What Is The Tape Called

The Big Circus World

, Julian Muñoz during his interview last Friday

In a (long) time now, I'm almost panic turn on the television. Generally, ground her when I get up and while breast. The rest of the day I do not know whether fortunately or unfortunately, I have it does other work, or even to lunch, which almost always takes place at the CSIC-watch the news or curling up on me the sofa to doze to the sound of a desktop program digestive dubiously, as he usually does not do much. With so small doses, however, I have more than enough. Record, even so, most of the time I usually decant for movies, however infumables they are, and there are very few times when I let them by shows that are broadcast prime time, such as Big Brother , El Hormiguero , Idol, Mira quién baila and others of the same or similar aspect. Nor am I too excited about the series, usually English, removing perhaps Aida , but only for its lack of pretension, his good humor actors and their broad brush, a sort of hybrid between the grotesque and the genre. The rest - Central Hospital, El Internado , Physics and Chemistry (why the hell scheduled this series, imitation of the mythical, although repetitive, non as and, ultimately, expendable- After school and Partners to schedule adult ?), Etc., Do not follow nor do I have no qualms about pressing the off button when swallows the last bite.

But the reason that television today is because it gives me chills, more than any other time in my short life, I consolidate, leaps and bounds, and with increasing forcefulness and enthusiasm, the nickname of boob. I do not intend to repeat what most, as he complains about the crisis without knowing where it comes from or how much it affects him, on the contrary, my intention is to draw attention to the original meaning of those two words, desautomatizar the topic; and the term, despite what that is kneaded, it can seem more suited to whatever tune programs like Where are you, heart , La Noria , Mirror Public and mint or Big Brother, a true paradigm of television XXI Century (released, not coincidentally, in the year 2000). The problem, however, is not that television itself is silly or list, the end of the day, everyone is like, and if you favor has fallen into a mind not too flowery, well you with it. The thing becomes a concern when that person-or in this case, that entity has an unquestionable-up on the other, their trials and their criteria, absolute power that prevails, not only school requirements or citizens, but tambiéna the same principles of respect and excellence. That's when the case goes from being happy silly become stultifying and, at worst, mind-numbing.

Today, television seems to be counter to any form of dignity, seriousness or understanding. Even areas that are supposedly dedicated to inform, just using the most despicable and demeaning to persuade the viewer, to provoke a visceral reaction that, in exchange for a sick enjoyment, discredits the intellect ; as such repeaters, known for their impudence and irreverence, cornering the student of the class at the end of the lesson, he removed his glasses and crash to the ground, amid the laughter of the rest of the classroom, too cowed to recognize how humiliating and unfair to the scene. Rhetoric is abject, that which appeals to the most outside the razóny that, therefore, it is suggested opaque to all kinds of argument. There is more to do things like Where are you, heart or missing happily Aquí hay tomate or Dolce vita to know what I mean, programs that are proud to report but in reality, they merely stoke morbid curiosity of the viewer, skinning individuals certainly deserve it and high up to others who have rarely done anything to earn this honor. Worst of all, however, is the insulting manner in which they defend themselves and proving their work skinning the accompanying estomagante victimhood wherever they go and to which the audience, as the Pusilha ; nimes students referred to above, does nothing but bow his head or nod convinced, spurred by the feeling of guilt that can only incite those shameless enough to flip the tortilla and make us to see us themselves as merciless killers. "People have a right to be informed", bellow, on the other hand, using an argument that no one atreveríaa discuss but, if you what to think, lies a spurious correspondence, inaccurately, that their fervent spectators ignored, and these programs is that you can not apply that maxim, then do not report , unless, of course, we take the word "information" in a very broad, objective, far from illustrating (let alone teach), is to spur hatred, envy, contempt, or, if this is commendable, irrational adherence to push the defense at all costs, the idealization of all kinds of characters, in short, to convince the staff through resources they have much to do with reason as the night with the Diaye that ultimately (and that's where it comes from the real terror), are not so different from the wiles , who use sects or extremist groups to indoctrinate their minions.

thus established the bitterness of presenters and justified by the public viewing is not much that the other programs-the few, really few, are serious, can do is continue to defend beyond the line and pamper its limited, but loyal, audience. Unfortunately, even these seem to be getting on the bandwagon, giving in to a threat that every day becomes more palpable and irreversible. The best example of this would The critical view, last oasis with which told the Telecinco chiripitifláutica but with the replacement of Vicente Vallés and the subsequent appointment of the outdated María Teresa Campos, is going completely under, giving input to this circus, as things continue like this, we will soon all be part, but not as trainers or trapeze artists, but as clowns. And for the record that this is not scaremongering: it is merely finding.

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By the way, I forgot ...

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Good news (once a year does not hurt)

My new roommate is named Philip, is Colombian, her country made a living as artistic and commercial photographer, against all odds, is a kind of pleasant and temporizing: not only has gotten me feel comfortable again back home, but which has led, who knows what spells and alchemy, the other partner and I run back to the floor and even get to laugh together, no glimmer behind us the edges of the knives. In the latter, no doubt, has much to do with the fact that I've changed habitacióny thereby has been rid of their ditties night. Still, one must admit that the new guy has an aura, a bias in their behavior and their way to talk to us, of which his predecessor lacked not only that, but The substituted with a degree of arrogance and stubbornness to overcome. Such a change, as you can imagine, I returned a little hope in the human and discredit my suspicion, repeatedly endorsed on paranormal powers of the housing, capable of inoculating oligophrenia anyone who dared to cross their threshold (including, of course, myself).

Anyway, I'll tell you. For now, I have the feeling of having taken a great burden.

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Start the cart before the horse

not want to get into mess, but after reading article published today in The Country opinion that the matter requires a brief reflection No, a few drops of clarity and honesty. We knew that what modern art was a complex matter to measure the parameters are being creative excellence relentlessly altering centuries, under heterogeneous factors and not always by consensus, and that the criteria by which we judged old works by Rubens, Michelangelo, Van Eyck and even Dali Grosz, have been falling steadily obsolete , slightly less than discredited as useful for measuring the quality of recent events such as a stylus to deal with a horde of orcs. Still, the current state of affairs suggests that something is not quite fit in all this and that, under all the solemnity that is advocated, but not lower interest underlying monetary than artistic. Thence to begin to see art as a great joke is only a step.

The recent case of the dome of Barceló is in this respect, one of the most significant in recent years compared to some, always willing to setting equiparacióny influences, to the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel, the inexperienced observer, which is carried away to museums on weekends, accompanied by family and implements of a disposable camera, so similar it is to happen, necessarily, unnoticed, beyond the fact treated, in both cases, domes, whereas it is more likely to feel perplexed and even disappointed, if not misled, "to an art form that does not understand or, more importantly , guess how to calibrate. The work of specialists and, above all, appraisers, then becomes fundamental at all costs must convince the average citizen of that monstrosity, that ordinary people begin to look with suspicion, represents ú last word in artistic expression, and his inability to appreciate their value is derived from a supine ignorance, a symptom of a provincial narrow-mindedness that you can not see beyond the obvious and familiar. Good, if anything, is that in this process of persuasion, there are no preset rules, as no longer exist, even in the art world, "so any interpretation, for pilgrim it is, may be strained, giving value to what teníao not before at least it spared the viewer, it only takes that appears suitably dressed for a learning-by empty-impenetrable and a considerable amount technicalities, the more effective the more syllables the conform-ending to disarm, and put at the mercy of the educated elite, the brutish gray.

That is precisely what he tries to make the text of The Country: sell-because, after all, always about the same thing, a commodity which, in principle, not acquire or crazy, much less the price that goes to auction, or rather, convince us that what we just bought, because the project has been funded with public money, without asking the opinion of voters or stopping to think the crisis and other trifles of that sort, is worth what we have taken (well below Mr. Barceló cache humble as quick to warn the prudent writer / panegyrist) and not only that, but we made the purchase of our lives.

serious thing in this case, is not only recourse to the Sibylline above techniques, supported by the simpleton of the majority, but also to accommodate moral factors first order, of the kind that you can not prosecute unless stating his name and fame to furious criticism. And is that the work is located in the Hall of Human Rights and the Alliance of Civilizations Palace of the United Nations and, consistently, is presented as a sort of incentive to comply with the principles signed at Geneva 60 years ago exactly, ie the artistic sense of justice as a guarantee and solidarity, a clearer view of the TBO but, it seems, still-and will-taking force in our society, supporting mediocrity under an itch for political correctness or at least, an ethical commitment that ultimately makes him a great disservice to the art world, neglecting or delaying purely artistic values the piece, despite all the troubles, could bear.

is therefore an infallible combination, impossible to refute: artistic spurious legitimacy on the one hand, and moral accreditation rabble on the other. So, you get not only that they are bored into the state coffers, the kings in person to give the puppet theater or the cache of the Majorcan artist up like foam, but someone like Sgt forces UN Security-born in Asturias, of course, ruled: "It's great, sensational. Now what is needed is that the room work and improve human rights, "as if to say:" Well, now that we have the roof, let's start with the house. "

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Some photos I took today in El Retiro

to enlarge you must click on them.

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denis_le_loup @ 2008-11-17T00: 02:00

Having started the week with good standing with best wishes, more palatable plan on the horizon and even a promise of renewal in apartment , hopes have come to crash, as usual, against the gray wall on Sunday, even more impractical than in past occasions, for reasons that, although would not mind sharing, given my propensities n exhibitionism and cruelty, "I will reserve for myself, not so much modesty Deals as respect for my (s) suffered (s) reader (s) already had / had enough last week when, unannounced and unwanted, they loosened the locks on my conscience, which should flow leaving have remained in the shade.

So, I will only highlight of the last seven days: Lisbon and Sigur Rós. An appointment that had been waiting for over a month and that, thankfully, lived up to all expectations, in part by the city, partly because of the concert, but I think, humbly, that was mainly because myself. I stayed in a hostel in the old town, near the Tajo and the castle of San Jorge, who gave up visit due to the five non-euro lisboetas we were forced to pay. We can say that was the only guest of the said shelter and that, despite occupying a bedroom with four beds in the summer months have forced me to share snoring, farting and god knows what other horrors ; of the night, the site could not look more abandoned and almost ghostly, like the back of the concert, he gave me the feeling of entering a haunted house. And to address the audience-a Bullring, in this case had touched the paranormal, when, on the way to the Via Augusta, where, as the taciturn boy who ran the hostel (who, incidentally, I did not see), there were good places to eat, "I got lost on the streets of Alfama and for a few minutes, maybe half an hour, I wandered without knowing exactly where I was and, more importantly, if get out of there. At one point, while the plane was spinning and even looked to see if, by mistake, had taken one of St. Petersburg, went for a few blocks from the most sordid, in which there were people rummaging through garbage, dark silhouettes exchanging goods on street corners and women who, with a cigarette in his mouth everlasting, I offered her peculiar commodity. That was when I got to thinking that the concert would not, after all, and no longer by my undeniable loss, but the fellow that I had unexpected come his way and that, from my perspective timid, I lurked waiting to strike. Luckily, I managed to find a place that, this time it appeared on the map and, thus, return to the path that, in principle, but I had intended to follow the that, as I discovered with amazement, I had drifted far more than they had imagined.

For the rest of my trip to Lisbon, and was more conventional: I went to get tickets for the concert, no time now to know the restaurant I recommended by the concierge, swallowed a hamburger in the Burriquín. In that time, I did not talk to anyone else, but I amused myself watching the people and, above all, trying to unravel what was said in that language, which supposedly is therefore similar to but whose phonetic Castilian can not be more opaque to the ears of an ignoramus like me. So I came to the event, chose a site near the stage and prepared to enjoy, as no company or conversation, music. Let no one think, however, I missed the human contact or that the concert did not satisfy me alone. Quite the contrary: I believe that, had it been accompanied, it would not have paid so much and I would become so involved in the show, and therefore I would come home the feeling of having missed something. In this way, I went back happy, wanting to go back I will know Lisbon in April, during a conference of Hispanic-and Sigur Rós more excited than ever.

Here you have some photos of my experience, apart from a video, divided into two parts, taken from the documentary Heima , for the song with which the Icelandic group usually ends its concerts ( Popplagið ) that if I had to record in situ was to be enjoyed in all its fullness. Hope you like it.




A Streetcar to the cemetery (literally) Lisbon at night, seen from Alfama

singer Sigur Rós in full trance The spectral hostel

And the theme of Sigur Rós: Part



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And part two:

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mucus (literally) Let's play

Is not it strange that the day before you're perfectly and the next day you notice that your throat and your nose will explode at any given time? No? It is what happens to me at this moment.
Yesterday I was all happy in life. Had normal levels of inspiration if I suddenly wanted to continue my fics, I can get a jump without flinching ... and to go to sleep grateful for the warmth of my bed graaande. How any normal human. Today my body woke me up at 4 am and, kaboom! Sure I have tonsils the size of golf balls. No wonder, my tonsils have always been great. But now I have a lot of resentment in the area and the feeling that an Indian tribe is making smoke signals. And to top it off: I have snot. Yes ladies and gentlemen. Those green bugs that fuck an egg. For those. Thankfully today I have to go to class because if it would bad ... very bad ...

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Access existentialist who, with some fortunately not be repeated

Today is one of those gave , as in the world comes up behind me, loosens his pants quietly and slowly proceeds to sodomize. On weekends, lately, I exist only to conceive thoughts of this kind, arrives on Friday and I have an overwhelming desire to get out, clowning around, talking in spurts, drinking as John Silver ... but suddenly I find that my life the plan to others so that, every time I think of something to do, somewhere to go, someone to be the highest level I turn back, I refuse to vote, I am forced to wait in line without complaining. Then I feel like an extra, as if my life were a part anecdotal, with little significance, an argument that I, for my condition, I can not access more than as a listener or comparsa . But not only that: as a helper, it seems that I have existence only when others give me, when, say, entering achievement in the flat part, however incidental it is my contribution, the main plot. Sometimes I see myself as the eternal friend, as always listening to and even allowed to give advice, based on an unlikely-and probably unprovable, experience, others, however, I believe to be the discordant element, one that, without really knowing why, enter the unease in the scene and makes the players tighten the pace in the wet pavement, but the fact is that most of the time, I just feel like an observer, which does nothing but be there, no one set of public Ely, if you have any intervention, will inevitably awkward and untimely.

This is how I perceive myself these days without name, which are nothing more than a number on the calendar but whose memory, nevertheless, emerges in the most unexpected times, updating a feeling, not overlooked most of the time-and even humiliated in some cases in which the fortunes auspicious sign, "no longer there, lurking in the affairs of the day diaa between job duties, including small talk, between the hopes remade at every step and returns to dismantle ... But hey, luckily for me, and I guess also for others, "I do not usually give an inch to the anguish, knowing what insatiable can become self-pity and the few and feeble weapons that, if necessary, would have, so that, at least I can survive unnoticed trance, bringing me to bed with a clear conscience and doing everything possible semitranquila to convince me that the next morning, I wake up being the hero of my own history.