What went unreported in this 2003 post about dinner out in Bilbao was that the night ended with the poovalanche of all poovalanches in the Oliver department of the family.
What Catherine would chime in with at this point, were this a dinner party and not a blog post (and were she still alive), would be that, in my inebriated state, I was of no help at all, becoming obsessed with side issues that had nothing to do with the central challenge of sluices of poo leaking out everywhere.
There were poovalanches before that night in Bilbao—the great Christmas Poovalanche of 2000, in The Gap at Yorkdale Shopping Centre in Toronto comes to mind—and poovalanches after that night in Bilbao, but that night in Bilbao, at least in my sodden memory, was as poovalanche as it ever got.
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I am Peter Rukavina and this is my blog. I am a writer, letterpress printer, and a curious person.
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Comments
In our household they're
In our household they're called 'poopsplosions'.
I guess you never had a
I guess you never had a several day extravaganza, or it would have to be an Ollipooplooza
1 year!
1 year!
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