Being the son of Germanicus, Jupiter knows he'll grow into a man as noble as his father.

I enjoyed it. Felt kinda bad for Charlie Brown, though, since all he got were rocks.

Let me just say ever since this Abraham guy came to Canaan, he’s been doing crazy shit. Isaac has been a buddy of mine for a while, you know we chat and stuff, I was looking for him and someone said he was going up the mountain or whatever. And boom I see this shit. Jews am I right 🙄

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

In my arrogance, I believed that could enlighten mankind. I loved Spain with the passion of a betrayed lover, and Spain gave me the hatred of those who prefer chains to the light. I, who have kept my feet on the earth while crying out to the heavens, fear that God may be just like me: a bitter old man who neither can hear, nor wishes to listen. I stopped hearing long before I went deaf: I refused to listen to the lies of the court, the excuses of the Church, the stupidity of war. But when I lost my hearing, when I could only look... I was forced to see the rot that I might otherwise have heard approaching. In that universal deafness, I retreated to the Quinta del Sordo, much like the pilgrims walking toward the Fountain of San Isidro, knowing full well that the water will cure nothing, yet walking nonetheless, because there is simply no other path left to take.

I have painted upon the walls of my Quinta, Father, but these are no mere Caprichos, nor nightmares, nor critiques, nor metaphors. I am a portraitist. That is my sin, Father: I paint what I see, and would that I had gone blind as well as deaf, before ever seeing what I have seen! The Half-Submerged Dog is as real as the Great He-Goat; the Two Old Ones Eating Soup are as true as Asmodea soaring overhead. These are not the fantasies of a diseased mind: I have been there. I have looked into the eyes of Saturn—and there was a scent of the sacristy in the air as he devoured his son, as if the child were the Holy Host. The Devil will not come for my soul, for my soul is as crippled as my body, after all that I have witnessed. What they call witchcraft is merely the liturgy of this land. Behind every witch stands an inquisitor; behind every devouring giant, a king; behind every fight with cudgels, two Spaniards drowning in their own ignorance. These abominations are the face of Spain, and they are my most fitting self-portrait.

I am moving to Bordeaux of my own volition. What does it matter that I do not speak the French tongue, when I cannot hear their words in any case? What difference does it make whether I suffer among the absolutists of Ferdinand VII, who brand me an afrancesado traitor, or among the brutal Napoleonic forces of France, who dismiss me as a quaint, old-fashioned Spaniard? If Bordeaux was good enough for Moratín’s exile, it shall be good enough for mine! To hell with vanity; in France, the masses will not recognize me, and, with any luck, the black muses of that Black Spain which birthed this land of shadows will not be able to find me. Let none hear me, just as I hear nothing. Let none see me, just as I look at nothing. Let me be buried far away, along with my final canvas—a work too dangerous to ever fall into human hands. That is my penance. I shall not allow my own creation to set Spain ablaze.

—Francisco de Goya y Lucientes

I am shaking right now. After going down 3-1 to the St.Louis Cardinals, I thought we were screwed. Game 6 nearly had us on the edge of our seats thanks to Denkinger, and then Bret Saberhagen and the boys just completely dismantled them 11-0 today! Saberhagen for World Series MVP!

I set these lines down to order my thoughts, for what I heard today defies all reason—though perhaps not all faith. Dª Irene Larra brought me a proposal on behalf of an Institution that appears in no payroll, archive, or council record. She knew that I had rejected substantial purses of gold from the Lutherans and the Franchutes—even though, here at court, some still dismiss my work as a "mechanical craft," fit only for common artisans and beneath a nobleman of pure blood. Dª Irene was aware of my ambition to join the Order of Santiago; she assured me that in twenty-five years—not a day longer—the King himself would bestow the cross upon my chest and upon my portrait. She flattered me, calling me "Painter of Painters" and "Knight of Knights," swearing that an even nobler figure would one day address me by that very title. With this, she captured my attention—not by appealing to my vanity, but by affirming that my life’s central thesis—that painting is a noble, intellectual, and liberal art—would be vindicated long after I am gone. I instructed my faithful slave and assistant, Juan de Pareja, to serve us sherry in silver goblets; for courtesy demands that, even when faced with the implausible, one must maintain the proper decorum.

At first, I assumed this was about court espionage, that she would ask me to forge documents, scrutinize the loyalties of ambassadors, or use my access as a *Ayuda de Cámara* to access places guards and spies cannot. I laughed to myself. "What a trivial request!" I thought. "I did such things back among the Machiavellians, when I wasn't busy among prostitutes! As if I hadn't already emerged unscathed from the intrigues of Olivares and the other grandees!" But she told me instead that her Institution does not merely keep watch over the present; it safeguards the past and the future of Spain. She spoke of magnificent doors and of "correcting the thread of history." In veiled terms, she hinted at something outrageous: that I will bear witness, firsthand, to events that have yet to occur. "You shall come to know the influence you will exert upon the great masters of painting in the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries," she said, fixing me with a certainty that made my blood run cold. She spoke not like one summoning the Devil, but rather like someone describing the inventions of Don Jerónimo de Ayanz—that diving apparatus and those steam-powered machines that even now the courtiers discuss with a mixture of wonder and suspicion. Miracles of human reason and ingenuity, not of the demonic, maybe. By her own account, she is simply an agent of the Kingdom of Spain, with access to tools that have not yet been revealed to the public.

I sought counsel from Juan, who, having finished serving us, had remained in the room and overheard Dª Irene’s words. That guileless Morisco said to me, "Master, perhaps this woman comes from the future and can take us there to see it through some Divine miracle." He thinks I could have angels and saints model for me, like El Greco did. I, however, am a man of this world. Juan believes in miracles; I believe in intrigues. And this is the greatest intrigue I have ever encountered.

My reason falters at what I am asked to believe. If anyone reading this possesses sound judgment or experience with the supernatural, I would welcome your counsel. Should I take the hand this woman offers and serve the Kingdom as she requests, or should I remain in my studio, painting the reality I already know?

—Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez, Painter to His Majesty and—should God and the King so permit—future Knight of the Order of Santiago

1892: Charles Curtis (32) arrives at the Congressional Convention, shocked to find big business interests there to convince him to bow out so that Governor Thomas Osborn can take his place.

He declined for several reasons:

1. He'd spent months at his own expense to get to where he was
2. he'd be a laughingstock if he did
3. just, no.

Then he was threatened with them simply taking his votes away.

To solve the matter without delay, Curtis went to the Shawnee County Delegation, told them what was up, and encouraged them to decide behind closed doors: Would they support the candidate they came with, or one who declined to run but now wanted all their votes for free?

Curtis was soon nominated the Republican candidate for Congress.

Gracious in victory, he allowed the big business group to give him a ride home in their private train car since it was heading that way to return the many Topeka politicians it had driven to the convention for the sake of upending his chances.

Arriving in town, the depot was flooded with well-wishers who heard the news. Friends and neighbors were cheering and applauding. Overcome by it all, Curtis could not give the speech many might have expected, and so his neighbor, J.B. Johnson, a lawyer representing a particular big business interest, spoke on his behalf with kind words for their hero, and predictions of great things to come.

Curtis served in Congress until 1907, then the Senate, and in 1928 was elected Vice President.

[photo credit: Topeka Plaindealer, 06/20/1902 (when he was 42), pg 1.]

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Well the Mets are now down 5-3 in the 10th. Such a magical season is going to end in defeat!