Saturday, December 31, 2011

Twelve Tolls - Resolutions

     It is said that filled with good intentions is the path to Hell. That is why a resolution must not be an intention but an action. My twelve objectives for 2012...

1. Stop saying bad words, curses or intentions that damage my ether or the ether of those who surround me.
2. Stop consuming alcohol or tobacco.
3. Finish recording the song I wrote and animate it properly.
4. Realise all the animation projects that, with the coming of the years, have remained mere ideas.
5. Program all the games that, with the coming of the years, have remained mere ideas.
6. Finish writing the stories I still have pending and keep on writing my novels (yes, the ones that will take me out of working)
7. Speaking of work, find a place where I can acquire experience while I have fun and do what I like to do.
8. Exercise and acquire a great body, winning all the bets that I've made with my friends in the process.
9. Stop making bets.
10. Pay my debts or most of them anyway.
11. Make all the journeys I can.
12. Keep on writing on the present blog, five entries per month.

     A PROSPEROUS 2012 AND -in the words of tiny Tim -GOD BLESS US, EVERY ONE !

Friday, December 30, 2011

Twelve Tolls - Wishes

     End of the year. The year 2012 comes forth. I, as I do annually, prepare my twelve wishes and my twelve resolutions, the ones I will say with the requiescat for the year that will come to pass between the dead at midnight tomorrow. And what do I wish for this year to come ?

1. Inspiration. That a flood of divine and seductive ideas forms in all brains.
2. Happiness. That in every moment there exists a reason to laugh, to smile and to fill the environment with a good mood. That every day exists a smile on my face... because without days like those... not even pay days...
3. Health. Physical, mental, spiritual and emotional well-being.
4. Peace. Tranquility in the mind and in the heart.
5. Wisdom. That every piece of knowledge acquired is not only that but lessons in life for us and for those that surround us.
6. Intelligence. Mental acuity and rapid thinking.
7. Work. To realise what we want to do. To have time for our own projects and to fulfill them completely.
8. Prosperity. Success in everything that is proposed.
9. Patience. Because every thing that is worth something requires time.
10. Perseverance. Because every thing that is worth something requires effort.
11. Discipline. Because every thing that is worth something requires a good mindset, based on good customs and good forms of action.
12. Love. A real love, based on wanting our own well-being and the well-being of everybody else in spite of everything.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Rites, Customs and Traditions

     A ceremonious act instaureted in life. A frequent repetition of the same action, established long time ago. We all have our rites, customs and traditions. In this december time I have many special traditions with the family and a one unique custom: to play, from beginning to ending, Chrono Trigger.

If history is to change, let it change ! If the world is to be destroyed, so be it ! If my fate is to die, I must simply laugh !

     What a marvelous game ! The story, the music, the gameplay and the nostalgic graphics... Chrono Trigger has EVERYTHING. That is the reason why it creates, along with Super Mario RPG: Legend of the Seven Stars and Kingdom Hearts, the divine trinity of my favourite games. If you haven't played it down... ahem... buy (wink wink) it right now and play it !

     So in case you still didn't know it now you realise the truth. Beneath this beautiful and well-fed exterior lies a geek with a taste for RPGs.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

THE DARK KNIGHT RISES

     Last December 23th I went to the movies to watch Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol. No, I am not an avid Ethan Matthew Hunt fan -or a Tom Cruise fan for that matter -but I was anxious to watch the six minutes The Dark Knight Rises prologue. If I hadn't cancelled my Cine PREMIERE subscription I would have realised in time that the prologue was not to be projected in our country.

     Obsession could be the word that best describes my behaviour for the next days. The 24th I found a lo-res prologue that left me mad and wanting to watch more. I spent dinner in my room, searching for a better quality prologue. I wasn't until Christmas that I found a webpage claiming to have one, a present from Santa Claus himself. I initiated the download and went to sleep (it was six o'clock and I haven't had a shuteye since nine o'clock the previous day). When I woke up I found out that I had downloaded a file that was over 2 GB in size !

     I wasn't sure what I had downloaded. I looked up the webpage from where I did the download but it was already down (oh yes, the dreaded 404 error). After meditating for a moment I opened up the file... and it wasn't the TDKR prologue but the complete film, leaked to the internet ! My God... what a film ! This time Nolan outdid himself... and since I am a shareful man I uploaded the file to Megaupload so that anyone who wants to watch it right now can do it... Bane's voice is a little bit hard to understand but... it is The Dark Knight Rises half a year before its release !

     So without further ado...  DOWNLOAD NOW

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Eve & Twenty-Five

     Tonight is Christmas Eve and tomorrow is Christmas... give me the boot Mary because I'm going to get drunk...

     In honour of the celebration, so that tonight and tomorrow don't pass unmarked regardless of the belief, culture or ways of thinking of all the people, I have a wish. That everybody finds peace, tranquility, love and happiness inside their hearts. That all the good wishes of those who, with hope, give the best of themselves the three hundred and sixty-five days of the year come true.

     MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Our Daily Bread

     After seeing my last entry my mother gave me a sermon only comparable to the following image...

Son, don't play with the food !

Saturday, November 19, 2011

One of Those Weeks

     Last week was a... frutal kind of week. It all started on monday... when I watched The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes... and the thing is people think tomatoes are vegetables but they're not... they are fruits and they are tired of being discriminated...


     And after that it all went just downwards. Tuesday was time for the apple...


     Wednesday for the banana...


     An orange thursday...


     And a pumpkin friday...


Saturday, November 12, 2011

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Pro Bono Publico

     Okay, maybe my work hasn't exactly been for the public good but it has been done free of charge. It is an image, some bullets and some avatars that I've done for some projects.

Free of charge sir, free of charge

Monday, November 7, 2011

Merchandise

     Don't be fooled by imitations ! The only original clothes line based on Slimy yet Tasty is found in the Slimy yet Tasty store !




     Coming soon to a store near you !

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Mecenas

     “Oh, come on! You must to know who that is!”

     “Well, I’m telling you I don’t.”

     It was me and José, drinking whatever in whatever place we were at. A bohemian gathering or something, supposedly full of important artists and dealers and critics and more. Take another sip. Tasted like nothing.

     “You are kidding. I cannot believe you,” insisted José.

     “The fact that you keep irritating me about knowing that John will not make me know who the hell he is.”

     “He is no John, he is Jacob. Jacob Spencer.”

     I felt my eyebrows rise. “You mean Jacob Spencer the author of…”

     “Yes,” interrupted José, “the celebrated author of many bestselling books. How can you not know, you said to me that you were a writer.”

     “I am a writer. That doesn’t mean I have to know every writer there is or has been.”

     “But come on! Everybody knows Jacob. He is a writer and painter and sculpture and… he even is some kind of… mecenas.”

     “A what?” Tried to take another sip but couldn’t. The thirst was gone, now I was curious.

     “A mecenas… the person that gives you money to make art.”

     “Like a patron?”

     “Yes, a patrón of some sort.”

     I took a glimpse at Spencer. His black suit white shirt black tie combo worked out but was far too simplistic. My blue suit pink shirt pink tie combo, on the other hand, matched superbly. “He doesn’t look that impressive.”

     “You, my friend, are too full of yourself. So I leave you,” José got up from the chair, “I leave you now.”

     “Oh, come on! Why?”

     “You have no boobs,” said José as he pointed towards a large-breasted blonde that was resting on the stairwell’s handrail. My gaze followed him for a bit and then returned to Spencer.

     I had read two of the books he had written. They were good. There were some points in which he could improve but overall I understood why they were bestsellers. What really caught my attention though was the fact that the novels were not alike at all. It was not just the fact that they belonged to different genres: the style in which they were written seemed to belong to different people.

     Finish my drink. Get up. I walk towards Spencer who is now talking to a woman. Redhead. Beautiful. Her lips are very red, yet I don’t think she is wearing any lipstick. Stop. A waiter walks in front of me and I grab another drink from his tray. Continue walking. I am in front of them but I don’t stop. I walk past them and say hi to a girl who is looking at a painting.

     It is an art to talk while thinking of something else, while listening to something else. Spencer and Red are talking about some project Red has. Linda, the girl I’m chatting up, tells me she is an actress. Apparently Red is an up and coming writer with big aspirations and who is in need of money. Linda apologetically corrects herself: she is not an actress but she wants to become one. I am dead certain Red is going to get some sort of patronage from Spencer. Linda is from a small town and is now a waitress and I am glad I don’t need to listen anymore since I already know her whole story.

     I hear phrases like ‘The chances we get in life are the ones we go and get for ourselves’ and ‘I don’t even need a fulcrum to move the world’ from the obviously optimistic Red. I can tell Linda is more of an idealist as she keeps sharing with me her fantasies of a better life. I keep eavesdropping on Red and Spencer’s conversation for a while but ultimately become uninterested. I nod and say yes and respond accordingly to what Linda is telling me, then I guide her towards another painting and when I’m certain we are far away enough from Spencer I ditch Linda, go outside and grab a cab. Half an hour later I am asleep.

     The morning paper. Sad and depressing stories printed in a sad and depressing excuse of a journal. It’s all war and famine and a girl whose body was found in a ditch not far from where I live. The only reason I bought it is because I overheard Spencer say he was to publish a short story in it soon. Something about returning to his roots or something. But there is no Spencer in the paper so I throw it away. I see it wiggle in the wind and something makes me pick it up again. I stash it somewhere in my coat. I light a cigarette and keep on walking towards José’s and something makes my knees bend and my guts churn, just like the first time I smoke a cigarette. I have to stop for a minute but since I don’t discover what is it that bothers me I continue to walk towards José’s.

     He, of course, is still asleep. He, of course, has company. There is something about that accent he has. I find it awful. People seem to find it awfully awesome. Forty-five minutes later we are at a coffee place and he is asking me if I got laid last night. When I don’t answer he waves at me, kind of like pointing out the fact that he doesn’t care for any other thing than my sex life. I ask him about the girl he spent the night with and when he starts to talk about it I wave in the same way he did. He flips me off and we continue to quietly sip the hell out of our coffees.

     The morning paper. Again. Sad and depressing. War and famine but no dead girl now. No Spencer story but the paper claims we will get it tomorrow. This paper I do throw away. The other one ended up in my kitchen’s wastebasket anyway. Back home. I try to write a little but I can’t. I stand up and start to walk. I walk to the kitchen and then to the living room through the dining room and then to the bedroom. I stand in front of the bed for a moment and then I walk all the way back to the kitchen. Thoughts race through my head and I keep on overanalysing stuff. Past stuff. Future stuff. Time goes by. Eleven thirty. Twelve. The witching hour, it is time to sleep now.

     The paper. Spencer’s story. A story about an optimistic man and his struggle for freedom in a cruel world. Not my cup of tea. Realism is often unrealistic. Second opportunities seldom happen and most of the times you don’t have the time to go and search for those chances. Get those chances for yourself. Something echoes in my brain and I have that feeling in my stomach again. Calm myself down with a cigarette. The rest of the day is uneventful. Eating, going to the bathroom. Breathing. The sun goes down.

     It hits me right in the middle of the night. There, caressed by the sheets and the warm embrace of my pillows, it hits me. Go to the kitchen. Garbage. A day before. Two days before. I salvage it. The paper shows a picture of a redheaded woman found dead in the vicinity. Her lips have a strange glow, a crimson red that seems unnatural. But it is natural. It was natural. A man that didn’t need a fulcrum to move the world. He just needed a redheaded woman. There isn’t much information about the girl, about her death. Yet, I start to connect the dots.

     Morning. No paper. I couldn’t get any sleep either. Thinking. Overthinking. Overanalysing stuff. Mecenas. Brilliant artist. Plagiarism. Plague. And in a crazy world sane people are crazy, never believed. And when you get crazy you don’t take the easy choices. Sadly, you don’t choose wisely either. When you lose your marbles the only way of getting them back is through action. And good action brings good reward. But since you are crazy good action is never good action. Doesn’t matter, you are going to act and you are going to act fast. When you should stall and overanalyse you jump right there in the middle of the whole mess.

     What sane person breaks into a rich man’s house in the middle of the night? I’m not a sane person, but you already know that. There is a dark secret to one Jacob Spencer. When you try to uncover such a secret and things seem to go your way you should probably want to be careful, take a couple of steps back and see that you are not making any mistakes. When you trespass into a house and it seems like you are being invited in, trust me, you are not. This is at the core of every single horror story. There is a dark secret to one Jacob Spencer, probably some arcane magician with the power of sucking other more talented people’s ideas.

     I lost consciousness almost instantly but I’m pretty sure he used a bat –or a golf club –to knock me out.

     “Are you awake now?” asked Spencer with a wide smile.

     There is no response. My head is still spinning, my eyes rolling and my hands sweating. I am tied to a chair. Then I remember where am I, waiting for my life to be sucked, for my ideas to be stolen. “Cast your spell wizard, curse me and be done with it!”

     Laughter. “Boy, you are something. What do you think I am? A superhuman with control over the powers that be?”

     “You tell me… this is your horror story.”

     “Oh no… you’ve got it all wrong. See, this isn’t a horror story… this is science fiction,” says Spencer as I become aware of the contraption I am stuck in. I try to move my head but it seems to be stuck, lodged in some kind of tube. Spencer grabs a pair of pliers and comes closer, “and it isn’t my story.”

     Spencer yanks one of my fingernails. Index finger. Left hand. He lets my screams die before he continues talking. “I am not cruel, you know? The first version of this machine required me to insert electric conductors between the person’s finger and nail,” he yanks another fingernail –different hand but same finger –and more screams are born and die again, “that was much worse than this.

     I know you. I mean, I don’t know you know you but I know your type. You think you have the most creative juices. You are eager to move up. You are arrogant. You are weak,” Spencer straps two metal pieces to my newly deformed fingers, “and your hubris made you pick up the idiot ball. You didn’t think I watch every corner of this house? You didn’t see the cameras watching your every move as you were creeping through my house? It’s science and technology baby, the best ones money can buy.”

     My fingertips, electrified. I feel a strange numbness in the back of my neck. My head races on and my sight gets blurry. And I escape from my body to become something more than a man. Well… maybe not something more… just something different. I become bits and bytes. Forty kilobytes in disk space in some machine that will print my life in ink. Or maybe one of those fancy computer documents that you download, an e-book. An opus magnum to be read, a bestselling novel by one Jacob Spencer with a dark secret… a state of the art dark secret. Then I hear that distinct sound, like someone flushing a toilet, as my new form is dragged to what resembles a wastebasket.

Short Story. October, 2011.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Calavera Literaria

El reloj tocaba
su sombrío soneto
mientras llegaba
el oscuro momento

y es que la muerte
pensaba llegar
y de todos la suerte
quería segar.

Una misiva
había mandado,
así su venida
en claro dejado

"Tristes, cansados
los veo transitar
y por los trabajos
nunca descansar,

de sus proyectos
los voy a salvar
pero sus alientos
tendrán que acabar.

Este día de muertos
los voy a visitar
y el alma de todos
me pienso llevar."

Con brazos cruzados
no se podían quedar,
alumnos y empleados
un plan habían de idear.

"Antes que la muerte
nos venga a querer reclamar
de una manera muy fuerte
nos pondremos a cantar,

bailando al rayar del día
ella nos encontrará
y toda nuestra alegría
seguro la ahuyentará."

El fatídico día llegaba,
el momento se hacía esperar
el ambiente resonaba
ya dispuesto a celebrar,

la charada estaba dispuesta
y la rueda puesta a girar,
se comenzó con la fiesta
que a la catrina habría de trucar.

Pero habían de encontrar
que era difícil tarea,
¿ a la huesuda engañar ?
poca gente la marea...

Diciendo que los festejos
escaseaban en su hogar
se llevó a jóvenes y viejos
a un lugar singular.

Ahora en el camposanto,
y por tiempo indefinido,
se escucha de todos el canto
aunque cansado y abatido

ya sin ánimos de más fiestas
y confinadas a ese lugar
de los hombres están las esencias
que por siempre tendrán que danzar.

Calavera Literaria. October, 2009.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Tack för Maten

     Blog Action Day.

     The topic: FOOD.

     The initial instruction of creating an entry for the day came to me from the Social Responsability course I am taking. In the other blog I wrote about food as a social phenomenon but here, in my personal blog, I will write about food as a cultural expression that I like degusting.

     More than mere nutrition for the little body a meal is a ritual. From the preparation to the digestion, going through the scene placement (also known as setting the table). A good meal, shared with good company can do wonders.

A breakfast for Champions... when you are sick in the stomach... pa'que amarre

     There are foods with history. Dishes that are not repetitive but special because of their significance. The tradicional Pollo en Achiote my mother makes is one of my favourites. The family Pizza that is made on the weekends is already a part of life itself.

     There are foods that you miss. Some good Real Tacos when you have been out of the country for a while... or maybe a yummy Mamey in a shake. It happens the other way around as well, some tasteful Escargots deliciously prepared and eaten with family.

     There are foods that you make yours. The Guacamole that Manuel could not get over and the Blackberry Pie that I like so much.

     There are foods that you can't stand the sight of. In my case the Papaya and Sardines.

     That is food. For me at least. The only thing left to do is thanking for it. Tack för maten.

Friday, October 7, 2011

Inquilino

            La noche se prende y yo me prendo con ella. Últimamente ha sido así, trabajo y trabajo y pienso y pienso y es mi dueño quien me mantiene así, sin descanso. Yo no duermo, ni siquiera cuando caen las luces y él se recuesta. Se podría decir que mi casero me cobra la estancia. Mi casero me cobra caro, pero no hay otro edificio para mí. Esta noche perpetua es igual a las pasadas. Yo solamente intento matar el tiempo en mi pequeño cuarto blanquecino. Un color blanco que quiere ser amarillo.

            El calor es agobiante especialmente en estas fechas. Da igual qué cuarto te dé el casero, en el verano la temperatura sube exorbitantemente. Confinado a este lugar, donde tengo que vivir hasta mi muerte, el brutal calor me asfixia. Los demás inquilinos y el casero se quejan también. No hay excepciones. En estas noches el casero me molesta constantemente, poniéndome a trabajar porque él no puede conciliar el sueño. Me debería tener más consideración pues no podría vivir un minuto sin mí. Él es yo y yo soy él, así de simple.

            Y tristemente no es así con todos los inquilinos. Hace tiempo el casero estuvo muy enfermo a causa de uno de ellos. Tuvo fiebre y le dolía mucho el bajo vientre. Un día incluso decidió no salir de la cama pues todo movimiento brusco le causaba un agudo dolor. Tal vez el inquilino quería atención, tal vez sus quejas nunca fueron escuchadas. El casero hizo que un grupo de otros caseros sacaran a su molesto inquilino. No sé cuánto tiempo vivió fuera del edificio, pero no creo que haya sido mucho. Pero a mí no puede sacarme. Ni a mí ni a mi amigo.

            Yo vivo en lo que se podría llamar un penthouse, aunque como mi cuarto no posee ventanas ese nombre le hace demasiada justicia. Mis vecinos de un piso abajo, ellos sí tienen una vista perfecta y un par de persianas muy eficaces, que abren y cierran rápidamente y de un color café apiñonado hermoso. Mi amigo vive más abajo. Él se encarga de suministrar el sustento a todo el edificio, a los inquilinos y al casero. Su habitación parece más una jaula, barrotes horizontales del mismo color blanco amarillo que la mía. Vive con dos compañeros de cuarto, hermanos que se encargan de la ventilación del edificio. Ninguno de ellos puede ser desalojado, aunque modestia aparte no son tan importantes como yo. Yo soy el líder de los inquilinos y soy yo quien les dice qué hacer.

            Esta noche es muy calorosa, más aún que anoche y antenoche. No es dolor exactamente, pero sí siento punzadas. Punzadas por aquí y por allá, a través de toda mi largura y anchura. Siento punzadas dentro de mí también, como alfileres que se clavan en mí y se insertan más y más adentro. Mi amigo se mueve en un vaivén frenético y sus compañeros de cuarto intentan seguirle el paso. El edificio está muy caliente, más aún que aquella vez cuando el casero hizo que unos inquilinos de más abajo donaran su producción de líquido, fuera lo que fuera, al edificio de otra casera.

            Quejas vienen y van mientras el casero mira el reloj. Las once con treinta y siete minutos decimos al unísono. El casero ordena: “los golpes han de cesar” pero mi amigo se sigue moviendo rápidamente a pesar de las señales que le envío para que se calme. Con cada movimiento crea un sonido y ellos en conjunto parecen incluso formar una melodía. Tres negras tres blancas tres negras. El mismo tono en todas y luego silencio por un momento. Tres negras tres blancas tres negras.

La temperatura sigue aumentando en todo el edificio, especialmente en el lado izquierdo. Es como si esa parte de la construcción, una estructura colgante, se prendiera en llamas. Llego hasta a pensar que un olor a quemado emana de la estructura. Once con cincuenta y siete y el olor sigue intensificándose pero cambia. Ahora me parece percibir un olor a gas, como si una estufa tuviera una fuga. El casero está ido todavía pero intenta quitarse el estupor. No hay estufas en el edificio, así que este olor debe venir del exterior. El casero despierta por completo y todos despertamos con él. Existe una alerta y el casero se desplaza hasta la pequeña cocina del pequeño departamento donde vive.

El reloj marca los treinta y cuatro minutos de un nuevo día y la estructura sigue incrementando su temperatura incluso después de que todos regresamos a la cama sin encontrar fuga alguna. El cansancio invade al casero una vez más, pero entre el calor que sigue generando la estructura y todos los pensamientos que él genera en mí no puede conciliar el sueño. Transcurren ochenta y dos minutos más antes que el cansancio por fin noquee al casero.

No es exactamente como ver una película. Es más bien una experiencia en la que no estás lúcido completamente y ves imágenes enfrente de ti y atrás de ti y a tus lados también. A veces las sensaciones llegan a ser demasiado vívidas. En otras ocasiones solamente observas estas simples imágenes. Recuerdos o situaciones ilógicas y bizarras. Lo común y lo ordinario o lo contrario. Esta vez puedo ver al casero haciendo desplazar al edificio, como lo hace cada mañana. La angosta callejuela por la que va es tan real, tan palpable, que creo que la noche ha terminado y éste es el comienzo de un nuevo día. A veces las sensaciones llegan a ser tan vívidas que, como un choque eléctrico, regreso a la realidad.

Mi realidad es dolor. Todo mi penthouse es mecido por un muy fuerte golpe que me deja inconsciente y, aún así, una parte de mí se mantiene despierta. O dormida, no estoy seguro. El edificio, después de haberse estado moviendo a una velocidad considerable, se detiene en seco y se desploma. Toda la pared trasera del edificio siente el frío pavimento de esa callejuela matutina, la callejuela por la que el casero siempre dirige al edificio en su afán de mantenerlo funcional. La construcción inmóvil, el casero ausente y los inquilinos atrapados. Atrapados.

Mi parte consciente ve a los caseros. El primero, quien blande un palo de madera e hizo colapsar al edificio, y el segundo, que lleva una pequeña mochila y una hielera. El mensaje que mi amigo ha estado mandando, esa melodía de solamente un tono, se incrementa mientras la pared de enfrente del edificio se resquebraja. Cuando por fin se detiene e inmóvil es removido lo único que puedo hacer es asombrarme con su nuevo cuarto, de un puro y fuerte blanco. Un cuarto errante que le llevará a lo desconocido.

Short Story. October, 2011.

Friday, September 30, 2011

Nightmares and Dreamscapes V

Nightmares and Dreamscapes V

Project Zeus

     In the dream I was part of a military experiment codenamed Project Zeus (exactly what it says on the tin) that had the purpose of bestowing upon me the ability of shooting lightning (exactly like the greek god).

Epilogue

     Many dreams. Many stories. Many nightmares and dreamscapes. There is always a tale to tell.

     There is always a drawing to draw.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Nightmares and Dreamscapes IV

Nightmares and Dreamscapes IV

JAGUAR

     It may be a simple image but one of great significance to me. Some time ago I had this recurring dream in which I transformed into a jaguar. The jaguar is my favourite feline. That dream is a favourite too.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Nightmares and Dreamscapes III

Nightmares and Dreamscapes III

AXE Magic

     AXE Commercials. A little bit of body spray and girls will be all over you. Sadly it doesn't work like that. Whan the End of the World AXE was at its peak I had a dream in which by using that AXE fragrance I attracted a black bug that became my pet. When I acknowledged that the bug only hung out with me because of the deodorant I threw it to it yelling 'There you have your damn AXE' and killed it accidentally.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Nightmares and Dreamscapes II

Nightmares and Dreamscapes II

Odien

     This goes back to when Thor hit the theaters. I had a dream in which I went to Asgard to request an audience before Odin. After quite the struggle they let me through but I didn't get an interview with a man à la Hopkins but with a mixture between Odie (of Garfield fame) and the norse ruler.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Nightmares and Dreamscapes I

Prologue

     There is a time in all artists' lives in which his dream is stalked by strange and bizarre visions of the world he lives in. The following compilation of imagery will show a window to the psyche of art for art itself.

     They are drawings of dreams I've had.

Nightmares and Dreamscapes I

Pícale

     Have you ever seen the Telmex "Pícale" spots ? Ever since the constant media bombarding in both cinema and television of "Las Orquídeas" and "Los Rivas" I've had this dream. I am the host of a contest TV show like "Wheel of Fortune". In the dream a super-evolved mosquito is the one turning the wheel and its award is to "picar" (bite) the "pícale" guy.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

6


     If three is a magic number, six must be doubly magical. It's been six months since I began writing this blog and to celebrate... today's entry will be the recognition of having begun six months ago. No more. No less. And of course that has nothing to do with the brutal amount of work I've had lately... that kind of work that makes you...

Mad

     ... and wanting some... some... some...

Blood

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Rule of Three

     It's like saying: Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice... BEETLEJUICE !

     Good things come in threes. So do bad things. And even things that are neither good nor bad.

     Three is a magic number.

     So to complete the triad here is another homage, even though it does not partake in the story of the animations from the two previous blog entries. To know the why of this particular piece there is this page... and in this link you can watch the animation in its original aspect ratio (700 x 600 px).

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Homage Part II

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     This and the previous blog entry are an homage to:

1) Predator, the iconic film by John Campbell McTiernan, Jr. with the great performances of Arnold Schwarzenegger, Carl Weathers, Jesse Ventura, Shane Black, Bill Duke, Sonny Landham, Richard Chaves, Elpidia Carrillo and Kevin Peter Hall (also known as --in order --major Alan "Dutch" Schaefer, George Dillon, Blain Cooper, Rick Hawkins, Mac Eliot, Billy Sole, Jorge "Poncho" Ramírez, Anna and the Predator).

2) A series of animations called "Madness Combat" by Matthew "Matt" D. Jolly, also known as Krinkels. This part of the homage was really because I wanted to make some money on account of a contest, but it must account to something, right ?

     And in a lesser manner (meaning, a little throughout both animations and in the final part of the second one) an homage to:

1) Sin City, both Frank Miller' graphic novel and Robert Rodríguez' adaptation (who would then go on to produce Predators --or Predator 3 --, a sequel that could have easily been an action short of between five and fifteen minutes).

2) Alien, Sir Ridley Scott's piece. Performing Sigourney Weaver (in her first lead role), Tom Skerrit, Veronica Cartwright, Ian Holm, John Hurt, Yaphet Kotto, Harry Dean Stanton and Bolaji Badejo (who are --again, in order --Ellen Ripley, captain Dallas, Lambert, Ash, Kane, Parker, Brett and the Alien).

3) Aliens, the refreshing sequel (contrary to Predator 2) directed by James Francis Cameron and with the acting capabilities of Sigourney Weaver, Michael Biehn, Carrie Henn, Lance Henriksen, Al Matthews,  William Hope, Jenette Goldstein, Bill Paxton, Mark Rolston, Ricco Ross, Tip Tipping, Trevor Steedman, Daniel Kash and Paul Reiser (or Ellen Ripley, corporal Dwayne Hicks, Newt, Bishop, sargeant Al Apone, liutenant William Gorman, privates Jenette Vasquez, William Hudson, Mark Drake, Ricco Frost, Tim Crowe, Trevor Wierzbowski, Daniel Spunkmeyer and Carter Burke).

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Homage Part I

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Wednesday, August 24, 2011

If I Were...

     A Rich man... bababibabababababababibabababammm... If I had all the money in the world... I would stop making nonesense and just do as I please, but since I don't have it I write a blog instead.

     A Film Director... my first movie would be an international hit, lauded by the most globally recognized critics and I would work with the most sought after stars in the media... or maybe I would end up with something like... this:

¡ RAM--BLING !

     An Actor... well, that's been already seen... here what came out of that project:

The fabled Pirate Bob Ross

     A Musician... I would be a great success and at last I would have A HIT ON THE RADIOS SO I COULD WIN MY FIRST MILLION... and I would brush with the jet set, singing with the media socialité... or I would devote myself to the creation of monotonic loops...


     Poet and mad I already am.

     If I was socially responsible I would have a blog about that as well. That one you can find here. Go check it out and may we read each other in the next emission.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Sabbatical

Yes it's true, sabbatical is about to come to an end yet I keep enjoying the iniquitous joy of wasting time.

After one year I will be back on the rodeo but not without enjoying a bit more JerichoBurn NoticeTrue Blood and a myriad other series and movies.

And maybe you are wondering, what does this mean? What will happen with Slimy yet Tasty?

And the simplest answer is absolutely nothing. I will keep writing and drawing and posting any idea that comes to my mind. So... see you soon.


Killing Time

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(Move the ball collecting coins without touching the blue surface. If the position of a coin is not of your liking (or is unreachable) change it by touching the lever in the upper left corner)

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Irony

      “Who are you?”
    “Hmm... Well, I am a man, caucasian, ask me my age and maybe I'll tell you... I am rather handsome...”

    The grin that had formed on Stanton's face as he was describing himself swiftly turned into a wince, as a knuckle sandwich punched his visage. However, his demeanour rapidly returned to the cocky attitude he was holding.

     “Who are you!?” asked in a louder voice the interrogator, “Who do you work for!?”
    “Okay, okay... I'll tell you... your momma hired me, she doesn't want you to be a naughty boy no more.”

     Another fist irrupted the perimeter of Stanton's face, a face that was getting darker by the second. The interrogator then gave a look to the two gorillas behind Stanton. Both of them promptly seized and dragged the latter into a new room.

     “I already had a bath today,” said Stanton.
     “Who are you? Who do you work for?” was the only response he got.

     Stanton was gasping for air after being plummeted in a water tub. His eyes looked down at the water's surface, one which now also contained quite a bit of haemoglobin. But water and blood were far from being the only substances lurking in this pond of sorts. Chlorine and whatnot harshly ripped through his throat.

     “Okay, I'll tell you what you want to know... but only if you throw some bubbles in this mix.”
     “I am not amused... and I am getting really bored.”

    Electricity and water are not a good combo. Screams filled the room completely as sparks flew from a taser gun and through the wet body of Stanton. “Seems you are getting dry,” whispered one of the two guards in Stanton's ear, just before pushing his upper body into the tub once more.

     This time Stanton said nothing.
     “Make no mistake, I will break you... it's up to you how much pain you desire to endure.”

    Three more times Stanton was dipped into the tub, electrocuted and asked his identity and allegiances. Three more times, his throat suffered the taste of the compound in the tub, burning slowly as it filtered to his guts. Three more times screams were eaten by the blackness of the dark.

   “Enough... I'll be honest this time... it is not going to work honey, I'm already on a relationship.”
     “You are rather funny. I will give you a comedy to die for then.” The interrogator had a faint smile on his face.

     Stanton was dragged once more to another room. Strapped to a chair and unable to move, he was preparing for the worst. The interrogator brought a little table with knives and blades of all sorts. Stanton could not help but wonder if those instruments were sterilized. He grinned again.

     “I already had my annual check-up chomp.”
   “And maybe it was the last one you had in this life... congrats.” A more prominent smile formed on the interrogator's face. Screams continued for a while.

   “How did it go?” asked a man to another, outside a room from which laments could be heard.
   “Good,” answered the other man, who was holding a blood-soaking scalpel, “I think he is ready.”
    “Did he talk?”
    “No.”
    “Perfect, then he is ready.”

     “Well, I guess you will live for another annual check-up mate.”
   “Hmm... how cute,” responded Stanton. He was lying on a hospital bed, bandages covering his thorax, a tube sticking from his nose. “Was the... surgery really necessary?”
    “He avoided all vital parts.”
    “Yet he touched all the sensitive ones.”
    “I'm sorry.”
    “I know... but it is ironic isn't it?”
    “That I have to hurt you to make you stronger?”
   “No...” said Stanton, and after laughing a little continued “that you tortured me with that idea... and that I feel weaker than ever.”
   “You will get better, you just need to rest a little,” finished Lieutenant Gray as he moved towards the room's door. “I hope you understand. As soon as you are in top-notch condition you will be briefed.”

   No more than a month later, Stanton was back on his feet. He had prepared for almost seven weeks to go undercover. He was not quite sure what the mission was, but Lieutenant Gray emphasized the fact that he would have to be ready to overcome great pain.

   No more than a month later, Stanton was getting all the information of what would be the most important mission in his career... in his life. He was told that his torturing was an important preparation as well... in case he got caught.

   No more than a month later, Stanton was ready for an extremely dangerous mission that would most certainly end his career... and maybe his life.
No more than a month later, Stanton was walking home in his last night before going undercover. He just wanted to rest. No more than a month later, irony came knocking.

   “Give me all your money,” said eagerly a male voice from behind Stanton. A cold artefact was touching Stanton's occiput, so he slowly started reaching into his back pocket. “Hurry!” shouted the voice pointing his gun at Stanton.

   “Easy now cowboy,” said Stanton. He did not feel threatened by this petite thief. He did not feel afraid or anxious. He was very calm and in control of the situation. In what looked like the movement of a superhuman with enhanced abilities, Stanton turned around and took the gun from the hostile aggressor. He never made it to his back pocket to acquire his wallet.

   “It is ironic you know,” continued Stanton, “the Southeast cartel's drug business is the reason why this city is crumbling. It is the reason why people don't have any honest jobs and are reduced to assault and thievery. It is really none of your business, but I can assure you we are making all we can to stop them. You have inadvertently tried to stop the sorry situation in which you and many others are... it is ironic and sad”

    “You want to know something even more ironic?” said yet another voice, again coming from Stanton's back. “We work for the Southeast cartel... so thank you very much for the tip lad... we really appreciate that you, so... inadvertently, have helped our organisation” This time not only did Stanton feel a cold artefact on his occiput, but also a very hot piece of lead rushing through his cranium. He was not going on a mission that would most certainly end his life anymore.

Short Story. May, 2009.