in Latin and a ciascuno il suo in Italian. Reading the book, it helps to know these phrases.

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These volumes aren’t supposed to rest on the same shelf, but Samuel decided to line them up together. They do belong to the same series. (He must not have been able to reach the Locke book.)

I wish he’d organize his books.

Feliz cumple to Pervis Estupiñán who twice assisted Brighton & Hove Albion’s goalscorers today.

In praise of Venus shoes

Well, the goal drought has ended; but, in a way, it continues. I still haven’t scored with the new cleats that I bought this summer. But I did make a rather complicated golazo almost as soon as I took off the cleats and put on Venus shoes, some ten or fifteen minutes before the game’s conclusion. So, my record this summer is: four goals with Venus shoes, in less than one hour; zero goals with cleats worn for hours and hours. I could tell immediately that with Venus shoes I was three times better as a footballer.

Of course, it made all the difference that we were on artificial grass and not on the slippery mud-grass of previous weeks.

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I finished reading the shortest item on my book list: Leonardo Sciascia’s The Day of the Owl. Friends, this author oozes intelligence. This book is on a par with, if not better than, García Márquez’s Chronicle of a Death Foretold. A man is killed by the mafia; the subsequent investigation is narrated not only with logical exactitude – this is a police procedural, after all – but also, occasionally, by means of wry dialog between shadowy, unnamed men of power. Sicily is a morass of subservience and paranoia, with inhabitants (one hardly can call them citizens) who nonetheless make their meanings clear through innuendo. Hilariously, they adorn this innuendo with affirmations of Catholic piety. This book is what I wish I were clever enough to write.