juanluismartinezmcgough

webby found quotes... on bill

2010-07-23T04:57:00.001+01:00

mixing up a lot of notions here:

- that Gates is qualified to judge. may be not. IIRC, he's never provided evidence that he ever wrote anything other than a BASIC interpreter (and legend has it that Allen was the primary author). is there any? being a critic of X doesn't entail being good at X; usually, but not systems development. the quality of criticism here derives not from subjective preference (this picture pleases me more than that picture), but acknowledged superiority (i built a better mousetrap, and yours is crap because it doesn't trap mouses). which brings us to...

- that M$ is a demonstrable example of innovation, superior systems development, or creativity. if you go down the list; it was something they stole (DOS), something they built for hire then stole (Windows UI), something they built for hire then ported (Office), something they EEE (IE), something they lucked out on (DOS for IBM, who were clueless; and Lotus 1-2-3 which was made ONLY for DOS and thus made DOS mandatory), something they did that was illegal but didn't get really punished for (the anti-trust stuff, and the continuing punitive contracts with OEMs; do you really think Dell, et al wouldn't offer Linux if they could without penalty?). face it: M$ got where they are not by building better mousetraps, but by trapping folks into buying only M$ mousetraps.

NHL revisit

2010-01-10T22:09:00.001Z

pos me referia a algo bastante mejor q veetle, porq tengo dificultades pa seguir el baloncito...

NHL

2009-12-27T07:03:00.001Z

maite!! los partidos de esto se pueden encontrar en high res?

2009-12-20T14:32:00.001Z

2009-12-13T23:38:00.001Z

how to

how not to

2009-12-06T19:19:00.000Z

masterpiece

2009-11-29T05:10:00.001Z

ah well

2009-11-21T12:09:00.005Z

classy couple of weeks, californication was punk and ok, i seen better, prince of the city, night falls on manhattan, trust, yellow sky and sex lies and videotapes live quite up to my memory of them, perhaps not yellow sky but, by god, sex lies and videotapes, seen mid late teens, mid late twenties, and you have to remember first time round where, banal and petty, the no wonder i didnt have any opinions, compared to everything turned out just as i said it would, or close

there's a first for everything, thou, says this week's turkish porn, or oops

filmaffinity falls very short of tons of pics, especially u.s. b pics, bollywood and what the fuck not, so dont have these two week's recorded, cant be arsed, then

cowgirl blues

2009-11-14T05:34:00.002Z

another grand week of pics, but this one takes the cake.

btw, last week's kal ho naa ho is corrected to its deserved and beautiful song.

oh and wtf? heartbreak kid had me in tears, 'i'm coming' LOLOLOLOL!!!

two week's worth 2

2009-11-08T18:30:00.004Z

big night

kal ho naa ho

harvie krumpet

road house

baadasssss!

frontiere(s)

beautiful thing

the eiger sanction

the gauntlet

midnight movie

the white ribbon

demon seed

thunderbolt and lightfoot

faves, tough one, but kal ho naa ho, thunderbolt and lightfoot, and the gauntlet, perhaps. the demon seed clip is omg, btw...

2009-10-31T02:02:00.002Z

ahhh

two week's worth

2009-10-25T13:34:00.003Z

whatever works, ark! modernity

the vikings- proto modernity

infestation- alone in the office modernity

long weekend - so much for modernity!

not quite hollywood- lots of modernity

young einstein - on the creation of modernity

the oc - solipsistic modernity

turkey shoot- yeah baby modernity

black robe - proto modernity

razorback- ark animal modernity

gossip girl s2- romeo romeo modernity

war of the worlds- away we go modernity

spread- yeah yeah modernity

the cooler- stockholm syndrome modernity

dead end drive in - hyper size me modernity

faves, war of the worlds, dead end drive in
runners up, turkey shoot, black robe, cooler, the oc, young einstein, not quite hollywood

dep andres

2009-10-17T23:11:00.000+01:00

this week's buffet

2009-10-10T18:56:00.005+01:00

streets of fire.. what walter hill tried here with the 80s, what a surprise.. scorcese for one is someone who's tried this all his life and never done it

and diane lane who, try me, aged badly.. how her voice falls and raises in the first song and words in the second.. in the first the dress is.. a rag.. and in the second there's the hair...

twilight samurai--- a samurai in the proverbial kitchen sink, if only the morons at the o.c. watched these pics

twentynine palms- proverbial death and fucking

fearless freaks: the flaming lips-- ahh memories!

filth and wisdom/ madonna and bordello, fascinating

crush-- female solipsism brings us a remarkable andie macdowell surrounded by aging mischa bartons.. bogart, give us a fag.. and crap moments in a script, like the must i sit throu the lesbian seduces sequence, but she shags her cunt out, thou the guy dies, and so does for british bores what sex and the city for the ny crowd, believe me

cigarette burn---------- sort of like cronenberg's existenz, only religulous. cronenberg's existenz, like spider, is too erotic to allow this to be anywhere near as good

door in the floor; the best moments are when we fade away, see, oh and the music with the jerking off!

assasination of a high school prez- like brick but entertaining

metal a headbanger's journey-- lololollolololllololol

linda linda linda.. you go girl!

grande pons, casi tanto como ulloa, bebe de mi polla/ cayetana, guarra manchega

crank 2, yeah whatever

and these are only the decent pics from this week..

faves..
streets of fire, door in the floor, followed by twilight samurai, linda linda linda and fearless freaks
the rest not a pest, but not the best, ho ho ho

2009-10-02T23:42:00.000+01:00

jane austen's preference of aesthetics over experience

2009-09-26T06:08:00.001+01:00

she was right, she and pauline kael, ive learnt it all at the mooees, ppl dont teach ya shit!!

furr-ball

2009-09-20T17:24:00.002+01:00

ohoh me quedo sin partido del jerez

de todas formas voy a probar suerte en rojadirecta.. y desactivaste tu feisbuki antes de q llegara

la liga maite + grifols, san + 37th week of d'orouetism, the best pic in like ever

2009-09-12T06:46:00.001+01:00

la liga!!! la liga!!! q me quedo sin el fur ball!

la ligaaaa!!!

2009-09-06T00:50:00.003+01:00

no me envíes a blogs modernistas, ¡¡dame links pa furbol, q se te da bien!! besines!!

btw, 25th week of dorouetisms!

mmmaite?

2009-08-29T19:16:00.002+01:00

hija, q ni idea como ver la liga de este año, en fin. ni sopcasts ni nada, todo parece un desastre. ¿muerte del streaming?

as i was saying, twelth week of dorouetism, or close...

entourage

2009-08-23T18:55:00.001+01:00

the cannes ep has me in tears of laughta

erm

2009-08-16T18:13:00.001+01:00

the seventh week of dorouetism, or is it the eighth, is certainly no filler.

and another...

2009-08-08T00:54:00.002+01:00

a sixth week of d'orouetism comes after a fifth?

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

2009-08-01T05:32:00.004+01:00

¿où? ¿et?
in our fourth week of dorouetisms, we confront the prospect of a fifth week of dorouetisms. for some very unfathomable reason we is now a member of flash glam trash website and very happy with it too... for understandable reasons... so we have that and studio 60 on the sunset strip's amanda peet joining a dorouetism that has no prospect of improving.

OROUËT EST PAR IÇI!!!!

2009-07-25T23:46:00.002+01:00

THINGS ARE NOT LIKELY TO GET ANY BETTER IN THIS BLOG. kristin stewart's joined the list of discontents and everyone seems to be screaming that which the title says...

and another

2009-07-18T05:32:00.004+01:00

there seems to be no possibilities of it ending. once again, the greatest critics in the world can do nothing other than jump on. this time it isnt a slow train but a procession of camels, and debra winger is once again, deadly attractive messy as you put her

debra in the desert

second week of d'orouetism

2009-07-11T06:28:00.004+01:00

some of the greatest critics on the planet are getting on the loopy orouët slow train, and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. this blog hopes to return someday to this week gem posting, but orouët does not permit it. this blog has been hijacked and has the oslo syndrome. hopefully it won't return to this week gem posting.

(oh l'amour en) du côte d'orouet

2009-07-04T07:53:00.017+01:00

erm

'tell me to love you and i will, tell me to stop and i will, no lagging. but you have to tell me these things'

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0070007/

this pic was way beyond synopsis avoiding, mere this week's gem posting pick of the pic of the week tagging, couldnt be stuck in with the other gems.
i knew i'd love it, i usually, often, start rating movies half an hour in (!) browsing the hell out of my shoes in filmaffinity. and this was no exception. i'd even checked two or three minutes a month and knew it was gonna be huge.
synopsis, then, was three babes go to the beach for the summer and.. well.. sort of get hooked up, or do they.
i knew i was gonna rant bout this pic yesterday, half way in, i even posted a link on facebook, and fuck me if i avoid the temptation of leaving there standing as god intended to like we do with main pages. its either that or post it after every crap i post, i thought, and think, as usual pataphysical if you dont agree highly modern and engaging if you do.
THREE BABES ON A BEACH IN A PIC?!
without paranoias?
in french?
i dont write encyclopaedically but autobiographically, without the synopsis. i'm trying really hard to synopsis here!
lets consider two posssibilities, then. how on earth is it possible to live without robert altman and eric rohmer (and joao cesar monteiro)? in the 0,00000005 per cent of the ppl in the world the ones that have free time to watch these things and get all emotional? mebbe they fuck you up, thou most probably they enliven you. how the bollocks am i supposed to wonder down a street or have a conversation without feeling absolutely rohmerian and absolutely altmanish?
walk down a whattie? a windy street? a windy beach, more like it.
the above quote by a mysterious and prolly fucked up poet is unacceptable deal, which is why it must be taken and overlapped. it's a good deal, neither prissy nor scratchy, neither needy nor uncaring, it sort of bounces around the wall, it's courteous yet paranoid, aristocratic yet hybrid, asthenic yet mentally weak, private, unawaiting, hurrying, impatient and lacks the courting, oddballish, streamish, panicking, poor, resiliently memorable, emblematic, sensual, impredictable, mediocre, demanding, demodé and certainly not pastiche because if it were it would be pastiche. bbye!

erm?

erm??

the edition before i collapse into bed
oh and before i go to bed, the spirit of such posting must be precisely pinpointed into the precise moment this reviewer says his evaluation of tati's playtime popped from a 1 to a 10.

this week's gems 9

2009-06-27T03:44:00.009+01:00

pennies from heaven (bloody fucking hell, if i was a woman i'd be wanking off to this)

pocket money (marvin, newman and carole king!?)

the thin blue line (it's funny, overall!)

china blue (the pilot and the first season are as good as contemporary amc, hbo stuff)

knowing (loved it)

columbo (the pilot episode, prescription: murder)

the yakuza papers (all five volumes, baby, fucking and violence of our parents generation, 9 hours of the strong telling the weak what da words mean)

sunshine cleaning (amy!)

phoebe in wonderland (very good thingie bout a kid)

ice cold in alex (good old carlsberg unlike mariconadas like english patient)

dead set (very bloody frightening indeed)

runner up:
mountains of the moon

faves
dead set, pennies from heaven and knowing

this week's gems 8

2009-06-20T01:02:00.003+01:00

staying alive (lol!!.. so cheesy its grand)

paradise alley (dunno if its stallone or waits singing...)

easy living

the mating season

the laughing policeman

slaves of new york

not on youtube:
midnight, mitchell leisen.

the not quites:
charley varrick, too long.
dead snow, irregular.

also, lots of rubbish seen this week.

fave, easy living. followed by the laughing policeman and the mating season.
in fact leisen seems to be great when he's not in an airplane.
i also dont know how to rate anymore since i quite obviously like the irritable slaves of new york...

this week's gems

2009-06-13T14:41:00.006+01:00

tapioca

forbidden lie$

firefly

ace ventura when nature calls

and more importantly:

up

sons of anarchy

faves, all, followed by firefly, and then followed by forbidden lie$.
murder is like sex was also pretty hilarious but couldnt quite make it.

crapfests
night at the museum, 1 and 2
crossing over
drag me to hell
the wild party
day of the locust
my family and other animals

absolute crapfests
a good woman
confessions of a shopaholic

this week's gems (and mircea eliade)

2009-06-06T16:45:00.005+01:00

finally a class i liked at uni, 3 and a half hours worth too. even thou i came in 3/4 of an hour late.
a debate on mircea eliade's 'with the gypsy girls'
and it wasnt cuz it was the last one.
i'd barely read or understood the 50 page story, but it was grand. cuz it was the only ting i understand classes are; a bunch of ppl who've read the same thing debate to hell it.
over here it's a wreck cuz every teacher speaks for 3 hours a week straight.
over at england, thou we werent no bunch of genius at kent for heavens sake, it was much better cuz a bunch of ppl who'd read the bloody thing would sit in a round table and talk about the bloody thing they'd read. of course in theory, the problem about teaching tales today is there are too many (things to relate to), and we'd never read the same thing. so yeah, it's doomed to failure everywhere.
but here, no. here it's teacher with theory.
there was one example last year, which is supposed to be revolutionary, where he planted chairs in a circle and it was popular and all, only when you discover the rest, my god.
and that class was a pain in the arse cuz 1. each student went with his own book he'd read that 2. conformed with theory, so nobody had read the particulars and we were stuck with the theory, and an especially yukky modernist thing too.
so in this last class at uni we parted from theory to the particulars. my comprehensive skills are below minimum but some had read it 5 times, and all had to take part for the grade. and the teacher, who'd been banging on with theory for her entire life was to lead the way. it's sort of what it's supposed to be, only over here the teachers speak too damn much, including this one.
so what's eliade's gypsy girls about? well, there we go. was it fantastic, horror, archaic? was it postmodern? modern? as each student came in with their opinion, and each theory gave way to the particulars, i realised i was with the pedagogical equivalent of joyce's the dead. what i mean by this, i guess, well, whatever.
funnily enough, some aristotelian chick came out very impressed with eliade's interpretation and no-rhetoric lack of roots. another said the protagonist's lack of volition was sad, and so on, and my, was the time is money thing hammered in, with a protagonist talking about how many piano lessons he can fill in per week.
but it certainly wasnt worth wading throu two years of crap for. which are worth it for the beca i hope i won't have to give back, and are barely worth it at all for the amount of times i've had to leave the house (per week), and i can barely imagine what it's like for someone who hasn't the beca to hold onto. after all, who in their right mind will move their ass off the sofa without the money incentive if not young unaware minds who, if i may quote the guy from mad men, know nothing. what remains perhaps is exegetical or divulgatory sadness which i dealt with irony and mediocrity anyways. i mean, look at this:

hopefully once i stagger throu the remaining obligatory work, which is utter pain and time mongering (per week) i can dissolve into my desired irrelevance and mediocrity that consists in (movie) tales (i can relate in) and (probably only movie) women in filmaffinity (remember before filmaffinity when exegetes would complain the stars were the most ignoble thing in a review?)
salut!

white palace

the buddy holly story

enchanted april (prize for wrong youtube soundtrack of the decade)

coraline (not caroline!)

tokyo! (props to the chair, a little less the mr merde but still good and the hikokomori was crap)

aruitemo, aruitemo (keep walking)

the girlfriend experience (prize to the misty beethoven quote)

faves white palace, followed by enchanted april and the buddy holly story

this week's gems

2009-05-30T05:47:00.003+01:00

the fucking western canon, at last

runnin down a dream (4 hours of wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow!!!!)

the sky crawlers (always hated miyazaki, but apparently planes plus oshii is just my cup of tea)

oh, jerusalem (it's crap but it's good)

leverage (why i hate guns)

nickelodeon

best:
runnin down a dream, followed by sky crawlers

touch and go

2009-05-24T00:08:00.015+01:00

this week i painted my masterpiece in film crit, a parody of platonic crap that leaves godel's crazy antics on time behind, its just sad i have tendencies to read stuff i abhor.
it was a bad week cuz i had to go to uni, too. and the themes coincided 100 per cent. it was three days of obligatory conferences on how to stick things in or out of film noir, noir lit, pulp fiction, hard boiled categories. yeah, film noir, remember that crap the french thought they discovered, it was yap yap about that. we needed to have it explained, seemingly; even the old ladies were starting to understand not only our ironic predicament, but rather our penchant for time.
in uni, they were living in the past.
the polemic with which i burst out of film crit was exactly the same. to add insult to irony, i had warhol at a finger's distance and other absentia in purely corporate terms, uttered by spain's resident malcolm le grice. unfortunately Troll wasn't me (and neither was Unamuno) and my masterstroke died sooner, here and there, and everywhere.
touch and go cinema has nothing to do with either. theories, crits, categories only serve whoever's in the money. it's a battle between aristocratic pataphysics and working/middle class exchange and, by god, dont get scammed.

in uni they wound up stating postmodernism was the critic's invention, after denying house was film noir where the virus was the postmodernist parody of the femme fatale.
i blurbled two incoherent things at two points, displaced as i was, not really wanting to be there. i said two of the three things i 'wanted to say', when i 'didn't want say anything at all': coen brothers had a tragic cosmic undertone to their tales, i added they were also a big joke. i couldnt resist, i didnt want to be there, i didnt want to talk or explain the coens, and yet i yearned to be at home watching the ladykillers or burn after reading, in truth i wanted to be watching national lampoons with the opportunity to watch the coens.
a resident at the uni brought up pomo and the banality of the place, but, naturally, in a way that assured its future existence- as argument- just as well as the time he'd wasted as a uni junkie. bright kid, probably in the money, but none of us are bright, and we weren't saying smart things, even thou we're all smart. i added pomo was the critic's invention. it was just a quick mumble.

it was all a pedagogical/ explanatory joke; we needed theory to explain our classes. it was way back to the academic debates i saw in canterbury in 2002.

one more thing i had the knee jerk of nearly saying was that crank, that pic where whatever happens, including sex in front of a bunch of good old chinese folk, and there is no police, was the future of cinema, after an in the money teacher mentioned it as a new category, or lack of category.
and the stunning thing is what im saying isnt even intelligent, im just falling in the huge trap.

i was always two steps in front of theorists, and this won't be an exception. jojojo.
i've killed film and lit theory and crit, but what's most remarkable is that i thought the arts could be taught 4 or 5 years ago, whereas now i'm ashamed to my soul and advocate 100 per cent taste, and crit, theory, the noir genre, is taste's archrival. that letter to the cannes reviewer's newspaper is a copy of what the same guy did to taste a year ago, heckling a mainstream reviewer whining about kiarostami's latest warholisms at venice, not to mention a bloke with a penchant for mind-farts. excuse the boutades, please o theorists. never was defending some guy you havent read so relevant.

one thing thou, at the time, 4 or 5 years ago, i wasnt fully aware of post-napster, but now explanatory tomes have no present, no future. sauve qui peut la vie. its in the reader, big deal. what a stupid conclusion. just lose yourself in the tales, stupid.

missed out on frederick wiseman's aspen, which was about ski resorts, but caught his ballet, as it was either that or the evening at the conference.
i also wanted to see wiseman's variation to herzog's amazing skier, and to altman's amazing the company.
and i wanted to catch on the only two occasions wiseman's probably bothered to talk about beauty.
ballet worked beautifully, for the most part.

it's no mistake the past 5 months have been the happiest of my life, even thou i've had to painstakingly agonize over following teachers to make sure i get a pass.

so back to my first season of 'leverage'.

great pics from this week:

little murders (elliot gould!!! gets hitched by some dame, the entire pic can be seen on youtube, and it seems a repeat of the week mentioned above)

vertical limit

salaam bombay

black sheep (what about the sheep?/ fuck the sheep!)

miss austen regrets (which i saw last week, excellent and where she does the emma thing)

faves were black sheep, salaam bombay, ballet and little murders, with ballet and miss austen regrets as the leading ladies. in other words all except vertical limit, which was good but not great.

this blog is saved cuz its in lower case and more of a diary than a publication. allez y the lower case writing, for fucks sake.

this week's gems

2009-05-16T20:04:00.010+01:00

secret honor (nixon! fuck em!!)

the go-getter (m ward plus band apart rippy!)

la drolesse (11 yr old girl with the hots for a 20 yr old slacker weirdo)

bigger stronger faster (better (research) than michael moore; just as sad as it's funny, and the guy winds up voting for arnie)

radioactive dreams (great soundtrack and great shitty hilarious stuff going on from philip and marlowe)

the wanderers (just as slippery a look back at the early 60s from the late 70s, in the bronx, with strip poker too)

la notte di san lorenzo (good kid and battle scenes)

summer lovers (great soundtrack, the island, jerking off to right wing darryl hannah sexuality.. from the maker of blue lagoon and grease, and i really mean it.. and its gotta be the precursor to vicky cristina barcelona)

la vieille maitresse (chapter one hundred and whatever on how asia argento is such a good fuck)

pump up the volume (slater and cohen do the lenny bruce 10 years before napster and 20 after... joplin?)

honeysuckle rose (willie nelson and amy irving singing you show me yours; not even the dolly parton thingie dyan cannon spoils the show.. WOW!)

company man (some stuff works, some not, most does, weaver as wife, mr x vs the grammar, in any case my week's guilty pleasure)

the baader meinhof complex (it's good, kinda didactic like the che pics, but kinda just plain unhappy)

l'esquive, votre bouche avec la mienne (some bad ass femmes fast talk, not as grand statementish as some wanted, and just as bitty as i did)

dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge (music, and more, more music)

a couple of games from last week:
barça bitchslapping the madrileñan 'casta'

barça getting bitchslapped by russian tactics

and this week:
barça bitchslapping athletic (and the rey thinking he's a poshy little shit from morocco or china)

movies not on youtube:
saint jack. bogdanovich picks up cassavetes gazzara, adds bogdanovich humour, singapour, faded out british imperialists to the mix, and gazzara the singapour junkie who doesnt return to the states even when he can, yet right next to ideologies, when all that's left is business)

heat and dust
ivory picks up julie christie, highly sexy, or fuckable in the pic, unlike in the messy david lean ones. and how could i not like christie in india? loved it, but not as much as quartet.

dyn amo
dwoskin makes a horror movie out of sexuality by making it a circus. rather harrowing, or sexy.

a stunning week by any standards, just stunning. these are only the good movies i've seen.

head and shoulders above the rest, dilwale.

greats, tops any other week:
the wanderers
honeysuckle rose
summer lovers

grand movies:
saint jack
la drolesse
dyn amo
l'esquive
barna bitchslapping mandril

good to great pics:
secret honor
heat and dust
radioactive dreams
la vieille maitresse

good and good ones:
pump up the volume
bigger stronger faster
the go getter

good munches:
la notte di san lorenzo
baader meinhof complex
company man
barna getting bitchslapped by chelseas
barna's bitchslapping of athletic

this week's gems

2009-05-09T13:22:00.004+01:00

lady in the water

the man in the moon (w/ reese witherspoon not the other one!)

memphis belle

the white diamond

murphy's romance (lol)

quartet

talk radio

going in style

hud

piranha (lol)

i'll even stick in he's not that into you, the title's great anyways, but no clips really available. gene sak's brighton beach memoirs has no hits on youtube.

favourites, by a long shot, were hud, quartet, talk radio and the white diamond, all in a league of their own, followed, if anything by going in style, man in the moon and piranha.

this week's gems

2009-05-02T14:34:00.003+01:00

fandango

touching the void

honky tonk man

twister

the paper chase (crappy but interesting in paarrrts)

oscar and lucinda (tal para cual, the gambling part is good)

We, the living (reminds me of the time i discovered kaurismaki)

seraphim falls

matinee

urban cowboy

and whatever happened to the remarkable jodi thelen from four friends, lovely 1981 movie that has niente hits on youtube?
these are only the 1. good movies i 2. remember watching this week.
favourites, four friends and touching the void, followed closely by fandango and urban cowboy.

a quicky

2009-04-25T14:53:00.000+01:00

rum rum, sniff sniff

2009-04-19T21:53:00.000+01:00

the title of exile on main street is probably contradictory

2009-04-12T20:18:00.001+01:00

pat's cowpat in sherman's march

2009-04-05T00:38:00.000+01:00

'i must add i've always had sex in quite the naughty places,
with sniffy snotty poodles lying amongst them bushes,
and oddly in fluff, it's quite the splagunger,
to find me in tights, with noting to callumber.'
fluffy in athens

ross mcelwee does quite the femina-marxian gig here in this pre-youtube splagunger from the 80s. quite the mumbling pile of crap it is, this clip does not include pat's 'exercises' which were ????!!!, and quite like that other complete masterpiece known as 'a complete history of my sexual failures', it's three hours of pava problematizing, what to do with pussy when the muff, or to put it in non metaphoric callumbers, wonder whether anyone hears a twig fall in the woods, or what ecology has coined as the amazon forest problem. it's good shit cuz it's three hours of oh my god.

manhattan ending

2009-03-29T18:05:00.004+01:00

1.its crap cuz he's a pervert.
2.its great cuz you're a pervert.
3.its kinda puny, with pathos, and what's it doing here?
4.its another movie
5.we dont watch his movies for this
6.i prefer the argument in husbands and wives
7.its gershwin, ffs, we do this in youtube all the time these days!
8.its not normal
9.im only saying its not normal to oneup woody.
10.its billy wilder, ffs!
11.its solipsistic
12.its good cuz its maniquean.
13.its even better cuz its post-christian.
14.i wouldnt like pathos amidst george carlin stand up
15.is the world getting worse (the big bang theory)
16.is the world getting better (the it crowd)
17.does he really need the sex?
18.its lazy
19.its crap, cuz its not albert brooks
20.its crap cuz its not weeds.
21.what on earth is a 'tracy's face'?
22.has no rhetoric, like warhol
23.its sure does, it even look like 'how i met your mother'
24.its crap cuz he never means what he says
25.its crap cuz he always means what he says
26.im stupid cuz i dont waste money on women
27.in deadwood times, who was woody allen?
28.the good thing about being a jew is you spend 30 years running from it
29.its really like an orgasm, movies i mean, cuz no wait, no downhill
30.movies are stupid cuz they're not essays
31.movies are lazy (and so she combs her hairs)
32.manhattan's crappy cuz its dopy
33.manhattan's bad cuz ive watched 4000 better movies
34.its vicky cristina barcelona, ffs.
35.filming women, filmar a las pavas, has always been the imperative
36.not a nouvelle vaguish thing
37.so the diane keaton nocturnal skit is not a skit
38.if it is, its probably similar to if it is if it is not.
39.what i mean is it happened all the time
40.it was a technical skip! not a symbolic one!
41.theres no such thing as evolutionary biology, apart from creationism.
42.its a bit like 30 rock.
43.i prefer sports
44.i prefer reproduction.
45.i prefer indian morality
46.its crap cuz its not a sofa
47.its good cuz it didnt cost money
48.its probably neither
49.49
50.lauren bacall is neither bogarty nor der blaue reiter
51.my points are going to get really really crappy
52.its not even good.
53.i dont even admire it, im just referring to irony and such
54.well, i do.
55.well, if ive watched it, its me.
56.movie women, filmar las pavas, much better than real girls
57.its like comparing baked to raw lasagna.
58.its crap cuz its not corporate something.
59.ive listened to and written better stand up
60.and my golden era was when?
61.my pregnant friend cleans her front door at 3am
62.logical evolution of this is hannah and her sisters
63.its just the music, the plot is poor.
64.plus its in on the international pregnancy rate maintenance conspiracy
65.in my prevalent interest for random objects, my mind wanders.
66.its just doesnt fit, its clear he's just an interiors whinebag,
67.which is why it's all game here.
68.course, there are the books to write, and get published.
69.what babes fall for his shit?
70.the ones who do, they worth it?
71.they fall for it cuz he has money, right?
72.whats the next step, harvey milk?
73.and on the other spectrum, greatness such as zohan?
74.in our free time, we doodle and poodle, but close like this?
75.and what about the opening of manhattan?
76.cuz it must be about 10 years since ive seen the stuff between.
77.well i guess his teaching is
78.by his being self indulgent
79.you can be self indulgent
80.ok, ive totally run out of ideas
81.so im gonna skim throu the divx
82.wow, meryl streep as the lesbian!
83.writing a book about her ex!
84.i guess mighty aphrodite is much seedier than this!
85.course you wouldnt believe the amount of puritans around and about!
86.so hes a bit like lenny bruce then
87.with that typically masochistic judeo-christian touch.
88.usually find movies are either extreme capitalist or extreme socialist
89.see what happens to keaton when you do a sequel to annie hall?
90.so movies arent monogamous, right
91.except they clearly are, cuz you cant stand photos
92.sex with keaton in the planetarium doesnt look too good.
93.thou i think its in the museum in the moon feature
94.id say we're at our most brilliant between 20-40
95.before the needy and kids part, shrodinger's cat doesnt even apply
96.and his wc fields thing kinda fails
97.and whats the thing with squash?
98.it doesnt even ring true
99.and its clearly before the videogame era.
100.its horny, that's what it is

erm...lol?

2009-03-22T00:00:00.000Z

24 Season 2

2009-03-15T04:22:00.000Z

Wow, what a season.

killing rommel

2009-03-08T13:29:00.000Z

shit

2009-03-01T12:58:00.000Z

nearly forgot this week's entry

bloody marvelous tv series i happened to rate this week at filmaffinity

2009-02-22T01:57:00.004Z

(and yeah, i'm sorry about the gilmore girls saddoes)

bloody magnificent movies from the last month or so

2009-02-15T15:20:00.005Z

and now for the domestic macguffin

2009-02-08T05:45:00.010Z

sunrise on lake pontchartrain/ curious case of bb/ desplat

a very soppy movie.
revolutionary road/ thomas newman

a very funny movie. like desplechin. and it rings true.
a mcguffin is when you say one thing when you mean another.
but feist looks like ana karina here in i feel it all:

i've had a string of pretty amazing weeks that consisted in just watching movies. friday night, when i ate this one, was remarkable, with its arty/potboiler combo, eastwood and streep seem to be singing... sid vicious. i watched it years ago in the tcm years and, no, i don't identify with streep but with, as ever, eastwood. that would be the last thing i need, i'd be wearing prada... or... identifying with costner! or let's just say i identify with all, yet none in particular.

leaving communal movies for a second, i swear, i turned the tv on and i nearly puked. so this is what the majorities watch!
i'll be rememorating the rohmer cycle in no time. a life with no art.. is no life at all.
ajá! so life is only art!
if i may take a cheesy line.
(death by dialogue)

and then i couldn't find the herpes scene in last days of disco:

i've always found those hormone baths incredibly needy. and those restaurants of such... poverty.
filmaffinity's jirimenzel is far superior.
what i mean to say is paul ricoeur can go fuck himself!

i forgot street legal is bob dylan's best album!

2009-02-01T12:57:00.002Z

and those bootlegs from 78, not the budokan official one, are memorable, with all those saxophones. But this is Sisters and Jess:

and now for some appaloosa:

a spike lee joint

2009-01-25T07:06:00.003Z

love this scene to fuck, but especially the hands at 2.32, 2.34, 2.52 and 3.10!

Brooklyn! No!!!!!!!!!

a dreamy blog

2009-01-17T02:19:00.001Z

subtitles:

adreamy blog
a dreamyblog
adreamyblog

re: stacks

2009-01-09T23:39:00.003Z

(avoid pompous bullshit)

dedicated to the land of no substance.

And the following is a combo of Naomi Klein, Bakunin, Proudhon and Marx:

When the Haar rolls in

2009-01-03T02:26:00.002Z

There are two kinds of appreciation, the intertextual and the subjective. I'm the latter. 3.30am friday night, after a pic about some guy trying to get up Natalia Verbeke's skirt, I'm watching some rather impressive adventurer on Telemandril in a jet plane flying the stratosphere.
Half-assed effort from a week ago (the once every six months effort) at a matchfinding engine (zoosk) gave 3 or 4 hits after a half hour session of intense one liners. I'm not going to pay 75 euros every 6 months just to continue those conversations.

Best album of the year, what can I say.

Happy New Year! (Auld Lang Syne)

2008-12-26T23:49:00.000Z

Happy Christmas!

2008-12-19T23:41:00.000Z

Modal Logic and Stevie Nicks

2008-12-14T14:35:00.019Z

I have a tiny 20 pages of post-structuralism to summarise but can't for two reasons, because it's work and because it's incoherent. I actually answered a question in the exam saying I couldn't summarise coherently an incoherent article! I'm incapable of sinchronicity.
It's really a battle of solipsisms (solipsistry),
where we mutually accuse each other of sophistry.

What kind of a philologist am I?, says a facebook test I've recieved for the fourth time.
You must be kidding me. I made no positive decision to learn from universities, I just went with the flow! I don't have a need to reproduce Quijote in a nation-wide Curriculum. Education's become quite the joke for the middle to higher classes, vis a vis everything's that's useless, and a classical education has that to boot. It's expensive, mobile; erm, yeah. LOL!
Quite the reason why my diachronic Foucaultianism has always scared sinchronic Saussureanists shitless.
Now, Saussureanesqueness is quite a hit; it makes itself proud about being coherently incoherent. Philology can spend 100 years repeating it, just like it's spent 200 years repeating romanticism.
According to Saussure, my sofa is an apple. According to the romantics, a sofa is that that brings you pain. Romanticism is not a very good sofa.
This is what you get when you spend money.

Because it's biology and little else. Or externalist Putnamesque Kripkesque with touches of Chomskyan internalism.
Modal logic talks about modes rather than narrative thingies. Modes of existence. It's good shit. With a priori and a posteriori distinctions you're pretty muchy free to fuck art and dance. Counterfactually, hypothetically, fictively, factually... all necessaries and possibles are relaxed.
So much for internalism, in truth that's where all the loonies appear.
And the literaries, with that Canon full of extravagant flights of fancies, where language goes on holiday... from ordinary language. But it's ordinary language. And it's brimming with false dichotomies and problems where there are none. And so I dream about Davidson and Ayer in Rorty's classes. Rorty's problem is he doesn't like philosophy; he wants to wank, as do we all. He doesn't want to be part of a club that would have him as a member. Rings a bell.
The homo ludens is above such departamental deontological obligations. How many times have you had sex at work?
Why did you buy that object?
Or why did you find what you just said so fascinating?
Ethical alterity; the only obligation of the homo ludens is the proliferation of fellow homo ludens. Falsify this statement.

Cinema's suffered a huge paradigm shift thanks to me.
Paradigm incommensurability now, in the cinema, implies that we really look at women in the movies where before we stared at authors and whatnot. Galileo-like.
Curve narrativity, however, arborescent parabolas, renders us impotent idealists in the physical world. Women are only attractive if there's a huge story behind them.
What kind of a philologist am I?
Stevie Nicks.. at her finest in her rendition of SARA, for example. Quite the coke-addled soap opera rough voice drama queen bitch:

I'd bang her, but would she bang me?

So if it's biology it's money and little else.
Versus C.P. Snow, Leavis' defense of the classics as imaginative flights of fancy strikes me as save-your-soulism cuz reading the classics is what he did and, certainly reading Dante and Homer, with the world as rich as it is today, can hardly have anything to do with imagination.
From personal experience, an intelligent emotional bloke is him or her who says he's thinking about death or likes buildings in ruins, or something.
And a normal person is him or her who thinks about tv and travel.
Now, depending on the time of day, they're both last lines of first Wittgenstin, second Wittgenstein and Saint Augustine.
And since ppl who think about something aren't doing that thing, him or her who thinks about tv is prolly scared shitless, while him or her who thinks about Saint Augustine and John Donne's metaphysical baggage probably has a God complex.
From personal experience, I've seen that most people defend their own experience as sellable material.
Again, 18th century materialism rings true. Thinks of all that sex in Voltaire, de Sade, Crebillon, Fougeret de Monbron, Vivant Dénot. Yes, it's sex.
Rachel's Papers is crap, but it's great for one reason. And the quotes and such from the protagonist's entrance to Oxford are good shit. 'Leave the structuralism alone! Spend nine or ten months deciding whether you like or don't like the poems!', or something like that is what the tutor says to the post-Gloria post-Rachel kid.
Quite the hero for booky wookies; if Kundera makes them think they can get sex if they read, 'because they're not kitsch' a Kunderesque woman dixits- Wittgenstein offers them immortality by subtlety.
But Amis is too plot-addled, too much of a drama queen. Like most art.
No, all art. Art by definition. The study of art.
And latter day narcicism is quite the solution.

And nobody pays for education. It's the only thing you pay for where you have obligations. Which is what makes it doubly, triply laughable.
Which is why so much education tells you it's when you pay other things that you're committing yourself to obligations. And also why it's between socialists and catholics; it's what's known as a long-term investment. Harharhar.
Because if it's about fun, well sure a uni beats a tv
But internet kicks their arses!
Which is why it pleased me to inflitrate 'the concept of university as a hormone bath' into literary academia. Wonder if they published it; it was perfectly legit, modal logically so, I wonder if it'll have academic visibility.
In their twenties, kids who have spent 5, 10 or 15 years educating themselves exist. Klaatu!
So my diagnosis of the world ten years ago, as I wasn't quite able to explain the uselessness of school to a menacing high school director because if I did, I'd be thrown out because I wasn't paying the requisite 12k euros a year!
Similar to the censorship in this blog.
This blog, btw, is a lot less extroverted than it may seem. In facebook, like in physical life, I only speak when spoken to; the links in facebook follow an introverted advertising line. so if you're reading this, it's entirely your fault.
Coupled, naturellement, with the extravagent flights of fancy, with language going on holiday.
Now, it can only go on holiday when it's not on holiday, don't you see? A doctor isn't infected.
Ok.

Quite the joke.
Leaving home is quite the joke. Working just to go on holiday is quite the joke. Ask anyone without food whether they'd have enough with food and shelter or if they had their mind on travelling, travelling, travelling...
(Ask thirld worldlings what they'd think of first worldlings and they'd be amazed at the work-simulacrums they get up to)
I actually accepted a family offer to go to one of those 4 star Paradores 10 or 12 years after the last time out of some kind of absolute whateverness that goes with decision-making, or burgeoning nihilism.

Jonathan Rosenbaum doesn't like HIGH FIDELITY. But that's because he's a socialist. Or because higher education is socialist, just like secondary education is capitalist. Modes of existence, on the other hand, are what they are.
This is SAY ANYTHING...

It's good shit.

Edit:
Well, that was cruel. Only one week of that and FOX has already claimed copyright infringement. Odd because it had been around for a year or so.

This one's no where near as funny as the 'I don't want to process things and sell things.. so I'll just hang around with your daugher' scene I posted above:

Lazy, baby

2008-12-07T21:44:00.003Z

For an acute obligation-phobic such as I, posting once a week is naturally not my cup of tea.

Listening to vast amounts of music these days.

The only thing missing in my life is sex, but I'm quite the Shohei Imamura when it comes to that, 'it's too much hassle'.

This will hopefully inaugurate- lol- a stream of lazy stupid posts, finally on a par with the author's true nature.

Think ANY GIVEN SUNDAY but by a bunch of Garfields; words are too ethereal to be but a joke. Do I have an opinion on anything? No! Of course not! I have no such need! I'm what I do, not what I say. It may sound like metaphysics and maybe it's the bleeding obvious, taken for granted and skipped away from by the huge majority. But words are just maps we use in our frantic measuring meters- in times and tips of measuring meters- to establish our definitions of other people. They're like sex; i can't think of them without giggling.

It's typical of this generation; so much for cars, in truth there are no battles to be won. Nature- space- was beaten by our parents. And thank you, truly. But we simulate the battles with those 70s and 80s Sidney Lumet- mini Serpicos- pics from years of wild aesthetics... we're so free it's just about finding manners of remaining interested. Wow.

If you elaborate in certain manners, you don't have to fight nature. Think the 'many alternatives modern life has to offer', from LOCAL HERO.

So there's Barcelona F.C.'s fine form, Madrid's hilarious slump, Sarda's charming interviews of priests and NBA night games, my flirtatious and unconvincing return to the filmoteque via Buster Keaton, this is pretty much it. If I'm not convincing you, try speaking to schoolteachers 20 years your senior. It's not about sticking to one speciality, so the history of epistemology receeds as sociobiology kicks in...

As for the combo of introversion and extroversion that leads to this blog:

Materialism?

The only game left is the nature of time, the very thing this blog attempted to ascertain with giggling rhetorical flourish. It isn't about words. With grammar, they receed. No drugs, no drink, no injuries, no dramas. No words. So it's just time.

SPYCATCHER, by Peter Wright.

2008-11-30T22:05:00.004Z

All I'm going to say is I read this one this week. At last I had my hands on some non-fiction... alas.

Look, it might be a pack of lies, or absolute truth. Was Hollis a spy? Et bloody cetera.

How long would I have lasted in a place where lies mattered?

It's certainly an amusing ride.

JUST like THE COMPANY!

Literary Studies Politics at the Complutense

2008-11-22T17:52:00.011Z

The teacher at Lit/Architecture class the other day summed it up quite nicely; first there was a text, hence the intertext. First there was the syntax, mere language. Then semantics, literature. And so we have the Canon, exercise where we inter-relate with the variants in the objects. She isn't by far the most pretentious one in the block.

I'm playing spot the type in the classes this year. You know grant holders when you see students either silent or agreeing with their grant givers. The odd touch is spotting the leftist young ones, out and about to have a critical turn on society and waiting for the new man. Both make a nice combo, say the same things; but the former will have kids, no?

Something embarassing: telling students with 24 credits out of 60, 3 short of the pass mark, that I'm useless. So much for the 'socialization of the uni?' What on earth is it?

I answered a mini-exam's question 'Who was Marshall McLuhan?' by saying who he was and adding 'deep down nobody knew what he was on about'. The Uni deserved it. At least I didn't wind up in the social sciences.

Postmodernism's all the rage in the Literary department. Grant givers, grant holders and leftists say there's a certain pleasure to its books. But let's just say too many theses are on the plank walk if it collapses. Postmodernism is a way out to some kind of lunatic dream that words would ever be bought, when in fact they winded up craving for a respectable way to present themselves to the maintenance of secondary education. So postmodernism doesn't exist; postmodernism is non existant in the Literary Department. Nobody, except loonies, act in postmodernist manners. It's just tossed about positively with the same poseur sense it's tossed about negatively outside academia. I think the only time it has meaning is when we accuse our ex-gfs of being postmodernists. Moreover, if 'Sniff' is decentered or in Renaissance perspective or Classical geometry are just three ways of saying the same thing. Talk about game theory turning into language games!

Postmodernism's just about the meanest thing I've ever listened to. Its insistance on the decentering of the subject, its endless attacks on the self are done by clever people who write in accordance to the rules of words in certain environments. Sophistry at the same level of everything in life, from lawyers to bankers. But this is downright quirky. Things can't be things here. They have to be turned into myths against the backdrop of Lévi Straussian invariants ('as ifs'), vía Eco and Heidegger naturellement, bungee jumping into the symbolic, something that must be explained over and over again. With language as our enemy isolating us from our true selves. All of us reading Kuhn, Saïd, and our poets open the pathway to new...

I've become quite the fidgety bloke in class. Went banzai last year part to know the ropes as soon as possible, in part to go heavy, part because I lost it, in part because I wanted to have fun, have a trip and somesuch. Considerably quiet now, I'm still highly irritable. Extremely shy, or is it indifferent? This time around when a leftist claims not to understand my odd remark on the obsession with certainty, I respond by claiming I'm kind of stupid, have mercy on me, I'm confused. They look so similar to last year's; I'm not quite sure that a twentieth of these grant-holders wind up with a place in academia. In fact one of the most impressive moments last year was having the chief exponent of 'postmodernism', an ex-student, have a slight glint of pleasure- this is mere hypothesis- at the destroyer tactics her thesis supervisor- quite the clever tit, with bollocks to say and half a dozen student followers whatever he said- was recieving from me. Again, I insist, we're no different from any other job; one corporate hell-hole after the next? After all, isn't that what postmodernism tells us offering niente to solve it? Somehow, rather insiduously, without even wanting, quite ingrained, I managed to add my thesis was already under way. Ho, ho, ho...

I'm getting 23,000 euros for two years here. If I don't go into the 23,000 a year mark in the next 15 years I won't have to give any of it back. If the bullshit doesn't depress me too much, I might manage to make a doctorate out of it. See, I fear I'll have to start talking about primitive savages in Woody Allen's Broadway Danny Rose, the movie where Woody Allen celebrates end of year with Broadway losers or The Anniversary Party, you know that movie where we Hollywood actors celebrate a party and take... ecstasy.

Saul Bellow's Seize the Day is about some whining bloke who can't get on with his Dad, with an ex (who badgers him oh so unjustly for walking out on her and the kids), with his pawnbroker, with his agent, with the bad bad world that treats him so bad for 120 pages. Just enjoy life, you twit, Bellow says in the heyday of Antonioni jingoism. Such a whining little shit, seize the day, you sad fuck! Naturellement, the trick of the book is if you whine about it you're falling into the trap the author advises against.

The book's so minimalist.

Last year I met the weirdest people I've ever encountered, with the maxima that it was fine as long as the weirdo had the word; in fact it was tough guy talk to see who could say the weirdest shit in elegant manners reminiscent of some kind of Bergmanesque poultry competition. Why you'd want to make out in Uni class beats me. Of course, I didn't realise at the time! I go barely unnoticed in class these days, quite the boring Erik Satie of the department. When we got to architecture the place found a variant, but in literate terms it was run-of-the-mill All I did was listen, stick in a few wisecracks, laugh quite a lot but mostly I stared out the window at the Madrid Sierra mountain range as I confirmed I would never be ready to have kids. Quite the Cartesian failure at being in class, I guess, or incapable of saying I found Thoreau precious or Death in Venice luscious. I was probably in the Sierra with Heidegger and Heidi. And I don't really see the point in yappin away.

That English TV program Countdown's still the saddest thing on earth.

English

2008-11-16T07:59:00.008Z

Free of essays- but still with a desire for keyboard exhibitionism and fulfilling my promise to Sutpen, or should I say Slutpod, that this was an English-speaking blog- back to a language without accents. Much more comfy. I am so drawn to english time and again, to its colloquialisms, to its imperialism. All the things I listen to are in English, all the poets, all the writers, all the singers. Tried it with spanish, found nothing. My youtube account says I've watched 3000 vids; I wouldn't be surprised if the ratio's 200:1 on the english lang side.

I do not belong to the impressive 150 page-an-hour club one of my friends belongs to. In academia we become experts in language; existence isn't our job. No, I'm not bitching about Wittgenstein and Oxford. I'm saying that's what we all do, nothing wrong with it. In fact, it's great fun. It is our existence and that's enough. I love academia, but I think I love youtube far more. It's always harder to love work more than it is to love free time, and that'll be enough if you're wondering why existence didn't seem like a priority. I do not, if you're wondering, get any money from academia. I get by with very little indeed, much to the envy of my mother.

When I refused to read El Quijote last term like some kind of round the bend Wittgenstein refusing to read Shakespeare, I was experimenting with existence.

Living in a suburban area, filled with trees, I had a walk this week through the neighbourhood, contemplated detached and semidetached housings that ranged from the slightly ugly to the drop-dead gorgeous and made my mind I'd write about these in my architecture and literature class. Like in my 100 mile bycicle lunges down or up the spanish coast, I was hit by the beauty of these and, if we are to be profound and pompous, the world.

One of my favourite programs on spanish TV, for years, has been Destino Europa; it consists of interviews with Spanish Erasmus students or emigrants who live in a number of European cities. For someone who doesn't like travelling, it seems to do the trick. Were it on another channel, with another inteviewer, we'd probably be talking about getting recycling bins installed in a train station; so there's a certain doability and serenity to the program.

Classes have finally found me on something I was lacking; scan-reading technique. Summarising an article in three pages has become enormously difficult. Sure I'm reading the same stuff over and over and I'm bored stiff, sure I'm furious at poststructuralism, sure I'm 'why should I summarise someone coherently when that someone talks utter crap on theory or the self?' My poor professionalism has hit too hard, though it has served to avoid lots of stuff and produce, guess, lots of stuff.

'Stuff' is a good word; it's nearly as good as 'brilliant', that word we were advised against in first year. Shouldn't start the house by the attic; and that's precisely what I did in my mini-thesis, agonised without notes for months, thought it out like crazy and dropped a huge 44,000 word block on the paper, and stopped only because it should have been 25,000. Quoted next to no one and wrote from memory, as always. I have no notebook, no books at home, no system. In fact, my technique is a huge waste of time. I still don't know how to divide or synthesise or elaborate from an introduction onwards. Now that's why we invented notes, summaries and such. So the work I'm doing in class these days will definitely help me to think in pieces and spend far less time on my thesis. Not the slightest doubt I'm the worst copy editor in the philology department. Let's just say I've been philandering in multiple directions.

I'm not describing academia; I'm playing with language. It isn't my task, nor my ability, to define academia, but rather to describe my love. When some of the best music vid clips in the last two decades have been Fiona Apple's Across the Universe, the traffic jam in Everybody Hurts or the run down streets in Massive Attack's Unfinished Sympathy, I'm talking as far as I've enjoyed this week's Fed defeat at the hands of Murray, and Murray's defeat to Davydenko. By no means is it the victory of modernism.

Of course you don't have to read Kuhn or Einstein to study physics or Darwin to study biology! This week I explored Peter Cook and discovered Essra Mohawk. Went right up to the remarkable Why Bother?, but the second excerpt from Behind the fridge on youtube, the one with the lecturer is, for understandable reasons, rain. Essra's It's Up to Me, Looking forward to the Dawn and Thunder in the Morning are flat-out blue skies. But I prefer to leave you with good old Streeb-Geebling.

So literary academia's like history, only invented. I find it odd why anyone would want to study history.

Transgressing the Boundaries: Toward a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity: News From Home

2008-11-07T23:26:00.013Z

http://rapidshare.com/files/161648390/martinezmcgoughjuanluis_2_.doc

Este es, de lejos y rebosante de fallos léxicos, lo mejor que he escrito en 5 años. Sólo lo he titulado así aquí para atraeros la atención. El lunes recibí un correo diciendo que no aceptaban el de las fotos y redacté esto en una hora. Como el ensayo sobre la modernidad, se entiende perfectamente desde dentro de tal conocimiento. No sé si lo aceptarán, ni me importa.

Ahora bien, no pienso escribir más, por este año; es muy generoso, que sean otros los que elaboran porque aquí cada párrafo da para una tesis y 20 artículos. Es mejor que todo lo que se escribe en la universidad sobre cine y, de lejos, de lo que se escribe sobre el alfabeto, como esas clases Guzmán de Alfarachianas sobre el Guzmán de Alfarache. O George P. Landow. Yo no tengo el estado anímico ni la voluntad para ser consecuente y metódico porque, qué cosas, igual sería inútil el esfuerzo.

Y, por cierto, si la teoría es- y lo es- Lacan haciendo el imbécil equivaliendo mi polla a la raíz cuadrada de -1 (o Levy-Strauss equivaliendo la lluvia a -2) a la mierda la teoría. ¡Viva el empiricismo! Si no sois capaces de hablar desde la medición y la observación, ¡iros con vuestra teoría- mística por definición- a la mierda! ¡No sois vida!

Akerman está al nivel de Bruno Latour, haciendo sociología de física. Es una vergüenza y un impresionante gasto de tiempo ver como destrozan trozo por trozo todos los engranajes del placer.

Me lo voy a tomar muy relajado desde ahora. Lo que pasa es que os puede parecer que me tomo las cosas muy enérgicamente. Nada más alejado de la verdad. Es que hace años que me apasiona lo inútil, todo gesto inútil ahí estoy y habiéndome convertido en el diletante del diletante eso no va para más.

La práctica no es ideología; no es, desde luego, creencia, o creencia sobre qué es apropiado para la mayoría. Why do I keep fucking up? de Neil Young.

Me dice un amigo que necesito que me follen; y, tecnocráticamente, dadas mis tendencias tecnófilas, no le puedo quitar la razón. Las mujeres tienen bastante gracia. La técnica de lo inútil involucra darles lo que no quieren cuando lo quieren y vice versa. Si una es aficionada a Dante cítale cuando no hay que citarlo. Uno de mis favoritos es decirles a las engreidillas una y otra vez que soy increíblemente guapo, llevo con esa técnica toda mi vida; claro, no follo y todos acabamos terriblemente frustrados porque ellas se sienten unempowered, pero tiene esa gracia inútil, ese eterno despiste. ¿Me despistas? ¡Pues toma pedazo despiste! A la única que me ha interesado- en el plano físico, ¿os parece poco?- en 3 (en realidad, 4, porque estuvo el año del no-interés, el del no-símbolo) años me pasé por salido una vez para luego evitarla una docena de veces. Le gusta viajar y a mi no, pero cada vez que me ve voy hola q tal y ¡zooooom!, como esta semana. En el mundo de la ironía infinita, una amiga se me ofreció hace poco después de que yo me hiciese el salido y yo tuve que dar excusas; '¡no querría formar parte de un club que me tuviera como miembro!'... '¿tu crees que me habría pasado tanto tiempo hablando contigo si quisiera rollo?'... 'ok, hmm, pero no aguanto a las salidas.'

¡Así que toma! Me pasé la primera parte de mi primer año en la complu destrozando el eterno presente estúpido de San Agustín, disfrutando de las miradas de anti-San-Agustinianos que eran solamente Agustinianos de boquilla- con toda la teleología que es, comprensiblemente, la jodida y magnífica vida pero predícame otra cosa y me tienes ahí cabreado- cuando yo practicaba el rampante San Agustinianismo mientras hacía ver lo mucho que odiaba a San Agustín; la segunda parte del año esta propuesta me comió. No es timidez, no es miedo al error, no es miedo al rechazo; es miedo al rechazo y al amor. Es que no quiero sentir emociones. ¡Un saludo!

News From Home

2008-11-02T06:44:00.019Z

Desarrollado a la defensiva, a la negativa, el archivo del sólo texto es todo un ejemplo de como no presentar un trabajo, de lo que no decir en un mero trabajo, de como nunca hablarle a un nihilista, y es uno de mis favoritos del año y de mi vida, fue dado de manera nerviosa y al estilo 'quien me pone la pierna encima que no levante cabeza', en público ante unas 30 personas. Si es cierto que estaba deprimido por aquel entonces, como extra me salió toda una obra maestra. Dí toda una lección de 'lo simbólico mítico' con tanto aforismo de pacotilla, con una version de Will the Humanities Save Us rizomática, fuera de lugar, lleno de ocurrencias. No lo habría hecho en una boda o en una conferencia de filosofía analítica, aunque es posible que sí en una de matemáticas. Pero aquí, ¿quereis Dante posmoderno? ¡Pues toma! ¿Quereis no secuencialidad de los textos? ¡Pues toda una Rayuela!

Tantas de estas clases literarias de éste máster se parecen entre sí. ¡Tanta esquizofrenia textual! Y me pregunto, whatever happened to the mysterious disappearance of literary style? ¿Y si trabajas, si te tomas la molestia en hacerlos coherentes y secuenciales, a dónde van tus textos? ¿A fabricar aporías, al ser sólo Historia Agilipollada, ni Historia siquiera? No, si no hay duda. El Arte es un cachondeo, el Artista todo un machote bohemio niño de papá como Dante. ¡El Artista es un pesado! ¡El Artista, tan intenso, tan dialéctico, tan excursionista, tan jodidamente pesado! Si ya son años desde que no me interesan estos Artistas, extasiados, estructuralistas, con tanto gravitas, ¡tan pesados! Estoy hecho todo un lobito, entrado en años, con su caperucita roja. Lobo, por cierto, era el nick de un tipo que vivía en un foro que frecuentaba yo hace media década; hablaba de la misma caperucita roja, citaba a Revel, Sokal, el comunismo de Bréton y cuando hablaba de Belén Gopegui hablaba de pijería, de una novela donde una aséptica empleada de banca decide quedarse en casa durante todo el mes de agosto, sin limpiarse, sin ducharse, con comida por todas partes para el 1 de septiembre rehacerse, limpiarse, limpiar la casa, a whole new woman!

Una versión cortada del sólo texto sacó un sobresaliente, pero como ya he dicho casi todos sacamos eso, los que no les da por el aforismo filológico, 'como en Wittgenstein', sacan 9,5 y uno de cada 20 saca 10, por decreto según la guía. Pero, vamos, como soy tan tímido, igual hay cosas que no sé.

La de las fotos fue publicada, creo, a menos que lo borrasen, en alguna parte, con el resto; también me encanta. Y es que me tomo esta noción de que las clases sean capaces de rivalizar con mi placer a cachondeo. Estableciendo que es la locura simple y aburrida la que comienza el Arte, esa Forma, me lanzo entre tanto Movimiento Letrista, Renacentista y Situacionista. Hasta canté Raglan Road en una clase de De La Creación a La Forma por aquel entonces, totalmente fuera de lugar y con una pesada pero incomunicada dosis de ironia. ¡Toma abstracción¡ ¡Disociación del sentido! ¡Toma 'vivir en el momento' (porque es un topos literario (doble ¡¿!?, y un topo te voy a dar..)! Lo dicho, hace falta mucha fe para creer que estas tonterías son arte. Y bastante tonto de mí haberme visto este tipo de sinecdoche, ¡en mi tiempo libre! ¡Junto a las Antonioniadas de turno! ¡Tanto hijastro de T.S. Eliot! No me sorprende que sea incapaz de leer el Quijote y capaz de leer a Christopher Norris, aunque ambos sean tan repetitivos; joder, si va a ser un problema de sintaxis...

Talk about emo-angst, jesus mary and joseph... para tanta Tontería del Tercer Estado contemplo mi incipiente asexualidad, que al principio creía era timidez; entre mis amigos narradores está uno que me dice they're all bitches, I don't care where they've been, before 25 they look for the bastard, after 25 they look for the nice guy y me da un ejemplo de una película donde una mujer encuentra a un mierdecilla, le limpia durante un año para presentarle como proyecto de arte 'You want art, this is my work of art! See a picture of him before!' Y le deja acto seguido. Acababa de romper con su ex, pero menudo soliloquio le salió al pavo. Otro me dice que busco amigas y no follamigas. Otro que le tengo miedo a los coños, y me da el ejemplo de la película Infiel, donde la tia se lía con Olivier Martínez porque Richard Gere es demasiado bueno con ella, y dice 'just like life, nobody ever lets you just be'. No, si soy una obra andante de arte. ¡Un saludo!

http://rapidshare.com/files/159850707/martinezjuanluis.doc
http://rapidshare.com/files/159850708/Nueva_York_en_News_From_Home2.doc

El de las fotos no fue aceptado para publicación. Una pena; era lo que iba a denominar 'la nueva filología'.

Otro ensayo sobre la modernidad

2008-10-26T09:15:00.003Z

Este trabajo, aunque rebosa indiferencia, está en la linea de libros imprescindibles- curiosamente casi todos bestsellers, casi todos los cuales he leído- si hemos tenido la extrañeza de elegir cualquier rama de las humanidades en la educación superior.

Entre dichos libros están Las Ciencias Sociales como Brujería Barata de Stanislav Andrevski, The Metaphysical Club de Louis Menand, La tabla rasa o la negación moderna de la naturaleza humana de Steven Pinker, Fashionable Nonsense; Postmodern Intellectuals' Abuse of Science de Alan Sokal y Jean Bricmont, The Philosophy of Mass Art de Noël Carroll, y hasta cierto punto The Roots of Romanticism de Isaiah Berlin.

Este post entra en la línea de posts serios, con este ya son dos y medio y son los que han librado el blog de los trolls. Saqué sobresaliente, pero eso es como desechar el trabajo estando este en una asignatura de cuatro créditos. Tampoco se puede entusiasmar un profesor que enseña algo tan desagradable como el modernismo; simplemente me sentía ofendido y actué en consecuencia.

Es extraña la objetualidad de la obra de arte de la que hablaba en T.S. Eliot, y es lo que condena a Cahiers a tener una historia tan desagradable. Si a los historiadores sólo los quiere la enseñanza, esos 1500 euros de los 11000 de la matrícula, quizá no les quiere nadie. Si encima nos dedicamos a ponerle un énfasis tan prolongado al autor en lo que sería una teoría 1. expresivista de 2. la objetualidad de la obra de arte, nos condenamos a un trabajo realmente extraño, que juega con nuestras emociones, que nos las lían para que luego tengamos que recurrir al psicólogo y después a la biología. Nos entrenan a estar felices en la infelicidad, a decir horror vacui con una sonrisa en clase, lado a lado que nos gusta Thoreau o que el Quijote no se lee porque se obliga su lectura (!) y es un ritmo de vida que yo no puedo mantener, habiendo pertenecido al underground ubuesco, Jack Smithisco, sin conexión a esa objetualidad y por lo cual las películas elegidas de Una retórica del amor son errores (Shara, sencillamente, es pesada, inaguantable, aburrida, depresiva) porque sencillamente envejezco, no tomo drogas ni alcohol, no dependo de ingresos de la objetualidad y me debo, soy, pertenezco- y por lo menos me quedan- mis orígenes, que en mi caso conllevan mucha suerte o cuyas palabras Dylanescas (the roots, man, o algo que decía entre tanto exceso mediocre de cocaína cuando volvía al judaismo) me encuentro hablando despues del extraño giro contra el copyright, cuando siempre me había burlado de ellas. O como decía Elvis Costello, Bruce Springsteen romanticizes the street but I live in fucking Hounslaw. Tampoco se puede decir que tenga la fuerza anímica pero al mismo tiempo es un mundo extraño del que salgo y que no está al ritmo de la mayoría de la humanidad, es un mundo que se aliena a sí mismo por obviedades de la misma envergadura que es imposible, en el tiempo libre, apoyar una moción contra Carlos Boyero.

En efecto, tengo la impresión de que se acabaron las películas, el sueño del humanismo, Rico, Riquer, Humboldt.. y que nos debemos a nuestros quehaceres privados consagrados. El problema es que la mayoría no provenimos de la imitatio de una estructura en la que la muerte como condición universal de Steiner no es tal cuando en la clase contigua hablan de la sociedad posmetafísica. Ayer me pasé por youtube intentando descifrar que me había llevado a ver películas y leer libros tan desagradables en mi tiempo libre y no pude. Veía una escena tras otra de películas de los años 70 y 80 de Woody Allen y me decía que de alguna manera tenía sentido esa adolescencia tan despreocupada y hippiesca. Y la tiene.

El jueves hizo viento en Madrid y como siempre me he considerado extremadamente guapo me da un aspecto de león. Es mi condición metereológica favorita- playera- y soy el maestro de la tristeza en Occidente. ¡Un saludo!

http://rapidshare.com/files/157648151/Otro.html

El Simbolismo y El Pensamiento Débil

2008-10-18T14:45:00.011+01:00

Es una pena que la penúltima Julieta haya sido confirmada como Fernando Ganzo, futuro catedrático de alguna universidad dentro de cuarenta años y hasta entonces profesor suplente, titular o auxiliar, al que es muy fácil cabrear llamándole Warhol o posmodernista.

A la última Julieta, tía, sólo puedo decir que si quieres decirme que quieres jugar al ajedrez me lo tendrás q indicar de alguna manera más inmediata, que no estoy pendiente de mi blog 24/7 y me llegan a mi correo electrónico, cuyo clickeo es practicamente la última manía que me queda en internet.

Para este trabajo me zampé todas las clases sobre Mallarmé y todo tipo de nihilismos sintácticos, sintagmáticos, semánticos, estructuralistas etc en unas clases donde el realismo daba risa y el simbolismo estaba pirado. Al final hizo mella, pero hasta Keith Richards no podría con tanto cinismo. El profesor estaba bien pero sólo cuando no hablaba del programa, lo cual era frecuente, y cuando hablaba de anécdotas tanto dentro del programa como fuera, y también porque no ponía una cara tan yuppy y yippy al asunto.

Por lo visto, la única manera de mantenerlas como espíritu- como el que dice 'no he leído a Hegel, ¡pero lo respeto!', que por cierto son personas que dan mucho miedo-, y ya cuando prosiguió el año y sin darme cuenta me metí en otra asignatura calcada me retiré a mi casa a aburrirme ante tanto fumador de porros que se creía que iba yo a ser el Federayabandiano- ¡hasta lo confundió con Popper!- o el apologista del caos ante un posmodernismo que daba puta pena.

Cuando existen especímenes capaces de elegir las mismas asignaturas en grupo y hasta a repetir las de su director de tesis, que tanto odian ir a clase pero cuyo sustento, curiosamente, es hablar de una Dantiana puesta en escena del pensamiento débil más rancio- ¡para eso ya tuvimos a Pasolini!, mientras rezan por huir de una universidad con salidas laborales y sueñan con una universidad con trabajos disponibles para hablar sobre ¡el destino de Europa!, ¡lo cercano que están los estudios literarios a la vida!, ¡lo similar que es un partido de fútbol a Leni Riefenstahl!- como dice el resistente Quintana- vamos Warholillos de pacotilla A ESTAS ALTURAS ¡profesores de escritura creativa! que te dicen lo ¡guay!- vamos, parecen Kenneth Anger- que es el atolladero de su escepticismo capaces de montarse al tren de Jurgen Habermas cuando no son más que variaciones deontológicas del típico Paul de Man en el que derivan, como si lo único que quedase fuese una mezcla de sofismo y sátira- ¡de niños del primer mundo!, ¡debe de ser ese 'tercer estado' de T.S. Eliot y Poe!- y no es un síntoma de mi universidad, faltaría más, sino de toda la teoría literaria universitaria europea y, por extensión, de la vida en general. En suma, menos Fanon, Heidegger y Goethe y más Hayek, Descartes y Spinoza. Y no deja de tener gracia lo de Hayek en estos tiempos, de ¡oh! chaqueterismo intelectual donde en el fondo a todos sólo nos interesa el dinero ¡oh sorpresa!

Menos Warhol y más Faithfull. Y la lección como siempre, curiosa viniendo de aquí, es don't look back. Saqué sobresaliente, como en el trabajo sobre Cahiers. ¡Un saludo!

http://rapidshare.com/files/155202587/Son_realistas_o_simbolistas_Los_Cuatro_Cuarteto1.doc.html

Cahiers du Cinèma, La Empresa

2008-10-11T01:37:00.011+01:00

Publicada hace meses en el último santuario que le queda a Cahiers, este trabajo concibe a esta revista no como un mundo abierto a nuevas posibilidades sino como un mero género literario más, como una empresa con dificultades económicas frente a otras empresas a las que no consigue influir, como si fuese una asociación de ciegos quejándose de Saramago. No concibo, y no voy a parar de repetirlo, juegos de lenguaje más allá de los que empleamos.

Cahiers es, como la película Before Sunset, una especie de broma. Mucha foto y postal, pero el negro sobre blanco lleva un arrastre de cuidado que la imposibilita de cualquier realidad de primer orden.

Hay de todo, los que estén en contra mía o de lo que digo tienen mi cita a One Too Many Mornings, tanto la inicial como la final, los que se quieran partir de risa tienen mi cita a the Rhetoric of Economics, y los que quieran pasar por existencialistas en su departamento tienen mis citas a Fish y Abrams. Pero eso no quita la severa humillación que sufre dicha revista en mis manos. ¡Un saludo!

http://rapidshare.com/files/152829190/Cahiers_essay_2_2_12.doc.html

El Cierre

2008-10-04T01:59:00.000+01:00

Concretamente este trabajo estipula la división de dos maneras de decir lo que al principio eran la misma cosa, lo que al final son la misma cosa, pero ni al principio, ni a mitad, ni al final son, al cabo, la misma cosa. Difusamente hablan de dos avenidas que tomaron la literatura contemporánea en torno al cine y lo encharcados que están los de Phantasms y de lo dispersos que están los de Disclosure. Claro que no se le puede pedir a un científico específico que te defienda la validez de las ciencias; eso sería pedir demasiado a la gnoseología. 1, No es tan malo ser un groupie. 2, ¿Es tan difícil de entender que alguien vaya a algo específico y se interese por algo específico, y hable de algo específico y a alguien específico? La crítica, y no me refiero a la crítica de cine, no existe. Ni falta que hace.

Sin atacar ni perder el respeto de (no estoy hablando de por) las dos comunidades, para cinéfilos sirve para no ser cinéfilos y para no cinéfilos sirve para ser cinéfilos. Aunque esté amontonado, mal explicado, mal inciado, mal explorado y haya cogido un notable alto de un profesor del cual se dice que da notas estrictas no como el resto que es un cachondeo- dicen (claro que le había prometido añadir el de Nicole Brenez, pero al final no tuve ganas), le tengo bastante cariño a este ensayo, especialmente a la última página. El error de la presentación de una retórica del amor fue hablar del psicoanálisis; claro, la mente la tenía en otra parte- veis, ya parezco, perezco en, el gillipollas de Lacan, el continuador agillipollado del gillipollas de Descartes, anulando la comuna de gillipollez en una disolución abierta a la no gillipollez. El final también se puede dedicar a mi amiga Julieta.

http://rapidshare.com/files/150712416/Phantasms_y_Disclosure_of_the_Everyday.doc.html

Una retórica del amor

2008-09-28T05:29:00.000+01:00

Este trabajo es el primero de una serie que publicaré en este blog, de trabajos que he hecho para mi máster en estudios literarios.

Este presenta un retrato un pelin edulcorado al obviar mi carácter neurótico y Ellisiano de partida pero de una llegada que deja mucho que desear, es decir que lo soy pero me pierdo en naderías obsesivas que tienen nada que ver con lo que trato. Es decir no me afecta nada, pero me afecta todo; sólo es técnica de lectura mnemotécnica la que me tiene que sacar del atolladero actual y llegarme a lo que soy. Lo cual linda con dificultad con lo Snarkero de una contingencia que no me gustaría ejercer.

Es un ejercicio poco complejo pero ha gustado a mis amigos, restos del naufragio de cuando procesaba este tipo de cosas y estos tipos de libros, y vivía estas películas, y actúa mejor en función de lo que puedan emprender otros tras su lectura que por mi parte. Actúa de maravilla a solas quizá, sin esas otras lecturas y quizá sea el mejor ensayo de los ensayos-mundo posibles. Si Wittgenstein está presente o no, ahora soy demasiado del montón o metido en impresionismo jazzistico para que os lo pueda indicar con meridiana claridad. El objetivo, como también dejaré claro al hablar de Klevan en el próximo trabajo, es preocuparse por la posibilidad de que la estética sea el refugio de los cretinos o los impasibles, que sean un sucedáneo débil y que sea la bioética, el pragmatismo y la psicología donde tengamos nuestros resquicios para la lectura, como si el tiempo libre fuera una de la multiciplicidad de vidas posibles y una terapia frente el tiempo, pero al fin y al cabo esta y el tiempo algo demasiado no se, algo como dice el de Before Sunset en la librería. Esto quizá no les guste a algunos de mis amigos. Claro que la (re)creación simbólica en el lenguaje Y la existencia es lo que lleva a este trabajo, o sea que, como siempre no estoy diciendo nada.

El trabajo está imperfecto porque hoy en día no estoy por la labor de perfeccionarlo, porque no doy para más, porque no haya recibido sugerencias de mejora de parte de mis lectores y correctores y porque no concibo que pueda serlo al tener los problemas de concentración- o los placeres de la dispersión- que tengo ahora. No creo que cambiase la ideología, sino que superaría en creces la complejidad y la seguridad en sí mismo.

Sacó sobresaliente donde casi todos sacamos sobresaliente, aunque estemos en doctorados o segundos ciclos y en la complu, y donde lo meritorio y justificado es sacar matrículas de honor. Es tiempo libre y como tal sirve- es decir, que el tiempo libre no sirve- y es posible que las humanidades sean tiempo libre, de ahí la falta de competitividad. En cuanto al exceso de aporética técnica hemos de achacarlo a ansiosas influencias que en el fondo deseamos pero que en algunas partes son excesivas, es decir donde menos te lo esperas en los estudios literarios te encuentras en técnica sin disolución, técnica for the sake of técnica, cuando entre ambas comunidades estamos para la (re)creación simbólica del colchón del psicoanalista, o mejor, para el comportamiento... para, adivinen, desalienar nuestro deseo...

Como tesina es una piedra al río, vamos, es como si hiciese matemática aplicada en clase de pura. Parte de lo que quizá os haga la lectura placentera serán los runruneos impresionistas y poco metódicos, su poca complejidad que debería merecer el estátus para el que trabajo ayude a la comprensión de una mayoría de no iniciados, aunque la dispersión de multiplicidades ayudan a que muchos tengan interés. ¡El estatus para el que trabajo! Todos conocemos ese cuento, esa mentirijilla de colegio- de lo pequeño que es lo que desde la distancia parece enorme. Echo de menos la complejidad que pueda echarle a los trabajos cuando esté menos triste. A pesar de los flirteos que puedan tener la posmodernidad con el pragmatismo que intento emprender, del cual no quiero pasar de Rorty al detestar a Vattimo, Foucault e, imaginénse, a Nash... actúa a su favor su carácter de propagación. A pesar de ser un rizoma, es un libro de auto-ayuda. Claro que 'a todo el mundo le gusta oír su propia voz', pero apliquémonos todos el cuento.

Es también una condena de mi presente sobre mi futuro, por si en el futuro me despierto clamando ante el error o la falta de interés que pueda tener el trabajo, que no sería la primera vez. No hay duda de la falta de intensidad combinatoria de descripción que la hace casi lindar con los lares de un intelectual público, jajaja! pensemos Camille Paglia! Condenarme desde el pasado INTELECTUALMENTE, siempre ha sido una especie de hobby; es poco recomendable leerse a sí mismo. Es un vicio, San Agustín. Lo hago por mi carácter extrovertido para tantas cosas e introvertido para tantas otras, por ese carácter arrojadizo y tímido de mi desplazante- y al cabo, estos meses triste- personalidad. Contiene errores al ser Klevan terapia pragmática (del- macguffin del- paso de la objetividad a la subjetividad Heideggeriana) y no filologia del lenguaje ordinario o al ser muchas de las referencias a la desterritorialización bastante cutres. Sirve más de partida para cinéfilos que para filólogos y tengo la misma deferencia o indiferencia a ambas comunidades. Cuando perfeccione la segunda, quizá retoque el trabajo.

Está escrita en un español problemático, a lo cual, como siempre, respondo que soy de pueblo y bilingüe. Le falta viagra, pero tampoco se pueden tener dieciseis años toda la vida.

http://rapidshare.com/files/149004339/Una_ret_rica_del_amor1.doc.html