Any day

Dull day, hard to going through, bad at moments. But, you know, everything gets better if you have the luck of find (to bump into) certain things. All vanishes in the fog of surprise (which is fresh air actually). You sumerge in it, and you emerge improved, clean. Could be a good book, a good song, a smile. Not easy things to find some days, you must admit. But “Where there’s a head, there’s hope”, as Charlie used to say. Remember Charlie, don’t you? Come on, Charlie!… Charlie Meadows! From the Barton Fink movie! Yes? Okay. Charlie was optimistic by nature. Nothing to do with Barton, a good writer maybe but also a heavy loan to get along with. The guy just take himself and his work too damn seriously. And like everyone else who’s that way, he don’t listen. Poor Charlie. He has histories to tell, maybe dreams to share, but there is not eco in front of him. Barton, the “big” writer, is too deaf: busy and imbued in his more “important” affaire. You can’t find good books being that way, or good songs… not to mention a smile. Remember how the movie ends? There is fire everywhere, and fear and a box with maybe a head inside (we never know). A feeling of misery takes it all, and you can’t do nothing but believe the world is just sour and lonely. Not at all. It is just that the worst part of Barton won: himself. The other one, Charlie, the simple fat man who enjoys the little pleasures of life, like a conversation or a glass of bourbon, was teared off, cutted, buried in the darkest squares of memory. Barton feared Charlie. And to justified his fears he made of Charlie what Charlie never was: a killer, a murderer, just to let him alone and hidden. I hope you have head to mantain on top the best part of you. In spite of the day. Any day.

 

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Why We Broke Up

I’m getting old. Today I ran into a friend, an Italian, long time not to see him. He didn’t recognize me at first. After hand shakes and hugs, he said something like: “I though it was Joe Cocker mistaking me for some 60’s fella”. Like I said, I’m getting old. That’s why these kind of books call my attention: coming-of-age-novels. Shit, I should have read them at time. Not now, when everything already happened. Not all of these books like me, obviously… (I’m not that old). This roughly, for example. Is just that is never enough when you compose your book working out a formula, stacking experiences, for case, repeating all the time how much you hate high school and its clichés. Hey, that’s a cliché too. A boring one. Written with the tribulations of a teenager crush, Why We Broke Up remember us all the silly moments we spend in those days, and just that. Only more bitter. It is less enjoyable than The Perks of Being a Wallflower, extremely dramatic, with a palette more dark, or grey, and decaying. The protagonist complaints to much. Come on, you are 16! The drawings of Maira Kalman are pretty nice, though, and help to carry on (to bear) the history. Choice is yours.

 

We are lost

Nothing special today, although I think it was a good day. For some reason, I listened to Gnarls Barkley all day. “Crazy” is a hell of a song. And while there was not much to do, I read Saturday by Ian MacEwan. Things are quiet at work. And that was it. Oh, right. I saw an episode of Lost, one of the first season. When everything was still to be seen. My daughter is a fan of Lost. I was too. Until appeared those fucking incarnations of Good and Evil. Black and White. The eternal struggle. But the first season, I must say, continues to amaze. Today I went crazy trying to see what book Sawyer was reading. Thanks to technology there is progressive approach. And there it was: Watership Down, by some English author. We know what the book is about: finding a new home. With hundreds of problems along the road. Sure Sawyer plays with the idea that is just about rabbits. But he want to cheat us. We are the friggin rabbits. The night ended with 100 Pipers, good Scotch.

Religulous

How could you don’t like Bill Maher? The guy is more acid than a lemon tree. If we need something in this fucked-up world is intellectual curiosity and criticism. Specially over religion and things like that hell business and stuff. Ha! In order to escape condemnation, they say you must believe… Believe in what? In ridiculous men dressed in elaborate costumes that quote things like “lf a man doesn’t abide in me, he is cast forth as a branch and withers, and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire and burned” while pointing their finger at everyone? The doubt right now is peremptory, it is urgent that we suspend all belief. There is no other way for us than postpone our faith in benefit of thinking. But religions all over the world seems to want exactly the opposite. Religulous (2008, directed by Larry Charles, starring Bill Maher) is just about that: how the sacred cows of the globe make a fool of people thanks to their faith. This element, faith, is what the shit-heads that rule the world use to manipulate men and women to achieve their goals. And more frequently than not, the goals of the shit-heads are murder and aniquilation (not just a Rolex or a expensive car). Maher proves in this documentary -a fake “spiritual journey”, because is more an essay about human foolish actually- that only laugh could be the weapon to combat all the nonsense and bullshit that fanatics spread. There is nothing more dangerous than stupidity.

Everyday Magic

You can fall in love easily with Zatanna. It’s not just her tights, or her cleavage. Those are just distracting elements that overshadow the most importan thing: her manners. I mean, she is a semi-god, a being capable of almost everything -as long as she can say her spells backwards in time-, but is not more than a magician, a performing artist, an entertainment for common and ordinary people. She has no haughty manners at all, but pure and simple, as she was a carpenter doing peacefully her everyday job. It’s the nature of the simplicity what is seducing. That is her charm (also her tights and her cleavage, of course). She say it proudly: she’s no one special, just a workin’est girl in the magic biz. The lucky boy of the page 15 of Everyday Magic (writer Paul Dini, penciler Rick Mays) is more humbled by her generosity than amazed by her body. Like: “Huh, this gal that just vanished in front of me… was she really with me last night? How could I deserve THAT?”. He’s no wonder for her magic neither, as we see. As if were natural materializing a bag just packed and ready to go and also a waiter in our room with the breakfast. Keep the fans happy seems to be all her life, her entire world is filled with that: a big crushing performance schedule. We were told since kids that circus people have not other life and don’t know other things: they are lonely like a dog in the rain. And always is raining in these lives. Kind of sad, isn’t? That is the feeling that runs over the pages of this comic, Everyday Magic. I just read thirty or so, but I feel sad already. In love, but sad.

Mr. Sammler's Planet

Good day today. Invited friends at lunch, good wine too, and some chat until 17:00. Then, little nap, with Physical Graffiti in the earphones, letting the music be the master, not the tireness. And a novel: Mr. Sammler’s Planet. Nobody knows what this novel is about. Criticism wondering all these years reaching no point. But good readers know the truth: Bellow writes so well that it doesn’t matter. Maybe is about everything you could imagine that is, and perhaps more. Reading it, the world seems a little more understandable.

Soul Music

In the same very novel the author explains why it sucks. It is an act of sincerity for his side, and an inmediate demostration that we were robbed. But what you expect? It is the 16 episode of a saga without end apparently. I mean, 16 and counting! Salinger would never dared. Not even Pynchon for what is matter. I have tried to read Pratchett several times during my existence as a reader. I barely could. But the “Discworld” books are specially frustrating, and this one that I tried the other day (again), Soul Music -presenting to us like a history with sex, drugs and music with rocks inside-, is perhaps the most accomplish exposition of nonsense of the entire collection. When almost everything could happen and nothing you could write would be out of order, we have a problem. I mentioned Pynchon recently? Well, maybe he could do it with a certain decorum. Or Burroughs. Apparently, Pratchett sells well in England. Try cricket.