Why the Sith rule

I just saw Episode III; and although I believe it is a good movie, and it does certainly make up for the past two Episodes as well as ties up all loose ends very nicely with a tidy bow, there are still certain... questions it leaves unanswered. Questions that won't let me sleep.

 

Where do the Jedi get all their capes?

 

Think about it, they are always wearing those brown colored capes all the time. Just before a battle starts they take the cape thing off for the fight; they begin swinging their lightsabers around, jumping, dancing and the usual Jedi stuff. After the fight ends, they just leave; not once did I see them go and pick up their robes. Not even Yoda, the great Jedi Master took the sweet decency of grabbing his cape back. And considering his size, I bet it is real hard for him to find robes that fit him.

 

Where do they get the money to buy them? Actually... I don't think they buy them at all. See that scene where Obi-Wan is so concerned because Anakin/Vader killed the younglings and Padawans? It is not because he brutally killed them that he was concerned, is because they are the ones in charge of manufacturing the Jedi robes! Without them there would be no more Jedi capes for him to wear! Yes, it makes perfect sense now; younglings' training deals with confectioning the capes for the Jedi Masters. Bah! No wonder the Sith rebelled, friggin' Jedi and their child labor.

 

Why do they call it Light side? Is it dietetic? Does it mean that by being on the Light Side of the Force I have to become vegetarian? Be fit?

 

But you know, the Sith philosophy actually makes some sense. I mean, it is very pragmatic to tell people just the light side of things; just how they should be done. Whereas knowing there is a dark side to things allows one to take better decisions; just knowing one side of the story takes away all individuality and power of decision making. "Hey, you see, this is the Light Side; it is what we thought you. But there is also a Dark Side, concerning this and that. You can look for it, but do not expect us to take you back with open arms when you come back all burned up inside." Oh no, instead they say: "Either you do it our way, or we'll kill your right there and then."

 

Let me make my decisions, but this also means being conscious about the responsibilities your decision carries. At any moment I can decide if I want to steal, murder, cheat or not; but at that very same moment I know I broke certain laws and I must deal with it too. Aaaaah, maturity. It is a wonderful thing. Better teach the youglings and Padawans to be mature and responsible.

 

Plus, I never did see a Sith lose his robe. They know how to take care for their schitt.

Okay, something a little serious

I was just reading about this girl that was kidnapped; this whole search thing began as an effort try to find her. Rewards were offered, posters where glued, news where aired on TV and the newspapers printed ads asking for information. After something like a week later, the little girl - seven years old I believe - was found tortured, raped, murdered and in a trash can with lots and lots of concrete on top.

 

Nice.

 

This is just the background for what I really want to reflect upon. Some people are bashing TV stations and all around the news because they spend around 400 hours dealing with the murder of a famous TV star... okay... maybe she was not even really famous - I did not know who the heck she was - but the point is it had a lot more coverage than the little girl had. Total coverage dealing with news regarding the little girl: around 10 hours at most.

 

Some think this makes no sense because in a way, finding this little girl and the kidnapper is more important than a star dying. The other day I read this whole article of another star who got her car stolen; every gossip spreading program wes filled with video segments interviewing the poor, poor TV star who wins millions of bucks who can easily buy another car. Is the little girl more important? Or at least, just as important? Aren't news reports dealing with violence on the streets more important than talking about Pitt's break up with Anniston -read all about it here , by the way; girls, you have a chance. Maybe it is more socially important to debate about gay marriages than Martha Stewart's Emmy award?

 

No, it is not.

 

At least, not from my point of view. I already know the world is a shitty place. The last thing I need is TV programs spending 400 hours reminding me of how we rape, torture and kill little girls. The last thing I need is the newspapers reminding me about the shooting last night involving narcs, leaving 4 people dead and 2 more in critical condition on the hospital. Hell! Don't we turn on the TV to forget a little about the world? As a mean of entertainment? To release stress? Then indeed I believe talking about the poor, poor millionare TV star's stolen car is far more appropriate and entertaining to me than a murdered girl - unless, of course, you have serious issues.

 

I call that explotaition TV, making use of human emotions and other people's suffering to increase rating.

 

Just take note, I am not saying the Idiot Box entertaining us, making us forget the real world and turning us into mindless drones is okay either. See here, I do not even watch TV... okay... maybe I do from time to time, but not fanatically - unless it is NipTuck, I love that thing. I am just saying that whenever I turn the TV on, I do it to forget about the real world for a while. To live in a world of magic, to be transported into the life and times of all those fantastic characters living in a box. Way I see it, the TV's social function is to entertain us the same way alcohol, cigars and music do and therefore must be taken with measure, in small doses; the same way your mother used to tell you playing too much Nintendo would suck your brain? She was not saying Nintendo is bad, just that too much might be harmful; too much TV might be harmful; too much alcohol might be harmful. The trick is to find the right doses for just about right entertainment. And that, is something completely up to the user's responsability.

 

But when I want to know about real life, I will make sure to look out the window.

How?!

This is a quick post my Ol' Three Faithful Readers; just to do a question to the world.

 

Why is it everybody phones me when I am in the bathroom? Not 15 minutes ago, while I was enjoying a nice little chat in the Private Office reading my favorite magazines - and yes, I do mean reading! - when my phone began to ring. I totally and utterly hate that.

 

Let us forget about the phone ringing in the other room; what is worse is when your cellphone rings. Picture this: you are in the bathroom... no no no... a public restroom; just chilling, sittin in the Throne, doing whatever business you have to do in it. And suddenly, your pants start vibrating; the cellphone falls of the pocket of your squished, wrinkled pants into the yellow/greenish colored floor. Reluctantly you pick it up, and answer. It is your girlfriend, and just imagine the oddity of other people listening to someone in the Private Office talking, on the phone, to his honey bunny while taking a dump. And suddenly, *FLUSH!* Right on the phone's speaker. Ooo yeah, pretty.

 

From now on, if you call me when I'm in the Private Office, I swear I will throw the damn phone into the Throne and flush it!

... what the?

Just a senseless side note my Ol' Three Faithful Readers: my Coke tastes funny.

 

I know Mexican Coke tastes different from US Coke, and no doubt different than Canadian, Spanish, German or Cambodian Coke. But this Coke tasted like normal Coke a few hours ago. Maybe if I put it in the fridge it will have back it's Coke-ish flavor. Heck! Maybe temperature is part of the secret recipe for Coke to taste like Coke; or maybe the temperature hamper the effects chemicals in charge of making holes in my stomach, and when they get hot they begin to emit a funny taste as a warning, saying: "Do not drink this! It is bad for your health! It will devour you from inside!" Or maybe while I was not looking aliens took my Coke hostage and added some weird chemicals to do experiments with me!

 

...

 

... or maybe it just needs to be cold in order to be refreshing...

 

...

 

In any case I will put it in the fridge for and hour or two.

Something that Freaks Me Out

People with Strabismus.

 

This illness is also known as eye turns, crossed eyes, wandering eyes or deviating eye. Note this is different to what is known as Lazy Eye, which is just one eye losing visibility. Strabismus on the other hand deals with one eye being deviated either inward (esotropia) or outward (exotropia). There's a lot other conditions that have to do with strabismus, you can check it out on here.

 

Why is this freaky to me? Because I never know what eye is actually seeing me! Furthermore, I tend to look at people in the eyes when I am talking to them; what eye am I supposed to see? Completely upsets my mind.

 

I wonder... can they look at two things at the same time? Pretty much like lizards do? Because in a certain way that is actually cool; you can be putting attention at whatever is happening in front of you -like, me talking for example, or a teacher giving a class- and use your other eye to look at that fine USDA Approved Meat Goddesses passing by in hope of the wind raising up her skirt.

 

Maybe that is what adds a certain freakyness to the movie May, the fact that the main character has a deviated eye... okay, she also has very serious issues. Oh yeah, check that movie out, May rules! You can read the review at Bloody Disgusting by clicking, right ---> here <---. From that movie onward I decided Angela Bettis rocks my socks.

 

Somehow those kind of illness that are plain visible make people have the creepies because... because... I do not know. Maybe we are remembered of our own "normality" and mediocrity. This is funny because people who have a certain disabilities are far more tenacious than us "normal" people. Just check this out: last year, on the 2004 Olympic Games, Mexico got only 3 silver medals and 1 bronze medals. On the same year's Paralympic Games we got 14 gold, 10 silver and 10 bronze.

 

I do not know about you, but to me this is a slap in the face. Here we are, us "normal," "complete" and "sane" people and we cannot show as much discipline and dedication as the "disabled." What is it? Do we need to lose a leg, have a birth problem or just lose some of our capabilities to fight for what we want? Those people have fought with all their hearts and look were it has gotten them; top of the world ma'! Maybe it is time we take a cue too, no?

 

This is KillerFry, over and out.

The Ultimate Test

How do you know what you see around you is really real? How can you be sure you are not living in some sort of Matrix? Is there really a God up there? I do not have the answers to those questions, but I do know something most people do not.

 

I know when Chinese Food is real.

 

Whenever I go to eat Chinese Food in a restaurant with Real, 100% Illegal Chinese dudes cooking, I always get diarrhea. Yes! It is true my Ol' Three Faithful Readers. Each and every time I eat Chinese Food it is like a bomb falling down on my stomach; just minutes -nay, sometimes seconds-  after I devour the food I begin to hear gurgling, like a volcano getting ready to erupt. Ooooh yes, erupt is the right word indeed. But see, Chinese Food is so delicious that even though I know this will undoubtly happen, I still eat it with great joy and happyness. Explosive diarrhea is but a small price to be paid for the pleasures of Chinese Food.

 

My take on this? Maybe it is some spice chefs use on the food that upsets my belly.

 

Just the other day I ordered Chinese Food, and I was ready for the eruption afterwards. And you know what happened? It did not come. I wondered why the heck it had not come?! Where is my gurgling?! I miss it! It meant that whoever had cooked the food did not use that magical, special and lovable spice that my stomach fears. It means the cook was not really chinese; because Real, 100% Illegal Chinese dudes use that spice my body lusts for.

 

Hence I have developed the Ultimate Chinese Food Test: if I must go to the bathroom immediately after eating Chinese Food, then it is real; and the sooner I must go, the better the food was. If on the contrary I do not have the need to go to the Private Office, then it is fake Chinese Food.

 

Now, I'm ready for today's eruption. Pass me the phone! I must order Chinese Food!

Signs

Greetings my Ol' Three Faithful Readers.

As you can see, I'm turning into a regular posting kinda person, since I have more "free" time -somehow I manage to get involved with time consuming things, like "searching" for a job. And let me begin the controversy by telling you something that might make some cry, others curse and some will become nay-sayers; I know the Pretty Assistant will do all three of them plus punch me in the nose.

 

Paul is dead.

 

Yes, I am referring to Paul McCartney of The Beatles fame. No, do not turn away nor laugh at me! This actually happened; back in September 1969 the rumor began circulating stating that Paul McCartney was dead since 1966, killed in an automobile accident some day at 5:00am. Supposedly a secret contest was held to replace him with someone who looked a lot like him; William Campbell was that such person and he underwent minor surgeries to be more Pual-ish. Don't believe me? Well, you can Google "Paul is Dead" and you will find 14,100,000 pages with info. But since I know you are a bunch of lazy people, I will provide you one of the most comprehensive links I found; be sure to check it out because take it from me, it wll freak you out. After you crap your pants, change into clean undies then come back to this, your humble servant's blog, and continue reading. And now, without further ado, for your enjoyment, Ladies and Gentlemen, just click here .

 

*sits back, grabs his Coke and listens to music*

 

Welcome back!

 

Wasn't that fun, eh? If I must be honest, I really don't mind much about all that Paul is Dead thing; personally I think it was a marketing ploy. Nevertheless, if it turned out to be true then we have all been taken for the fools we are. It would become something like, the ultimate joke.  Andy Kaufman, eat your heart out. Meanwhile this made me think of a subject entirely different.

 

See here, have you not ever become obsessed with something? Easiest example, with a number. Then suddenly you find yourself looking at that number everywhere! You see it on street adresses, on television programs, ads, people's underwear, your pet's barking sounds like that number and if you convert your name's letters to their number in the alphabet equivalent, add them up, multiply them by 3 and do a 2's Complement of the binary result, guess what you get? You're righ! That number you are obsessed with!

 

It not only happens with numbers, another great example would be something along the lines of becoming obsessed with a girl -not that it ever happened to me. Suddenly you start seeing her everywhere, you realize your names have the same number of letters and then you start wondering if that wink she gave you the other day probably meant something. And when she hugs you, could it be she is onto you and your juicy buttocks? Then one day she phones you because she's bored; could it mean she just wanted to hear your sweet voice?

 

Odd are, the answer to all of those questions is: You freak! I bet she really was just bored and decided she wanted you for a clown at that moment. She hugged you because no one else was around and she winked her eye because dust had fallen on her eye. But it is one's obsession that turns everything around him into this one big sign from the Powers That Be because deep down, we hope and pray they are for real.

 

EVP, or Electronic Voice Phenomenon, made popular thanks to the movie White Noise, is another example. If you scan white noise long enough you will eventually find a signal wheter it is there or not. Remember when subliminal messages when you play a song backwards became popular? Yes, if your mind is set to it you will start listening to all sort of hidden messages because you are willing to. In other words, you will trick your own mind to whatever you want and start seeing signs from The Powers That Be all around you.

 

And why is this? Well, the human brain works by making connections between patterns. If A then B, and B is to C. *BANG* A is to C. We make associations of everything we look around us and that is how memories and learning is conducted in the brain. Patterns. Don't believe me? Then let us conduct a little eprexmeint, you might rmeemebr an email stating that if wrod's letters are mislaigned, as long as the first and lsat letters are in the right place, the barin will not notice and still read the word fine...

 

*lets you thing about what just happened for a minute*

 

See? Patterns. The brain looks for patterns all around us. We try to understand everything by making correlations between things; unfortunately the system is not always perfect and from time to time we make false associations, which then turn into superstitions such as "if I wear my underwear for three days straight, I will do fine on my test" or "wear red underwear on New Year's Eve and you will have a sex-driven year" and blah blah blah. And that's the reason why when men could not find a logical explanation to thunder, they made up some holy power above and it is all fixed. Heck! From time to time we still question the Powers That Be when we cannot comprehend something. "Why God?! Why did I get diaherrea before my test?!" Blame it on the burritos. We should learn to be more analitical of what we see lest we begin creating false worlds and hopes in our minds. Or else, just like the dude who began this whole "Paul is Dead" hoax, we might just start seeing things all around is that aren't there.

 

But meanwhile, I will wear red underwear come next New Year's Eve.

Lest I forget!

Oh! Before I forget; remember my philosophy: To be the best, you have work with the best.

 

Thanks to everyone who helped in Metamorphoses!

• The Producer and Director: In many ways I hope none of you are reading this, because it would be freaky. Still, thanks for this great oportunity!
• The Right Hand: You might not be reading this, but thanks for helping us through the play; the restless night worrying about us and making sure everything was alright. Your work really pulled us through!
• Mom Away From Home: Thanks for your neverending support, and this time thanks for being the light that shone on stage; without you everything would have been pretty dark on and off stage.
• Pretty Assistant: Once again in the audio chores, thanks for being our voice to the audience and specially for that smile and hugs that gives us joy and hope. And yes, thanks for your stress fits, they make you look prettier :P
• Carrot Head: Hey man! It is always a pleasure to share the stage with you. And no matter what I know that when it comes to the craft, you are always a step above everyone else.
• Wally the Intern: Nice job, but not as good as your mom's! It was nice working with you dude. Cheers!
• Chewie: Never had I met such a lively assitant man, thanks for always being there ready to dress us up and all around support!
• The Rest of the Cast/Staff: Thanks for the good times and it has been a pleasure working with you!
• My Dove: Thanks for existing, because in that rushed and hard pressed week of final rehearsals, proyects and what-not, the thought of you set my mind and heart to peace.
• The PM (Project Manager): Thanks for your patience, since without it I would not have been able to finish the compilers proyect while I was "playing" to be an artist. Really, really, thank you.

And thanks to everyone who came by to see us, I hope that you enjoyed the show! For those who did not come, please step by next semester. And for those who did, come join us again! It is always a pleasure to play the fool for you ;)

And like that...

... it ends.

 

Yes, I still have two more final exams to do and a final presentation. Still they mean nothing, piece of cake. Bah! In other words I am free to do as I please now; at least for a few days. So I sit with a 2L bottle of Sprite and some Doritos by my computer and read, write, play games and watch movies; pretty much everything I did not do while I was in school.

 

For those of you who are lazy and did not read Infinity, the summary is this: Growing old is inevitable, growing up is optional.

 

Well... much has happened since my last post here, and if you want me to be honest, most of it I have blocked from my mind. The sleepless hours trying to make the compiler work, restless hours coding our e-Business Web page, and the such. Other things I do want to remember, like Metamorphoses. Yeah, let me tell you about the play.

 

It came out pretty good. More than just pretty good. All problems it had aside, it was a hit; just on the first night we had the amount of audience other plays have in a whole weekend. Very flashy stuff. I did not read the newspaper review, but it was along the lines that it was okay; to those keeping the score this meant a lot for the school since the reviewer was a very harsh and feared critic with the fame of tearing apart everything she critics. Hence the reviewer saying the play was more than just okay meant a lot to the producers. It also mentioned my performance sticking out from the others for "superb character versatility and control of the scenery."

 

...

 

I do not know what that means, but I guess it is good that I have it.

 

Honestly my Ol' Three Faithful Readers, it is always good to read stuff like that to boost the ego, and some argue that we theater people like attention and that is why we stand up on the spotlight. But what leaves me blinking in bewilderment is that in no point I feel this was my best performance. As in, not at all. Not even remotely one of the good ones. Yeah, maybe it was very showy with the play being in open air, in the middle of a pool and characters coming out of the water; how is that not going to deserve the audience's awe? But all this flashyness does not necessarily mean the performances were excellent. Hell, you could argue that such great and pompous productions exist only to make up for the actor's lack of talent.

 

There were other, more conventional plays that did not receive such attention, or any attention, in which I feel I did better performances. And if the play does not receive attention, much less will the actors. But I will not complain because deep down it is those meh-ish plays that really do mean something to me and define who I am without caring what other people out there think.

 

And wanna know something more comical? Most of those performances I like are the ones in which I did characters which I did not like! Some days ago I read in Scientific American that the male brain works in such a way that it learns better under stress. If we, in a very un-scientific way, extrapolate this to the way in which men perform, then we could say we men perform better under stress. Ergo, the stress of doing a character I did not like made me perform better. And there you go!

 

... *thinks about that last statement for a second*...

 

Of course... we could also then say men perform better under the stress of having sex with a mutant-lady they do not like... which is untrue. So better scratch off my un-scientific theories. Hey! Do not mind me! I'm just an dude studying Computer Science who pretends to be and Actor on his free time. Let us leave science to lab-coats.

 

But if people out there say that what I feel to be my loose performances are excellent, then I will not contradict them. It only comes to prove that sometimes critics do not know schitt about what they are writing, something we had already proved with movie critics anyway. They want to say I did a great performance? Let them.

 

I will sit down, lay back, drink my Sprite, eat my Doritos and not complain about it.

Me pregunto...

Cuando te carga el payaso... si, ese payaso, el más deprimente del centro; el más feo, mal oliente y mal vestido de todos; con chistes malos, una risa que haría orgulloso a satanás y cabello quemado... cuando ese payaso te carga... ¿A dónde te lleva?

Pronto lo averiguaré.

Infinity

I found a little free time, so I will write something completely different. Oh yeah, as you can see I'm back to writing in English. You see, I was reading a document... that had to deal... with... hum... I don't remember. Oh yeah! It was a chapter on a book dealing with transnational business and somewhere along the lines it mentioned that somehow English had become a "standard" when dealing with international stuff. Therefore, I decided to continue in English so I can reach a wider audience...

 

Okay... maybe I'm kidding myself; it's not like I have such a bigger audience than my Ol' Three Faithful Readers.

 

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live forever?  Wake up one day and feel an astonishing vibration through your body. Little by little your eyes adjust to the new day's light as you seat by the bed's edge, dazed confused if what had happened last night was just a dream. Good or bad you did not know, but something is turning around and around in your head as you try to make up the images.

 

You give your first step towards the shower, and find your body weak and doddering; almost as if you had a hangover pulsing against your temples so hard it was as if your eyes were abour to fall off their sockets into freespace. With an air of resignation your hands cover your face, rubbing your eyes. Finally in the mirror, you almost not recognize the face staring back at you... old... rancid... decayed.

 

And then you remember the dream. An angel had come in the cover of night upon you; breathing his air into you filling your lungs with such energy you could almost feel travel in the blood of your veins reaching your heart, making it beat stronger. A sweet voice resounded in your head: "A gift," the angel said talking straight to your mind. "Infinity you shall know. Your present will become dust like the path you strode on; and your future nothing but the void that is your present." You gazed into the angel's eyes, entranced at the radiant magnificence of this being engulfed in a light that burned our eyes and yet you could see. Finally the light faded out and the angel left with a smile in its face. Yet, this smile puzzled you now as much as it had then for it had not been the smile of a father but a condescending one.

 

You laid your head to rest expecting to awaken by dawn's ealy light. Intead of the morning, eternity came. It was so fast, like a bulldozer raging your mind as people and places now filled your head, images and voices of things that were said, pictures and pages of words you had read. There was a colleague, your brother, a coach from school, a girl on a sidewalk and a man on TV. They were all dead, and here you stood infront of the mirror with your old skin clinging to weak bones. How long had it been since that fateful night? Tears rolled down you eyes along caved pathways in your cheeks made by eternal years of quietly crying.

 

Many had come and gone. You never cried anymore at funerals for you now understood the joy of eternal rest; so you just stood in the back of the room smiling and wishing, wishing one day would be your turn to give up the towel and finally lie down to sleep. Each day you make your way among people unknown back to your room alone. You sit by the window and stare into the flowing river of life in the streets. Old newspapers in the table are your sole calendar, the only vestige of the life you used to lead. A woman comes by, the daughter of someone you once knew so long ago, and she tends to you. Still, you never take your sight from the young couple across the street, the stray dog by the trash container in the alley and the mother with her children. You once had kids of your own. But now they were only dust in the wind.

 

After so many years you came to understand your curse. Eternal life. Forever you would live as a watcher to this world, recording all that had been, is, and would be. But eternal youth you did not have, and for all eternity your body would slowly grow old and deteriorate until it would carry you no more from your bed, staring emptily at the ceiling as if praying to no avail that the Powers Above to come down at you and smite your body. But the moment just before dawn, the endless universe fills your mind for infinity.

 

It is not Eternal Life that we crave, it is Eternal Youth. That energy, joy and pleasure in our souls and hearts is what makes us live forever. I have seen grown men who have such vitality in their veins that all 60-something years in their bodies reflect nothing of who they are inside. Sometimes they contain more vitality inside that many of us still young. Their bodies being but vessels not big enough to contain all that energy in their existence. It is those men who carry on forever in the memories of others.

 

And now we realize Eternal Life is a curse. Eternal Youth is a blessing we must create.

Hum...

I'm somewhat busy this week with all the school's proyects, plays and what-not. I plea my Ol' Three Faithful Readers to be patient with me.

Full red on anger!

You must know The Queen is my dog. She is the best dog.

The neighbor's dog has been for some time upsetting my dogs. Now, after a fight through the door, the friggin' neigbor's dog bit off one of The Queens fingers... Let me tell you, if I was back home, I would kill that other fuckin' dog with my own hands!

People should have their dogs controlled, either on their backyard's or in their houses. But never should they let them go outside un-supervised! What if instead of my dog it had been a kid, huh? Is it okay for them to shit on everybody's house? Take out the trash out of their containers? No, it is not okay.

Jesus... really... if I get back home, and that fucking dog is alive, I swear by what I hold dear the most I will kill it and I will enjoy every damn last second as a smile runs across my face while I do it. And when finally the live fades from its eyes, I will scream out in joy and victory.

Algo que adoro y odio

Como pueden ver, el día de hoy se ha converito en Double Post Day, y corre peligro de convertirse en un Triple Post Day debido a que mi ida con el dentista me ha hecho pensar muchas cosas raras, hahaha. Ya ven, Marketing se compone de la Parte 1 y Parte 2, la cual probablemente escriba más tardecito. Este pequeño post en particular es para poner en claro algo que me fastidia hasta lo más profundo de mis entrañas pero al mismo tiempo me trae muchas, muchas satisfacciones.

 

Carros pequeños.

 

¿No les ha sucedido que llegan a un estacionamiento que se encuentra abarrotado hasta el término degradante que utilizamos para referirnos a nuestros lindos posteriores que usamos para sentarnos? Y entonces llevan dando vueltas y vueltas como desquiciados cuando repente, iluminado por una luz y coro divino, alcanzan a vislumbrar un lugar libre; pisan el acelerador para que nadie les vaya a ganar el lugar. Sus ojos maníaticos se encuentran fijos sobre ese lugar y la sangre les parpadea en la frente. Comienzan a dar la vuelta para estacionar el carro cuando *¡BAM!* Hay un pequeño bocho estacionado que no tiene una cajuela lo suficientemente protuberante como para que la hubieras notado atrás de esa Expedition. Crap... derrotado te alejas del lugar no sabiendo si gritar, llorar desde lo más hondo de tu ser a los cielos o si del puro coraje embarrar tu auto contra el bocho. ¡No más de pensarlo me hierve la sangre!

 

Sin embargo, mi carro es un Pointer. :D Lo cual es cool porque gracias a su pequeño, compacto y jugetón diseño lo puedo estacionar en casi cualquier espacio que encuentre sin problemas. Eso, además de que en ocasiones muy especiales que necesito aventarme un efecto Matrix  en medio del tráfico para cruzar de un lado al otro de la avenida, pues me es más sencillo abrirme paso entre los apretujados carros que parece se vienen oliendo el trasero como perros. ¡Es más! En alguna ocasión me tocó entrar a un estacionamiento donde por ser carro compacto te cobraban $3 pesos menos que a los otros carros. ¡No más de pensarlo me causa sonreir!

 

Es cómico ya que es un sentimiento de adoración y odio al mismo tiempo. Pretty much like love.

Marketing Pt. 1

Vengo llegando de ir con el verdugo... ¡digo! El dentista. Pero eso no es lo importante; el punto es que me dí cuenta de cómo el mexicano común, silvestre y corriente tiene muchos conocimientos innatos del marketing; y no sólo eso, que probablemente los aplican mucho mejor que grandes corporativos.

Por alguna razón misteriosa me gusta ir con el dentista los jueves muy temprano en la mañana. Digo, a mal paso darle prisa, ¿no? Llegué al lugar en mi auto y como siempre hay que localizar un espacio para parkear. Allá a las quinientas encontré lugar; de entrada no había un cuate de los que cuidan/lavan los carros por lo que comencé a tener el gran debate eterno: "¿Cuánto tiempo tardaré con el dentista? ¿Le pongo al parquimetro -¿esa palabra existe, o es un gran americanismo? - suficiente para una hora? ¿O para dos?"

Como por arte de magia, apareció el Parking Man acompañado de una misteriosa brisa. "Qué tal güero, ¿se lo cuido?" Sé a ciencia cierta que más que cuidarme el carro per se, están más o menos al pendiente de los agentes de tránsito que revisan los parquimetros y es entonces cuando les echan moneditas de 50 centavos para que parezca que tiene dinero. Ah claro, como tienen que tener una buena imagen con el cliente, la primera monedita que le echan es de un peso, de tal manera que el cliente - lease como, yo y el civil común - se va con la idea en mente de que le están proporcionando un buen servicio. En realidad yo no me fuí pensando eso, me iba preguntando: "¿Por qué demonios desde hace un año que vengo a este lugar todos los Parking Men me dicen 'güero'?"

Después de que el verd-... doctor... me tortur-... revisó, salí de su consultorio. Y a pesar del gran sufrimiento que me trae, ¡todavía le pago! En fin, salí y me dirigí a mi carro mientras buscaba en la gran profundidad del abismo que es la bolsa de mi pantalón unas monedas para darle al Parking Man; sólo encontré una de $10 pesos - se fijan como en teoría es redundante poner tanto el signo de pesos ($) como la palabra "pesos", ya que el signo en sí es suficiente para refenciar que son pesos - y pues ni pedigree, qué le voy a hacer. Además, probablemente él necesita más esos pesillos que yo.

Llego a mi carro, y no veo por ningún lado al Parking Man. Me detengo un momento estupefacto, pues yo creería que estarían muy al pendiente de los clientes que regresan a pagar, pero no se veía en las cercanías. Eché otro vistazo, miré a mi alrededor. Nada. Se había esfumado. Me encongí de hombros y volví a mandar la moneda de $10 al abismo de mi pantalón; abrí la puerta y me proponía a entrar cuando de repente apareció el Parking Man al lado de un carro tres espacios al lado del mío. No lo había visto porque se encontraba lavando el carro - que por cierto, era un mustang - y había estado agachado. De ipso facto busqué de nuevo la moneda al mismo tiempo que levanté la mano para indicarle que le iba a pagar. ¿Saben qué hizo el cuate? Sonrió y dijo: "¡Nos vemos güero!"

What in the friggin' poop?!

¿Por qué dejó ir el dinero? ¿Por qué no vino rápidamente por su pago? ¿Y por qué me siguen llamado güero? Pues así por las buenas me ahorré mis $10 y me subí a mi carro, arranqué y me fuí sin pensarlo una segunda vez. Pero me fuí masticando porqué no vino, y por fin llegué a una respuesta. Yo le iba a dar unos tristes $10 pesos, cuando por lavar el carro va a ganar $80 pesucos - ¡Hey! "Hasta armoról le ponemos a la llantas jefecito, quedarán como nuevas". Pero claro que le conviene olvidarse del pez pequeño e ir por el pez gordo - aunque probablemente yo estuviera más gordo que el dueño de ese mustang - pues yo representaba una pequeña ganancia para él; mejor se preocupa por ofrecerle un servicio satisfactorio al dueño del Mustang para entonces cobrar $80, que de entrada son $70 más que lo que le iba a dar, y si agarra de buenas al tipo que encuentra su carro rechinando de limpio hasta le deja el billete de $100 completito.

Como pueden ver, y Supermarioneta Divina no me dejará mentir, el Parking Man tenía suficientes conocimientos innatos para conocer conceptos como Servicio al Cliente - "Buenos días güero, ¿cómo le va?" -; evitar la Disonancia Cognoscitiva - al echar la moneda de peso para que me vaya feliz -; control total de la Plaza - está parado justo al lado de los parquimetros -; Core Product Features - lavar el carro y ponerle 'armoról' -; Estrategias de Producto - te cuida y el carro y "de pasada se lo lavo jefecito"- y el concepto de Clientes Empresariales - preocuparse por el cuate del Mustang antes que el del triste Pointer.

¿Y saben qué es lo mejor? El Parking Man es un tipo salido de la calle que aprendió todo esto por experiencia, y tras largos años de práctica se ha convertido en todo un maestro en el manejo de la estrategia del negocio. Todo esto sin tener que estudiar, matarse haciendo proyectos, escuchar a profes aburridos, partirse la madre con equipos pedorros ni pagar $50,000 al semestre durante 5 años.

Pero aún no logro resolver el enigma... ¿por qué me llaman güero?

Muahaha!

Hola!

Como pueden ver mis queridos Tres Lectores, el día de hoy el blog está escrito en español. *insert evil laughter here* Esto es porque comencé a sentirme un poco discriminado ya que todos los demás blogs que se encuetran en la sección de links, dicese a la derecha de este escrito, están escritos en español.

[Ahí están los culpables] ------------------------------------>

Entonces como les decía, casi me sentí un poco remotamente mal. Decidí entonces hacer unos cuantos... ven, por eso no me gusta escribir de repente en español... ¿cuál es la traducción de entries? Okay, el punto es que hare unos cuantos posts en español a ver qué carajones [Carajos + Cojones] sale.

El día de hoy ha sido muy especial. Por una razón: desde la mañana digamos que no amanecí de la mejor disposición para hacer las cosas. Sin embargo tenía sesión de fotografías para el programa de mano de Metamorfosis -la obra en la que participaré próximamente- así que me levanté con todo el dolor y pesar de mi corazón... más bien el pesar de mi huejera [Hueva + Flojera, I think only my sister knew that one beforehand] y me dirigí a la regadera en donde... bueno, a fin de cuentas que les importa lo que haya hecho en la regadera. Fuí a la sesión y me dí cuenta que cometí un error grande: ir recién bañado. ¿Por qué, se preguntan? Pues porque mi cabello está mojado y relamido por lo mismo, y me hubiera gustado salir con el cabello esponjado y que se note que está largo. Además que no me dejaron tomarme la foto con camisa de fuerza. Yes, I am being serious.

De cualquier manera, después de eso recordé todas las chácharas que tengo que hacer entre proyectos, lavar el carro, ensayos, lavar ropa, ir al baño y respirar. Cabeza de Zanahoria estaba igual que yo; fuimos a comer, filosofamos un poco de la vida, y partimos a ensayo de Drácula eventualmente.

Sí, vamos a "montar" Drácula.

Lo pongo entre comillas porque de entrada es una versión demasiado bizarra de Drácula, hehehe. Salgo de Renfield, razón por la que tengo una camisa de fuerza en mi cuarto en estos momentos. I told you I was being serious. Eso y que sólo tuvimos dos semanas para hacer todo el trabajo. El punto es que era un desmother el que traíamos y, sinceramente aunque sé que algunos de los miembros están leyendo esto, no creo que avanzamos mucho.

Con toda la pesadumbre del mundo, Cabeza de Zanahoria y yo fuímos a ver que show con detalles del vestuario de Metamorfosis. En el camino vimos una parejita de novios que iban muy tomados de la mano. Ella iba muy sonriente, caminando con brinquitos de caperucita roja por el campo y él con una sonrisota viéndole el trasero. No, no se lo ví, pero por la sonrisa del novio supondré que estaba de verse. Aún así eso no me alegró el día ya que, como había mencionado, era un día demasiado amargo. La chava voltéo a ver algo que la emocionó y dijo: "Mira!" y apuntó a algo para que el novio viera.

Los pasamos, y le dije a Cabeza de Zanahoria muy, muy sutilmente: "Creo que son novios recientes. Casi acaban de empezar a andar." A lo que muy elocuentemente él contestó: "Estaban muy felices como para llevar tiempo siendo novios. ¡Hey! ¡Se les perdió el camino dorado!" En silencio avanzamos un poco más antes que él dijera: "Eso, o estamos muy amargados el día de hoy."

Pegó en el punto justo, y exploté en risa.

Seguimos caminando cuando vemos que el tráfico de la calle está detenido por una grúa que se está llevando un carro que estaba ilegalmente estacionado en un lugar reservado para minusválidos... o discapacitados... o gente con capacidades diferentes... vaya crippled; no sé cuál sea el término políticamente correcto el día de hoy.

Normalmente hubiera aplaudido a la acción de los agentes de tránsito, como aquella vez que se llevaron 10 carros -sí, diez, los conté- de enfrente de mis residencias porque estaban estacionados en un lugar con línea roja. Pero en esta ocasión !Estaba la grúa atravesada a mitad de la calle! ¡Obstruyendo todo el tráfico!

*imaginar programa informativo infantil* "Hola. Soy un agente de tránsito. Mi trabajo es hacer que se cumpla el orden en las calles y el tráfico fluya por las calles. ¡Me cago en mi trabajo!"

Por eso el país está así de jodido, ya ni la tingan. Me dió algo de coraje, pero después ese evento me alegró mucho el día cuando me dí cuenta que yo no sería el pobre wey que llegaría a su carro muy campante, después de un sabroso faje en las salas de estudio del cuarto piso de la biblioteca, y toparme con que mi carro no estaba.

Sólo faltó una cosa para realmente haberme puesto de buen humor. Ir a un orfanatorio y gritarles a todos los niños:

"WHO'S YOUR DADDY?!"

Something I hate

Hello Ol' Three Faithful Readers. My last entry had to do with something I like -girls-, now this one will have to do with something I hate. As a side note, the posts were too close in between, so be sure to read I Like Girls. Anyway! On to what I hate.

 

I hate dry toothpaste!

 

Yes, you read right. Dry toothpaste. I was recently... -recentrly being just two minutes ago-... brushing my teeth. So it happened that I left my toothpaste open overnight, hence the usual over squished paste on the tube's exit turned to a dry crust. You know, the way ketchup starts building up on the top of the bottle until it dries off like glue.

 

Not perceiving this little fact and because I have a class in 15 minutes, hastily I took the paste and smeared in the brush. In it goes to my mouth and *squinsh* ... dry toothpaste... in my mouth... like a mix between a rock and a chewy mass of sticky goo.

 

Gah! *regurgitates* I hate dry toothpaste.

I like girls

I just wanted to let you all know that I like girls.

Yes, I am a man. Therefore I cannot help it when a pretty piece of meat passes by. Yes I know this bugs the ladies. No... it does not bug them. It really upsets them; if girls were bombs then male eyes fixing on their bodies would surely set them off. *Ka-Boom!* I have a sister, and many girl [SPACE] friends - note the [SPACE], thank you - who have told me this and how they can almost feel dirty, lustful eyes undressing them sometimes. As for me... well, I would not complain if a chick was undressing me with her dirty, lustful eyes. :D

But hey, we all have eyes. We cannot help looking at pretty things.

There I am sitting casually in the library working at my computer creating data structures that will hold up parameter and variable directories for my language procedures at compile time. You know, the usual geek stuff that I am sure my Ol' Three Faithful Readers do not care reading about. Suddenly there is an aura in the room that becons me to turn, that magically hypnothizes me much like the fiddler's song. Foolishly, losing my mind to the curse of the siren's song, I turn my head.

And there she is. Those long, never-ending legs I would like to travel for all eternity; firm yet silky smooth. If her skirt were any shorter, it would be called a belt. Yet I will not complain about the sweet, harmonic movement of her round rear pelvic area posterior to the hips formed by tender gluteal muscles and underlying structures. Perfect and dangerous curves along her hips and a waist you could lay down your head upon to rest. A lean unmarked stomach with a small circular pool in which to drown your senses. Above that fertile plain of pleasure stood two gracious love pillows full with maternal care and love. Round, fragile shoulders leading to a graceful outline that is her neck, like a patway to the upper petals of an orchid flower that are her sweet lips. Like a queen of snow, her milky white skin and pearly eyes lighting her precious way and her hair fell like a fresh waterfall expelling a faint, perceptible breeze.

She was divinity's creature. A live porcelain doll.

I could deny it. I could deny anything if I wanted. But yes, I was mesmerized for such short seconds that seemed like an eternity. My eyes locked to her body like heat-seeking missiles set to destroy. Maybe, I cannot tell, my mouth fell open in such a way that if a fly had been passing by, it could have very well established its home in me. As she passed by, my head rolled like Regan's did in the Exorcist; and maybe... no, surely I was possessed at that moment by her unnatural beauty. And I was not the only one. Remember those old cartoons that had a wolf that each time a girl passed he would whistle lustfully behind them and his eyes leave his sockets? Yeah, like a pack of rabid dogs all male eyes followed her. If I had to vouch for my innocence, I would declare that women look for that kind of attention. Yeah, even though they say they dislike it they would not go out dresses with big, wide open cleavages and short skirts if they did not want to be seen. Nevertheless I will not say that. Instead I will said what then happened in my mind.

After the moment had come and gone I turned my head back to my computer still in shock; and just as soon I forgot about the USDA Approved meat that had went by moments ago. A completely different image had come to my mind that beat down all the lust and instinct inside of me.

Want to know the first thing that came to my mind? It was another woman in my life. It was Her. My Dove. The One Girl that I like and want... nay, maybe that I love. Just the image of Her cute face, Her touching smile, Her playful eyes and Her scornful look when I am unpolite - yes, I even and specially like Her when she reprimands me like a little kid. With dreamy eyes looking at nowhere and everywere, I smiled. I was happy. A feeling of tranquility swept over my soul.

Why is this relevant? Because no matter if Aphrodite herself came washing down on us humans, my heart and mind would belong to My Dove. It is Her I turn to when I'm feeling low; it is Her who I think of in times of despair. It is to My Dove who I would wish to come back home; to Her arms after all is said and done. Let goddesses come and let men fight over them; let wars break out and friendships be broken over them. I will take no part in them; instead I will sleep and dream of the One Girl that lives in my heart.

I guess what I mean is that there are many, many women in the world and some of them are USDA Approved Meat Goddesses set out to entertain the eye and lust, still none of them bring the warm and fuzzy feeling to the heart.

I like girls. But I can only love My Dove.

Horrifying Good!

Greetings mortals!

Last Saturday I went along with Carrot Head, The Mom Away From Home, The Pretty Assistant and The Maid to see The Machinist at the movies. First off, let me say it is a great movie, especially Christian Bale's performance and the fact that he had to lose 67 pounds for the movie; which is amazing if you see the hard body he had on American Psycho and even more amazing when you consider he is pumped up in the new Batman movie. That speaks a lot about discipline.

Although the movie cannot be classified as horror since it leans towards suspense, let me say that I was surprised The Pretty Assistant came along with us because she dislikes horror movies so much; actually, if I must be totally honest, I think I might have lied to her a little bit when she asked what the movie was about. Hey! You cannot blame me for wanting her to jog along so I had to use any underhanded techniques at my disposal. Means to an end. In any case, I think she liked it...

... a little... maybe...

But that is besides the point. The point is that she got me thinking about her dislike for horror movies and found out that a lot of people find horror movies senseless and... well... vanal. A guy in a jockey mask following around naked teens with a chainsaw and cutting them to pieces in their dreams on Halloween night does not sound like much of a piece of art. And you know what? I agree.

Still, I like gore :D

Then I had a realization: that is not horror. Most slasher films (Freddy, Jason, Michael, Texas Chainsaw Massacre) are terror movies. I guess now there are two thoughts going through your head: "What in the blazes is this guy talking about? I should stop reading this senseless crap" or "What in the blazes is this guy talking about? Meh, I have nothing better to do so I will humor him and read the entire thing."

Please stay, I get lonely.

When we speak of terrorism inherently we fear for our physical well-being, of not being blown away to pieces or maybe shot down by a sniper. That is terror, some kind of physical fear, clean cut bleeding damage to our bodies. It is pain as much as a corporal repulsion. This is why terror is born out of scenes which I call Gross Out Scenes; when there is a shot of something really disgusting on screen: a gun to someone's head, the high impact noise of the bullet crushing the guy's skull, squishing the brains as they fly through the room and end up splattering against the wall; rotting zombies with their hanging eyeballs yelling "brains!" in a mall while they tear people's guts out and eat them with deviant and void pleasure. You get the picture. A very good example of this is Cabin Fever.

Horror is a psychological fear, mental and spiritual. It is more primitive and arcane. The fears we have to life itself, rooted well inside our souls. That is why sometimes a movie that speaks to us about the meaning of life, of not knowing what is going on in our heads, of being lost in a dark alley really get to us and scare the living bejeebus out of our bones. Blair Witch, Open Water, Jacob's Ladder and The Eye are good examples of this kind of fear. Horror is not just an image which scares you, but the fear of not knowing what in the hell is happening to your sense, the insecurity for your soul and human existence. And not necessarily your own, but of other people out there.

That is why the movies succeding in causing such a big fear capable of killing Dissi of a heart attack are those with a good mix of terror and horror, such as The Phone. Movies that can set the psycological mood plus throw some scary images to support that atmosphere and increase the feeling of hopelesness. Lucio Fulci is a director that comes to mind; someone who could show you scenes of tension, suspense and horror; then suddenly gross you out with a totally disgusting scene of a little girl's head exploding into pieces with flying brains all around to up the notch on terror before going back to the psychological horror.

Kinda like a roller coaster. Ups and downs.

Yet, horror and terror are not enough to make a good movie. A good movie should be entertaining while still being capable of leaving a message behind that the audience can later reflect upon. Therefore, to me the really good horror movies are those that instead of the writter/director coming up with ideas to scare you, they think of something they actually want to tell to the public. Maybe a social commentary, critisism or love. And then wrapping this message in a nice, tiddied up horror package. Then you get a real good movie which has you on the edge of your seat all one-hundred-and-twenty minutes and come out of the theater thinking: "Wow, I had never looked at life this way." Case in point, just one of the best movies to come out in ages: Saw.

That is why I take so long to come up with my screenplays -yes, I sometimes write beyond this senseless words on the Net-; because I have to think of something I want to tell the world, something I want people to think about and after that contextualize it to a horror story.

In summary, terror is to scare while horror is to fear.

Through the Eyes

Hello again my Ol' Three Faithful Readers. Today is a double post day, so do not forget to read "Huggable Teddy" as part of today's blog. Actually, I do not know what to make this second post about... I have two ideas, but I do not know which one to elaborate.

 

I could go on and write about Terror/Horror movies since recently I saw a horror movie and, being a horror fan, would like to share my thoughts on what makes good horror movies, as well as the fine line that sets terror and horror apart.

 

Maybe I could rant about something that has something to do with my previous post today... hum... yeah, I will do that.

 

Today I woke up like any other monday ready to go to my Compilers class. Hazy, I got into the bathroom to take a shower. As usual I took my sweet time since the class is early in the morning. I let the hot water run down my body and wash away the lazyness from my skin.

 

I got out and grabbed my first pair of clean Levi's, and the first shirt available, no questions asked. Suddenly the realization that I had no money on my wallet struck me like a rabid dog biting me, especially since my stomach grumbled for food. I open my drawer, which along with its usual papers, pens, random CDs and all around useless crap, contains all my spare change money. I collected what little I could and took off to the convenience store.

 

I grab my usual shake and Pop-Tarts breakfast and walk towards the cash register. That's when I see something unusual in my day: the attendant lady is... I do not know if fatter or pregnant. But by the looks of it I figure she is pregnant. Deep down in my head I guess I am happy for her. I do not talk to her, I do not know her name. But I always say "good morning," "thanks" and smile everytime I enter the store for something.

 

And then I walk towards my class. As I am walking through the morninng breeze, I realize that all the people I see pass by me are the same people I see everyday when I go to my class at this time of the day. Oddly, I realize that we have connected in a very weird way.

 

Each day I see them, and each day we smile to each other. From time to time we even mutter a greeting to each other. Some days I can even know if they are troubled, happy or angry just by looking at them and I bet they also can read me like an open book just by passing them by.

 

We have never crossed words, yet we know each other so well. But maybe that is the magic of my relationship with all of them; that we do not share words. We just stare into each other's eyes, smile and go on our way. Yet there is contact when our eyes meet, and sometimes our eyes can tell more than words. Some say they are the windows to our souls.

 

Yeah, I guess that is what we are maybe: Soul-mates sharing the morning breeze and the same road.