En estos días, en que los idiotas brotan como hongos, protegidos por el calor, y que los burócratas del país y los empleados del periódico donde trabajo se dedican a facer folganza, hay varias cosas lindas que hacer —que no precisan esta época, pero que surten un efecto fantástico. Una de ellas es leer a Enrique Jardiel Poncela, escritor español de la primera mitad del siglo XX, a quien, como los demás grandes humoristas. el mundo jamás terminará de merecer. Vaya y busque libros, no espere que yo se los pase. O visite este blog para darse un quemón, que está muy bueno, pese a que los posts son larguísimos.
Cada vez me gustan más los Yeahs, pero cada vez los hallo más fresas. Como sea, Zero, el primer video de su nuevo disco, está bien bonito.
Ahora que los sentidos sienten sin miedo; ahora que me despido, pero me quedo; ahora que tocan los ojos, que miran las bocas, que gritan los dedos. Ahora que no te pido lo que me das, ahora que no me mido con los demás; ahora que todos los cuentos parecen el cuento de nunca empezar...
I will admit that I choked up a little at the end of “State of Play.” Not because the story was especially moving — or even, ultimately, all that interesting — but because the iconography of the closing credits tugged at my ink-stained heartstrings. The images are stirring and familiar, though in a few years’ time they may look as quaint as engravings of stagecoaches and steam engines. A breaking, earthshaking story makes its way from computer screen to newsprint. The plates are set, the presses whir, sheaves of freshly printed broadsheet are collated, stacked on pallets and sent out to meet the eyes of the hungry public. Truth has been told, corruption revealed and new oxygen pumped into the civic bloodstream. All that’s missing is a paperboy yelling “extra!” to crowds of commuters in raincoats and fedoras.
There's something that I think I should tell you all. I'm not feeling very well. And I haven't been for a while. Something inside me has jumped the track. I'm confused. I'm not thinking right. I'm not sleeping right. And I- Just don't think I am complaining about this or asking for your help. Because there's nothing anyone can do about it. It's just happened and that's all there is to it. But I don't know what I'm going to say from one minute to the next. I really don't. I don't know what I'm going to say and I don't know what I'm going to do. Do you understand that? And I know this is coming at a bad time for everyone but there's nothing I can do about that. I'm tired and I'm- I don't see things the way that I used to. Everything, everything, everything is fucking strange and it's all completely out of control and I'm frightened. And maybe if you all could give me some real help, you know? That would be- And not your pity or generosity but some help; Take a look at me. I know that I am ruining everything but I can't- If I don't say this now I may never say it. Everything is going very fast. It's going very, very fast. It's completely out of control. And if I don't say it today, tomorrow may be too late. I may be too crazy to even know how crazy I am. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. Something has happened to me and I'm very lost. And it doesn't stop. It's not getting better. I don't get better. I'm not getting better. It's just going on and it's going on. And there's nothing that I can do about it. It's not stopping. It's not stopping.
Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white, and in between the moon and you the angels get a better view of the crumbling difference between wrong and right. I walk in the air, between the rain, through myself and back again. Where? I don't know. Maria says she's dying, through the door I hear her crying, why? I don't know.
Round here we always stand up straight, round here something radiates.
Maria came from Nashville with a suitcase in her hand she said she'd like to meet a boy who looks like Elvis. She walks along the edge of where the ocean meets the land just like she's walking on a wire in the circus. She parks her car outside of my house and takes her clothes off, says she's close to understanding Jesus. She knows she's more than just a little misunderstood, she has trouble acting normal when she's nervous.
Round here we're carving out our names, round here we all look the same, round here we talk just like lions, but we sacrifice like lambs, round here she's slipping through my hands.
Sleeping children, better run like the wind, out of the lightning dream: mama's little baby better get herself in out of the lightning...
She says "It's only in my head". She says: "Sshhh, I know: it's only in my head".
But the girl on the car in the parking lot says: "Man, you should try to take a shot. Can't you see my walls are crumblin?". Then she looks up at the building and says she's thinkin of jumping, she says she's tired of life, she must be tired of something.
Round here she's always on my mind, round here, hey, man, I got lots of time. Round here we're never sent to bed early and nobody makes us wait, round here we stay up very, very, very, very late. I can't see nothing, nothing round here. Won't you catch me if i'm falling? Won't you catch me if i'm falling? Won't you catch me? Cuz i'm falling down on you. See, I'm under the gun round here, oh man, I said I'm under the gun round here and I can't see nothing, nothing round here.
"A veces me obligo a escribir para no dejar que esas pequeñas cosas queden dentro de mí, para no alimentar el monstruo que tengo dentro".
No somos brujas ni somos magas, pero tampoco somos sirenas. Somos mujeres, igual que todas, somos "nosotras" y no "cualquieras". Se nos antojan las mismas cosas que a todo el mundo y a los demás. Ya lo dijo la gran Sor Juana: a quién más vamos a culpar... La que peca por la paga o el que paga por pecar, la que pica por la droga o el que droga por picar, la que todo el día le chinga o el que chinga por chingar, o la culpa que es culposa y no sabe a quién culpar.
No somos santas ni somos cosas, pero tampoco tan peligrosas. Somos mujeres de carne y hueso: tenemos esto, tenemos eso. Tenemos ganas, entre otras cosas, de mantener nuestra dignidad. Ya lo dijo la peor de todas: a quién más vamos a culpar... La mujer, porque se deja, o el que deja a la mujer; la madrota porque explota o el padrote al explotar. La moral porque se dobla o el que dobla la moral, o los socios de la sucia mentirosa sociedad.
Que nos dejen libremente por las calles circular, porque, pase lo que pase, no nos van a centavear: porque de hoy en adelante nos haremos respetar, ¡somos libres y queremos trabajar! Porque todos los derechos nos los van a respetar, ¡y que vivan las mujeres! ¡Viva nuestra libertad!
"Yo mataba por capricho monetario, por gratificación biológica y para que el dolor me abandonara".
Dark Victory es un gran cómic de Batman, grande de verdad, que no es de Frank Miller (je, es que ahora está tan de moda). Con un poco de ayuda de la Gatúbela, y sin que Gordon pueda ayudarlo demasiado, Batman se enfrenta a la mafia Falcone, encabezada ahora por Sofia Falcone Gigante, que al parecer trama el asesianto de un añorado Harvey Dent en el Arkham Asylum, mientras que, al mismo tiempo, un asesino que se identifica con el juego del Ahorcado se suelta a matar policías. Hay de todo, aparecen muchos de los villanos —el Espantapájaros, Solomon Grundy— y espacio para un buen lucimiento de actores taquilleros. Aquí tiene un sentido enorme la presencia de Rachel Weisz como Selina Kyle, y desgraciadamente la aparición de El Acertijo es menor, pero significativa, de modo que exige a un tipo de los tamaños de Johnny Depp. El único problema (o ventaja) es que presenta a Robin, o a Dick Grayson, mejor dicho. Luego hay un merengue tremebundo con Dent encabezando a todos los villanos habidos y por haber (inolvidable, el trazo de esta Poison Ivy). El cómic es de Jeph Loeb y Tim Sale y funge como una especie de continuación de The Long Halloween.
