Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Fuckin ape.

Tengo una pinche gripa del carajo.

Dicho eso, espero—no, demando cierto grado de indulgencia al saludable berrinche que voy a expectorar.

Estoy de malas, me duele la cabeza y me acosa un malestar vago y jodón, que no acaba de manifestarse del todo como un dolor bien definido en algún lado, sino que me envuelve como una sombra difusa que chinga quedito pero en todas partes.

Como el pesimismo, la gripa te sujeta sutilmente. Pero mientras el pesimismo te llena la cabeza de mierda (por algún trastorno intestinal que conecta temporalmente al intestino con el hipotálamo) la gripa te llena la nariz de mocos verdes y pegajosos, reemplazados a intervalos regulares por otros mocos casi enteramente líquidos que fluyen como lágrimas hacia el bigote y gotean cuando uno está distraído, causando la impresión de que se sufre retraso mental o quizá una embolia.

También hay mocos duros que depilan su lugar cuando son retirados (pese a que se sujetan como un animal marino al arrecife) de su sitio. Estos no son mocos de gripa, pero me pareció oportunos mencionarlos para completar tres de los estados clásicos de la materia: mocos sólidos, líquidos y gaseosos.

Ya sé que no mencioné los gaseosos. No me importa. Tengo gripa y me vale madre. También se puede argumentar que los otros son coloides. No sé si sean no-newtonianos. Tengo gripa y me vale madre.

Bien, ya tomé un antigripal y no me siento ni tantito mejor. No siento alivio, sólo rencor hacia la industria farmacéutica que promete bienestar a costa de interrumpir los procesos naturales del sistema inmunológico, y contra la sociedad capitalista que nos obliga a trabajar aburridas horas de oficina moqueando como pinches pepinos de mar enojados.

Luego me encabrona pensar lo mucho que el primate que habito es susceptible en su percepción de las cosas. No, no habito un primate. Soy un primate. Mi mente no es una cosa separada de mi cuerpo sino una consecuencia de éste. Mi mente sólo ocurre si mi cerebro funciona, igual que mi digestión solo existe si mi estómago funciona.

Así, en esencia todo lo que llamo “yo” es el producto un proceso orgánico y vulgar como cualquier otro y cualquier aproximación metafísica es una ilusión para conferirle un valor especial-- que yo soy mejor que los virus que me tienen jodido y tengo derecho a ganarles. No les voy a ganar por derecho, sino porque soy mas cabrón que ellos. Después de todo, así funciona la evolución.

O a lo mejor de veras estoy muy de malas y todo me parece indignante y molesto. Y para colmo se me antoja un plátano.

Pinche primate >:|

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

But then he died lol :P

Long story short, they fucked up. Fucked up bad. So, shots were shot and in the end some random guy was dead, some other random guy went to prison and I ran away with the money. But that is not really what you came here to hear, I know. You want to know what they all want to know. That's the only reason you even came here, right? And you, of all people. Right. I know. Its ok.

You want to know why I did it.

First off, I'm gonna tell why I can tell you-- I'm an old man. I won't live much more. Don't give me that look boy, it ain't gonna do nothing. I'm old. It's ok. So why I did it. Son of a bitch had it coming, I'll tell you that. I know it ain't nice to hear that be said about your old man, but I knew Franky and you didn't. You were just a baby back then, now I don't know what your momma told you, but your pop was no saint.

“I rather not be around when shit hits the fan” your pappa used to say. Meaning he was not looking for trouble. Only thing was, he was always looking for trouble, he just wasn't looking to be around when the shit and the fan collided. Oh well, he was around when that happened allright, that last time. And shit hit the fan real hard.

So it was the summer of 89, and your dad came up with this real sweet deal. We was always coming up with sweet deals and last jobs. So this was to be another last job, we were gonna stick a bank. Leave the country with a shitload of unmarked bills and live happy ever after. But there ain't no happy ever after boy, I'll tell you that.

Pass the lighter. Thanks. No, it's ok. Kinda late to quit, ain't it? Fuck it.

Franky was a lazy fuck and a freeloader. Sorry kid, he was. Clever, though. Sharp as a Swiss army knife, he was. All he had to do was get a car. He figured the whole thing out, and let all the tricky parts to someone else. I got the guns. Back then I had a thing for AKs. Loud motherfuckers. Scary motherfuckers. You wield one, it shows you mean business. It shows you do this shit for a living. AKs meant something back then. Now every other nigger is got one. Or two.

So we do the all the planning and shit and the big day comes. It was a sunny day, fine as they come-- we-- we--. No, no. It's ok. No, don't call the nurse. No need. You want to hear the story or what? I'm ok now. Just need a minute. And another smoke.

I got three AKs from Sammy. You now Sammy. Really? He dead? Well, son of a bitch had it coming, too. Yeah, cancer is a bitch ain't it? Smoked like a chimney, Sammy did. Sneaky fucking russian.
I got ripped off. One of them lacked a hammer. A hammer kid, the bit that hits the primer. Shit boy, you really don't know shit. Means the piece of shit did nothing but look scary. That it did well, at least. Poor Tom found out too late though.

Anyway, you dad got a 76 chevy from... I-- I-- you know what? I think I could use the nurse this time. No, wait. Wait. Shit boy. I guess you ain't gonna know why daddy-- oh. Ah, damn. I-- oh fuck... I'm sorry kid, I am. Really. I-- .

Wednesday, June 08, 2011

Not that kind of model.

I've been lucky enough to have a long, wholeharted relationship with stories and storytelling. I've been reading copiously for as long as I can remember and I usually wind up getting entangled with a genre for a while, to move to another and then come back to epic fantasy.

I took a break from reading. Not really sure why, but it was a stupid thing to do. I missed it terribly. Turns out reading, even casual or technical reading does play an important part of my life.

Books, comics, manga, and wikipedia. I am in great debt to the nun that taught me to read the books that taught me to think. Funny thing in it's own right.

So, anyway. I also enjoy writing. I don't do it as much as I used to, and I'm still trying to figure out why. I like the free, personal, intimate writing style that a blog allows. It is an unlikely middle point between a diary and a column, and it lets you explore people's ideas sans proof reading; which is usually awful, but occasionally brilliant. Sometimes both.

What works for me, for the most part is personal experience accounts. Here goes Sunday.

I was strolling in a mall, looking for a pair of jeans to replace the ones that are near decommission from the wardrobe. The thing is, clothes-wise I'm as cheap as they come. Really, there is no reasonable motive for a pair of jeans to cost more than 24 beers. I did not found jeans within my acceptable price/value range, so fuck it, I'll go get some ice cream.

On the way, I came across a mini expo of sorts. Six long, folding tables covered in blue fabric. On top, a very decent fleet of WWII fighter aircraft, 1/32 of their real size. As I walked near, I saw that they also had many types of models, tanks, choppers, D&D-esque scenery of orc-ridden castles and the like.

But the airplanes, damn, the airplanes.

As I looked at them with honest fascination I noted a bespectacled guy hovering around, his expression a mix of pride and child-like anxiety. He made the models. He then was telling somebody that the green one was a Stuka and the gray one a Mustang. I join in casually, as he was explaining something and removed the engine cover of one of the models. I point out (again, honestly fascinated) the amount of detail and historical accuracy that was put into it, into that junkers inverted v12. He gives me a quick glimpse and carries on.

So we begin to chat and he tells me he has been into modeling since he was a little kid, that he also builds radio control airplanes from scratch (an impressive maker feat, I must say) and shows me a half done Spitfire wooden frame.

It's time for them to go, and he seems deeply horrified at the thought of leaving his models alone as the carries some of them to his car. I offer to help him. He says his nieces are on the way, but accepts my offer. I pick up a couple of planes and see him getting ever more nervous.

I was extremely careful. I had the feeling that those were nothing short of treasures form him. We take them to the car and his nieces and sister-in-law tease him friendly about his nerdy hobby, and he laughs it off. All four of us make another trip to the car to get the rest of the models to safety.

I consider myself a well-balanced all-around geek. I know my Star Wars/Trek/Craft, I been to anime conventions and bought rare comics online, so I believed I was pretty familiar with the ways of the geek. And sunday I got a sneak peak at a whole subculture I was only vaguely aware of.

Turns out people can get really into model making. I figure it is part craft, part escapism and even perhaps a hint of mind-confined roleplay.

To where I started: literary genres I like. I am in a cyberpunk renaissance of sorts, since I watched Blade Runner two weeks ago. I saw it once when I was a kid and loved it. Turns out it is a really cool movie.

Time to wrap this up, having no idea what was really the point of this post.

Damn, I missed my blog.