Gifting A Home To A Relative In Bc

Six photos
few months ago I changed the phone by an issue of Ancel contracts and do not know what else. My father walked me talking mp3, blutuz, and so on style, but I kept dialing numbers while further imminent and will not cause cancer in eggs we would get. The phone is a Nokia, and beyond some schizophrenic behavior (calling people alone, who knows why), I was quite happy with the purchase. It was only a month to get it than I began to expand its range of uses, using it as a camera. Of course, photos that can be taken with a cell phone (and most digital cameras) are means farts, but somehow it has helped me to capture certain times or certain images that are often crumble in my memory. I have cameras faces (which are not as much), but when the charge as long as I have a sense of danger that haunt me enough that I stolen. In contrast, the cell phone, or worry me. The interesting thing is that the cell will always carry with me, allowing me to take pictures in fully linked random situations. When I have a camera in my hand post, nothing interesting to me is often the case, as when one was young and was waiting for Santa Claus to surprise behind the tree.

The following are six photographs rather than pictures, are trigger situations that happened to me, and obsessions that haunt these days I walked.
So, first of all, the photos do not pursue any artistic purpose, are more bottles of formaldehyde that photo itself, so I do not come talking about Sea Ray, Philippe Halsman, or Weegee.

Kamikaze
One Thursday, after learning that a patient was readmitted to Vilardebó (for the third time in a month and a half) I found myself in the middle with nothing to do but go back to my house. By Tristan Narvaja was holding to 18 when I happened to pass strangely by faculty ( strangely, because I do not usually fall into power without good reason). It's exam period and the patio is right plunged to a reasonable desert. Miro without much interest some posters of psychoanalytic sessions (a gesture that only real interest is an alibi, as they are journeys that may never go) and crossed the yard, finding no one except Kamikaze. Do not know much what is the diagnosis, but a sort of armed Kamikaze circuit, alternating between the psychology department and the center of Vilardebó day (for non-Uruguayans, the main psychiatric hospital in Uruguay). It's a pretty particular, the first times I saw him wearing a cowboy hat and carrying his guitar as if it were an extension of your body (and when one speaks of body appendages in psychotic what is metaphor.) I never wanted to befriend the Kamikaze, mainly for being a mangueador almost terminal. Whenever you see you need a weight, a burden to pay for a bus, one dollar to buy a croissant in the school canteen, a weight to call mine who met in the street of fire, not a burden to have nine weight and reach a quorum. Many people have told me that the last days of Edward and Matthew were half, everyone was running away because the first thing I did, was ask almost indiscriminately silver. One always tempting to put all the crazy artists within the same category (The Ars Brut, Outsider Art , horn or want to call) without realizing that is a bag that is full of holes, always ready to tear. In general people think of madness as a bonus for reaching certain states of consciousness different from other people, but in reality, as with the use of hallucinogens, although the reality multipliers have served much in some productions, you could never say that the work is an exclusive product of that (it would take all the weight of the container of the artist and put them in the container of the drug, when the thing is actually much more complex). In the same way as taking aspirin does not make you Jerry Garcia, be crazy not automatically make you a Van Gogh. In fact, a sad truth that I have had personal view is that most of the insane tend to be descended in many fields, and are usually attached to ultraconvencionales aspects in their artistic branches, from the childishness of patients who only draw houses with flowers and little sun, types they borrow the messianic medical discourse and make songs when they were wrong, and how God or the doctors saved him.

In many cases, the most creative thing I've seen is the same delusion. For
Kamikaze, always saw it doing covers of Sabina and the like, so I never took it quite seriously in terms of creativity.
I walked around more and found none. I was going when I heard a song that was out of the Kamikaze guitar. It was a strange song, which generated a particular mood through a curious combination of major and minor chords. He had a strange quality to let you know if it was not a happy or sad song. Could be a celebration of unhappiness or grief to joy. Or something. The thing is that I stayed with Kamikaze, while playing that song and noticed the guy next to you, but as one who sees a pigeon a few feet from his feet. Kamikaze finishes the song and looks at me and say "is a good topic Kamikaze, where did you get it." Laughs and answer me "This theme is mine." I say "ah, look that good, I liked this issue." (The truth is that I really liked this issue, what I say is sincere, though I blame myself to hear my voice, which at times resembles that of a schoolteacher). "You have other ideas?". "Yes, you have a weight?". The counter-question was to be expected and drew two dollars and who pays a street artist. He says "This latter has not yet completed, I have to lay down the letter." "Never mind, touch it and see how it goes." He laughs self-absorbed and begins to play. He plays with his eyes closed, vocalizing excessively, the guitar does not help and do not pinch fingers well with some dishes, the chords are bright, yet rotten sound. While singing I'm reading the letter written in a notebook, a very neat handwriting, with the G, F and G # as hats on each rhyme. I do not remember much of the song, but at some point says something like "and I took a walk / through the streets of the city / and she appeared / and flash." It is a good theme, and the last word puzzles me. I wonder what it means flash, and like a father to the question of how babies are born, in complicity smiles and says "is a state of mind."
of nowhere appears the Baron Laguna and Sheba, and surprised at my luck to find them, we were talking about the four. Al Kamikaze had already greeted and asked to touch another topic. Starts to play one, but we soon realize is screwing us and is playing one of Calamaro, with a strange accent that makes it look more like Bunbury. Kamikaze has a bandage covering her entire forehead. The Baron of the pond asked what is that band and Kamikaze responds that he hit the other day, wanting to jump a bank. We were watching the band and agree that it gets very cool. "Now I see it, is like Karate Kid," he commented, and Baron of the lagoon and Seba laugh, but laugh more Kamikaze, a laugh of excitement filled trips. "We have to ask you some Chinese characters, there'd be the same sam Kamikaze." The guy gets excited and says "Ahjajaja, yes, haha, wait for me a horn, and I come." Enter a room that acts as student union headquarters and back with a blue drypen hand. "Draw me, draw me." "I do not remember much about the Chinese characters, was some time in Japan, but I do not remember much." "No, draw me ... did you see the Star of David?". "Sure." "Dale, that, draw me that." "Are you sure?". "Yes, yes, the star of David, the star of David do me. " As if someone talking to your future tattoo artist, I am required to first show him a notebook to see if they know it. I quickly do the two overlapping triangles and is re crazy excited. Drypen gives me a strange solemnity and me on the head. Slowly, I make the two blue triangles. No sooner had we finished what we cagamos of laughter and the guy is going to see in the reflection of the windows of faculty. Guild mines go and ask them what they think. Them, without knowing much what to say, they answer that seems original. Kamikaze smiles and asks if they have no weight.
Seba is about me and says: "What form
the Kamikaze ..." While
stay away Pocitos is safe.

Anal-retentive
I always was a neurotic, but at least one happily dirty neurotic. I was never greatly bothered by not washing my hands, and walked no controlling the times I bathed (that pretty much decided the oiliness of my hair.) It came from the bus and with confidence put his hand in a container of pickles and I ate two or three, sucking the vinegar that was left between the fingers. Opened the doors of public toilets, and sometimes I just washed his hands (more for the novelty of the hand dryer, which drives real toilet). I sat in the street I went to bed fully clothed, I woke up and continued my life the next day, wearing the same clothes the day before.
few months ago my father introduced the civilizing invention of alcohol gel. I'd seen at the home of Mary (his mother is a dentist and has particularly large dispenser), but the idea of \u200b\u200bhaving it at home I was too far away. It was not necessary to discuss this twice, and true to his impulsive spirit, my father did not hesitate to buy it. The point is that since the introduction of this product to my house, and especially how practical is it that you dry in a few seconds, I began to use coextensive with all activities linked to me. Went to the bathroom and spent the alcohol. Faculty came and anointed me hands. Everything was more or less well-and hospital clean-up the other day I went to a bakery is right next to my school. It occurred to me to buy a Milanese bread, and then I realized I had serious reservations making the purchase. Did not take long to realize that that would not eat without washing my hands. Of course, there was no alcohol gel, soap or anything like that on several blocks around. I ended up forcing me to eat chicken fried steak, but could not reconstructions of the events of the day, linking my hands on activities such as grab the handrail, manage notes, draw a window, tie a few strips to be dragged through July 18.
It was getting harder and I never got sick.
As the great Robyn Hitchcock, A happy bird bird is a filthy . Muses

anonymous
I was never a type of model. There must be exceptions, but almost all of my muses from the film world, and occasionally the musical. In Argentina, the modeling seems, Tinelli by increasingly interwoven with the world of starlets, which is a handicap, really. On the other hand, the models always seemed too European for my taste mortis.
Beyond this personal matter, every so often I find a random sample that I end up be particularly attractive, often lost in some old magazine hairdressing, or in advertising for a bus that goes too fast to get a picture or hold in memory. This creates a particular evanescence my obsession, because a general-except in the most famous, is given in full to their anonymity, and is not available as the internet media to have more material of that person. I've said many times, I have a strange desire to collector, and when a beautiful woman whose name I do not know anything, there comes the anguish of someone who hears a beautiful song on the radio, not knowing who or when it did. One is about a friend and tells "is one that in part the guitar riff makes a wave ta-ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta" , usually getting the bewildered face of another person, a face that is adjacent to shame. Well, it's the same with these muses anonymous. The list is somewhat brief, usually not something that arises very often, but every so often appears. Plot model was a few years ago, I knew that was Brazil, which appeared much in the abusive propaganda material of Rolling Stone. Now, there are certain bus Kosiuko a muse-a brand that had always characterized by teens skinny and without grace is undoubtedly perfectly boring those perfections, which have a plus one who knows what, as if it were an angelic version of Kate Moss and a strange expression of fatigue, or expect, or something in between. Then there is the mine of tanning L'Oreal, whose image attached above. The laburo photo is not the best, even the face was captured in a way that makes him imperfect asymmetric well, as if I had more bone and flesh from one side of the face than the other. However, there is a strange essence behind face perverse originally virgin, which gives some key that makes me feel extremely attractive. For some strange reason suntan marks within a subject as sexualized as spreads naked body of people with lotions, never looked so contaminated with eroticism. There as a subcode that says being sexy with motor oil is allowed, whereas with tanning is so explicit that it is something fat. Who knows why, but that's exactly what I find attractive image. The photo highlights the abdomen over her tits. Even, the mesh is particularly prudish, pure white, as in case covering the entire pubic scene, lest it slip away something. The position is fairly static and not very cool, but there are agglomerations that works on the face, or rather, eyes, or perhaps the subtext between the eyes and mouth. It would appear that originally had been a test shot, discard, like those taken suddenly seconds before you can try a pose. The magic of this term lies in the same reasons why I think Adventure cover of TV, as one of the best covers of all time. In this picture all go look at the floor, scratching his neck, some insecurity board radically opposed to what is expected within the canons of rock (the rocknnnen ). The photo of sunscreen works (or at least works for me ), for the same reason, only in reverse: behind the scene graceless and prudish, something about the chick that invited you over.
to the barber shop of Mary and I get to Vichar magazines. There is a Rolling Stone that I read it almost full, and fixed me reluctantly in some paparazzi, and a weekly. Time passes but the brushing of hair is blonde with waist extends more time than I had thought, and grabbed a Bla. Nothing interesting happened leaves no particular deference. That's where I see, the last facet, a black and white photo Francisca Valenzuela and Fernando Cabrera (I guess the racks in Solis, a touch that gave a few months). It's strange, but the appearance of Valenzuela seems more attractive than ever-gangly-were nowhere near my taste. I do not know what it is, but seeing photos like this one , I think I might attract a certain geometry that maintains Valenzuela head over his body. Two arms here, two men there, his head placed as a Christmas tree star, pendants, hair consistently high as the mast of a ship. A according to B, perfect symmetry, x is clear: Tautology. I like the face, the way the face is a function of body Valenzuela certain formalism, the same formalism that makes me see (relatively speaking) the individual's face Monica Vitti as something tremendously attractive.
And strangely, I feel like a chick that Frances could be my friends, those friends that you begin to create problems semiological.
now reviewing the journals of the hairdresser, I remember a very fat magazine that had pictures of celebrity marriages in the seventies. Between flares and shirts with epaulettes, had family who had called me full attention. She was a woman with her hair, cheeks quite marked, eyes so sweet and sad, like Barbara Lombardo. The chick wearing a cloth Sacone, if I remember correctly, her husband beside her like a moron, those people stuffing found in droves. I thought it was a woman to become a coffee, to that which you admire in certain frivolous activities such as going off the diving shoulder stooping to find something, or concentrated by scratching his face something that is staining glass. For a moment I thought to boot the blade to take her to my house (with a passionate entomologist, as if another butterfly dissected for collection), but that seemed a worthy act of a madman, though no one would realize . At the end I left it to luck, and I thought she looked one day like this. Now I realize that the magazine is no longer. I think if the chick will have been happy with the douchebag photo, and now I think those should be wrinkled cheeks, and probably a veteran chick eating cookies with her friends in a cafe in Callao, thinking to go with their grandchildren to his summer home in Bahia Blanca.

Whoregasm
You are more or less clear that pornography sets are not exactly the best atmosphere environment with the world, but one-trick still far from glamorous pseudo exultant and make us believe that Ron Jeremy and the AVN Awards- always tend to think that Dante is not the show that keep the most ardent opponents to that institution. After seeing Porn's Most Outrageous outtakes , my position wobbles a bit. The documentary - Darius, who recommended it to me says it's a powerful example of Cinema Verité - rather than documentary is a behind the scenes without much editing of porn sets. While one can see explicitly what happens for the first time cameras are not as interested in capturing penises and vulvas, but remain attached to the faces of the protagonists, a grimace of an illuminator, the director's instructions, the Kleenex that clean the cum between scenes. Depending on the case, one time thought to be as fun as you imagine, and yet so horrific and degrading as others maintain. Overall are excerpts from much more home production (nothing to do with the mega Vivid), plus craft and lesser-known actresses, so that managers are allowed certain freedoms that other circumstances could be taken. There are actresses who are so drugged they can not stand, there is a mine that by participating in a gangbang with four brown revives a dream that was raped by a black, entering a strange state of shock that their makeup smeared mixture with tears and other bodily fluids, "there pendejas looking to make some money and put a gagging order to but knew who had signed for it, and so a series of atrocities gallery every now and then is cut delirious moments of absurdity, like a real piñata in a bukkake scene, and odd moments of tenderness of the directors to actresses.
In this game of light and shade, there is a moment that I found completely amazing, a rare subtlety that is worth all the documentaries and books have been filmed or written about the Blue Industry. An actress is in full cowgirl scene with a guy and reaches an orgasm. The next scene shows you the chick behind the camera. Is crying for something that nobody understands. We begin to ask and the chick says he feels guilty for having done as he did with the actor. From there it begins to weave the yarn and the chick says he feels that having got the horns as a boyfriend, whom he loves deeply. The types of console and behind the scenes flow into something quite different, as if it had been a most insignificant thing. For me, it's something interesting. How it works at fault. After all, the penis and had him in, but sex has little or nothing to do with penetration. It is not penetration, but the fiction, those little stories that account for the real self of the act which makes it a sexual relationship. While she was an actress and groaned and according to plan outlining a director, it could not be considered at all a hoax. But then something broke, like dodging a mule in the middle of the road, swerved and hit a blonde went to the shoulder. He came to come, rather, is saw coming and could do nothing. I look around the scene and concluded that the fault is just that, a country at war, surrounded by invisible markers. Tattoos


Rabid Fish will make the four bars of Black Flag on the left arm.
I wonder if I can follow when you do, and that is something I never did, "another friend @ s acomopañé a psychologist, dentist, to solve a problem with your partner, buy a mattress, to deposit money in a bank and buy substances psychoactive, but never get a tattoo, "but Fish tells me Callico Berserker (the famous tattoo artist of 26 March), for provision of local issues, not allowed to watch their laburo, so that the wait would be tremendous mess.
comes a time in the life of every boy-at least those born after 1985 - that under analysis option tattooing seriously. I'm so indecisive with these issues, which will probably never find an item you would like to accompany me the rest of my life. The closest I came to be marked with ink was when I was sixteen and I make my famous logo Tolkien, procastinación to which I am very grateful, because my nerdez would have risen to unsustainable levels. I never found anything about what I associate both, or something that was in such harmony as to tattoo aesthetic. If I had to make me one, I probably would cover the Dawn owl on the right arm, not just for the sake of being a band Goodfellas gave me very important moments in recent years, but also because the owls were Images that accompanied me since childhood, my father was a football player Tecos, and there were many such figures winged creatures in my house, "and because, quite simply, is a very nice picture (and if I start new age, owls represent the wisdom and all that shit ...). But still, I never would a tattoo.
And this I am sure when they see tattoos as can be seen in the dump section of the official website of Callico . I've laughed so hard in recent months, there are monsters who can not understand how anyone dared hacérselas, tattoos left standing as a prisoner of Leonardo da Vinci INAU undoubtedly products of drunken nights and morning regrets. There is a photo troja the funniest comments I've read in a long time, but certainly among the best is the "Portrait manga che-cut version hair cumbia (year 90) or mullet and tarantula legs grabbing the cigar "and" rasta jesus head with exaggerated goatee fleet angry while disarming her pearl necklace. " cleave a Vichada, is really the funniest thing I've read, and make one feel rather glad to have arms and back ink-free.
The attached photo above is from the respective arms of Hiram (Psiconautas leader, Uoh and member of Sex) and Pau O'Bianchi (singer of 3 sins Millonesdecasasconfantasmas, RR.SS. and Heaven knows what else). Pay particular attention to prison tattoo Pau, coiled snake that consumed the elephant short-handled sword, with an expression that does not distinguish between laughter and impending bite.

18 and Yaguarón
After a sample of the morbidity of my sleep (would require a study of missed sleep depending on the height of youtube), I woke up on Tuesday at about 0:15 noon apuradísimo to go to therapy, which began at one o'clock. In a way, on Tuesdays and Fridays I have built a sort of routine that is based on up, got my daily come to me only on Tuesdays and Fridays, and take my 121 (mostly doing this as a creation of George Romero).
going to be a day like any another, until I noticed the culture section. An article by JG Lagos spoke of Roberto Apprato two books, one called 18 and Yaguarón, a book whose title caught my attention (and then would know why), so I kept reading. It was there that as I read, I began to feel something between anger and astonishment than anger, frustration, rather than awe, fear. JG Lagos was talking about a novel I had been writing throughout this year. (Explain the similarities between what I have been writing and the review I read would talk about what I hope to write, or what you would expect to get in my writing, that is, should develop a kind of manifesto of what should be read my novel, which I find ridiculous and bombastic, so I'll just say that I shared with Appratto some theoretical framework, and the fact that most of my story developed in, nothing more and nothing less, 18 and Yaguarón ). Something was sure, or Apprato nor I had read our respective jobs. My novel-or a few weeks ago I started to like novel call was jealously guarded in a Word that never left the computer. Appratto the should be kept in a drawer, a pile of leaves handwritten computer, or who knows a why. I had not read any of his stuff, but a review that had been done to another of his books, It was night. The idea of \u200b\u200ba possible telepathy began to invade my hypothesis, and for a moment I began to fear the possibility Borges buy the book, read it and discover that begins exactly like mine.
The day after such a finding, without getting another, I decided to buy the book.
Luckily, they were passing some veneers and finished few reassuring, to see that the book was not as close as I imagined. If I can find some things in common, but the match was not override that terrified me. But here's the curious: the book was not equal to that has been writing, but if we return to something I had been obsessed in recent months-particularly since the beginning of spring. Basically one could say that this whole thing is based on waiting for a red light on the famous short corner Cord Center. The star gets a book of Adrian Iaies and start thinking about certain matches and what does it really mean that disc and those songs, what does the fact of having looked so long and find it in that moment, how to find the coagulant from that night she heard a car in Caramel, and now that I had just bought. But that question does not is solely on that, and leads to analytical dissection of what it means 18 and Yaguarón, which means the street beyond his street status and his name, which despite being only a name change all things. Appratto undertaken with such conviction that company, so nails and sweat struggle with and against the sense that at times seem to be to reach a truth, a truth that no philosopher had come: what it means to be a certain place, in a moment. Such is the insight that for a moment it seems that you made a hole in the dermis of the world, to show, among many shadows, fumes and screeching Gear Swiss watch system behind our curtains.
few weeks ago I was leaving the house of Mary. Lugano is a cobbled street and the height of 19 April a few jacarandas rise, that just before the summer begins long furiously all the leaves, puddles of lavender and the narrow lanes of the street. In this corner you face the Botanical Garden, with a nice nursing home (if that adjective conjunction with this noun is possible) on your right, and a strange brick house on the left. In that house was an old man taking a tea, with some difficulty lying in a hammock. The day was not sunny, but rather was generated a strange plastic feel that the cloudy sky, oddly dark, phosphorescent became more of lilac jacaranda. Then I also noticed that on 19 April, the foliage was particularly green, and I got to ask if something was wrong at the hearing. It was on this road uphill Suárez (with military checkpoints watching the presidential house watching a guy walked up), I began to invade a series of strange thoughts of mystical or pantheistic court that I never had been. I was never consuming mushrooms, or anything like that, but what it felt like a strange journey. He walked with his head pointing sky and as he watched the trees swaying in the wind drew conclusions as these trees are here since before I was born, to what extent are mere spectators rather than actors in all this. " We agree that these types of arguments are not terribly original, and at times seem media-hippie farts, but what struck me was not the nature of the conclusions, but the way I clung to them, the idea of \u200b\u200bactually seeing those trees understanding was something that I never knew know. And then came a smell of the air that reminded me to craft a home that was as a kid. The memory is easy, but I keep an odd number of elements satellites they are inseparable to such construction. Would have five years, was a holiday and I was enjoying the drawing of The Ghost Busters, a program that could not see my time preschool. I remember my parents told me I had the kind of craftsmanship. I remember a scarf and an autumnal air is the main pass that leads me to this chain Imagna. And I remember the place, a house with a bottom lined with leaves, a loft with yellow lights where we worked with clay and stuff. I remember it was dark and I wanted to do in clay a ballroom where she danced Icabot in the drawing of the Headless Horseman, which I loved and was afraid of the child. And I remember my grandfather bringing me to seek, a coup that occurred in the head, my impression imagining the pain of the blow to the roof of the bald smooth brick in the small hole that was left by a skin graft had to be added to the leg, after removal of a tumor in his leg. All this I came, rather, always comes when I smell that smell in the air. Smell is the sense adjacent to the unconscious. Hearing and vision are overcoded, and touch and taste he shares with them the ability to get an intermediary object to recreate a certain feeling in the moment it is needed (you can always retest old dishes, a can-as far as possibly returning to play the same surface). Instead, the smell is pure evanescence. There is virtually no way to confine odors, as claimed in Perfume Jean Baptiste Grenouille, that movie half romanticist exaggerated but something interesting that came out recently in film. The smell is something whimsical, and holds a very different odors, which are not usually locked in fragrances. For the same reason, certain smells are as a periphery, unable to be recreated, but appear when they want, like the fresh smell that I felt during that trip of a block of 19 April. Following these delusions metaphysical for a moment that I concluded that smell was enough to recreate a particular time, and that at some point could prove that past and present are not so split after all. For a moment I thought that even if you dig a little deeper, I could find a sort of time machine, but this is a thought to himself fully against a closed door, invisible.
is in this sense that I return to Appratto. The guy starts to weave a series of arguments, a thorough introspection that at times is about to reveal, open that door I just came to intuit. On page twelve of the book says: "Being in the center is like not to be nowhere is the beginning of a story that goes back, draw a picture in which a few points stand out, just for a second, have a place and then disappear to display others. It is the past insisted that they look at other ay (...) the space of paths allows time to think. The past? All the focus is on past, everything is the past. At the thought opened another space, a series of scenes: I saw walking around the IPA to drink beer in the corner, with my father in the Sybarite, eating a steak with fried egg and fries, in a bar across the street with cough loce class, going to the movies and paying the entry Trocadero there, on the left, waiting for the bus at the bus stop in front of the other cinema billboards across Day; entering the Faleria Yaguarón to purchase a gift, up the stairs of Jaque, above the palace Díaz. Each of these scenes is a reading of 18 and Yaguarón, a colored board just so that I acknowledge details of its presence, but not only of his presence, but what they were for me. It is like passing from indifference to diferncias and concentrate. At that point, as I see now the light fades. "
Everything is like a desperate search beyond the symbolic and come to grasp reality, but deep down we know that this is like hunting majuga hands.
Now I'm waiting to 522 in the September 21 stop in front of Biarritz Patio. I smell the sea, I see the sky at the edge of the night and hear Out of this world The cure, and I know it is coming a new chain of associations. And indeed, there are no stories, deep stories is a way of working the raw material that comes from disorderly continent do not even know. Some people called random, other causes that are mystical, religious, economic or psychological, I simply think there is a space between, a knot, a cross linking bastard lost and this song with this chick Bloodflowers unknown sits next to me at the stop, his purple nylon jacket and dark jeans, not mine within only the purple nylon jacket and dark jeans, an invisible point that connects their brands to the song, the smell of the sea that comes from the promenade with See Jungle of Bow Wow Wow, and also with those posters that were in the Dickens when was still a brilliant student of English, with those posters: Candbridge, Oxford, types windsurfing, Stonehage and that Thursday he had no class because it was not that movie that made us see why no one attended, Stormy White, the port The young sailors are Borrasca White at the beginning of film and a drawing he had done before going to class, two Mayan children riding a rhino, the story of two Mayan children who did mischief in Central filled with rhinos, juice boom and one night I asked my grandfather what censorship meant, thinking it was a sexy word when the word censorship did not have to do with any German, much less with government or media, when censored word was nothing more than that, a word written on a poster which featured a phosphorescent skull grabbing the neck of a chick.
And things like that.

Fotos Del Acne Genital

Not as Buenos Aires

The hungry and the hunted Explode Into

rock'n'roll bands That face off Against Each Other Out in the street
Down in Jungleland
Bruce Springsteen, Jungleland

Do not Try to Be a hero , I repeat as soon as I put my feet in the terminal Buquebús of Buenos Aires. I'm surprised they have entered without any check. In fact, even went through migration, which strangely makes things exciting. I think we could safely go outside Cordoba, firing three shots into the back of a business and return back across the pond. The glass shattered place, stoically maintained for a few seconds and then collapse, drowning out the cries of yuppies and guests of the place coming out of those runs where I always porridge were so funny. I would go walking, mingling in the crowd, throwing the gun with the peace of those gangseteres of movies that they come back and get into black cachila stationed at second row. If the police investigation, there was nothing that could incriminate me, I was never in Buenos Aires . I check for the twenty-fourth time the bag, three T-shirts, underpants, trousers, socks, the book "Virgin Suicides." Directions on an envelope is actually my passport and a hundred dollars to fix the neon jungle.
Unlike previous times I travel to Argentina, this is the idea that this is not going to be just an adventure. It is a purely teleological visit: go to Personal Fest -> see Mars Volta -> pass peep some REM. A few days ago the boyfriend of a cousin of mine had told me how good it was spent at the touch of Dave Matthews Band, performed on the same side, no more than a month. Had this notion of presentation, but for some reason I had not moved a hair. Going to touch that never figured in my plans, even counting the fact that by that time my student calendar, and my pocket was quite loose. But I did nothing and I almost forgot about it, until that birthday I started talking to my cousin's boyfriend. I said on the playlist, the swing of the drummer, Tim Reynolds is old-looking, how they supplied the absence of the saxophonist, who died not long ago. I listened to everything with a sense of strangeness, like a prisoner who is told everyday affairs, could not help feeling those stories of freedom and abstract, too distant. The sadness came over me once back home, while digesting the number of sandwiches industrial Gulls that I had eaten, it was a reproach for past habérseme, even for simply have missed. No, what I really fucked things is that I did not care too much. It was the sadness of that friend who is leaving to call it, of that song that fails erizarte skin of mine that you liked that you cross the street, talking to her staying and found much uglier than I remembered. Everything was a similar fear that was beginning to feel for The Mars Volta. The latest albums, although the latter is fairly well-are far from the height of the first two, leaving the keys to the house to Omar Rodriguez Lopez, a type that no one person manipulating the reel is too the bike .
compared with the first touch of the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall insurance is somewhat exaggerated, but at least bounded for my group of friends, in a context in which MTV was the only comparable standard-at least for us, ignorant children without older siblings of good taste, "the first time we saw Mars Volta had a similar hinge effect. Were the deliveries of the MTV Latino and perhaps in our homes every other prize invented listless expected to win it Shakira, Juanes, or bag of smoke like that, when Zack de la Rocha introduced the band's appearance seventy (Afro, open shirts, jeans so tight they seem tattooed on her thighs). One is that presentation and was not about other presentations are substantially higher than the band of El Paso, but that performance was us so intense, so different from everything we knew, we could not process it, was installed as a trauma, not knowing if it was good or bad. The next day, at about 7:30 am we all went to the same class, and without saying even hello, we looked at our eyes and said exalted "yes, I also saw" . From there, the idea of \u200b\u200bseeing them live, even be that dark to Cedric Bixler removed his glasses, had become a founding myth among us, something against which we considered too distant, almost impossible. Now, after calling George and coordinate a meeting (University Library, Santa Fe and Callao), fear de un brazo con poros cerrados comenzaba a invadirme de nuevo.

Camino por la calle mirando para muchísimos lados porque tengo el I-Pod al mango y temo que no escuche un auto y me atropelle sin más, con esas cebras que a diferencia del respeto que se le tienen en Uruguay, los porteños se lanzan como leones hambrientos. Hay algo que está mal. Lo presiento, el corazón me late en la muñeca, el bruxismo y un tic a la altura de la mandíbula amenaza con dejarme completamente desdentado. La sensación de peligro se vuelve inminente, y pronto comprendo que se debe a cuatro cosas:

1) Haber dormido cinco horas of the last forty-eight. During the trip I was overdrawn, unable to sleep, using the latest download of the sympathetic system to read my eighty facets of The Virgin Suicides. Recently I gave the last ten minutes, so I was between a dream state and waking a bit disorienting. Things seem to be on the edge of the thoughts seem to exploit you in the face, you are always a few steps to mourn, shit of laughter or fit a piñazo someone, without much idea of \u200b\u200bwhy 2) The entire trip I was listening music. This Heat, the younger sister, Bruce Springsteen, Funkadelic, Sex Pistols. I have not heard a sound man since I came to the port city, so everything seems sunk to a strange feeling of unreality, as if only four of my five senses had taken the Buquebús. In a silent film, the lack of sound seems to flatten the image. In the case of taking your life covered by a soundtrack, the environment, rather than mute, seems to be spoken by another, generating between the city and the head of one, that other strange feeling that there is cinematically to watch a movie with problems of lip-sync
3) The previous point, adding that all the way to Córdoba this music by Johnny Rotten and Co., for the first time, as happens with a person who tends to understand things too late, I realize the size of what it says Greil Marcus in Lipstick Traces, about the first time you hear songs like those. Greil Marcus said that it was not simple rebellion, was something that puzzled and even frightened, something contrary to what people thought if this was actually happening, as one sees an explosion, or a catastrophic car crash, not daring to move just watching out the bloodied bodies of metal accordion. It is difficult to hear and imagine Bodies in 1977. It really is a fucking song so fucked still be uncomfortable-especially-Vázquez, especially if you listen from the perspective of their own language (never going to impress us as much as the English at that time because it is not the same listening She do not want a baby That looks Like That / I do not want a baby That looks Like That / Body, I'm not an animal / Body, an abortion , which in English). After the Pistols come Jesus Lizard, and some few metal bands that speak Norwegian babies fuck the trachea, but from a historical perspective, that is so screwed up it is difficult to imagine what would happen if you put it up high-volume, Park in a house in Miramar.
4) Buenos Aires itself, from the same hysteria, to a tiny, neurotic Montevideo, is a daunting city. This need to find the other's desire, as opposed to Montevideo, which seems more than anything scream No! at every turn, can upset enough to one. I climb into a taxi and crossed the 9 July. The street is so wide that for a moment, one feels that he is closing in on itself like a book, crushing a unsuspecting ant. In turn, the car moving at sixty miles per hour on the street feel a hundred and twenty, furrowing tits three meters across, crowned in comedy magazine posters in many buildings. Thus, half-asleep as I am, for a moment I tremble at the idea that a giant poster of the V Florence come alive, destroying City on its way in the style Motran.

The driver is not very good. I'm staring at a spider that is hanging in the back of your hand. The other day I saw Eastern Promises . Very good movie. Mortessen it works like a little clock to Cronenberg. I think of that extra stuff that came with the DVD, a mini documentary about prison tattoos, in which semiological were cut, explaining the meaning of the most common. Precisely, the inventory appeared the spider, in the case of walking up meant that the thief was still committing crimes, and if I walked down, and had retired. Let's see, in walk down here, I remain calm, the rate is not going to do anything,
Did I say that? The semi
waking state I have doubts whether what he was thinking out loud, but the driver is unfazed, which means it probably has not said anything, or that the guy made the idiot, to get even later, to known. In a random street in Santa Fe say that I got off, and the guy tells me a friendly "Are * pesos, maestro" (* I forgot as it was). I give him the silver, and miscalculating the conversion of currencies, I realize that I left him about twenty-Uruguayan pesos tip.
If it were me, would have continued listening to music, but the I-Pod ended leaving me alone, having been discharged the whole battery. Buenos Aires
now becomes a three-dimensional city.
road a bit and I'm getting into some galleries and bookstores. Seeking drugs History (all three fat volumes) of Escothado, but nobody has. New jersey is a Chicago, but I think it's kind of expense, for the other things I have thought about buying. Activity in Fifth Avenue and I drool with discs out there. NEU! 2 , Thank you for Mental Illness, The Modern Dance ... I dream of trains ora braking effort!. I can not hide my excitement at the edge of piss, but prices are violent, and all things considered, I could buy something via internet and I would much cheaper. After twenty questions ask the guy, ask him to give me the name of the store and asks me if I'm there. I say no, and it is also the type of Uruguay, but strangely, does not talk anything about that place. Abraxas , shop. I'm walking, seeing as the album cover of Robyn Hitchcock is starting to become increasingly smaller as I move away, like a girlfriend that is lost in the train from my platform.
I asked two veterans on Bond Street and nobody knows me clear instructions. I walk a little more and I see two mines who looked to be fans of Miranda!, and showing that my target is still pretty tight, I'd say with the naturalness of who goes there twice daily.
is a Thursday, but I remember the Bond Street fuller. The last time I was gone, it was a swarm of emos, darks with orthopedic boots, eager kitsch minitas a star tattooed on his neck. Now, at least half past five late-there is almost no one, two fat hairy Iron Maiden T-shirts and Megadeath, a veteran face of ephedrine have been killed, three female high school students to start eyeing a tie still anticipatory piercings, laughing, and two common types, without anything to qualify. The shops remain more or less the same. Seeking a T-in other years, purchases of clothing almost exclusively carried out in this gallery, "but soon discovered that there is nothing that interests me is why I put myself out to be a message that goes far beyond merely Clothing: T-shirts are the same as always, those messages funny, eloquent, witty, I always liked to carry, but now I do not generate anything more, I look at the designs with some discomfort, like someone looking at his hair style photos too tied to a particular time. Step through the galleries and I still feel a strange sense of decay, but soon beginning to think that maybe is not the Bond Street, but I who changed. I want to buy a shirt for my sister Goo, but they only have large. In a record store I buy at a good price on Funeral, Arcade Fire. I'm almost giving up, when I go to a comic shop arty I had always liked. Store In a chick of about thirty-something asks me if I was looking for something special, and replied without much hope, "Some of Julie Doucet." La tipa leads me to a corner of the store and then take off "New York Journal," another book that I remember and one of the newspapers, but organized as a calendar, with three hundred sixty-five days that detailed pointillism almost baroque that characterizes the Canadian. He had already bought almost without noticing the price a liadísima edition of "The Society of the Spectacle" and the price of books Doucet discourages me a little. As I tell him how much he had searched the Canadian material, the woman asks me "You're not Argentina, not it." (When three people in one hour you wonder if you're abroad, surely you're doing something wrong.) I reveal my source, and says he always wanted to go to Uruguay, that in fact the store owner is Uruguayan, and always told to go with it. I keep half crossed, with a sense of prodrome to a withering attack panick, and say some erratic mean things about the differences between Buenos Aires and Montevideo, and Uruguay need to visit their own standards, having to go city plan, rather than tourists, to fully appreciate it (trying to make a mental review of my previous post, but long disjointed sentences very unclear). I leave the room and go back inside, to ask if by any chance have the "Please Kill me" "no, do not, but they have left one called" Please eat me ", which is about hardcore vegans, or something -style, and to offer to put my book in one of their trays. La tipa accessed without any problems and ask me how I sell it. I answer "to price that you think you, I will not back here, I will not claim any money. " As soon as I throw my response, I see that phrase as very dramatic, almost fatalistic, and the chick I say "well, not so bad, hey." I say that puts an extremely affordable price, and decides to mark it to fifteen dollars. I tell you if it looks good to me also sounds good. I say goodbye and the chick looks at me like a freak, looking at the books and compare the type of flap Black Box, which sat on a step and looking to the side seems a little more secure, hopeful, and serene. I hope

Jorge in University Library. It's my third time there and confirmed ends my guess:
Libraries and University, are to literature what are the movies Blockbusters:
Mountains and mountains of anything.
Not only is uncomfortable as a library, but tend to fill the eye with a bookshelf with fifty copies of this book by Paul Auster, while from Bukowsky, that we are not talking about Mad Reasons inconseguible , de Alencar Pinto, have only (with difficulty) Women and the path of the loser. The rest, shelves and shelves of self help books, editions packages of the best photographers, art and design books for tourists without much imagination, a literature section that is Argentina Sabato twenty thousand books, and only two of Lamborghini.
Angered by this, I am prepared to wait for George at the door when I meet him, empilchado clerical clothing.
grabbed down and we had a few beers at a bar too familiar. Bring a good bite, courtesy of the house, and as I take, I feel that for the first time that day things are sorting themselves, and who leaves settle a mass. As if they had brought to Buenos Aires in a blender, so let it stand in the refrigerator.
The Remains of the day goes fast: subway, bus to Flores, Jorge house, a family of Jorge, delicious sushi ever eaten at Japanese restaurant hidden, play count Jews in Flores, short break, night in San Telmo.
It's early, but I tell George that unless we move to San Telmo at about 0:30, I'd probably fall asleep or fainted in the room. Jorge's car plows through a Buenos Aires pretty fast still half asleep, half awake (as I relied on the belt). Jorge kept strictly beatlero fascism, my choice of music on the car is limited between Macca, Lennon and Harrison. True to my tastes, I choose the All Things Must Pass and I tell him, just hurt that the Beatles without George Martin would not have been anyone.
San Telmo is quiet, it's still relatively early and is only exulting in the main square. Wandered the streets and ended up in a bar called Libido, libido that really has nothing, lost in a corner, empty, with an air of Edward Hopper's paintings. The price is fine, Jorge calls me a Stella Artois and Jameson. The pure malt I became a fetish in recent months. The waiter arrives with a loaded ultra glass, which by far exceeds all standards in terms of measurements, which is very good news. As I take, the body relaxes me. I've realized that everything I do is get better if I have two whiskeys above. That speech sounded drunk, but really, things take another order. Happiness and sadness, excitement and neglect, laughter and seriousness, playfulness and intellectual, everything is better, has another dimension with some whiskey above. D. Day
On the way to Personal Fest, the crowd pretty well fixed hosts is interspersed with rolling, regardless dressed in black, which makes them look like a cross between Old fans crazy and My Chemical Romance. They are a foreign body, at least for the profile you would expect based on the bands that will play. It is here that at some point our paths diverge, and then tell me that, a few blocks, there is a touch of Mice Parade. We had arranged to meet with friends from Montevideo at the door: Rabid Fish, The Baron of the lagoon and the capsule, were staying at the dubious O Rei , hotel thirty pesos a night. As expected, the kids do not arrive on time and we have to get, for fear that the Volta start without us. On the road for the first time I meet with Hiram, the Uruguayan singer Psiconautas that, before saying hello ask me if I have joint, serving a recognizable gesture formed by the arc between the forefinger and thumb .
caching in the entry I wonder if I take drugs with me, and for a moment I say "I have a pair of opium suppositories in the ass, if you want revisame" but I prefer to make it easy and say "no." "Better, then," I answered the security.
I offer the headband tie, but I do not accept. Soon rare pink and purple colors becomes primary.
Jorge and I try to take a place as we can in the crowd that throng waiting for the Mars Volta show. Behind us, in another scenario, Emanuel Horvilleur sings that it can not be with her, would do something better with his sister. I'm surprised however, at such sissies, no reactions of any violentsa particularly those who are waiting for Bixler, Rodriguez and company.
I meet a second time to Hiram, who is blown because the gut is not causing any effect. Hiram, All stories begin and end with "was / we re entripado / s" . The Psiconautas, with MAOIs , are those guys that make your body a dissecting table itself, they eat or take anything that grows the grass, and that sooner or later, this rate will become martyrs of psychedelic studies on the human brain. Hiram in particular, is like a child, but stoned. While my experience with Tripero not usually the best, with Hiram the issue continues to maintain a playful aspect that never ends up entangled with mystical treatises, resulting in its crash very entertaining stories in and out of your head. A few hours later, I find with my friends from college, and I count the surreal journey into the Buquebus at three in the morning, playing a Tetris Hiram and shouting "This is no Tetris, this music and were not the original Bonus !!!", and then completely entripado, hundred and fifty dollars being spent in the little machine's Elaida Metal Slug Isabel. Trumpets
duel with mariachis accents open the show, appears Omar Rodriguez Lopez and Cedric, with curls that passed the limit of what forgivable, while reaching back half. The band begins with Drunkship of lanterns. In a series of well coordinated movements came to the second row. Throughout the topic (about half an hour), the People avalanches become a real threat, where one's life seems to really put into play. You end intellectualizing these waves, embedded within certain sequence as Papillon in Devil's Island. At times I put up, but at certain points, the pressure-both back and ahead, threatening to crush my rib cage, beating my ribs and let everything that is covered by them as a cake smashed in his box. The intense sun does not help, and I have to see how I can achieve with glasses that fog up my sweat and others. At the end of the track and start Viscera Eyes, I need to go back a little. My face is completely dislocated, and people are me away, for fear that the attack or they throw up. A safe distance I can appreciate the touch. It is a particular concert. I seem to process things differently, not incorporated aurally, but everything remains bound by ties of visual images that are tattooed on my brain, like the figure of Omar Rodriguez Lopez reflected in the hype and quivering with every stroke, Cedric Standing on an amp like a pitbull chewing a few blankets hanging from the lights. People are excited, cry, you know the lyrics deranged types. Viewing the public, people recognize as a very sincere, of those people who hang with their own, without worrying about what the new Herzog movie, or what does or does not say the new note of the pitchfork. In a world where hipsters grow like a plague, the guitar solos will save the world.
The touch ends and so soaked and satisfied me reeling back to a rest area where I find myself with Hiram, who, completely gone through sweat like me looks at me with eyes to come out of their sockets and I said water , do not have water, I'm dehydrating !!!!. Toca
Bloc Party, but I'm too busy to restore my vital functions. By pure chance, I meet my friends. Rabid Fish greet and I find talking to Ariel Minimal, who is going to extend a nice bare franciscana. Rabid Fish tell me who took the same subway, standing talking to Ariel from El Loco Abreu.
After a few laps, we hope to REM, having to watch on giant screens in the sad spectacle of Kaiser Chiefs, with a fat man in his attempts to rally people seem so ineffectual as a leader among a pack of Bariloche horny assholes. The touch of REM
sack a few things clear. I went reading the summaries of that presentation on several blogs. Unlike them, I was excited, let alone I was on the verge of tears, but I admired the presentation from another point of view, one technical, envy on which is the giant frontman Michael Stipe. Never in my life have I seen someone so amazing cover of the stage, his every move, until the minimum arching eyebrows was part of a megacoreografía, enveloping all who were watching. Objectively, Stipe opened the perfect itinerary demagogue and expanded resources to points never before seen, but for some reason, that was not uncomfortable, until you got to share their hopes on that promise so diffuse, but at least it is a comfort- of a different world on the shoulders of Barack Obama (it was to put a picture at that time, candidate, on the big screen.) At that time management and space lies the difference between the demagoguery of Stipe, if not credible, unless it is captivating (like the good demagogues, whether heroes or dictators), and the fat of the Kaiser Chiefs. Stipe smiled and fell off the stage, at times I came to give something of fear, thinking that we were all at their mercy, if you wanted, well would have required a human sacrifice and a few others had been filed with stoicism particular . Ends
touch and go walking, crossing with a guy who could have coped with Henry Rollins. The guy looks at me and excited me yells "Essssa, Suicide." At first I think that is part of an intimidating scream, but then I realize that relates to my shirt. We were talking about the first time we hear Frankie Teardrop, and the guy tells me about his past habits darks, its fanaticism of Einsturzende Neubauten ink showing his scars to the sympathetic symbol of the band. He commented that sympathetic situation that I described in an old post , and shits laughing loudly. I realize now that has all my tastes, but as muscle mass, everything I do or I like it more than enthusiasm, excited howling every time I mention an album of Einsturzende or Nick Cave. We said goodbye, and I realize that for the first time someone asks me if I am not from another country. Music is a , I repeat for the inside, and there I find the capsule, complaining of seven dollars to get a bottle of water.

On leaving the tap we met with other members of Exquisite Corpse. Morfar want something, but strangely there is no Libertador Avenue bar, pizza or whatever it was open. We ended up going to a Mc Donalds. Among the new people that we added, there is a strange man with glasses who speaks in a low voice at any time without showing any expression. He tells me he can get me a substantial discount at McDonalds, and I follow the stream (without much hope). Talk to the cashier, and after showing her a card with that chill replied only that the cashiers have expired long ago. He explains that it is Uruguayan, who works at Mc Donalds. He says with confidence, do not look at the chick eye, but an indefinite part of his visor. Without ever raising his voice, this man takes a strange lens importance, like those Japanese Sensei who despite his size, they are anticipated as mortally dangerous. Indeed, the cashier will ask forgiveness ends and the type we reached the burgers, complete serenity. After the incident tell a friend, I quoted a song by Fish, with whom they had been for less than three hours: The more
screams, less is heard.

Sunday morning as I ate George. I had to go to about three and we were seeing how a black family was beaten Frenchman David Nalbadian. Jorge
me to the terminal Buquebús, leaving open the doors between the two rivers, so that anyone can visit when you want.
On the boat I plug in the I-Pod recharging. I hear the Born to run Bruce Springsteen. It's an album exaggerated to the absurd, but has a market share inevitably epic that I find captivating. Jungleland possibly one of the most bizarre ever made. Everything is epic. One can when washing a mattress and when I hear it feels a hero. Especially in that way going into the saxophone and piano, especially in that part that The Boss said in a trembling voice

Beneath the city two hearts beat Soul
engines running through to night so tender In a bedroom locked
In whispers
Refusal of soft surrender And Then


Puzzled, I look at how Montevideo slowly approaches the window. I'm finishing Virgin Suicides, I have a few facets. I check a bag in which I delightfully scented soaps Mary. A two year old grabs me by the hand, and I will leave, not knowing much to do, because my mother side is asleep.
I'm finishing those last veneers, with the boy's hand pressing my thumb, listening to Bruce that


A real death waltz Between what's flesh and what's fantasy And the poets down

here Do not write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all Be
And in the quick of the night Reach for Their
They
moment And try to make an honest stand
Wounded But They wind up
Not Even dead Tonight in Jungleland

seeing how the sun goes down and the sea becomes argento, or rather, gray

Charlotte Russe Songs April 2011

Owners feel

The only questions worth Asking whether today Are Humans Are going to have any emotions tomorrow, and the quality of life What Will Be if the answer is no. Lester Bangs

Paso pages wonder man to death a monumental laburo by Philippe Ariès, be trying to analyze and document all the changes that have occurred since the early days about the funeral rites of men. The work is not merely a taxonomic issue or phenomenological, and the guy from their analysis makes an interesting study, not only of how the concept has mutated of life and death but also sin, productivity, romance, love and sensitivity of an era. Would talk about the book for a while, but what particularly caught my attention were some brilliant insights into the death of today, raising bridges to certain aspects of a sensibility that prevails in everyday life and the arts. The reporting period covers will be called the reverse of Death .
Until the First World War, at least in the Western world, the death of a modified space and time for a social group, implement certain rituals and habits, as might be to close the shutters, ringing the bells of the church, or made colorful funeral processions. In a way, mourning lay not so much about the family, or the most intimate of the deceased, but is divided among all members of the community. The tone concerned, almost buzzing of those funerals, colorfully pathetic, and at times bordering on some edges in the true celebration, was made to repudiate the death, or at least scare her off temporarily, ie as if the people's reaction was more a action to construct the abstract entity of death, rather than the pure pain undone emaciated and falling on the duelist of our times. Only after the second World War, in a world that witnessed the horrific destructive power of man, while he was transformed according to the mutations of capitalism cannibalistic that registration between individual and society loses almost Edenic that continuity that characterized him, it constitutes the private, and loosening the ties between the company (at least in urban or industrial properly). In the present state of things, the disappearance of an individual and does not affect the continuity of a community, all the events set in the following days as if no one had died. Any attempt to show pain to the rest of the world is symptomatic, or covertly censored, death becomes pornographic.

Thus, there is a kind of suffering a huis clos, where the company loses the role he had before, while starting an economization of resources in regard to ritual and symbolic aspects (Simpler caskets, impersonation of the rural cemetery gardens, etc.). For this decline corresponds to the totemización rites of science as a measure of all things, the medicalization of man as the main measure shows around their finitude. Through certain technological and scientific advances, the doctor supplants the old folk recipes and start to extend the life beyond I had imagined. To the extent that the health-for the same control of epidemics, is becoming a fundamental end, death, far from ending that dignifying the past, you begin to feel as dirty and disgusting. Approaches to death beginning to stain the same aseptic conditions that characterized the hospitals, and the maintenance of life, far from being a criterion to consider, go on to become an end in itself. This end justifies any interference, and the hospital is becoming more pervasive as the main framework where most people stop there. The falleciente that person ceases to be proud and aware of his fate which he gave his last wills from his own room the rest of their relatives, and is supplanted by the weak person, tubing, dying almost without knowing it, or worse, misled. The world begins to enter a stage full of Ivan Ilyich, terminals and old people who are lied to and taken as if they were children (doubly a lie, not only will the physician to the patient, but the same patient to the doctor into thinking you are believing what the other says).
First of all, what prevails is the need first to keep death as far as possible, something that not only is seen in medical practice, but also in the funeral American homes. When it seemed that the funeral was part of the past, funeral homes (not just wakes developed at home, but these private services that could be seen on such shows as Six Feet Under ) decentralize the church farewell rites but lead back into the same capitalist imperatives: death becomes a business. However, Ariès points out that in this business of death, there is everything except death. While in the ancient rites was quite evident the notion of death, both from religious imagery, and from the social reaction to it (without going too far, the option of displaying the body in the coffin open) funeral homes in the attempt to maintain an illusion of life at all costs, making wakes in the house of death, embalming, make-up, so to speak, tuneándolo to make it seem as alive as possible.
Now what does all this with things I usually write here-say to yourself, music, movies, or the majesty of Claudia Cardinale? - It seems that today was a great distrust of the emotions. Generated a neurotic fear of spending the melodrama. The date is not accurate, but in the last decade, as well as trying to discreetly silence the dead at the time of giving his last orders songs, at least in the field in what is often called the quintessential rock, not so well in the case of pop-started cutting, and who cut wine with soda, emotional flow that could promise a song (there is also the other side of the balance that with the use of teenage angst trivializing the excitement is over.) The reasons, beyond the kick to the liver that was after you were one of the larger than life have been entered (the heavy metal eighties, full of these ballads played on the rain-making types -sweetpicking- while-you-stopped-in-the-handle-to-motorcycle-with-form-of-dragon-fire-lit-going-to-bottom-of-a-volcano-erupting-in-guarded-by-orcs- with-chainsaw-full-of-dynamite ), can be traced in the same aesthetics and postmodern philosophy that tries to subvert all the great speeches (and death is nothing that great and impregnable speech we hear at the end of days). Any feeling purple is treated with the same aseptic a doctor cure an infection, are regarded with suspicion ancient, like a drastic increase in registration of white blood cells of a body like a mold growing on the edge bimbo bread.
vectoring such repudiation gives rise to two-way solution:
a) Either it fully eliminates all sentimentality or belief, or they are taken, they are abused, swelling like a dog with anabolic to turn it into something completely different.
b) The two solutions are shaped or resort to cynicism to exorcise the ghost of the house of kitsch, or trap the same ghost and bring it to a mobile shop, where people laugh and throws peanuts through the cage , but certainly behind those bars there is nothing we can do that freak.
c) The first solution can be seen in the cool detachment of all truth, or positioning, Compass parties in the writers who misinterpreted to Carver, the filmmakers who do not understand Wes Anderson, or 90% of films indies, such as Juno, with that met almost all kinds of neurotic pathos
The second solution can be seen in Umpi Dani, Miranda!, Closet, electroclash, Max Capote, Architecture in Helsinki, the design kitsch pseudo Gallery Viceroy.

Interlude I, time is money
The fine had a hot date and asked me to accompany him to the mall to buy a shirt. In my case, means putting on a shirt or something very important happened or something very terrible (to attend the fiftieth anniversary of marriage of my grandparents, or a funeral, respectively), so I'm not the best companies at the time to attend in the purchase of this garment.
I'm someone who firmly believes in choice and have preferences about almost any subject, either to determine if Patricia is better to Pilsen, where Burst was better than Monterrojo, if preferred wax eyebrow tweezers, or that of all the former is more Tota Santillan good.
I'm a guy who loves making (and strangely vote canceled for the next election, although that's choice), but oddly enough, all the shirts I look alike. Basically I can divide them into three categories:
a) The normal
b) The ridiculous
c) too gay
As the fine know this, often decide to include a third party to seek, in this case Santiago a pink hulk renovated, with a gradual cessation of irons able to return your body adaptable to clothes in general. We
by different stores and the same shirts happen one after another, the fine and James talk about textures, colors and cuts, but I only see pieces of checked or striped fabric. The thing I am going back half boring, but then the fine comes up go to Zara. He had already talked about that store in this post, but I must again point out that is the ultimate expression of the clothes (at least the male) as complicated as laughable. In the design of Zara always underlies the philosophy of more is better. It would appear that the owners had chained to an old man who decides to cloth caps, patches and random pockets of anything that falls through a tube in a cell where not even get to see the hands.
The spring harvest is not as ridiculous as the other times, but then I find this diver. It is a piece v-neck, and behind it stands the neck of a shirt. Thinking it is a strange neglect of one of the hyper-masculine store clerks, took the perch, hoping to separate the diver's shirt and then I realize that both are part of the same garment. I'm shocked. When I was young there were a few more fans of Kurt Cobain wore a long sleeve shirt under a Short Sleeve (something I did a couple of times, but I was particularly uncomfortable), but at least share the same textures, and one of them could be drawn whenever they wanted. This was different, and the thought bothered me. What is this? "The thrill of modern times, what Paul Virilio has been trying to save so much time solving the process to get two coats in one motion? A new sexual revolution has led people to such debauchery that is necessary to forgo the clothes in mere seconds? Does the U.S. financial crisis has impacted the world of clothing to the point where you have to save on material, simplifying the design two expensive pieces in one?.
Whatever the reasons, I decided to design a new clothing that fits and syncretism simplifying features of the needs of people today. Hipsters

Of all the cultural changes he talked, the hipsters are the latest monstrous creation.
The great virus that escaped from a test tube crashed into the ground.
A little less than two months, when someone spoke of hipsters to me was referring to Neal Cassady, or as interesting as these marginal types that appeared in the novels of Kerouac. However, in a matter of weeks, and possibly because of this article of Adbusters, which arrived via elbailemoderno - I began to know the redefinition of this word that originally associated with more sympathetic characters.
After you read many blogs, either this , this or this, I conclude that at a certain temperature and exposed to some sunlight, hipsters are a cultural Chernobyl, an unexpected error factory, a monkey is turned-monster Leviathan.
A-apparently-negligible oxygen bubble going quietly into the center of the heart.
AIDS is the language spoken in the social, the idea autodeformante a virus so powerful in his apartment full of all-including himself-which is impossible to be taken by any of its parts. This is not about wielding the moral mandate that any new movement has an obligation to be countercultural from scratch (being an individual hipster apathetic and rather comfortable, and arguably even appropriate to their social environment), but effects rather than political, human. Denial is a radical, but not that There's no future for you! tearing the throat of Johnny Rotten, but no, nah an ironic, laughable, uttered through clenched teeth, fading like smoke coming out of Parliament cigarettes hanging from their mouths.
By this I mean there seems to be too apocalyptic, and is more worthy of a veteran in a parent meeting, an indignant psicobolche at a meeting of the FEUU, or a pseudo Brazilian preaching in a makeshift church in an old cinema, but construction of this new identity is false, and more culturally harmful than any iron, dark, emo, punk, or a fan of Peñarol that may exist. Even the hipsters
fail in their hedonism. In his case, the trial is a mere hedonism, a bad copy of pleasure without restraint, since the pursuit of pleasure is in compliance with a code, an agenda that becomes all too self-conscious rather a radical twist to the Franciscan ideal get to drive through the deprivation of all (in this case, not material, but any position, any emotional content.)
The problem lies in its elusive nature, which prevents grab, or attack by one side, as Douglas Haddow says:
"But it is rare, if Not impossible, to find an individual Who Will Proclaim themself a proud hipster. It's an odd dance of self-identity - adamantly denying your Existence Clearly defined symbols while wearing That proclaims it. "
A board-the person who proudly defines itself-stained every strand of her hair, puts his feet in the Nike ships, placed his Barcelona shirt, slightly tilted his visor up, or the Polar Alpha jacket, but unlike the thick-framed glasses with no increase and T-shirts with messages ironic hipsters, that dress is almost a preparation for the battlefield. Although the everyday becomes a little clothing as, ultimately, inconsequential as when I wear a shirt of Suicide, that is an iron and I do, one reason why some bars or nightclubs would not let him enter his establishment , one reason why a police caress his truncheon. Keops
When I went to when he cut a song from, say, the Vulture and began to rumble on the walls the last issue of Pibes jets, one for a while understand the structure of the cumbia villera nitrogen, the tum-tu-tu-tum pacemaker was directly connected to one cop, the pattern The rate offered to franeleo, the need to pull a chick and make a mock copulation, at least in the three minutes it lasted that song. Those nights, but eventually I ended up getting tired, I find it more realistic in terms of match between means and ends, any time barman pseudo cool that one could live in the round, or the living, even in real touch of bands . In Khufu's thing was clear, women and the men went to the track and knew adhered to what was the règle du jeu , and deep-more than there were people who not only ran erotomaniac plan, not to deceive, nor was a Roman orgy, knew they were all-in party-for that. In other clubs in the area of \u200b\u200bMontevideo, which one notices is that people do not really know what it is. Rather, it seems to be occupying a place, a space that is reserved for them, and if not occupied, they run the risk of being relieved by others.

"The dance floor at a hipster party looks like it Should Be Surrounded by quotation marks. While punk, disco and hip hop all Had immersive, intimate That energetic dance styles and liberated the dancer from his / her mental states - be it the head-spinning b-boy or violent thrashings of a live punk show - the hipster has more of a joke dance. A faux shrug shuffle That mocks the very idea of \u200b\u200bdancing or, at its best, illustrated a non-committal fear of expression typified in a weird twitch / ironic twist. The dancers Are too self-aware to let Themselves feel Any form of liberation; They shuffle along, shrugging Themselves Into Oblivion. "

Of all the hipster movement will not be a song, novel or story line, a well used paint milliliter. At best be a joke, a joke that will remain in the air as floating dust in the area devastated by an intensive cultivation of GM soy.
Interlude II, Ortelli, dixit
I'm sure at one time I got to see the Rolling Stone. Virtually
bought all the numbers from May 2005 until March 2007, but over time I began to realize their mistakes, the discomfort that I was reading it, as he discovers the true chick that he was pressing when the lights am going through the jack. Adding to this, the magazine began to be increasingly ideologically disastrous, as can be the bottle that will make the majors ( oh, Augustine, I've opened eyes), the tail of straw after Cromagnon, which has led to an article embolante reminder in every fucking number since December 2005 and this hateful and obscurantist note about the persecution of those who download music from the internet).
was so I decided to jump ship.
To my surprise, no sooner stopped buying the magazine, I surrogate for my sister, who began to buy it with the same religion that I had made some years ago.
Eye, Rolling Stone has had his moments, like an interview with hints of melodrama melodramatic made Barbara Lombardo (it was from there that I began to look attractive ex Paquita) some great articles about Argentina soccer finals in 78 and 86, some notes of Hunter Thompson learned from the U.S. version, and most interviews Calamaro, who always considered an excellent interviewee.
However, the journal, or my enthusiasm has been declining, and in recent days I have dedicated exclusively to search for what you write Juan Ortelli, possibly one of the most incomprehensible writers (not to be confused with misunderstood ) and wandering which are featured by the magazine. Ortelli
The endorsement had heard voice of Darius, where basically the Argentine journalist came to say perlite Bicycles are like cats, but Pony Sneakers (which makes me think that Carmen San Diego is like The Jesus Lizard, but suede boots), and thinking that it would not be able to maintain such a pace of bullshit, comes this genius of a subsequent issue:
On the last record of MGMT:
"(...) which gives lysergic atmosphere to work. There are breathing tests of the Harvard Psychedelic Project, the whiff of Black Bear community, David Bowie, Wayne Coyne, why not the Small Faces and the wild Jagger Their Majesties Satanic. Everything in the hands of two kids that can pass (or not) for a couple of extras from the beach. "
The latter led me to think of a few shots to the note of some recent discs:
* On Neon Bible, Arcade Fire:
All this in the hands of a group that can pass (or not) for a couple of extras rejected for a version of Macbeth set in space.
* On Modern Guilt, Beck:
All this in the hands of a type that could easily be included (or not) in the cast of Gummo
* On the last album by Jorge Nasser:
All this in the hands of a type that could be taken (or not) to interpret the cowboy in a film version of the Falcons Galactic.
proposals are accepted, thanks Ortelli for giving us much to think about.

Camp
If one tries to follow the hipsters carbon chains, you may find in the camp to one of their candidates.
In Notes on Camp, Susan Sontag makes an excellent dissection of the sensitivity, not trying to limitation in a theoretical construct, but by articulating details of a floating mode, a series of points that can be attached in a way that seems ( since no sensiblilidad can become a system: if it can be reduced to its blueprints, ceases to be such, is something in life evanescence).
The Camp is the cult of artifice, of exaggeration, a sensitivity depoliticized mocking laughter when a room where everything has become a serious wake, an affectionate wink in a glass eye, kick the chess board and get to dance with the reaper.
The basic modus operandi is to return the serious camp frivolous, frivolous and serious.
But behind their aesthetic ridiculous, there is a genuine conviction, an underlying passion that differentiates the most Warholian pop art, which only refer to things in quotes (as Sontag says), does so with asterisks and notes footer. All the innocence that might be in the camp, in pop culture becomes mere cynicism. Andy Warhol took all these people, the rats became and converted his factory in his own labyrinth Skinner. Behind the equalization of conclusion "In the future everybody will be famous for fifteen minutes" had underlying a curse carved in a mortuary room pharaonic "I create you and I can destroy you" . People are often left with fame, but forget the details of the fifteen minutes, something that worries me in a country like Argentina, where a character with an expiration date as Wanda Nara, not only passed fifteen minutes, but returns home disguised as a Russian princess. Even from the cynical view of Warhol as a drum solo, passing fifteen minutes, it stops being fun.
When imitation of camp does not become cynical, then it becomes safe, packaging. If this is the aesthetic that has upholstered Uruguay in recent years.
In the camp there was an attempt to achieve something monumental and beautiful. In Uruguay, there is an attempt to be camp, nothing more than that.

Umpi Dani's homosexuality has no intrinsic value, only mean by this service and aesthetics. The gay community, even in its parades, etc. seem this great sketch of Little Britain , where the fat goes gay proclaiming their homosexuality, believing the only people there and defending the a tooth and nail any kind of intolerance, when nobody cares about his orientation, and when in fact their parents try to get a couple. As noted in this post Benito, "no culture bitter, oppressive and omnipresent that rebel against the glamorous name, only a few residual structures and concepts, despised by anyone who has read on for the past 20 years."
The Uruguayan camp parody, nothing more.
More than parody, are ideological statement shows, in the naziest way.
And the parody is just such another, put quotation marks on every emotion or positioning.
But when one says that the camp has upholstered Montevideo, how far we can say that.
More lining, we have been led to believe that is covered.
Montevideo, unlike Buenos Aires, is an easy city to take it.
You only need twenty people with means and connections and already have a movement.
And the Uruguayan camp is no more than that, the inside joke of two bars, three radio drivers, fifteen publishers and ten designers.
a country where nostalgia increasingly on the heels of this (both for lack of ideas as some morbid passion for the past, and nostalgia is nothing more than the alterofilia of memory) is a perfect breeding ground for the camp aesthetic.

Interlude III, Children of ships
Excluding grappamiel and memorable ads (after the Uruguayan health, the worst that has occurred in national television), there is hardly one as hateful as this commercial.

The notice in question comes from a long tradition of trade as deplorable as nationalists, as My country, the Rada, or the new spot of Pilsen with that awful song composed by the asshole vocalist Snake. In fact, the verse of the song princeps, that "celestial born" rather than something strictly nationalist, I bring the image of a dead child leaving the mother's vaginal canal, sky after suffocated by the umbilical cord around his neck, but maybe that is just my idea .
But back to the notice in question, the issue brings murguistas taking a long inventory of all that is Uruguay, which would not be anything outside the norm, but were for the final. After a sentence as excessive and almost utilitarian as "identity your children are planting today / the great history that enlarges our Uruguay "-a phrase without much difficulty could be found in some Mussolini's speech, see the company logo:
Schneck Schneck, autoctonísimo, che.
After all, we are children of the boats.

Hunters

dreams But now that I think, in reference to self-imposed aspect that patching has moved in Uruguay, almost all followed the same character and ideological horizon.
In a long walk I did with astllr , comment on the issue almost a mirage, all the movements that have shaped the city. Given the changing face of culture and embalmer, I was trying to preserve, through my writing, small images of what Uruguay was a close to mutate and forget completely. Astllr position was more radical, wanting to remove once and for all these models, to create something new and enduring (burn the earth to grow, as did the Mayans).
one way or another, Uruguay has not been just that, a succession of movements that overlap and cover each other, without going over posts, simply mutating. There is no development, maturation, but simple mutation, without specific effects on the multicellular organism of the city. In the coming years the magazines freeway, the NEO and Bla be thrown away, and the skin will take another chameleon-like chromaticism Uruguay, seeking a new gimmick, a new private joke we all pretend to understand. But thinking differently, referring to the words of Sontag, perhaps the camp was always here. I quote paragraph 24:

. "24 The pure examples of Camp Are unintentional; They Are Dead Serious. The Art Nouveau craftsman Who Makes a lamp with a snake coiled around it is Not kidding, NOR is he Trying to Be charming. Saying He is, in all earnestness: Voilà! The Orient! "

If one goes through the center, it costs more than two blocks to find these details. The meringue pie neoclassical Palacio Legislativo (sentence subject to the copyright of the deceased mentiraestelamento , phallus Lone Telecommunications Tower, the fifth coming home unless in Lezica, postmodernism Diaz Palace (with the neon lights of a bowling alley installed in your basement), the Nautical Art Deco buildings Pintos Risso first .. . This last example is rather peculiar, because it shows how extrinsic often the ideas we put into the pores: one makes you curious why Uruguay is a city so gray, and it is for something so trivial, as the fact that European journals reached Uruguayan architects were in black and white. And there seems something one would typically start construction of a nation, but later appears Natalie Kriz promoting the Diamantis Plaza, offering people those niches glass, asking if he ever thought to live in a five star hotel. One sees that, and you know that in the lower economic setback, that will remain a warehouse full of moldy pools, a giant dead, as dead as the shops and houses that remained after the failure of the Phoenix plan.
This aspect of wanting to reach a seriousness, a seriousness that fails, the camp itself, but I would not plan to promote Uruguay as the only architecture that.

In one of the few obscenities I was doing on the malintepretación the camp, which would include It can be understood in the same way that LA Confidential is a memorable film, and The Black Dahlia cardboard and ridiculous film. De Palma's version is just a parody, a patchwork of all the imagery noir, while in LA Confidential allow a communion of the aesthetic to the imperatives of the plot. But the example is doubly hand, it serves to include a detail of the film. On one hand, it reveals that one of the main suspects, a tycoon and film producer, made his fortune creating Hollywoodland, a cheap neighborhood from the use of wood residual film factory films American dreams, to create a lot of highly flammable homes and buildings. More or less that is what is Montevideo, a city made of planks and scenes of old movies borrowed from the ideas of others.
live and walk in the dreams of thirty people who have dedicated themselves to dream the dreams of others.
To me what worries me is what happens when you wake up.

Shiny Stone Heart Gold Action Replay

No pussy blues / Love songs for patriots
The sixteen years stank. The worst was that age was a yearning, a countdown waiting for something to happen, but we went on our first months in that class as small Aguirres wildly hoping the discovery of El Dorado. Soon not only we realized that not only were lying all expectations that we had done, but it was worse. The first myth: the dances plus fifteen. When one was fourteen, the age of sixteen circulating in agreement as a divine figure, almost alchemical, in which each would go to those dances all pendejas-at least fifteen, or fourteen, at his feet . When we arrived at that age, plus fifteen dances had virtually disappeared, and all the women began to attend clubs for over eighteen, with its sister cards, charging to the bouncers, becoming the drunk, or simply passing through a speck in the eye in the panoptic security system of bowling (a panoptic eye that looked like Sauron in the event that you were male). But the worst did not end there, once managed the feat of get you, you realized you were almost a hijra of India, almost as if you were one of those women of the Nazi collaborators in France with a 16 tattooed on his skull shaving. 16, 16, 16. One could feel it, almost had the hormone supplement of eighteen, and even, at least in my case usually exceed the height, but there was something wrong, something that was inside you like a curse that you hit and was part of you, as those numbers that has branded Hurley on Lost. 16, 16, 16, a bar code recognizing you as a defective product.
If it was fucking in the world of night, in the day, where you went to school revealed more frighteningly, as the morning that makes up grotesquely some of those women who believed in the comfort of beautiful lights and smoke. You see those movies Yankees and is with those masters of football by putting the nerds their heads in toilets. Well, none of that actually happening. That was somewhat exaggerated, too obvious, as the period's political anatomic Foucault. What happened in the high school was much more disguised symptomatic biopolitical, and as such, much more difficult to escape it. There was no one discriminándote openly. Was not even an active indifference. Simply, women were not interested. The analogy is almost applicable to music. In the seventies, Martin Rev played with one hand and the other is defending the things that the audience threw. Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious in his living touring the United States that experience a constant battle of Verdun, where the stage was merely a trench against the bumps and spit hurled by people. Instead, it was a different audience, almost like playing in a dinner show in which people are too busy in her food to hear you scream. Alan Vega could survive under the influence of another force antinomian, but could never have existed in a warm sea with no wind in which nobody had an opinion or reaction on a suitably trained.
One idea struck him that there was something wrong with him, but he looked in the mirror, and beyond a little wear those shirts colorinche monochromatic Rugby, there was no physical detail abominable that separated from the rest. Indeed, one could see some people who had some success with women and were objectively crappy rates. In these circumstances, one thinks it is natural that a phenomenon has now emo. Moreover, some pseudo read my poems at that time and I realize I could well go into a song by My Chemical Romance. Luckily, at that time no one knew of such term, and we stopped almost all wavelengths, tribe, or move that exist. We knew there were punks, but neither me nor any of my friends have liked the punk. The closest thing to Nirvana was punk, but who did not like Nirvana at sixteen years? (Well, now that I think, I do not like Nirvana). There were some goth, but that it was too strange for us and to wish a darky who used to see walking through July 18, none had greater intentions to know about this congregation, besides, if we did not believe in God, why we do it on Satan? -. Skater or there. On the other hand, once played a game of rugby in Cabo Polonio, in one of those exits high school integration. I had no idea how to play, only that it was like football, I had learned to play on the Nintendo 64 - but there was no forward passes. The issue is that I took that ball oval throughout the match could not take me, leaving some pretty ridiculous how fat that came a few years training at the Pucarú (which had carried the ball to Cabo Polonio as a way to show alpha male virility of the other partners) ... The point is that a few days later, leaving the track, one of the Coolest rugby players in that group that had offered me on our team. In retrospect, the scene was loaded from a strange mysticism, as if that type was Al Pacino Keanu Reeves offering everything a mortal wants, in exchange for his excellent breed with sister to the Antichrist know what movie I mean -. Even remember who told me that if he could get very good mines.
The answer was no, and eventually began to supplant that plaintive and self-flagellating attitude with a non-active, one not meant much more than "I do not care if they do not ball." In fact, after sixteen years, more profiles for the seventeen, eighteen, the other classmates, those who had had some period of glory, also finished singing his No pussy blues because women increasingly ambitious, started out with twenty-three or twenty-five types, types that were going to get to school by car and they systematically broke the heart. Today, every so often I come across or heard of any of those women, and I realize that things do not change much. Their boyfriends seem to drivers, one sees only when the lead or go in search of parties where they are mostly alone. It is sad to see thousands of women (predominantly middle class, upper middle) is an important piece shit youth in and out of relationships whose only goal is that, to be brides, show your friends, avoid the fear of being the only one of its group that does not have a boyfriend, to avoid a weekend without having anyone who called to invite her boyfriend to barbecues spa buildings from their parents, believe they are in love, when it is not a subterfuge to his loneliness, or worse, no one felt alone, but socially determined.
But back to us men, or more specifically the Oliver, James and I, we went, perhaps unconsciously, that is not taken seriously. In the strange world of San Juan-well, not so strange being a scholar was a handicap, and the one more knowledgeable on certain topics might show different to "new places where they give you for that bowling frees" that would reveal as a liability, a crown of thorns that you had to carry on the sly. You'd see some indie movies, and saw those geeks winners and wondered if that happened only United States, or was something I had to wait a couple of years. Eventually, American movies were right, and as soon as I entered college, the culture became my workhorse that is loaded in mines, but in high school studying, not drinking, not smoking, being responsible, was something quasi-punk. It was the world upside down in one said Fuck the system, I'm going to study . This was denied, a radical negation, kick the board to not even be part of the game. At recess one would bet on a guy a bit strange that I could not catch a bird with his hand, and while attending a ridiculous spectacle of feathers and trips, other people, smoking and talking about renting homes to go to spend the summer in La Pedrera, we did not know what comments were broadcast. Those were our years with the black Oliver and James, and slowly start getting in our faces and mannerisms some elements of Ren and Stimpy. Faces contorted, eyes bloodshot veins, all that grotesque imagery began to get tattoos on our faces and our notepads.
Yes, we were getting ugly and shit that we were enjoying. Go to a place with no prospect of someone charging you feel like something completely absurd. Man builds a bridge to tell mine you like "look, I built a bridge. " So without that bonus, that promise, everything is tinged with something untranslatable, a prison, but also a radical freedom. There was no one to impress. Everything was allowed. Santiago one day he rose from his seat in the middle of an English class, and with a drawn stigmata on the palms of their hands shouted "I am Jesus." We had just played a fairly religious teacher was offended. Every now and then we got up and screaming that we noted the floor was a squirrel running through the class. Most people got up and went up to the banks as if they were so manipulated as such hysterical Charcot. With Oliver learned the faint touch of a vein that was the brain and once planned a mass fainting to avoid a partial (the idea that very few people were folded). I had already left the whole subject of UFO's, but just in front of those people exploited the few cells of Fox Mulder living in me. Even on weekends and James Martin were to come to my house, and after playing some matches International Superstar Soccer, we would walk down the street, hoping to find someone in the vicinity of some nightclubs to give us some beer . We stayed by door. One day Martin came up with these mines pretty good, one year less than us, I think, and Santiago all the talk was insisting on the piece of turd that had just stepped on, showing it and watching the face of disgust of the gals. And so on. Throughout this journey
oppositional, sex was something very far (unless we went to Casablanca, or any of those brothels that was a lot of people, but I absolutely refused to attend), and stranger still was the love. I'd love a couple of times, but except for a monumental victory that lasted too short a time, and it took me a couple of years to recognize that there was nothing monumental, "love was something quite associated with frustrations. The only way to experience Love was listening to songs that spoke about this, almost as if they were books on science. None knew what love was, but supposed it had something to do with those ballads hypertrophied Guns' n Roses, with the love of Lenny Kravitz sixties, with the sensuality of Barry White, with some of these ballads eighties who went on the radio night with the most beautiful songs of Radiohead, whether the proto emo Creep, kinematics soundtrack for Romeo and Juliet or Fake Plastic Trees (which was not love, but served to torment a little .) While most people took more or less predetermined paths (Guns' n Roses on the one hand, on a parallel track, but quite combative Nirvana, Pearl Jam and the whole grunge same heterogeneous concoction, and the side-ah Metallica metalhead, and RHCP fans), I kept clinging to Radiohead and Clubs began to rummage through old, looking more and more cheesy love songs, which put me in tune with what was supposed to love. No big surprise return to some compiled at that time and find musicians like Al Green and Marvin Gaye or Bruce Springsteen. There was a need to feel strong, deep, and no longer than four minutes. More or less so I can think of seeing a dangerous discovery.
NOTICE here is when I put a rambling theory that may have as few as the epistemological basis of Natacha erotóloga title Jaitt :
The seventies, eighties and above all, they were full of power ballads like an orange-hypertrophy by the Metal GM - which were growing to collapse like a tower of Babel made of cards with the phenomenon indie-slacker-loser nineties, a phenomenon that I like irresponsibly associated with the triad Pavement, Beck, Nirvana . Especially Pavement, but Nirvana and Beck (with the quasi anthem I'ma loser, I'ma loser baby, so why do not you kill me), brought home the irony, and with them a whole set of works in which the characters were no longer young teens who love people who ran away to marry in Las Vegas, but citrus types, incisive, bitter, but funny , as might have been the heroine Daria (I worry about what mainstream and MTV-official that is becoming this post, but I), that people liked to call volatile Generation X . The point is that if one sees the field of music, can feel that yes, there were still some of those pompous ballads (I mean the American rock, of course there are still pop bands and singers Latino teamoporqueteamoyoteamo keep singing), but had created a feeling of deep distrust of any emotion naked and overexposed. Perhaps the turning point had arrived pomposity love with one of the songs, but above all more over the top music video in history: November Rain .

I liked that video, but now I see and I have to keep it clear, because any careless movement shit me up with laughter. Everything is completely corny, radical and even absurd, perhaps as a faithful representation of the megalomaniac personality Axl, who was already showing his psychotic lint. In fact, the scene most ridiculously over the top is where Axl is crying to his wife in the church, and when all people will keep the rain as if it were an eruption of Etna, but when you are walking Slash atrium and starts to play one just outside the church, which is strangely in the middle of the desert scenes alternating with live stand up guy playing that piano that Elton John Axl emulates. In fact, in the following videos always found him a situation over the top to put in Slash play, as when water comes Estranged. In a way, love was inflated to exploit this issue to finally go to hell than any other track of the time. With this reading somewhat partial and possibly mythical band Nirvana, which is always associated as an antagonist to the Guns, and in fact was given its coup de grace to the band in Los Angeles, especially at this great presentation of MTV music awards, is almost an antibody that tries to return to homeostasis, the body of the rock, which was massively invaded by kitsch sentimentality on the other side. From then on, distrust of emotions was becoming widespread, and the letters rockers, especially the indies, were populated by some bite, but a pointedly never encouraged to show their sentimental lint. Not claiming a band like Jesus Lizard to be made to do a ballad, by God, no, but would be a pretty fun experiment, "but the love songs were losing that nudity and innocence that I loved in other issues time. I'ma guy who likes Bruce Springsteen, and not only the minimalism of Nebraska, but all these epics of Born to run road, bloated sentimentality lyrics Born in the USA, including some of those ballads eighty Tunnel of love. In the United States each wound bleeds Springsteen twice the other, and every love is a mummified state of eternity, which is discussed in the miles a road that branches off another, the fate of the universe. Even hard to believe how senses and feelings can be overexposed in a band as indie as Replacements , that in the eighties not blush to do great covers of Kiss of power ballads.
Of all the romantic heritage are some, but not many, and the main genre that made this post is the Emo and Nu Metal, misunderstanding, and Discarded selecting some other aspects.
With girlfriend and all, that Augustine a few years ago has not changed at all, and continually need to catalyze the love through movies and songs. Thus, I prepared a list of those songs seem more interesting, more significant, or are sticking me most about that love. Of course, this is purely subjective, is not an anthology to Rolling Stone type best ballads of the century, with interviews with Chris Cornell, Anthony Kiedis, Madonna and Britney Spears . " And of course I am aware of beautiful songs that leave you on the road, as Most of the time, Just like a woman, or any item Blood on the Tracks, Bob Dylan, the beautiful collection of ballads Leonard Cohen left, Stephanie of Zitarrosa, which is difficult to survive without making newsprint at the first listen, many of the incredible collection of love songs from Destroyer, the awkward romance to the brink of destruction of some topics of Xiu Xiu, that monumental song about the maturity that is Lover's spit (Broken Social Scene), a number measureless of beautiful love ballads made by Morrisey and company, heartbreaking songs written by Mark Eitzel, some of those sixty-nine, and many more love songs composed by Merritt and company, those intimate songs that had three minutes to the body and Tim Buckley's voice, all these bossas that I need to hear, and great tenderness Plea for , Jonathan Richman, who recently sent me Darius.
Here goes the list. Oh, and let's do it in 16 songs, to keep the spirit. If any order:

Gato Barbieri Last Tango in Paris "
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My favorite soundtracks of all time. Last Tango in Paris working in such an inextricable from performance-frame- music that may not to be recognized as a work of Bertolucci, but a co-authored by him, Marlon Brando and Gato Barbieri (BBB, one of the most bright brotherhoods in film history). Can hardly find a more saxophonist Gato Barbieri passionate, someone who is of sensuality to love, from love to lust, to a chamber music styling to a dark underground tango, as this event is attended by Brando and Schneider drunk at the end of film -, from most European primitivism mirimbao violins. What crosses Last Tango in Paris, as the trains in which the camera is stopped, without revealing his destination, such as the love of these two strangers, is not love but passion, and possibly no other being in the world that has failed to materialize such a amoción so pure and seizure as Gato Barbieri Federico

Deutsch and maverick c / Pedro Dalton When love love. (link)

If love exists, it sounds like.
really is a beautiful theme, and it becomes even more beautiful surprise considering that resulted in time to hear the voice of Peter Dalton, lead singer of a band, yet still versatile, love had always circulated, but in a underground, almost peripheral among so, so much darkness. The voice gritty / raspy reinterprets the lyrics of the song, and this contradiction between content and form can locate one of the most beautiful song. It's nice to listen to Peter so in love. One really can brighten up your day listening to that beautiful verse "love, I go to the bar only to see" .

Jacques Brel-Ne me quitte pas

Possibly one of the performers more giant that has given the music. The performance of the horse's teeth in this video is monumental, and somehow I find it impossible to separate from the song. Furthermore, it must be the most amazing performances ever seen in my life, and that counting movies, theater and related fields. Ne me quitte pas is a desperate song, is this claim to the last grain of sand in a territory lost, ask the beloved at least start a touch of skin, if not a touch, the feeling of losing everything and crawl for a bit, an inch of anything, but that centimeter was once theirs. Let me become the shadow of your shadow, the shadow of your hand, the shadow of your dog, do not abandon me, forsake me not ". Jacques Brel is an ode to body fluids, your body is soaked with tears and sweat, almost missing that would piss over and complete, and still stands in front of his beloved, almost refusing to concede defeat in each ne me quitte pas, standing still and promising things that can never get, as if this incredible scene Well, Onetti, where the hero forces his family back to recreate a walk along the promenade, realizing that the past is irreproducible. Yet
Jacques Brel is begging me quitte pas ne
But the battle is already lost.

Barry White-Never, Never, Gonna Give You Up (link)
When neurotics like me who are always wanting to differentiate problems of sex love, see this guy who breaks all the barriers historically constructed naturally as a child playing with legos. Some time ago, in reference to an album of T-Rex, said Dagnasty that while the hippies shouting "Love, not war" slogan surreptitious remaining in the work of Bolan was "Fuck, not war." In a way, Fat Barry (idol type, if any), the cloth passes all these categories. Take , fuck, mate , all summarized in lovemaking, an act of God that everything becomes an undifferentiated mass, a floating libido spread to everyone, that crosses time, races and social groups . Darius is right in comparison with Gainsbourg, because Barry is a way the dark and disk version of French. Barry White is the father Platonic immeasurable amount People born in the seventies, and that gives enough credentials to put on the list with one of its most emblematic songs, and possibly more sensual in their repertoire. L'amour physique, so they say.

Bruce Springsteen Stolen Car

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I had been talking about how much I like Bruce as a balladeer, from its most minimalist works to their larger than life.
This subject matter falls into the same vice that most other issues no less great as Point Blank, Valentine's day, or the purple Drive all night, but exceeds in depth (there are some few issues that also enter into my list, as Secret Garden).
I could go about this song, but I think I can not add much to what Benedict said in this post of fuckyoutiger.

Guided by Voices Over the Neptune-Mesh Gear Fox

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Yes, it's a love song, but a paean to rock and roll, divided by a pseudo bridge -space with a vengeful love song. However, when hear "And oh, mesh gear fox / Put Out Another bag of tricks from scientific box / Time's wasting and you're not gonna live forever / And if you come back and marry doI'll you / Do not use changin 'now / You Could not anyhow and ever (forever?) / It's Not the Way That I fear That I feel / It's the way you act / It's the way you look when you're near me / It's not so hard to conceal to grant? (Conceal?) / It's the Things you say / It's the Things you do go Right Through Me ", mediumnizado through the voice of Pollard, acquires an epic dimension, resulting, at least, for me, in one of the perfect moments in rock history. They are songs that sooner or later happen to one, with a completely different person when they pass through

Robyn Hitchcock Linctus house (link)
The old Robyn, the tallest guy I have in the world, is a type known for his eccentric lyrics, full of passion ontomóloga, minotaurs, farmers celestial glass and hotels, but with a tradition of preaching it as a sort of missing link between Syd Barrett and Bob Dylan. Still, it is much more than that, and oversized items such as this seems to prove more than good.
Perhaps the story of a couple who for a moment and realize that things are not like before, you know i Used to call my baby up / and we'd get real close / just like the telephone Was a sofa / and Our Thoughts Would mingle / and we'd leave Our Minds Wide Open / (...) / But These Days, Even Saying, / 'hello? how are you? "/" I'm fine, how are you? "/ Takes a lot of sweat / ain 't That a Shame / ain' t That a Shame . Perfectly could also talk about the relationship with his dead wife, which appears ghostly in many of his songs (an example is the song is My wife and my dead wife where factly recounts how she lives with two women , his current partner, and his dead wife, who is waiting in the attic, old clothes, or something). But the song is very Hitchcock, and has tremendous images, as events That But, even / talking is out of Reach / should i say it with flowers or / should i say it with nails?.
A fresh twist Ne me quitte pas.

Luis Alberto Spinetta She also (link)
I spoke on the subject in this post

Cat Power-Metal Heart (link)
Metal Heart, is a subject to unpredictable and disconcerting beauty like the eye of a duck, a theme which contrasts sharply in letter unthinkably with the soft, velvety sweet voice of Chan Marshall. Any femme rockstar what would become another combative defiance song (a very bad widespread in fans of PJ Harvey singing), yet sluggishly Chan makes sweet time, as an animal that does not mind being imprisoned, offered calm before the sight of the hunter. It is for this reason that fails reinterpretation Chan made this theme on his new album Jukebox: with a new vocal expressiveness much more versatile, you lose that languor which gives true meaning to the theme of separation and any other topic of love written by someone matched. The sound of someone letting go of despair encapsulated, but too beautiful to die out completely. Dan
want to pull out the headphones and hug the poor Chan Nick

Cave and the Bad Seeds-Into My Arms


The issue is known, and it works great with the music video by Jonathan Glazer (my favorite music video director.) Into my arms is framed in such personal fucking albums that are in line with If I could only remeber my name, where each item is practically an x-ray of the artist. At this time, the poor Nico Cueva had left his relationship with PJ Harvey, and appears with this completely introspective album, where the angel of death black wings left the umbrella stand and begins to remove makeup, as it is showing. Nico had incurred in the ballads, like amazing Slowly goes the night, Tender Prey, but never saw him again as fragile as this item

Dave Matthews Band-# 41

For some reason, Dave Matthews Band is a friendly blogger band around here. No one has spoken against, but somehow has a circulation quite muted in circles music lovers, perhaps looking for and certainly more virtuous than one with a past he can grind punk, perhaps by the voice of Dave Matthews, perhaps the music-versus those who usually opt for funny and chotos issues in general or by a collective sense of cool, which is usually found around the world almost politically incorrect. I never gave much ball to the letter, and somehow I still do, but it is a melody in which nothing bad can happen, it's like zabullirse cotton in a pool and swim between each note re feeling like soft touches. In my sixteen years the whole idea of \u200b\u200bthe final and perfect love was accompanied by this song.

Radiohead-True Love Waits (link)
falters in any instance in such emotionally you do not know whether or not hanging with anybody, this song is the ending to seal and name the feeling. So, beware ...

Fernando Cabrera-The time is after (link)
I spoke of the song in this post

Sade-Is it a crime


Not that I like so much Sade, but the twist is on a strange syncretism which is related to Barry White, in a way. Came traveling on a crowded 148 at about 9:00 to 1:00 of the environments unless they can be e-and radio programming was going oldies and music from the eighties see this topic. The level of exoticism and contrasted Sade's voice is an almost amusing to the rest of the depressing environment of the bus. I heard this voice languid, yet deep and old faces looked random, street vendors and porters of buildings that were preparing for another day embolante. Outside it was raining. It was there that I fell into a particular issue of Sade, and the ability to fuse blues, I dare say, sadly with sensuality, I dare say, erotic. As in most situations, eroticism and sadness result a Molotov cocktail which nothing would ever be no more good than just depressing, Sade works perfect, and for that simple reason in my count.

Tom Waits-Who are you

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Love like a battlefield. Tom Waits is a big ballad singer, with songs with imagery rather American, of roads, diners and drinking from his tragicomic The Piano Has Been Drinking (not me), to melancholy Annie's back in town , through the disturbingly Time true, to the fleeting, almost impressionistic Johnsburg, Illinois .
The song is a battle in its most nineteenth century romanticism model of the fighting without armor once filled with bruises, and no hidden trenches in which contestants can now be viewed as they are. Rebelliousness towards a love object felt more than once, is that almost defend to the last handful of earth one's individuality, knowing it's a losing battle, since the other eventually ends up part of oneself. All this is summed up in one of my series of favorite pictures of all time, Did you bury the carnival / Lions and all / Excuse me while I sharpen my nails / And just who are you this time? / (...) / How do your pistol and your Bible and your / Sleeping pills go? / Are you still jumping out of windows in expensive clothes? / Well I fell in love / With your mouth and your Wounded sailors eyes / You better get down on the floor / Dont you know this is war / Tell me who are you this time? / Tell me who are you this time?
son of a bitch.

Kings of Convenience-Cayman Islands (link) .
is not a heartbreaking song, not a sad song, even lonely. The Kings of Convenience were able to make a deep love song without resorting to farewells, apologies, tears and hearts. It is a perfect love song, easy and completely harmonious, without melodrama, and suddenly found happiness in the face of a person you want, without having to seek assurances, without fear of losing everything, just looking and feeling happy to be with the beloved. The image management reinforces this sense of peace, the bearded man in his canoe sailing from the Cayman Islands, the wind on the hair of the beloved, rented bicycle until the next day. The last stanza is a perfect blend of minimalist and what I think must be love ( if they could only see, if only they had been here / they understand how anyone could choose / go as far as I was to spend a whole day just driving / holding on to you, I never thought it would be this clear ). Maybe my vision may be mediated by the fact of having become involuntarily to this song on the soundtrack for the parting with my girlfriend at the two-month exile in Mexico. Mary may not know, but somehow, a Cayman Islands always saw it as our song .

Epilogue:
I never liked the party of nostalgia. At one time I thought I liked, but it took some few parties as expensive as horrible to realize that no. Mainly, the problem I have it in celebrating a nostalgia that is not even mine, as if in my teens Soliera mine dancing to the sound of Last train to London. Similarly, there are so many radios that are dedicated to passing oldies-especially those that are tuned in offices and not-so-cool-hair salons, to listen to those songs that marked the lives of our parents did not have anything special, because we have heard so much as a ringtone de Miranda.
The point is that Mary and I were going to a party thrown by his brothers, which was going to get hip hop tracks of the old school. Listen to Public Enemy and NWA was a good consolation, I always liked those issues, the heavy beat and that fighting spirit, before the time when blacks change their sizes Thirty-eight diamonds and cars jumping (although he had some of that in those days). Mary told me to prepare well, which in my case is to replace my T-shirt bands. I even tried to wear my hat or Tom Waits but my head grew or shrank my hat, because I entered. The point is that Mary had been ultra cat, leather boots with high heels, stockings and a faux fur vest. Had warned that those clothes are put at your own risk, but considering that was one of those days where you could dress as I wanted -Would be very funny to see her wearing those clothes in the sea of \u200b\u200bmy school-wool, the bus ended up taking us without changing a single garment. When we entered the local generated a kind of silence worthy of American movies. Most were in shirts and jeans, or involved in those buds in which some rappers seem to wait for a future metamorphosis. The mines were not quite dressed. So in a certain time of night, paying attention to my surroundings, and above all, looking at the face of some types quite hungry, I wondered if the case of Mary and I was not one of those worthy of Hot chicks DOUCHEBAGS with . Had long looked those couples from the window, thinking, why is that hot girls always end up with assholes.
the bathroom and after I let a merqueros powdered her nose, I look in the mirror and I pulled a gunk of which I had not noticed all night.
I get on the fly and say "there are times when one is as loser, do not even realize who won."