October 9, 2011
Disco sorpresa Fundador - Canciones de nuestro tiempo - Cara B

Portada

I’ve been listening to this all afternoon. I actually recommend it earnestly, most of all in a sunday evening. Well this is one example of one of many of this 45 rpm sixties records that were given as a present by the manufacturers of Fundador cognac, the company Pedro Domecq. One special thing about them is they always had this jingle somewhere in between the songs revealing the goodness of these spirits and, if being lucky, you could get to win a prize. The jingle changed in case the record was prized. Never listened to one of those yet. The other songs were from common bands or national talents like Manolo Escobar. There were also some (in fact a lot) of them with kind of a more modern styled music to that date artists than the other ones, like here Los Pekenikes or Los Pumas. I strive to believe that these songs (and others from the gifted EPs, like the covers by Tony Jackson Y Los Showcase) were of great influency in our beloved spanish pop music culture. I’m not an expert though. But for sure they were of the appeal of bands like Radio Futura or, even, Cooper.  A lot of them were covers, like in here Little Honda, now sung in spanish. To be honest, I prefer this EPs to a lot of new bands. 

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September 4, 2011
Timetables

The fact that your girlfriend is pretty doesn’t give you an automatic right to do whatever you want with her. Let’s put this straight. Because every now and then people comes to that fatalistic point in conclusion: she’s pretty, so she’ll do what I want. No. False. You are mistaking.

If she’s pretty she will, more the like, act as if you could do whatever you wanted with her. Below the surface there’ll always sublie something strange, but most powerful and stronger than her beauty. It is not her cheerings, nor her simpathy, nor her bright and delightful smile. There you go, it is her willing.

Take the chance that you are lucky and she’s the most absolute crap your eyes have got the pleasure to get through in their life. You still has to take into account much more than that to tide up your rotten ideas about good and evil and start acting towards your desired directions. Non the less you will probably have this other romantic but also stupid notion that being she so ugly you are always doing her wills. It’s not what we’re discussing here, so better not to move forward in that direction.

Once cleared these basic commonly assumed notions, you’d better take a tour through yourself and find the true “other half” of hers. If you’re a woman, you are ok. Now if we are talking to men, prepare with good equipment and self aware. See, it gets complicated… It’s difficult to get to our will if we don’t know our matches’ one. So, just saying, it is not related to her beauty. 

It is more related to something extra and different. Yes. It has more to do with your timetable. The point is that you are not living in Germany - or you are, then you could just stop reading and go fuck yourself, if it really matters to you… or you could keep on dehydrating your eyes, as you see. But what you really have to do something about is about leaving her wating for another thirty five minutes. If you want to arise to a sort of compelling-to-both-of-you agreement on your couple plans.

So yes. She’s pretty, you’re getting always late. Still, you think you have the right to spit to her face speeches about rights and wrongs, or the absence of them. And if you are neither in Cuba, this is not good to empathy. And I think it is not really a matter of culture. If you are not there in time, man, she’ll be gone! No way of making plans together that way.

Timetables… I hate timetables. I love their result, though!

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June 21, 2011
This is a cat about to eat a bird. I was all like if my brains went out from my ears, jumping like a small kid. It’s a little piece of grass on the way to my place. Nearby there are bars and a school. All of a sudden I found myself with a phone camera shooting to a cat, snipped by quite more views around that I’d like. In my experience, it is far more important that a swallow is being eaten by a cat than any my ashaming could be. So given two small jumps away from the crowd, I started walking again in a standard motion, not too much with a guilt feeling or nothing.

This is a cat about to eat a bird. I was all like if my brains went out from my ears, jumping like a small kid. It’s a little piece of grass on the way to my place. Nearby there are bars and a school. All of a sudden I found myself with a phone camera shooting to a cat, snipped by quite more views around that I’d like. In my experience, it is far more important that a swallow is being eaten by a cat than any my ashaming could be. So given two small jumps away from the crowd, I started walking again in a standard motion, not too much with a guilt feeling or nothing.

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June 5, 2011
Anguish and ambush

In the meanwhile, a little amount of unhappy and maybe violent people awaits in the shadows of the darken arab market. They were all kinds of persian and indian individuals upon whom the weight of society had stamped not just an impossible to erase mark, but also a complete emptiness inside their hearts and souls. It was bad, ugly, disgusting. None the less they could survive among others, common people maybe, just thanks to their operative spicy food wealthiness. Indeed enough, these asians, though not chinese, would like tasty and unique bites to themselves. 

Looking through the corridor at the end a book burnt to ashes near to the kitchen. And out the window nothing but that fry smell. What were girls there cleaning, thinking? Didn’t we know, like us were, no building around any longer had a touch of serenity like ours? Were we to accept the silence, and that’s all? If indians and persians had no anonymity at all, that one of us wasn’t resting significance to our words? What they wanted were facts. Not just facts, but money. What a complete and false illusion in front their eyes. Fortunately, most of them were blind. 

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March 13, 2011
Nostalgia del aceite

Pues sí; también echo de menos el olor a grasa barata quemada tipo freiduría de La Haya. Los canales, estancados en agua espesa de suciedad, las fábricas que se adivinaban terminando la ciudad y los campos de tulipanes. Su playa al modo californiano pero, ay, con tanto frío durante casi todo el año. El viejo del coffee que esperaba paciente la mañana entera a su grupo de amigos para jugar al carrom. Esperar con él leyendo un libro infumable o repasando los retratos de las paredes, intentando superar su puntuación en la máquina de tacos, quizá.

La vuelta a casa era parecida siempre: un hombre que fumaba un puro contento después del trabajo, demasiado dinámico para sus 57 y con chiribitas en los ojos a envidiar por mí mismo, que arrastraba los 24 disimulando la soledad bajo un parka, por lo demás, reluciente; la tentación de entrar en todos los antros de pollo frito que cruzaba; el tipo listo del loft a ras de suelo un poco más allá de la casa de la reina; el último paseo por Paleistuin y atravesar el centro: Nieuwstraat.

Claro bajabas Schoolstraat hasta Vlamingstraat. La vuelta no importaba porque siguiendo por aquí  podías recoger un magnífico falafel a un precio que sin muchas dudas traía de cabeza al egipcio de la parte de atrás. Luego era subir la propia Niewstraat evitando ver la hamburguesería, dejando el inquietante Buddha Bar al fondo cuando entrabas en la izquierda al apartamento. Allí te tumbabas sobre una suerte de polyester anti-inflamable (o super-inflamable, pero por el que en verdad no nos preocupábamos demasiado), para a lo mejor recogerlo luego sobre la espalda, andar diez metros hacia la salida de incendios y mirar la Grote Kerk desde la azotea sin barandillas. 

Por las mañanas siempre atravesaba el coqueto centro comercial de pasajes hacia una cafetería ya prácticamente entera de plástico. ¡Eran nuevos días y los caminos hacia la Hogeschool por el barrio chino, a veces difíciles de terminar! No recomiendo a los que se encuentren en un paisaje parecido aprovechar el barrio rojo para orinar, por mucho encanto que tenga. Si os dijeran que es mejor esperar al Queen’s Day para semejante aventura, no les quitéis credibilidad.

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November 14, 2010
The Book of the Endless Pieces and Figures

Upone that time too there was a bottle of orangina impossible to be opened, I say… it was nearly as impossible to open as to achieve the mysterous Book of the Endless Pieces and Figures. Though it is told some people did get to achieve a copy of the book, no one has ever listened about that ever since. By a time me was confusing sausages with beatles in some kind of delirious and spicy trip given by a chicken in not the better state to be, you can assume I did try and try and, in fact, opened one bottle of orangina, a rare juice used by chinese peeps to endure their people making shoes at those garages they work all-day-long in.  

As sugar cotton went out the garages, orangina did get more and more rare to find. At a time, all the people working on shoes and sugar cotton in the garages in some chinatowns at very well known places, twisted all at once because a decompassing in their timetables due to orangina missing. Oh yes my dear readers, there I was, not in the shadows but a plenty light of sun by the park openning last bottle in the city wich name was one I don’t care about any longer. Things have come by ever since, though I don’t remember quite well.

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November 11, 2008
To Howard

Howard I’ve certainly been looking to your photos. I didn’t know. Me just thought would be nice being friends. It’s quite a misunderstanding: why did you have to made yourself down to the scissors? It would have been nice just keep on learning, getting good grades and behave like a good front man. Paddle. Would I have needed that? Rewards wating for you each step you take, me at your back, constantly tiding up your mistakes and, not easy to dodge that, admiring your figure. Shame on that; I’d spit onto my own self and hit me if that would help. But you just wanted your prize - as if it was worthy. Two big tits and a smashed mouth. Of course that didn’t help. “You see this pencil? This pencil was wrapped down on lettuce and tomatoes before getting here”, once my father told me. Not quite the same, but a lot to chew on, so to speak. Think on that, you who so much talks! Beware. Now that you can fit your mouth again with those amazing trousers you bought at Lisbon - London imported, by the way. Don’t be bored. “Pa, that’s a normal, common pen, rather boring”, usually i would have told my father. “No, this pencil’s a byro, wich means it can’t be erased. Once you draw onto something, that something, for intimate or soft it could be, will be printed with its draw”. “But they told me typpex!”. “Typpex won’t work; it will just cover it on, not erase”. “Should burn it down then maybe?”. “You just want ashes?”. “No, I don’t think so… for I don’t have an ashtray”. “Then, take note on this and why not, would it be a reminder for your further behavior: what you write with this will only be removable with your imagination”. I didn’t believe him, Howard, and look how I ended up. Guess, very much, you knew it better and took a good choice.Your mouth may be restaured in the way you wanted. That makes you strong I’ve heard. This same afternoon they slipped out from me some carrots I was wondering about for you. Who knows, some day I shall be able to share it with you. Kind regards Howard, keep missing you, it used to be an ease.

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November 1, 2008
About the lizard wich was a tuna in fact

There was a lizard, upon certainly a time far away, who would tell you he became a goose for the better taste of the world when entering into your dreams. Not really like that was: probably he wasn’t but a tuna, waiting yet for a good tomato sauce and running towards unexpected adventures in a plus better world, where rice could be combined with more things than soja.

This lizard, who I very much believe was a tuna in fact, maybe a dolphin, but never a sardine, was heavy in dirt as strong. All the time he watched, from over the sea on the island where he had artificial breathing machines plugged to his bronchi, the waves tinily breaking onto foam by the shore. He loved that.

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