..:: cobrador ::..

detesto que me deban dinero, rogar porque te paguen, así se conoce a la gente: no confío en la humanidad cuando tiene tus billetes en sus manos

..:: herida ::..

hace un mes apareció una herida en mi pierna, sobre el tobillo, justo donde el resorte del calcetín ejerce esa presión mínima pero constante. no la he curado. la rasco. sangra un poquito cada día. en la oficina, mientras el día se escurre y las letras comienzan a perder sentido, la oprimo.

cada pequeño latido, cada punzada, me ayuda a contar los segundos.

..:: those 80s shows ::..

..:: poetry ::..

de Hold On de Tom Waits

But its so hard to dance that way
When its cold and theres no music
Well your old hometown is so far away
But, inside your head theres a record

y

I miss your broken-china voice

y

You burn your mansion to the ground

y

Well, he gave her a dimestore watch
And a ring made from a spoon
Everyone is looking for someone to blame
But you share my bed, you share my name
Well, go ahead and call the cops
You dont meet nice girls in coffee shops
She said baby, I still love you
Sometimes theres nothin left to do

..:: boxotrón ::..

..:: jerry leonard seinfeld cohen ::..

escucho "The Partisan" de Leonard Cohen, triste himno a La Resistence en la Segunda Guerra Mundial.

"we'll come from the shadows"... y de pronto Iván para la oreja y dice, despreocupado:

"No manches, suena a Seinfeld"

Escuchamos con atención. Sí: el mismo tonito.


Not that there's anything wrong with it...

..:: the good ol' days ::..

"Dempsey versus Firpo took place on September 14, 1923, at the Polo Grounds in New York city. Dempsey had been champion since 1919, and Firpo was one of the top heavyweights of the world, nicknamed "El Toro de las Pampas" ("The Wild Bull of the Pampas"). 80,000 fans paid to see the fight live.

Firpo displayed his power immediately, when he dropped Dempsey with a right hand at the start of the first round. Dempsey landed on one knee, then quickly recuperated. Dempsey then rushed onto his rival and proceeded to drop Firpo seven times before the round was over. There was no "three knockdown" rule, and Dempsey was permitted to stand over the fallen fighter and immediately knock him down again, as there was yet no rule about going to a neutral corner.

Towards the end of the first round, Firpo struck again. Trapping Dempsey against the ropes, he struck with another right to Dempsey's chin. Dempsey went out of the ring, and a photographer caught him as his legs pointed upwards. Dempsey was hit by a ringside writing machine during this fall, and he suffered a severe cut to the back of his head. He was helped back into the ring by the writers at ringside just in time; the referee had reached the count of nine when Dempsey was back on his feet. However, the referee had counted the seconds incredibly slow when Dempsey fell. People outside the ring with stop watches had counted fourteen seconds when Dempsey had finally stood up again. This slow count, plus the fact that Dempsey did not return to the ring under his own power, led many to claim that Firpo ought to have won by knockout.

After that scare, Dempsey recuperated, dropping Firpo three times in the second round, before the fight was stopped at the fifty-seven second mark of that round, with Dempsey declared winner by second round knockout". –Wikipedia

..:: bravado ::..

Main Entry: bra·va·do

Pronunciation: \brə-ˈvä-(ˌ)dō\

Middle French bravade & Old Spanish bravata, from Old Italian bravata, from bravare to challenge, show off, from bravo

Date: circa 1580

1 a: blustering swaggering conduct b: a pretense of bravery
2: the quality or state of being foolhardy

..:: ajá: clown :...

Termino de escribir la entrada pasada. Volteo: sobre la puerta, como un ahorcado, un payaso de periódico, engrudo y papel de china mira al infinito, con los ojos secos, la nariz roja, el cuerpo desproporcionado. Un payaso que he visto por días sin darme cuenta que cincelaba, poquito a poquito, la muralla que protege mi tranquilidad nocturna.

..:: los payasos y yo ::..

Foto: Cindy Sherman, autorretrato

Cuando niño, eran una pesadilla recurrente. Hoy, uno de mis miedos más grandes. Hace mucho no los soñaba pero ahora, después de tomar agua y get my shit together lo recuerdo: en la madrugada soñé con un payaso. Era yo pero no era yo, pues tenía unos 10 años. En el sueño, un payaso enorme, tamaño basquetbolista, sonreía casi sobre mi cara en un closeup macabro (detesto las regresiones oníricas en cine y literatura, mejor hacerlo aquí). Yo estaba comiendo una sopa: algo asqueroso seguramente ilegal, articulaciones de pollo en un caldo sanguinoliento. Hasta ahí el sueño, o lo que recuerdo.

De chico, le pedía a mis padres que me mostraran "al payaso" en un libro de Picasso. Un arlequín infantil estaba sentado, tristísimo, sobre un sillón individual. Me daba miedo o me conectaba a algún rincón de mi psyche aún no tan profunda. Le tenía miedo, pero disfrutaba ésa exaltación que me causaba verlo. Masoquismo quizás. O la emoción de un sentimiento nuevo, una amenaza, que atravesara la burbuja de mi temprana edad.

Y hoy, casi de 30, me vuelve a cargar el payaso. Les tengo pánico: son todo lo alegre que no quiero ser, todo lo triste, todo lo gordo, lo flaco. Por algo Fellini los retrató: eran el epítome de lo fellinesco.

¿De dónde viene mi sueño?

..:: murakami ::..

http://www.blueblanket.net/Steph/Make/Visual/Perfect/

..:. sunday afternoon ::..

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz humbug zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

..:: ice cream ::..

K visitó a G y C en su casa. Bebieron, comieron helado. K no es mucho de sabores dulces, pero esto es lo que dijo, según el testimonio de Rothko, sobre el "paraíso cremoso":

"Es como si el azúcar exfoliara mi lengua"

"Este es un helado bíblico: la leche y miel"

"Oh-oh-oh"

"El sabor que deja al final es el cielo"

Los sabores: frutos rojos al malbec ("fresco, el cielo"), mascarpone con arándanos ("mmm") y yoghurt con miel ("bíblico").

Cabe decir que K no cree en Dios, que eso de un ser supremo le parece...

..:: haunting me ::..

Tom Waits, Cold Cold Ground



Gimme a winchester rifle and a whole box of shells
Blow the roof off the goat barn
Let it roll down the hill
The piano is firewood
Times square is a dream
I find well lay down together in the cold cold ground
Cold cold ground
Cold cold ground
Call the cops on the breedloves
Bring a Bible and a rope
And a whole box of rebel
And a bar of soap
Make a pile of trunk tires
And burn em all down
Bring a dollar with you baby
In the cold cold ground
Cold cold ground

..:: mais non!...

... hoy tendré que hablar francés. Se ha ido de mi mente como harina de baguette entre mis dedos ::..

..:: músculos tensos ::..

..:: 1er tren de pensamiento del día ::..

desperate housewives suburbios hamburguesas jardines petrificados china samurái viajes continentales japón alberca infinito cosmos acuático mejorar la brazada no he avanzado con diary of a bad year esto es lo más parecido a un diario que he tenido y es tan público como E! pero casi nadie lo lee frío bañarme usar hoy ropa un poco decente juntas franceses huelga en méxico no hay huelgas vías de tren saboteadas les dirán terroristas apenas hay luz afuera antes me bañaba y me secaba el pelo y ya pero ahora me pongo crema en la cara que parece una lija y me pongo crema en las manos que en diciembre siempre se parten se fisuran y el espacio que hay entre la uña y el teclado siempre sangra rothko hay que curar sus orejas hay también que sacarlo a pasear hoy no nadé los músculos no me lo permitieron me dolieron toda la noche soñé que estaba en un país europeo tomaba café y comía pan con mantequilla y esperaba a aque abriera el museo porque quería ver una exposición del régimen militar supongo que era rumania o un país de esas latitudes después o antes soñé con una carretera soleada y mientas manejaba comía una paleta payaso y después sacaba la envoltura para que la azotara el viento

..:: mark ryden ::..

Gracias a Poncho Esparza (habita en www.ponchorama.com ) por postear a este pintor.

..:: mejores peleas fílmicas según yo ::..

La pelea de Bourne Ultimatum sobre las medinas de Marruecos está, sin duda, en mi top. Pero éstas también:

Una historia violenta de David Cronenberg.
Viggo Mortenssen es Mr. Hyde de pronto. Hermosa coreografía, inesperada.



Rocky IV de ¿quién se acuerda del director? Pero todos recordamos esas referencias a la URSS caída, la sangre de Balboa, el público que se volteaba a favor del gringo... Nos emocionó, no lo nieguen.



Fight Club de David Fincher. Nada como ésa frase: "I felt like destroying something beautiful".



Troya de Wolfgang Petersen.



Oldboy de CW Park. Las imágenes hablan por sí solas.

..:: mejores peleas fílmicas según esquire ::..

Car chases get all the glory, those flashy, trailer-ready scenes where expensive hunks of steel are rapidly devalued in the act of flight. Okay, sure. We get it: Let’s see whose penis is faster. Whose has better handling. Whose cock can do 90 mph in reverse. Truth is, despite their flash and fuss, chase scenes are the hand jobs of action movies, a fluffer, a quick rub-and-tug that leads up to the real thing: The Big Fight Scene.

Unlike last week's list of the worst fight scenes, this is a list of those moments where men are judged on their natural-born equalities: their fists and their chins. It’s a hard list to compile. You have to follow rules. No guns -- it’s just not gentlemanly. No mob scenes -- real fights are mano-a-mano. Ultimately, this list is limited to those video clips we can find online. (Honestly, I don’t know what the Internet was created for if not to share at least one clip of Patrick Swayze ripping out Marshall Teague’s Adam’s apple.) And then there are the intangibles. Everyone needs a defining criteria, and mine is this: I truly believe they're going to die at some point in the fight. (Sorry, Jackie Chan. You’re just too cheerful whilst kicking ass.)

(Agree? Disagree? E-mail at esquirevideos@gmail.com I’m always up for a good fight.)

Bourne Ultimatum

There have been plenty of knockdown, drag-out fight scenes in the Bourne trilogy, but this one stands out on sheer intensity alone. All government brainwashing and Black Ops training aside, dismissing the fancy backflips and lightning-quick strikes, this is exactly how a normal person would fight. In close quarters, clutching and grabbing, throwing whatever you get your hands on, and turning every heavy object around you into a weapon. You’d be less creative, of course. Instead of crushing his windpipe with your coffee table book you’d probably show it to him in an effort to neutralize him with your pretentious minimalist aesthetic, Mr. Fancypants.

The Matrix

The Matrix was a phenomenon, and this scene singles out all that was right with it. People fight for lots of reasons (honor, revenge, no backsie cuts) but rarely do you find a hero whose motivation is the Earth’s salvation from the overwhelming Agent Smith, who can still throw one hell of a haymaker while looking dapper in a tie clip. Besides that, this scene single-handedly brought the chest punch back en vogue. For weeks I was itching to get mugged just so I could unleash a straight punch square to someone’s sternum. That’s when you know a movie has left its mark.

Best of the Best

Granted, you need to experience this movie at a certain time in your life (preferably when you are twelve and want nothing more than to earn James Earl Jones’s approval by kicking people in the head) but the facts remain: If you saw this movie, you remember this scene. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t find a clip of the match preceding this one, the infamous “Pop it, Tommy! Pop it!” scene, where one of the Korean fighters dislocates an American fighter’s shoulder, only to have a teammate reset it and him finish the fight using one arm and his feet. (Again, a gross misuse of the Internet that this doesn’t exist.) Regardless, this was a fight movie that taught us a lesson: Winning isn’t everything. (Right, Chris Penn?)

Kill Bill: Vol. 2

Women fighting like men. Men fighting their urges to become aroused. Uma Thurman danced her way into your heart in Pulp Fiction, and she stabbed her way into everyone else’s with her signature Hattori Hanzo. Kill Bill, and this fight in particular, are a glimpse into all that is great about the human spirit: long legs, swords, and a patient indifference to the gift of sight. Two distinct ingredients (besides the fact that both participants have blond hair and breasts) make this video great: First, the close quarters. Normally a sword fight in a trailer park is something only the extremely less fortunate are privy to. It’s different, and it is impressive. Second, and most important, is the revenge theme. Not just Thurman’s revenge for her husband and her child, but revenge for her teacher, who Daryl Hannah killed. And if you can think of a better ending to this fight, you’re obviously a liar or a better man than I. I’ll keep an eye out for you.

Bloodsport

Technically, there’s almost no comparison between this and all the other clips. We’re talking about a fight where a combatant actually tries to somersault into his opponent as a tactical maneuver. Every kick is telegraphed like we’re watching the movie version of Karate for Dummies. But this is exactly why it endures -- because despite all this we are enthralled. Frank Dux has honorably fought his way through the deadliest karate tournament in the world, and finally he meets up with a cold-blooded killer in the finale. He carries his oily body through physical and emotional punishment (he was blinded!), yet in the end he still makes the right choices -- to scissor kick, and to show mercy.

Find this article at: http://www.esquire.com/the-side/video/lunchbreak111607

..:: ¿surfear? ::..

¿A quién se le ocurrió acuñar la expresión "surf the net" para definir la acción de entrar y salir de páginas web y empezar en a y terminar en b pasando por d, f, t, y, z, o?

¿Por qué no "swim the web" o "dive in the net" o "ski the net" o "play the net" o "cook the net"?

Acciones más descriptivas de lo que uno hace leyendo sobre "El hombre árbol" –un hombre indonesio con una rara enfermedad de la piel conocida como candylomatosis– a las seis de la mañana en un domingo: nadar, bucear, jugar, cocinar.

(El hombre árbol, no sé si me la crea o no. Es como lo de los gatos bonsai o el "Sigue a la morsa" que terminó siendo Goddess Bunny. Pero soy campo fértil para el escándalo.)

(Leo después una nota sobre un hombre con una enfermedad similar en Europa del Este:

A missionary in Eastern Europe recently reported an extremely rare (condylomatosis) skin condition. This disease is called Lewandowsky-Lutz dysplasia. This missionary wrote:

I found this man, and other than his hands and feet, he looked and seemed in good health. As best as I could gather these growths began when he was 14 years old, and began in the area of his wrists. The skin on his wrists and the back of his hands resembles that of a hedgehog - hundreds of spike like growths. The problem is much more severe on his palms and fingers where the growths resemble very much that of nails infected with a fungus. The growths have that same texture, smell and feel. I cut a number of the largest growths off, most of witch did not bleed. Some of the smaller growths did bleed a small amount and he seemed much more sensitive to the cutting of the smaller growths.

It has grown slowly but steadily but has not spread to other parts of his body, just a bit below his knees on his legs. He has other skin growth (many would be skin tags) on his face, and some moles on his chest. The growths are not as bad on his feet but I was told that more than 10 years ago many we cauterized off his feet, and they did not return. I think with repeated soaking and cutting most could be removed but other parts will I think need to be burned away in some form.”

He has 15 skin tags on his face, and a wart in one ear.

Bizarre pictures:

..:: hoy...

... vi a un borracho hacer algo que no había visto hacer a nadie jamás, en el baño de hombres, se lavó las manos cinco veces en el tiempo que me tomó a mí orinar, leer una noticia sobre el cruz azul y lavarme las manos. como un disco rayado o un informercial, he performed the full ritual five times: water, soap, paper towel, water, soap, water, paper towel... después regresó a su mesa, a cinco de la mía, y limpió la superficie obsesivamente, como una anciana solitaria o howard hughes... hablaba solo, mascullaba, se reía.... llamaba al mesero y lo abrazaba... se paro para ir al baño de nuevo, a lavarse las manos, a borrar las evidencias de su paso por el mundo::..

..:: pequeñeces ::..

el camaleón más pequeño del mundo, el caballo más pequeño del mundo, el pez más pequeño del mundo, el robot humanoide más pequeño del mundo

..:: the saddest music in the world ::..

..:: daniel y el insomnio ::..

despierto, de nuevo, a media noche. a lo lejos, escucho a rothko bostezar -ése bostezo de los perros que culmina en un chillido-, escucho el hum del refrigerador, constante, como un corazón eterno o un insecto que bate sus alas más rápido que un colibrí. en la televisión, bill the butcher grita en un teatro lleno, "this boy has no heart!" dice con un acento que ya no existe, en el que new york se pronuncia "niu lliooorc". daniel day lewis brilla en la pantalla como una mantis religiosa, delgado y terrible, como una araña mecánica, al acecho. duermo, abro los ojos, él se toca la córnea con un cuchillo y sonríe, "i can't sleep", dice mi hermano de insomnio. es un héroe, tanto o más que el personaje de dicaprio, pero la historia lo bajó del pedestal y lo vapuleó. dormito, me exalto en la caída al abismo, el punto en que dicen que puedes morir, la frontera entre el sueño y la Tierra. bill the butcher se levanta de la cama, deja atrás a un trío de mujeres desnudas, color de leche, de carnes como de venus o jane fonda en barbarella. Oopsy daisy, grita, enfoca, lanza un cuchillo.

el filo me encuentra en plena caída.

estoy vivo.

..:: now that's whay i call a real bath ::..

Japanese Spa Offers Beaujolais Nouveau Swimming

Thursday , November 15, 2007

While the Japanese may be toasting this season's release of the Beaujolais Nouveau wine with the traditional "kanpai!" or "dry glass," keeping their glasses dry would prove to be difficult as they bathed in a sea of the red wine at a new spa, the U.K.'s Telegraph reports.

• Click here for the full story.

• Click here to view photos.

Revelers on Thursday donned swimsuits and, wine glasses in hand, descended into the red water of the Beaujolais Nouveau spa, part of the Hakone Yunessun spa, where guests are able to bathe and swim in the wine while drinking it.

Japan is the biggest export market for the Beaujolais Nouveau, consuming about 11.5 million bottles, or nearly a quarter of the entire vintage.

"To us Beaujolais nouveau means France, it allows us to experience a little bit of French culture," Nippon News Network journalist Akiko Yajima said earlier this week.

..:: la cafeína...

... no es antídoto contra el sopor, es también una pequeña muerte de las malas, es abrir los ojos a mitad de la noche y no poder cerrarlos, es soñar con un perro sarnoso e indefenso que viste días atrás en campeche y no tuviste el valor o el descaro de recogerlo, llevarlo a un veterinario, que se curara o que muriera más dignamente, con los colmillos en alto, es tomar dos litros de agua con toques de limón a las dos de la mañana, es leer una entrevista con sean penn y maldecirte por no tener tantos huevos como él, es rascar una herida vieja que te hiciste en portugal y abrirla de nuevo, es hacer lagartijas nocturnas y amanecer con los brazos adoloridos, es jugar fight night en el xbox y quedarte dormido entre round y round. la cafeína, el sopor, el declive ::..

..:: el sopor...

... es como el hastío, como el purgatorio, como el suicidio, es estar y no estar, saberte imbécil, lento, vulnerable. La muerte, el sopor ::..

..:: postales de un viaje express a campeche :...

..:: onírico 2 ::..

son las 6:07 de la mañana, tomaré un avión en tres horas. se me hizo ya tarde. soñé, hace minutos, o hace horas, que estaba en algún lugar del bible belt gringo y le debía dinero a unos rednecks que eran también mis parientes -un puberto me amenazaba con una escopeta. yo era como ellos: vestía jeans, una playera estampada con los músculos de algún luchador, usaba un bigotito de azotador y una gorra de trailero. el sueño sabía a cerveza, de esa barata con notas de ropa vieja, de costillas de puerco ahumadas. debía dinero y volteaba hamburguesas en la parrilla de un diner cliché -piso de linóleo, mesas de formaica-.

el sueño se diluye, tengo que calentar el agua de la regadera: hay barniz de uña rojo, rizos rubios, cadenas de oro, café, tocino, calor, pick-ups, noticias televisivas sobre una vaca asesinada.

desperté sin saber si saldé mi deuda.

..:: cioran sobre la esperanza ::..

Pocas palabras, mucha verdad:

Ce qui irrite dans le désespoir, c'est son bien-fondé, son évidence, sa "documentation" : c'est du reportage. Examinez, au contraire, l'espoir, sa générosité dans le faux, sa manie d'affabuler, son refus de l'événement : une aberration. une fiction. Et c'est dans cette aberration que réside la vie, et de cette fiction qu'elle s'alimente.

..:: los dos rothkos ::..

Uno fue un pintor con poco pelo; el otro, un perro cubierto de mechones grises. Uno destilaba los colores del mundo; el otro es daltónico. Uno vivía en perpetua desgracia; el otro se pone de panza esperando caricias, ésa es su mayor preocupación. Uno nació en Latvia; el otro, en México. Uno dice "It is a widely accepted notion among painters that it does not matter what one paints as long as it is well painted. This is the essence of academicism. There is no such thing as good painting about nothing" o "The exhilarated tragic experience is for me the only source of art"; el otro simplemente "guau".

Uno murió, con las muñecas rebanadas, a los 66; el otro morirá en los próximos 15 años, a los veintitantos, dormido en su camita.

..:: onírico ::..

..:: rip mailer ::..

---

November 11, 2007

Norman Mailer, Towering Writer With a Matching Ego, Dies at 84

By CHARLES McGRATH

Norman Mailer, the combative, controversial and often outspoken novelist who loomed over American letters longer and larger than any other writer of his generation, died early yesterday in Manhattan. He was 84.

The cause was acute renal failure, his family said.

Mr. Mailer burst on the scene in 1948 with “The Naked and the Dead,” a partly autobiographical novel about World War II, and for six decades he was rarely far from center stage. He published more than 30 books, including novels, biographies and works of nonfiction, and twice won the Pulitzer Prize: for “The Armies of the Night” (1968), which also won the National Book Award, and “The Executioner’s Song” (1979).

He also wrote, directed and acted in several low-budget movies, helped found The Village Voice and for many years was a regular guest on television talk shows, where he could reliably be counted on to make oracular pronouncements and deliver provocative opinions, sometimes coherently and sometimes not.

Mr. Mailer belonged to the old literary school that regarded novel writing as a heroic enterprise undertaken by heroic characters with egos to match. He was the most transparently ambitious writer of his era, seeing himself in competition not just with his contemporaries but with the likes of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.

Cliquea aquí para el artículo completo.

..:: en busca del che ::..

De preparatoriano tenía una camisa militar con un parche del Che en la espalda. Enorme, rojo, hacía que las miradas de mis compañeros en esa institución neoliberal por naturaleza se clavaran, burlonamente quizás, en mi dorso. Después, libros y canciones y artículos de revista después, perdí interés por el Che, o más bien lo cuestioné, lo puse en un paredón injusto. O justo... ¿quién soy yo para poner a la historia en una balanza?

El lunes voy a Campeche en busca de la sombra de Guevara: ahí Steven Soderbergh filma Guerrilla con Benicio Del Toro como protagonista... Algún día imaginé seguir los pasos del Che joven por América, en moto, con mi amigo Chris Chung, para filmar un documental. Hoy, sólo iré al set, y armado con cámara y Moleskine buscaré al polémico revolucionario en los ojos entrecerrados de Benicio, entre las calles calurosas de Campeche.

Campeche: La Habana por unas semanas.

Bah, ya no creo en la revolución. Eso se lo dejo al yo que era.

..:: sing along ::..

WHERE DO YOU GO TO MY LOVELY de Peter Sarstedt


You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are

You live in a fancy apartment
Off the Boulevard Saint-Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do

I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does

When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pins
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan on your back and on your legs

And when the snow falls you're found in Saint Moritz
With the others of the jet-set
And you sip your Napoleon brandy
But you never get your lips wet, no you don't

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Won't you tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do

Your name, it is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a racehorse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh, a-ha-ha-ha

They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn

Where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do

I remember the back streets of Naples
Two children begging in rags
Both touched with a burning ambition
To shake off their lowly-born tags, so they try

So look into my face Marie-Claire
And remember just who you are
Then go and forget me forever
But I know you still bear the scar, deep inside, yes you do

I know where you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
I know the thoughts that surround you
'Cause I can look inside your head

(na na-na-na na na-na-na na-na na na na na)
(na na-na-na na na-na-na na-na na na na na)

..:: yo, astronauta ::..

..:: guau ::..

World's tallest dog meets world's smallest dog

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Richard Bradbury/Guinness World Records/PA Wire

Boo Boo, a long haired Chihuahua - who stands just 10.16 cm (4 in) hight - was presented with his Guinness World Records title for the world's smallest dog, by Guinness World Record veteran Gibson.

Gibson is a harlequin Great Dane who is the world's tallest dog, measuring 107 cm (42.2 inches).

..:: no-lunes ::..

hoy desperté creyendo que era lunes: la misma cadencia en el ronroneo del refrigerador, la misma luz apagada estilo fin del mundo, el mismo sabor a almendra ahumada en el paladar. pero no, el lunes está ya lejos, y el miércoles parte la semana como el acento a la mitad de la palabra "día".

..:: postales de un viaje express a l.a :...

Tomadas con un motorola z3