Tuesday, May 31, 2011

The Travelling Nose

It's the smell. The only thing that bothers me when going on a trip... the smell. Never mind the bed, the bathroom, the goddamn luggage or the climate -it's the stench I cannot stand. Maybe it's just me, perceiving a filthiness that does not exist. Maybe this reek of shit comes not from the stairs of this God forsaken motel, but the pain that comes to my nostrils with every inhalation feels just too real. All inhale and no exhale make Jack a dull boy. Jack? Here’s Johnny! Or is it? The birds’ songs are quite beautiful this time of the year. It’s not Christmas.

Yes. Maybe it’s just psychological… but I'm not going to the shrink. You go to a consult nowadays and all they do is make you a series of tests just to say 'you're crazy'. I don't need to pay for that, I know I've lost my mind. I'm not the same since she went away. I’m not half the man I used to be since I lost my better half three years ago. I feel like three quarters of a man now. Maybe less. My nose on the other hand works like a freaking charm. I can smell the cockroaches as they wander over the dusty floor, preying on the decaying scraps left behind by unclean men. Repent, the end is nigh. Not that type of unclean not that type of unclean not that type of men

No. My name is not Jack. My name is Trevor. Trevor Jones and I am a salesman -and a rather good one -. If Indiana Jones was a salesman, I’d be him. We share the last name after all. I'm pretty sure you know by now that I am used to travelling and staying in places like this. Never before did I have problems with odours, but I guess she messed with my head so badly that fragrances are not what they used to be. Now every time I'm away from home not even the world's most expensive perfume can make the smells go away. She messed with my head so badly that I think three quarters is less than a half. Yes bub, read the previous paragraph. When did this smelling affair begin? When she left? Before? After? When did I lose three quarters of my brain? Pleased to meet you. Andy Hoarse, salesman extraordinaire. Oh yes, I find this motel to be quite good. Three stars!

Focus focus focus. Today’s air brings a whole new stinking experience… and yet, there's something different in the air today. Yes, it's still a malodour but it's a different type of it. It is a stink way more awful than anything I have smelled before. Hurry up, just a shower and I'm out of this hole. These stairs seem endless, especially now that I want to go away so badly, escape from this bog of putrescence. I hold the handrail of the stairwell before I fall. The smell intensifies and I'm starting to feel numb. This aroma is killing me. It’s filling my insides and making my organs decay both painfully and slowly. Oh Lord, it’d be way easier to die listening to a song. It’d be softer to die… killing me softly… get it? I’m cracking myself up.

And there she is. No wonder I can't take the effluvium this time, she stands atop of the stairwell, as shocked as I am for this strange encounter. Destiny, fortune, luck. Call it whatever you want, it has a twisted sense of humour... and the humour I feel now is nausea. The world is a handkerchief, or so a Spaniard would say. Was she from Spain? Where was she born? Did I meet her there? What was her name? Damn nose, when did you get so… acute. When I was younger I knew a guy. He had this awful looking nose. I avoided him. His name was Ben. Once I punched him in the nose. He bled. For three hours. Poor Raúl. He was of Spanish descent.

I keep walking upstairs, though my speed is slightly reduced. This pestilence is too much for a single man to bear, but I'm no praying man either so I'm alone for this confrontation. Yet, I must acknowledge the fact that I like the mysticism and esotericism behind the story of Jesus Christ. His power compels me. She is just standing there, looking at me, and I'm almost on my knees... begging... crying... hoping the sickness goes away. The stairs are over. I'm really not in the mood. Silence was never so awkward before. Seconds drag and an eternity passes. I'm going mad with this unbreakable silence. My nose feels so heavy and I cannot move my facial muscles. I'm feeling dizzy, I think I'm going to fall down the stairwell... seal my doom and end my pain.

'Hi' is all she can think of and surprisingly I cannot think of anything else to say either. I bring myself to utter the word, almost an unheard whisper falling on deaf ears... but she hears it. It's my eyelids that feel heavy now, as looking into her eyes is a burden. The solemn silence returns... a millennia of silence. Was I ever in Spain? Yes. No. Maybe so? Where? South of Spain. South of the border… down Mexico way? She doesn’t look Spanish. She hasn’t got an accent… I think. Hi. Mi nombre es… what was her name?

I can feel a mix of words forming right inside of me. The phrase they form is a sour complaint to the universe itself. Of all the places in the world I had to find you here. Her ‘hi’ still lurking in my brain, I ache to kvetch but I'm mute. Jewish? No, her nose is not that big. Even mine was bigger. Her eyes are huge though. My brain still functions at least. Well half a brain… three quarters of a brain. A quarter of a brain, that’s the one I was thinking of. Spanish? Jewish? Can’t remember. She smells like something else. Different race? Different species? Third time is the charm Mr. Nose. Joey Rhodes, that’s my name.

Her eyes express discontent. She dares be angry at fate and I am furious for so many feelings I can't explain, for my blood burning and the contaminated air perforating my lungs. I'm so sick, her scent is so intoxicating, my nostrils are wide open and my eyes are at the verge of tears. I have to do something but her gaze has turned me to stone. I am like a gargoyle, greeting the guests of the motel. Hello, can I take your coat? Those big grey eyes. She smiles like a devil woman for she knows she still has power over me. Sad little man. I just want it all to end. She is definitely of European descent. Aren’t we all? No, African. Alien? My name is M’kflooniu Aus’chwierç. That’s the best pronunciation you can achieve without me having to take away your occiput. Alfa Centauri. The Wild West.

She starts descending, one step at a time. She moves like a gracious swan. Russian? I don’t remember her having an accent. I don’t remember her talking in something other than English either. She keeps on moving. She moves as slowly as the time. Not a swan, she moves as if slithering like a snake on the sand. Treacherous. Different race? Different species? Snake? Alien? But of course, she must be Venusian. Me… Martian? Her name! Marcia. It doesn’t sound Spanish. Not Russian either. Not Jewish. Latin? Her name can’t possibly tell me her ethnicity and it of course can’t tell me her species either.

Still I’m still. I'm not moving, or at least that's what I think. No, I am not moving. I am sure of that. I am as sure of that as I am sure that my name is Bob or Patrick McGee. My leg moves on its own accord. Even more so, my foot has positioned itself in that strategic location. She’ll get out of balance and then she will be out of something else... the moment she reaches the final steps of the stairwell. Then, it will be my face the one showing a smile... and I hope the atmosphere becomes more redolent and sweet, just like a bouquet, refreshing and pleasant. I long for that first whiff of a new age to come. I need to go to a wedding. Not because of the bouquet of course. Weddings are fun, that’s all.

No, I am not blond. Blunt force trauma. Blow to the head. Doctors did the best they could. My nose was the one who suffered the most. Looked like an eggplant, all purple and bloody… bloody disgusting. Three years. Not the same. Poor poor Larry Eggman. She rolls and rolls never reaching the end. Never reaching the light at the end of the stairwell. Marcia killed me. She killed half of me. She killed three quarters or one quarter of me. Do you care about me? I don’t! Yet, revenge is a dish best served cold. wIj be'nal HoHta' jIH. Cold case ensues after three years.

For three years I’ve had this recurring nightmare. I am a redheaded man in a red jumpsuit when a midget comes near me. He has a very strange nose. He has no nose. He has a huge zit right there in the middle of his face. The zit is his nose. I bite his nose. It is filled with cream in the inside. It is like a donut. A doughnut. Dough sounds like pizza. It is not tasty. A zit. I hate them. I wake up and I can smell it. That nutty odour and my pants are wet. I cry. Then I forget and the next night I remember. Hello Mr. Midget, how was the urine last night? I only remember in my dreams. The break of dawn, who am I? Stephen Barrows, nice to meet you.

‘Bye’ she says as she turns to look at me, four steps beneath me. There I am, looking downstairs. My foot is a mirage. My nose is a mirage as well. Prosthetic means yours but not yours, you know what I mean? Freaking smell! I watch her as she goes away. Her smell has not begun to fade when another stench comes from behind. What is silent and deadly? A fart. Her boyfriend is behind me, smiling. I’ve not seen him but I can smell him. Oh you wise nose, just one stone, right?

Did you like it? Did you enjoy it? Life insurance: man’s most creative contract of a death sentence. Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi! But I did not die. The money, I don’t know. She didn’t get any. I didn’t get any when I was alive. Boyfriend Clarence Bradshaw got any? She was beautiful. He had the name of a girl. Marcia and Cecil. They planned it but they didn’t get me. What kind of a name is Carl? Carl Jr. Nothing but a hamburger man. I won’t bite although I grab him, like a vampire, by the neck. We are like a stone going downhill, even more so when she gets caught by us. And there we go and I know that when I reach the end of the stairwell, when I hit the floor nose first… oh God, the three of us are going to smell.

Short Story. February, 2009.

Monday, May 30, 2011

Can you give me MONEY ?

     Money is the means to an end. It is a vehicle that will transport you wherever you are going. Money is not happiness... but damn, it helps. For most of the people a job is the one that provides us that money. It is said that if you work in what you like you will not work a single day of your life. For all those reasons (maybe more) there was a time in which I asked myself if my drawings could give me money. Hence me participating in a couple of contests. Example:

Cogito ergu sum & He knows not his own strength that hath not met adversity

     A contest held by Televisa's Más que Palabras, the idea was to create a ten second short depicting a famous quote. My entry to the contest is the first quote shown in the video. Made in february 2009, that short was one of the ten winners of the contest. The prize was the opportunity to create another ten second capsule (again illustrating another quote, the second in the video) sponsored by the corporation (which means, I was paid). That was my first real paid job. My first check. With that money I bought A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess.

     That same year I participated in a contest held by the ITESM. That occasion time really got the best of me and I did the best I could in two days. I got an honorific mention. You can watch the video here. It is the one in the bottom right corner (all the way down, all the way to the right).

     That same year I participated in Animasivo as well. The theme was astronomy, in honour to the IYA2009 (International Year of Astronomy 2009) and the four hundredth anniversary of the first use of an astronomic telescope by Galileo Galilei. Here are a couple of images:

Back in the day I wanted to be an astronaut... well, I still want to

Luna lunera cascabelera

     Soon I will have to place a donations button in the blog, its name will be the same as the title of this entry. Hey hey hey, the body is a machine that asks for sustenance (among other things). However, that will come later. For the time being I will occupy myself with finding another interesting entry to publish before the month ends. Symmetry  is not going to keep itself, is it?

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Games Games Games

     The first game I ever made was for a Programming course I had in my third semester, back in late 2008. After some consideration about its theme, my partner and I decided to make a game similar to Bomberman. And I say similar because we didn't want to make an exact copy of the game, we wanted to have our own, memorable character with a more flexible gameplay. Brainstorming began and we decided that our hero would not detonate bombs but farts and that he was to be called Fartman.

Yes, that's a bean representing the farts and yes, I saw a lot of Dragon Ball when I was growing up

     Even though the idea was somewhatfunny it was also a little bit... disgusting. In the end it was decided to utilize a more conventional character. After some deliberation (and since the film of the character of the comic was premiered the same year) IronBomberman was born.

Much better !

     The project, which was our final project, was developed by the team through the course of four weeks. What does that mean ? The I did it in four days (a weekend). The game itself is pretty simple and what I like the most about it is its name:

IronBomberman: Rise of the Iron Mongers

     The game consists of two levels and two bosses. Only four levels total ? Hey, what did you expect from an amateur that did it in four days ? The objective is to solve the riddles while you kill everything that gets in your way, as it is shown in the video:

The BOMB boy

     Details about the game:

1) Sometimes the keyboard is not recognized so you have to click the screen in order to play.
2) The ending is... completely and absolutely nothing, when you've completed it nothing happens, you don't get congrats or anything.
3) Sometimes the backgrounds fail to appear. The game simply decides not to show them. The game must be restarted.

     In spite of all of that you can download the game for Mac or Windows. In Mac simply double-click the .app inside the zip file. In Windows double-click the Setup.exe file and it will guide you through the instructions to install the game. Arrow keys to move and space bar to lay bombs. Meanwhile I will keep trying to install my Project Eden in my Mac through Wine.


Tuesday, May 10, 2011

But I AM an Artist

     I don't know if you know this but I love Anna Faris. Maybe because she is a funny and cute actress or because she reminds me of my platonic love Sienna Miller. Anyway, the point is that she is kind of my muse and I constantly dream of her (no, not in that way). For instance, a couple of weeks ago I dreamt this:

Indeed you are Anna

     I know my little drawings fail to depict Anna's awesomeness, but I made it with love for today, hot mama's day. In case someone hasn't seen either one of the movies the first part is from 'Just Friends', the dialogue is between Faris and Ryan Reynolds and the reveal of Anna's true nature is the final part of 'Men in Black', in which Edgar Bug tries to escape J and K.

     And of course, in that occasion I didn't only dream the animation here presented. I also dreamt that I was Dexter (the protagonist of the equally named series), that my sister Deb (well, Dexter's... who was me) was about to discover that I was a serial killer, that the only way in which I could cover my deeds was to draw the crime scenes and change them in the drawing so those changes could materialize in the real world and that I was struggling real hard to uncover the biggest secret in the series... that despite being an excellent actor David Zayas is not cuban but puerto rican, hence his changing of the letter 'r' for the letter 'l' every time he speaks in spanish.

Right away Sergeant Batista !

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Stupidity

Stupidity (According to Princeton -wordnetweb.princeton.edu -and Wikipedia -en.wikipedia.org -):

-A poor ability to understand or to profit from experience
-Lacking or marked by lack of intellectual acuity
-A lack of reason, wit or sense
-The property of being stupid

Stupidity, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder

Day of the Children

     In honor to the occasion -since it looks like today is the day of the children -I'm taking a journey of introspection and retrospective, going back to the first animations I've done. And I say animations because it's just one but a trilogy. And why did I chose this day to do so? Because, like a baby, those animations were the first steps I took in the marvelous world of digital animation.

     It was 2007. July. I was looking for something to occupy my time with, something that was not vain idleness. And then it hit me. I don't know if it was a dream, a vision from my inspiration or the fact that I spent too much time in front of the SNES port of the game but an idea came to me. So clear, so pure, it had to be done. It was a saturday. Next tuesday I went to Blockbuster and rented Doom (Hell yes, that movie with Karl Uban, The Rock and Rosamund Pike). A week later my first animation saw daylight:

O.K.

     That first animation... well, it's not been the best of my work. I must say it's not been the worst either. The story, simple (yet I like it). The drawing... minimalist. The voices, nonexistent (I didn't have a microphone). Sounds... well, I did the best I could. The animation runs at the fantabulous speed of twelve (yes, TWELVE) frames per second. All and all, for having drawn all the graphics (without having learned to draw formally), without knowing the software (I used Flash) completely and drawing with my mouse I think it was a good animation and an excellent first time.

     And of course I couldn't stay like that. I didn't want a slice of the cake, I wanted it whole. I went running to buy a microphone (OK, not so much... it was one of those headsets). I made a little scipt, recorded a few lines and... voilà:

Ten points to the one that identifies the movie in which the animation is principally based

     The animation has a bunch of pop culture references... or at least I tried it to have them. The dude that rescues our hero has McCloud for a last name... that's the way the name Connor MacLeod the Highlander sounded to me, hence his head blown off. After Jules answers 'You're damn right' that's my voice saying 'Shaft'. Jules, Jimmy ('Don't Jimmy me Jules') and Vincent (who gets killed in the bathroom) are all references to one movie... Anyway, so I could feel a complete George Lucas and complete the story I created The Return of the... ok, the third part:

GROOVY BABY !

     All the animations got out with a weeks difference. The animation and drawings are very basic, principally because I was (fair enough, still am a little) lazy. Truth be told, more than an animator I'm a storyteller. Besides, for this project in particular I think the drawings give it an extra that makes the story funnier. A year later after the trilogy, to commemorate my beginning in the world of animation, and because with Bubulubu you always have a fourth, this was born:

Of course there's no greater fury

     Animation was still pretty basic, but I think it improved. I feel it is also important to mention that the whole animation was made in one day (and still with a mouse). Anyway, the spin-off did not make it into a recurring series (nor a new trilogy nor it came to complete the saga as an hexalogy... ahem). Nevertheless, it wouldn't be the first time that I do a series of jobs related between them, but that... is another story...

Lifetime

     It was she who called them. He never wanted to be a drag. Nine twenty-six. Sirens were closing in, disturbing the imposing silence of the night. He is prepared. She hardly is. He understands, it is the final hour... the end of his trail... no more breadcrumbs. She still wants him to read her his stories. Nine twenty-seven. Sirens were closing in, echoing in the darkness and escaping its grasp. No more promises. No more miles to walk. This is it. She goes down on her knees and prays, though she does not quite know what she is praying for. Nine twenty-eight. Sirens were closing in, screaming and screeching, muffling other sounds. Two minutes to go. Seconds drag as he is departing. Violins playing, though no tune can be heard. She opens the door as her sobs go into a crescendo. Nine twenty-nine. Sirens closing in, still nowhere to be seen. He is not struggling the strangling he feels, he lets the void in as air rejects his lungs' invitation. Her salty cheeks tremble as her heart does the same in fear and dread... dread of what will most certainly happen. Nine thirty.

     “Almost nine thirty,” said a voice.

     “Thank you,” responds another voice. This particular voice belonged to a man who had a watch. He needn't ask for the time, but was obsessed with it. Actually, 'thank you' was not the first response that came to his mind, as 'almost' was rather ambiguous and oblique for his taste and the exact hour was nine twenty-six. He kept on walking. Other than the ambulance hurrying down the street, this was just another night. Nine twenty-seven. He glimpsed at his watch. He did not quite know why he liked watching it so much. He enjoyed looking how the fearless seconds hand always moved swiftly and the way the huge hours hand painfully dragged itself at an alarming slow rate, but most of all he enjoyed the middle hand... the minutes one. Nine twenty-eight. That glorious minutes hand marked yet another minute. Impressive. That hand, never too slow and never too fast, reaching another marquee in sixty heartbeats. Nine twenty-nine. Time was always fast, never stopping or lending a hand. Down the street, at last, his house was there... and an ambulance was at the front door. He hurried along the path. Nine thirty.

     “Another night,” said a General Hospital nurse.

     “It would certainly seem so,” answered doctor Hobbes. He was a rather curious man, as he spent most of his time reading about various subjects and talking to all kinds of people. His wife was a doctor too, and she worked in the General Hospital also. Lately, he was reading quite a lot about fatherhood. His wife was not pregnant. While both reading and chitchatting, doctor Hobbes gazed upon a wall. Both solemnly and quietly, the clock of the waiting room stood. Nine twenty-six. Little more than a half-hour and his shift would end. He was hardly desperate about leaving the hospital though way back he only lived for quitting work and going home. He never went home alone, not since he got married anyway. Nine twenty-seven. Evidently then, the sudden change of perception and perspective of doctor Hobbes regarding his life and modus operandi relied on his wife. They loved each other very much and seldom had feuds or held grudges against each other. Nine twenty-eight. Sighing, doctor Hobbes watched the clock one more time. His concentration now laid afar from him. He could not help but think of the pressing matters troubling his heart, mind and soul. He wanted a child. He was sure his wife wanted a child as well, but she had made it very clear she was not up to the task. Nine twenty-nine. His first name was Robert. He tried to focus one more time. Futile. And so, Robert Hobbes merely stood there. He was not counting the clock's ticks anymore. Nine thirty.

     Moving very fast, the paramedics filled the gurney with Mr. Baxter's body. Gregory Baxter was a fiction writer. Three years, three months and five days ago, Gregory had a heart attack. He was seventy-nine years old at that time. It was because of his daughter that this eighty-two year old was being driven to the General Hospital. Melinda Baxter was a twenty-three year old loving child. Mr. Baxter and his wife craved for a girl -or boy- of their own and did have Melinda at a late age, but the latter was a perfectly normal, healthy and beautiful baby that grew into a perfectly normal, healthy and beautiful woman. Gregory Baxter loved both his wife and daughter, so hated seeing them distanced and falling away from each other. The struggle between the women on Mr. Baxter's life intensified by the hour. Amidst his shortness of breath, a thought rushed through his brain... he hoped his actual condition might subdue such a pathetic fight, a confrontation that really led nowhere, and inject new life into that mother-daughter relationship. Gregory Baxter was a good fiction writer.

     “What's going on?” asked anxiously Mr. Hawthorne. His breath was clinging to the air at hand; his sight was searching the room in an erratic fashion.

     “Your wife is going into labour,” said one of the two paramedics that were helping a woman to a gurney.

     “This is it,” said the woman as she hopped on top of the white vehicle. Ms. Hawthorne, maiden name Jennifer James. Almost nine months to the spot. Exactly eight months and twenty-eight days, “the day we were looking forward to.”

     “Already... oh... I don't know if I am ready,” John Hawthorne spoke with great difficulty. His heart was still racing, but not from running towards his house. He was very emotional and was actually a little bit frightened.

     “We will be fine my dear,” said Jennifer in the most convincing tone she could have spoken in.

     “Let's get going,” said the second paramedic, “you can ride with us in the ambulance.”

     And so, two couples went away into the night, swooshing across the asphalt jungle and towards the white tower, the General Hospital. It was nine thirty-eight... exactly.


     “Can you tell me your name sir?” a routine question doctor Hobbes had asked easily a thousand times.

     “His name is Gregory Baxter,” said Melinda at the verge of tears.

     “And you are?” asked Robert Hobbes.

     “I'm his daughter.”

     “What happened?”

     “He... just couldn't breath anymore... is he going to be all right?”

     “Let us work. You can wait over there.” Robert looked at a nurse who promptly made her move.

     A nurse grabbed Melinda Baxter by the arm and conduced her to the waiting room and then returned to the room where the writer was being treated. Melinda looked at a clock in the wall. She sat on a chair, not because she wanted to, but because her legs shut off. Seconds did not move for her. It has nine forty-three.

     Contractions grew stronger and stronger. At last, the gurney was drove through various hospital floors, reaching the maternity ward. Mr. and Ms. Hawthorne entered a room, followed instantly by doctor Cooper.

     “Hi, I'm doctor Cooper and am going to help you through the labour.”

     “I'm John... and this is my wife Jennifer…” He was thinking only about his wife and the child she was bearing, mumbling words between what he thought were coherent phrases and responses.

     “Don't worry about a thing,” said the doctor, sensing the disturbed manner of Mr. Hawthorne, and then proceeded to prepare Jennifer for the labour.

     Indeed tough times bring people together. Ms. Helen Baxter held Melinda in her arms, both sitting on a pair of adjacent chairs in the General Hospital's waiting room. Her daughter's crying, compelling, had brought forward a truce. Doctor Hobbes entered the room.

     “Ms. Baxter?”

     “Yes,” answered Helen expectantly and yet unsure.

     “Your husband suffered a heart attack,” said the doctor as he crouched between the two women, “we were able to make his heart beat again, but his brain was deprived of oxygen for almost four minutes. We had to put a tube down his throat to help him breath and quite frankly, there is a big chance he may not be able to breath by himself again. I'm sorry.”

     “Oh my God.” The words came out even before Melinda reasoned them and almost before doctor Hobbes could finish his sentence. “Can we see him?”

     “He is unconscious, heavily sedated, but you may go into his room if you want to. Later, as his condition normalizes, we will transfer him to the ICU.”

     “Push! We're almost there, now push!”

     The first cry for air of baby Hawthorne echoed not only in the room but also in the entire hospital. The miracle of life -of his life -, embodied in that potent cry, filled the hearts of his parents. Other hearts were filled with a sense of loving and reassurance as well.

     Both of them sobbing, Helen and Melinda stood before Gregory's bed. His face looked calm, and bore a slight smile. It's not that he planned this, although he could have written it. This fortuitous scene jump-started a car on the road to recovery. The past behind both was forgot, their sins cleansed and their minds set only on the man in bed. The beep of the monitor turned into a linear sound... lifeless. He had no regrets. He lived his life fully the way he wanted to live it and, most importantly, always telling the two quintessential girls of his life that he loved them very much. He was fortunate, and that fortune was cast upon not only the two girls beside him, but also on a curious man watching the scene from the room's threshold. These three characters could have easily been identified as a new single persona now, eyes open and thinking differently... breathing a new air and living a new life. Doctor Hobbes did not want but craved to go home now. He never went home alone, not since he got married anyway.

     “Thank you very much,” said Mr. Hawthorne, shaking the doctor’s hand effusively.

     “Don't worry about it, and congratulations!” said doctor Cooper. Time stopped for a moment as if only to capture the moment: the husband, the wife and the newborn being watched by the doctor that helped through the process. It then regained its pace. “Could you please tell me what time is it?” asked the doctor after discovering Mr. Hawthorne’s watch.

     “Almost ten forty-five,” answered John, not paying much attention to any of the hands on his watch anymore, but feeling the most alive in his life, renewed and excited.

     “Thank you.” The doctor’s shift had ended almost forty-five minutes ago. Going home was the next step.

     “How was your day?” asked Robert to doctor Cooper as they met at the hospital’s main entrance.

     “It was fine.” Both stopped walking.

     Neither talked for a moment. They were just looking at each other, feeling as if something had changed.

     “Listen,” doctor Cooper continued, “I... I think I am ready...”

     Doctor Hobbes smiled as he grabbed his wife's hand. Words needed not be spoken and they resumed their journey home. It was the dawn of a new age, a new time, a new way of thinking and feeling. And maybe, just maybe, doctor Lucy Cooper would agree to become doctor Lucy Hobbes now.

Short Story. April, 2009.

Pig Psychosis

     No, I'm not talking about the avian human swine batrachotoxin double with cheese fries and large coke galactically apocalyptic flu. I'm talking about... this:

o.O

     The date, january 2008. It all began a friday night. I got a very interesting visitor. Who? My cousin. I had already done a couple of cartoons throughout six months in 2007 and that night my cousin asked me to help him create an animated storyboard (like an animatic) for a short he wanted to make. However, his times were not at all... friendly. He needed it for monday. Two days to create an animated short. True, the project had only to show the bare movements and essential elements of what the short would contain but still it was a lot of work, specially taking into account the little experience I had. My first reaction was this one:

Oh yes he did (The phrase 'me partiste el queso' literally translates to 'you've just cut my cheese' and means 'you put me in a predicament')

     I told him to return ready to work as hard as he could and saturday morning we started working. He was present throughout the whole process... and the process was very... interesting... Forty eight hours working non-stop, fifteen minutes for meals, only a couple of those in that weekend. We got extremely happy every time we finished as little as ten seconds of the project. Sunday afternoon we were broken and speaking a lot of nonesense. I have a couple of 'Predator' action figures in my room and my cousin constantly said 'I know what you need... predator puppet theater!' just to start playing with the dolls.

Dramatization

     When we were finally over that sunday night and I could crawl to bed the fever attacked me and made me dream the contents of the animation presented in this entry. Last night (maybe today before dawn) psychosis (not the pig one) attacked me again... which means I hope to finish a small (very small) animated short very soon.

Another One Bites the Dust


     It was a long war, but in the end I prevailed... the stronger one... the one that had to win at the end. The pitched battles left spoils, dark days without rest or sleep. Even the wind was scared of our fights and it blew with its greatest strength when, like titans, we prepared to fight...

Ehécatl (Dramatization)

     I'd win some battles... he'd win some others...

Ni maíz paloma, I won't work anymore and that's it
Oh yes, worse even than a BSOD

     I'm talking, of course, of the project (which is basically an interactive game about the numbers, their equivalences and currency in México) that I had to deliver this morning. Proof that the working world, boys and girls, is ruin. I will tell you then the last battle. This one started yesterday morning. Confident I turned on my lap(top), ready to work. I saw its battery was almost gone, so I plugged it in and... there was no electricity. God, of course... Luz y Fuerza del Centro, the Comisión Federal de Electricidad, the same pig but dressed differently.

     After waiting a couple of hours for the electricity to return I had to opt for going to the campus to get the job done... fabulous. I gathered my stuff and started the journey. The bus ride proved to be... memorable: The road was closed (right where the Puerta Tolotzin was) by one of our finest Transit officers (meaning the guy was just standing there in the middle of the road while causing his mother some ear buzz), so the bus had to give one ENORMOUS turn just to get through. Since we had to take a detour we had to make up for the lost time. The only thing that I'm going to say about that is that if we were on 'Back to the Future' we would've arrived without a problem to the Wild West (yes, I'm talking about the third part of the saga).

     Upong arrival to campus I went to work. Problems started when I tried to add some little videos to my Flash. That fact and some other distractions (a phone call and a couple of dudettes entering the room I was in) made me work slower. Then I attended my only class for the day (for the week, actually... this semester has been so difficult). My stay on campus went on without futher shame or glory (specially not further glory). When I did amuse myself on campus with my project was actually the previous week, when I tried to delete the green screen of a video in which my cousin and I appear giving a series of instructions for the project...

Does that combination make me look fat ?

     Electricity had returned when I arrived back home. Long story short, when programming goes wrong it can go much much more wrong... and it was until two in the morning that the little program finally worked. The truth is there is a point in time in which code lines move across the screen, free like swallows in spring. Anyway, the project ended... the beast was brought down and taken to its presentation today's morning.

     I should also mention that today's bus ride was... interesting as well, since someone was smoking some pot and the music was a little bit too much Romantic Style for my taste, but anyway, that is not important anymore. The people that I presented the project to were pleased (although, of course, they made a couple of observations that will be taken into account) and congratulated me and asked me to extend those congratulations to my work team (Jesus Christ! Do I have a work team?). In two weeks time another meeting will take place and I hope I will be able to install then. I hope the project does not come back to life like a zombie that will make my life harder. In the meantime I will hopefully advance on some other projects of my own, but that depends entirely on how much work Earthworm Jim (for SNES) will let me do.

Holy Cow ! Too perfect teeth for a worm

Monday, May 2, 2011

The Seventh Art

     There is a point in our lives in which we must venture into the realm of cinema... the seventh art. This because either we feel the need of telling stories, ours or from someone else, or because we have to make some school project like in the present case.

     It was 2009 and we were in a Literature course. The third partial project was to make a video adaptation of some story we read in the semester. We decided to make an adaptation of the Richard Laymon tale  'Mess Hall'. We had three or four days to fulfill the project (it was monday, we had to finish by friday that week -if my mind serves me corrrectly -and that monday was a holiday). The result was an adaptation... well, I'd better let you watch the video first (fullscreen please, since we were filming with limited resources, you know) and afterwards I'll tell you what the tale is all about:

Take a deep breath before moving on.

     Now, basically, the original story tells the story of Jean (the protagonist) who, first of all, is fornicating with her boyfriend at a park. The couple is suprised by The Reaper, who blows the boyfriend's brains and kidnaps Jean. This singular killer takes her to a desolated cabin (I think it was a cabin, the point is it is a place where nobody would disturb them) with the intention of killing her and leaving her body there for the coyotes to eat -hence the name 'Mess Hall' -. Jean would have been the eight victim if The Reaper's past victims wouldn't have returned from the dead (as zombies, evidently) for revenge. Upon watching 'the show' (specially watching how a zombie yanks The Reaper's upper lip with his own pliers), Jean feels so sick she vomits. One of the zombies acknowledges the fact (yes, the puke) and having a... primitive brain she tastes the waste. Again, thanks to that primitive brain, the zombie develops a fancy for Jean (no, not in that way) and bites her in the leg. Jean and the undead begin to fight. When Jean at last frees her leg from the bite the branch to which she was tied to breaks. Jean then picks herself up, smashes the zombie in the face with the branch, throws a rock at The Reaper's face (not in the vide... limited resources, remember?) and escapes.

     The realization was not peaches and cream. We couldn't get handcuffs (just a pink pair that did not quite fit the story), illumination on the first day was made with a flashlight (small... really small), that same first day the batteries on the camera with which we were filming depleted, we didn't have a big hollywood camera, like the ones they use in grand and ambitious blockbuster projects, the makeup was... minimalist (same goes for the special effects, specially the exploding head scene) and the cold on those nights was terrible. However, we all put our grain of sand and production overcame all the problems. We ended up with a seven minutes and fifteen seconds short and an eleven minutes with eleven seconds blooper reel (11:11, make a wish!). Funny how there are more mistakes than actual... anyway, so that you laugh for a while:

In case anyone is wondering, the final phrase of the Blooper Reel -said by the actor who played The Reaper -is "I'm a bad actor".

     Some other things that were noted post-production:

1) Camera man leaves his Coke on-scene:


2) There's a scene in which The Reaper is is sitting holding his pliers. Theoretically he is heating his pliers on the fire. Someone (me) did not insert the bonfire digitally like he said he would:


3) The brutal change in illumination:


     At the end of the day, the work we did was not good... IT WAS EXCELLENT ! For an amateur video without resources and without knowing the first thing about how to shoot a movie our work was exceptional. The collaboration and enthusiastic participation of Paco Romero, Erich Marín, Cristina Cebreros, Chivis Ontiveros, Roberto Bernal, Elisa Daniel and Mariana Barragán (together with Carlos Marín's advice) gave and excellent work, one that deserved the greatest note (which we got, by the way). So here it is, our first incursion in cinematography, a very fun experience that leaves me with very fond memories.