Dando la espalda al pesimismo

Un día como cualquier otro, un estado de ánimo por encima de la media y entre recuerdos que aún sangraban desde heridas todavía no cerradas, nació un texto casi de un tirón, como sucede con la mayoría de mis escritos, como está sucediendo actualmente con este post, se tituló y continúa así: “El Clan de la cicatriz”.

Fue un texto que cerraba puertas, que enterraba definitivamente el pasado que había partido mi corazón en dos. Era un escrito que intentó reflexionar desde la paz interior cómo se suceden los acontecimientos en las rupturas sentimentales y qué debemos percibir en nuestro interior para comprender que el dolor comienza a superarse.

Y uno que escribe medio en clave se encuentra con la agradable sorpresa que una persona de La Comunidad de El País debía venir del mismo país de los sueños que yo porque hablaba con bastante precisión mi mismo idioma, bueno, en realidad no lo hablaba, lo traducía a la perfección. ¡Incrédulo de mi!, pensé que era el único, el último de una especie de “sensibleros”, “moñas”, “membrillos”, etc que exclusivamente podríamos ser comprendidos por nuestros iguales y claro, ya me creía solo en esto al más puro estilo “El Últimos Mohicano”.

Me equivoqué, allí estaba ella, mi gran amiga, mi buena amiga Bloody. Con ella descubrí que la amistad no la dan los años precisamente sino la sinceridad desde el primer momento, la verdad de lo que somos y lo que sentimos sin tapujos y sin miedos. La lección es de la siguiente manera: “Yo soy así, me gusta ser como soy y ahora eres tú quien tiene que ver si quieres estar con una persona como yo y si me aceptas tal como soy y pienso”. Yo dije que sí y no me arrepiento, es más, ella me ayudó a que percibiera que mis miedos me estaban anulando como persona y que tenía que quererme primero para poder querer bien a los demás. No es fácil pero quizás otro día hablemos de esto. Por cierto, ella es la primera en aceptar cómo son los demás y de respetarlo como poca gente hace, cómo si no iba a aguantarme durante estos meses oscuros y llenos de silencio de mi vida.

Su forma de pensar y de ser es valiente, es un ser humano que no pierde el tiempo haciendo tumbing ni vaguerías similares, ella es todo vitalidad y sobre todo desde que una enfermedad le mostró que en cualquier momento de su vida todo podía cambiar. Ahora ella está bien, puede hacer su vida “anormal” de siempre, la que le gusta, la que no es nada convencional y creo que, dentro del mundo enrarecido en el que vivimos, es razonablemente feliz.

Mi amiga Bloody es inteligente y con un gracejo mitad gaditano, mitad sevillano que ‘pa qué’ ¡vamos! Que es muy fácil estar riendo con ella con sus inteligentes comentarios y bromas. Solo hay que leer algunos de sus post para darse cuenta que casi siempre es inevitable esbozar al menos una sonrisa ante la lectura de las historias de su vida.

Pues bien, con aquel post escrito en un día cualquiera y sin otro ánimo que reflejar que mis heridas estaban en fase terminal apareció ella, la mujer de colombo, la mujer desconocida pero más famosa de la tierra, bueno, de su tierra; apareció comentando en mi blog que es como decir que irrumpió con fuerza en mi vida para llegar a ser hoy una de mis mejores amigas.

Es la típica persona que su capacidad intelectual le ayuda a ir siempre dos pasos por delante de los demás, bueno, al menos por delante mío, a mí me pilla en todas. Percibe cosas que otros no perciben y a pesar de aprender pareciera como un niño pequeño ávido de saber y conocer.

Después de tantos meses en el ostracismo me he dado cuenta que me he perdido muchas cosas de mi amiga. Su vida siempre depende de su salud y hoy está bien pero mañana nunca se sabe por eso ella detesta dejar cosas para mañana pudiéndolas hacer hoy.

Ahora percibo que camina tres pasos por delante de mí, que no la alcanzo, que sus inquietudes son muchas y variadas y que cuando llego a analizar alguna inquietud concreta ella ya la superó hace meses por lo que, no tendría que correr, debería volar para poder estar a su altura. Creo que mis escritos se quedaron atrás y anticuados para su mente inquieta y para su vivo corazón, me paré demasiado tiempo y ahora solo me queda mirar y seguir aprendiendo desde lejos.

Sé que he perdido el tiempo y me entristece saber que me he perdido mucho de ella, de su enriquecedora forma de ver la vida aunque no todo lo comparta, pero aún no compartiéndolo todo, nos queremos y nos respetamos, ¿se puede pedir algo más?, bueno, una rebajilla en el precio de los billetes a Sevilla no vendría nada mal, por pedir que no quede.

Y el mar nunca estuvo demasiado lejos y además cubre...

Ella es una mujer que por sus “cosas” físicas a veces no podía salir de casa  y tenía que ejercer de mujer vampiro, tanto que como su piel es muy blanca por su escasa o nula exposición al sol  y su pelo es muy negro, cuando sale por la noche puede dar la imagen gótica al más puro estilo “hijasdezapatero”, porque es guapa que si no sería de las de ‘danunmiedoquetecagassss’.

Pero no, no os asustéis, ella no es gótica, ella es ELLA MISMA y os aseguro que enriquece solo con ver cómo mira y cómo habla, con esa  voz de ‘quieroynopuedo’, no es ni ‘pissha’, ni ‘quilla’, ni ‘mi arma’, es simplemente ELLA MISMA, y eso en una andaluza es decir mucho.

Hubo un tiempo que por su enfermedad no salía a la calle, ella estaba pero nadie la veía, de ahí el sobrenombre de LA MUJER DE COLOMBO.  Estar estaba, sabían de su existencia por eso el teniente Colombo  la tenía hasta en sus oraciones pero ¿alguien le veía la cara? No, nadie o casi nadie, ¡pobre mía! ¡qué mal lo tuvo que pasar siendo como es!.

‘Seguro que estuvo ‘tentá’ de comprarle una gabardina raída en un rastrillo de Dos Hermanas a su Teniente/Profesor Colombo/Escocés al más puro estilo detectivesco, pero al final no se atrevió…’

Hoy, afortunadamente está bien y vive con la boca bien abierta tragándose la vida a bocanadas y con los ojos negros y andaluces donde los haya pendientes hasta del más mínimo gesto para ser retratado por su cámara de fotos. Es mi amiga y estoy orgulloso de ello.

Por fin pude conocer a la mujer de Colombo, inquieta, amiga de sus amigos, nada convencional, fuerte a pesar de la fragilidad de su físico, desayuna un red bull “con un par” y da gusto verla recien levantada y con sus gafas de sol en casa al más puro estilo “cupóndelaonce”, ella, sí, mi amiga, una persona sencillamente buena, y qué mejor para mí que estar cerca de Bloody y disfrutar de la vida con o sin ella, ¡mejor ‘con’!. ¡Menuda bicha que estás hecha!. Te quiero amiga.

Sir George Mackenzie of Rosehaugh, also known as ‘Bluidy Mackenzie’ was a lawyer and lord advocate in the late 1600s and one of the most infamous hanging judges. As lord advocate, he was made minister in charge of the fate of the ‘Covenanters’, religious protesters arguing towards protestant law enforcement in Scotland. The inhumanity of his prosecution towards the ‘Covenanters’ gained him the nickname ‘Bluidy Mackenzie’ due to his responsibility for the deaths of over 18,000 men. He died in 1691 and was buried in Greyfriars Churchyard in Edinburgh.

In 1990, the tomb of George Mackenzie was broken into and two days later the unexplained events began. There have been an unbelievable number of alleged attacks in the last few years with a reported 500 documented incidents including 190 people collapsing. Visitors to his grave have reported bruises, scratches, gouge marks, bites and bafflingly even a number of broken fingers. One woman obtained rope marks around her neck as if she had been hung. Reverend Colin Grant attempted to perform an exorcism on the area with his son and two journalists as witnesses but claimed the forces were too overpowering and had to stop as he feared for his life. Two weeks later Colin Grant died of a heart attack.

The events were too much for Edinburgh City Council to take; subsequently they closed that area of the graveyard to the public, although ghost tours still visit the area and the spectators are recurrently haunted.

“Lenard!” Jill called down to the basement one night. “Lenard! Are you down here?”

“Yeah, I’m over here.”

“What are you doing sitting in the dark? What’s going on Lenard? How are we suppose to pay anything now. I’m not getting enough hours to keep us afloat. Babe you gotta get to the doctor. Something is wrong Lenard.”

“I know…I can feel it crawling around inside me.” Jill began to cry.

“What?”

“And I have scratches all over my body, like this.” He pulled up his t-shirt and showed her his stomach, and chest. They’d not made love in weeks, and he wouldn’t let her near the bathroom when he showered, so she hadn’t seen his bare flesh, and had no idea what was really going on with him. She closed her eyes, afraid of what she would see. As she slowly opened them she witnessed scratches that looked like they were coming from the inside out.

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ Lenard!” she cried out. “What is it?”

“I don’t know…” Lenard began to cry himself as he saw her reaction, and it confirmed his own fear.

“That’s it, I’m taking little Lenny to Ma, and I’ll be back for you. We’re going back to the hospital, and we’re not leaving without answers. And so they did.

The doctors, and nurses seemed as puzzled and appalled as Lenard and Jill was, after their examinations were complete. They put him through a battery of tests and came up with nothing. The doctor told Lenard he was sorry once more and that he would have to go and see a specialist.. Lenard grabbed the front of the doctors scrubs, and pulled him close to him.

“Now you listen to me, I don’t wanna hear sorry from you ever again. You tell me what the fuck is wrong with me and you tell me now, or I’m gonna rip off your God Damned head and shit down your throat, you useless piece of shit.”

“Lenard!” Jillian cried out as she pulled him back. “Let go Lenard…Let go!” he did as she requested realizing it was her who was doing the asking. “I’m so sorry, he’s not usually like this. It’s this illness.

“I’m not angry Jillian, I know it is. I want to help you Lenard…”

“But you’ve done all you can right.” he said in disgust, recalling the doctors previous words the night his son was born. The doctor blinked his eyes as if he could weep, himself, but his professionalism was surely getting in the way. He looked down.

“We’re just so glad your all okay, we’ll help you in any way we can to find your answers. That’s why I’m sending you to this specialist, maybe he’ll find something we could not.” He reached out to hand Lenard the piece of paper that he usually wrote out prescriptions on, instead he had written the name and number of the physician he was referring Lenard to.

“I don’t want your God damn doctors!” Lenard smacked his hand away. Jillian took the paper with a kind smile and a look in her eyes that said I’m so sorry.

“Baby please…” Jillian wept, and begged Lenard to to try harder as the doctor walked away.

“I’m not sick Jill, I’m possessed.” he told her. She scrunched her brow, and quickly looked left and right trying to make sense of his words. She’s remembered hearing such things growing up and the church even had one boy years ago who was said to have been possessed. Maybe they should go to the pastor, she thought.

“Okay, baby lets go.” she told him. She put him in the car and drove to the church. As they rounded the corner block of the church Lenard began to scream and cry out in horrible pain. He twitched and shook profusely.

“Aaahhhh! No!….. No!…..Just go Jillian…..I can’t be here!”

“But we have to, Lenard please!” He looked up at her and his blue eyes became filled with swirls of blackness, including the parts that were normally white.

“Get me out of here!” he growled. The look on her face was one of horror and she began to cry as she frantically tried to start the car.

“Oh God help us!” she pleaded. Lenard growled more as she spoke these words. Finally the car turned over and they were off. As soon as they were a few blocks away Lenard seemed to pass out from exhaustion. She drove him home and helped him inside. He was quite week and the smell coming from him was terrible to bare. She nearly threw up twice on the way in. Lenard stumbled down the stairs, and into the basement he went. Back into the darkness, back into the world from which she could not reach him. She sat down at the little round table in the kitchen and smoked cigarette after cigarette. She called her mother and told her that the doctors weren’t sure what Lenard had, and she wanted to know if she could keep the baby for a few days until she knew it was safe. She agreed that she would and Jillian went back to smoking, and thinking. How would she help him? She did not know. Her heart ached for him, she loved him so much and could not imagine her life without him. She had to think of some thing. And then it dawned on her, if she couldn’t take Lenard to the church, she would have to have the Pastor come to them, to their home. She picked up the phone and dialed the number.

“Pastor Finney, it’s Jillian Blake. I need your help…”

To Be Continued….

Sexy Chainsaw Maid Staves Off Bloodthirsty Brain Eating Zombies Attack!

They are coming for your flesh and blood,
The last hope of the family rests on a sexy faithful maid!

Chainsaw Maid is a short animated film by Takena Nagao, an awesomely disgusting claymation blood feast.  The film tells the story of a sexy faithful maid who will go any distance to give satisfaction to her employers.  She certainly won’t be stopped by a bunch of bloodthirsty brain eating zombies.  The brutal clay splatter starts out slow, but it quickly turns into a blood bath as the devoted maid tries to fend off the zombies and takes the last resort of wielding a chainsaw.  Clay never looked so wondrously violent until Chainsaw Maid came along!

Sexy Chainsaw Maid Staves Off Bloodthirsty Brain Eating Zombies Attack!

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Lo ammetto. Mi è stato piuttosto difficile valutare che video avrei potuto mettere in “collegamento” con la recensione dei The War On Drugs, visto che non è che sia proprio addentro al genere del gruppo; volevo mettere qualche video “indie” buttato lì a casaccio ma alla fine ho preferito andare a sbirciare un pò la biografia dei TWOD per conoscere un pò le loro influenze… ed ecco usciti i My Bloody Valentine, gruppo irlandese “indie” ante-litteram:

Ja nu ni mina vänner så är det fredagen den 13:e idag, otursdagen eller skräckdagen, hihi… Så då tänkte jag passa på att ge ett filmtips som såklart passar utmärkt till denna blodiga dag, och vad passar inte bättre är just Fredagen den 13:e filmerna? Jason är ju som pricken över i:et på ordet idag så ni som har möjlighet, plöj igenom å ha maraton eller nått å en mys kväll med Jason, finns väl ingen bättre att mysa med denna fredag

Enjoy!

Lors de la foire de la saint Denis à Dreux

                               “The Invisible Hitcher”

                 Written by: S.S.Hartman

Jill took the pans out of the oven to prepare dinner.

One dropped from her hand, and slammed to floor_ she began to cry. The baby was hungry, crying from his high chair, and the electric had been cut off due to “non-payment” the notice read. She planned to make soup on the gas burner, just enough for little Lenny and herself. He wouldn’t be needing anything, he who was in the basement.

She reached down to get the pan off of the filthy dated, 1960’s, black and white tiled floor, fighting the cockroaches for it. The house stank of rat shit, and dirty diapers. Where did it all go, she thought. What in the hell happened to us. We used to be so happy. Before the baby, and before the move, all was well. The two of them had been childhood sweethearts, and married right after graduation. Lenard used to always say that Jill was the only person in the world who truly understood him. She truly was, and that’s how she, and only she, knew what had to be done. For he would never change back, and he would never stop.

Two years ago, as the rice hit the floor of the little Church on Randall that they’d been going to since they’re christenings, life was good. Jill had a genuine smile on her face, and Lenard seamed ready for life outside of his old man’s house to begin. Jill knew then that it was she who wanted the whole marriage and kids thing, much more than Lenard had, still he accepted it, as it was, the thing to do. Or was it?

Jill wished now more than ever that they hadn’t gotten married right away. It was too much pressure, and for someone slowly unraveling, it was going to prove fatal.

From the time Lenard was five years old his father would whip him with a leather strap if he so much as breathed in his direction. Lenard got used to avoiding him, but you can’t avoid evil, it will find you. He ran to Jill’s house many times, to escape his fathers wrath. She would be sitting on the front porch of her parents 1960’s style bungalow, with a gray stoned porch, playing with her dolls, or helping her mother in the garden. She was always the perfect retreat, to his mind.

Lenard got a job working at Langston’s saw mill, and Jill took up waitressing with her mother at their family diner. The hours were long and the pay was nil but they both worked hard and seemed to get by from week to week with out starving to death. They lived for their night’s when they’d come home and fuck like rabbits until the day was new. It wasn’t paradise but it was real American living. And they were proud of the little life they had. Of coarse the baby came around without much time passing at all, and Jill couldn’t have been happier. Then before they all knew it, it almost came to an abrupt end. The clock struck twelve through the pitch black night, but it was Jillian’s screams that awoke the dead that night. Lenard called the doctor, and then her mother, then his. Everyone would meet them at the hospital, little Lenny was coming. The doctor examined Jill, and immediately rushed everyone out of the room. All Lenard heard was “Emergency C-section.”

“The baby is in distress Lenard.” the nurse told him, but he didn’t hear her. All he could see was the love of his life being wheeled out on a hospital bed and into the unknown. Would she come back, he thought. Would he be taking her home with the baby in her arms like he’d imagined a thousand time or would they be having a funeral in a couple of days. With one big casket and one small one. When the image of the tiny casket came rolling into his mind he dropped to his knees. It was more than he could bare. The time went by like the rivers erode the rock beds. And in the end, the moment he felt would never come, and yet hoped it might not, did. The nurses and doctor came walking out of the double doors with their heads lowered_ they removed their masks. The doctors eyes met Lenard’s and he was sure it wasn’t good.

“I’m sorry son. We did everything we could do.” he said. Chills ran over Lenard’s body, and then there was no noise, no time, no heartbeat beneath his own chest. He collapsed. Where ever Lenard went he found his heart, and soul, and brought them back with him, but he wasn’t alone. . It was all over the news, and the family was ever so grateful. Somehow when Lenard collapsed, then flat lined right there in front of God and everyone, he went to other side, and when he was brought back, in the same room, a bed over, Jill and the baby awoke. Jillian and Lenard sat up, simultaneously, then screamed the most blood curdling scream any of the hospital staff had ever witnessed. The baby cried out as well, at the exact same time, and it was his very first breath that brought the room to tears. The doctor burst from the open doors once more.

“I don’t know what happened! They’re alive! They’re all alive!” he announced. Both families rejoiced, and tragedy, on that day was averted. Little did any of them know it would be back for them. Jill checked out fine, and so did the baby. Lenard was running a high fever for days and the doctors couldn’t explain it. He broke out in cold sweats in the middle of the night, and when the baby would wake up crying he would get up and sit with him, for he could not sleep. He didn’t tell anyone the truth about how bad it really was, and even Jill who lived with him only knew part of the story. He in fact hadn’t slept one moment since he awoke screaming in the O.R. He would get terrible pains in his abdomen, and began suffering from strange scratches all over his body. His eyes over the next few months became more and more bloodshot. He had a foul oder about him, no matter how many times a day he showered. He would have visions during the day of crowds of people, screaming, and running in an unknown place. It always seemed black, that was all he knew, and they would be shoving one another and the smell, he couldn’t get it out of his head. It was the same smell that came from the old shed when he was seven, and his dog buster got killed in the road out in front of their house. His father took his time burying the animal, nearly four days. It smelled like death, and so did he. He stopped going to work, and old man Langston fired him. He spent his days sitting in the basement, in the dark, and Lenard hated the dark, ever since he was a child. He sat in an old rocker and drank beer after beer, and Lenard hated beer, and hummed an eerie tune.

To be Continued…

“The Invisible Hitcher”

Written by: S.S.Hartman

Jill took the pans out of the oven to prepare dinner.

One dropped from her hand, and slammed to floor_ she began to cry. The baby was hungry, crying from his high chair, and the electric had been cut off due to “non-payment” the notice read. She planned to make soup on the gas burner, just enough for little Lenny and herself. He wouldn’t be needing anything, he who was in the basement.

She reached down to get the pan off of the filthy dated, 1960’s, black and white tiled floor, fighting the cockroaches for it. The house stank of rat shit, and dirty diapers. Where did it all go, she thought. What in the hell happened to us. We used to be so happy. Before the baby, and before the move, all was well. The two of them had been childhood sweethearts, and married right after graduation. Lenard used to always say that Jill was the only person in the world who truly understood him. She truly was, and that’s how she, and only she, knew what had to be done. For he would never change back, and he would never stop.

Two years ago, as the rice hit the floor of the little Church on Randall that they’d been going to since they’re christenings, life was good. Jill had a genuine smile on her face, and Lenard seamed ready for life outside of his old man’s house to begin. Jill knew then that it was she who wanted the whole marriage and kids thing, much more than Lenard had, still he accepted it, as it was, the thing to do. Or was it?

Jill wished now more than ever that they hadn’t gotten married right away. It was too much pressure, and for someone slowly unraveling, it was going to prove fatal.

From the time Lenard was five years old his father would whip him with a leather strap if he so much as breathed in his direction. Lenard got used to avoiding him, but you can’t avoid evil, it will find you. He ran to Jill’s house many times, to escape his fathers wrath. She would be sitting on the front porch of her parents 1960’s style bungalow, with a gray stoned porch, playing with her dolls, or helping her mother in the garden. She was always the perfect retreat, to his mind.

Lenard got a job working at Langston’s saw mill, and Jill took up waitressing with her mother at their family diner. The hours were long and the pay was nil but they both worked hard and seemed to get by from week to week with out starving to death. They lived for their night’s when they’d come home and fuck like rabbits until the day was new. It wasn’t paradise but it was real American living. And they were proud of the little life they had. Of coarse the baby came around without much time passing at all, and Jill couldn’t have been happier. Then before they all knew it, it almost came to an abrupt end. The clock struck twelve through the pitch black night, but it was Jillian’s screams that awoke the dead that night. Lenard called the doctor, and then her mother, then his. Everyone would meet them at the hospital, little Lenny was coming. The doctor examined Jill, and immediately rushed everyone out of the room. All Lenard heard was “Emergency C-section.”

“The baby is in distress Lenard.” the nurse told him, but he didn’t hear her. All he could see was the love of his life being wheeled out on a hospital bed and into the unknown. Would she come back, he thought. Would he be taking her home with the baby in her arms like he’d imagined a thousand time or would they be having a funeral in a couple of days. With one big casket and one small one. When the image of the tiny casket came rolling into his mind he dropped to his knees. It was more than he could bare. The time went by like the rivers erode the rock beds. And in the end, the moment he felt would never come, and yet hoped it might not, did. The nurses and doctor came walking out of the double doors with their heads lowered_ they removed their masks. The doctors eyes met Lenard’s and he was sure it wasn’t good.

“I’m sorry son. We did everything we could do.” he said. Chills ran over Lenard’s body, and then there was no noise, no time, no heartbeat beneath his own chest. He collapsed. Where ever Lenard went he found his heart, and soul, and brought them back with him, but he wasn’t alone. . It was all over the news, and the family was ever so grateful. Somehow when Lenard collapsed, then flat lined right there in front of God and everyone, he went to other side, and when he was brought back, in the same room, a bed over, Jill and the baby awoke. Jillian and Lenard sat up, simultaneously, then screamed the most blood curdling scream any of the hospital staff had ever witnessed. The baby cried out as well, at the exact same time, and it was his very first breath that brought the room to tears. The doctor burst from the open doors once more.

“I don’t know what happened! They’re alive! They’re all alive!” he announced. Both families rejoiced, and tragedy, on that day was averted. Little did any of them know it would be back for them. Jill checked out fine, and so did the baby. Lenard was running a high fever for days and the doctors couldn’t explain it. He broke out in cold sweats in the middle of the night, and when the baby would wake up crying he would get up and sit with him, for he could not sleep. He didn’t tell anyone the truth about how bad it really was, and even Jill who lived with him only knew part of the story. He in fact hadn’t slept one moment since he awoke screaming in the O.R. He would get terrible pains in his abdomen, and began suffering from strange scratches all over his body. His eyes over the next few months became more and more bloodshot. He had a foul oder about him, no matter how many times a day he showered. He would have visions during the day of crowds of people, screaming, and running in an unknown place. It always seemed black, that was all he knew, and they would be shoving one another and the smell, he couldn’t get it out of his head. It was the same smell that came from the old shed when he was seven, and his dog buster got killed in the road out in front of their house. His father took his time burying the animal, nearly four days. It smelled like death, and so did he. He stopped going to work, and old man Langston fired him. He spent his days sitting in the basement, in the dark, and Lenard hated the dark, ever since he was a child. He sat in an old rocker and drank beer after beer, and Lenard hated beer, and hummed an eerie tune.

To be Continued…

Did you hear that New York bad boy Jay-Z came up on stage last night with U2 before the kickoff of European Music Awards? That’s right, the jiggaman popped up during “Sunday Bloody Sunday” live in Berlin, Germany in front of the Brandenburg Gate giving the 10,000 fans a treat of musical brilliance. U2 arrived in their 750k-a-day spaceship, putting on a free 20 minute setlist to fans outside the venue. Both artists, neither ever shy in the past of backing down from a collaboration, showed why two musical genres, if done right, can work together in harmony. Bono, mid-song, introduces Jay as the “mayor of New York city” as he appears from the background to bust out a 40 second rhyme. HOV manages to represent his badass mofo ways by dropping the “motherfucker” bomb during his rap. Bono then goes on to scream “Wipe your tears away!” sounding peculiarly comparable to Bob Marley. Two artists, both icons for longevity in their respective fields of music, displayed why mixing and matching two types of beats into one can be a treat for any music lover.

An introduction to the history of “cussing” by a guy who is actually applying what he learned from his English degree. Some people are just wired to stay up late at night and think about this kind of stuff.

Something that has always fascinated me is society’s response to curse words. And based on the fact that by far the most read and searched-for post on my site is “Jenny Slate Will Not Be Fired for F-Word Accident”, I take it that I’m not the only one who realizes there are no solid guidelines or expectations when it comes to the use of “profanity”.

And that’s where the fascination comes in. Who makes the rules about this stuff? We do. A society’s popular culture is governed by what truly is accepted or rejected by its people.

Before 1983, if anyone tried to say “sucks” on TV, it would be bleeped out. Bill Maher is credited as being the first person to go uncensored saying it when, as a guest on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, he proclaimed, “Yeah, airports suck.”

It’s hard to imagine words like “sucks”, “crap”, and “butt” being actual curse words or profanity. I file them under “crossover cuss words”. Because at one time, many people found them to be quite offensive. But now these words have become so mainstream, their vulgarity has diminished.

They are no longer profane; though I wouldn’t use them in a conversation with someone I would call “sir”. Like a preacher or an older person. I also wouldn’t say them while wearing a suit and tie. (That would in some strange way make me feel hypocritical. Suits are supposed to make people professional.)

The invisible rules are set in place by… us.  I admit in the back of my mind I do find in a little weird that “sucks” is so mainstream.  Maybe I’m the only one who still thinks it refers to oral sex.  But on the SNL skit “Wayne’s World”, one of Wayne’s phrases was “That sucks donkey!”  It only makes sense that if a person says something sucks, they are implying it is participating in the sexual act.  Because, why else would “sucks” be bad at all?  It’s sexual.  But no one seems to notice or care so I decided years ago just to go along with it.

These invisible rules of profanity work both ways.  Vulgar words can be made acceptable and acceptable words can be made vulgar.

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by Alex Billington – FirstShowing.net

IGN has debuted the first four character posters for Matthew Vaughn’s Kick-Ass tonight. By now everyone has probably heard about this (or seen the leaked Comic-Con footage), so I don’t think it needs an elaborate introduction. Kick-Ass is the adaptation of Mark Millar’s awesome comic series about a kid who decides to dress up and be a superhero. While it could’ve been a goofy, Hollywood spoof, Vaughn went all out to make sure it was a bloody, brutal, violent adaptation true to his own pure vision. And that’s already starting to show even in the marketing, as these posters definitely look awesome.

Kick-Ass is both written and directed by British filmmaker Matthew Vaughn, of Layer Cake and Stardust previously. The screenplay was co-written by Vaughn and his writing partner Jane Goldman, of Stardust as well. The story is an adaptation of Mark Millar’s comic of the same name that is currently in the middle of its first series. Kick-Ass was funded entirely by Matthew Vaughn and his own private investors and sold once finished to Lionsgate earlier this year. They’ve currently set an April 16th, 2010 release date for the film, although I hope they change that, because that’s a terrible opening day. Hopefully we’ll see a trailer soon!

Amazon Specials!

Soy un maldito friki, pero es que estoy reventado de los eventos de Tuenti. Esos eventos malditos de los que pasa la gente y después se pican si no son invitados. Por eso he hecho este “blog” y lo he dedicado a esa gran familia que tenemos.

Resumidamente lo que quiero conseguir con esto es que los fines de semana (viernes o sábado, aún por elegir) podamos organizar algo decentemente, de manera eficaz y al alcance de todos los que podamos.

Lo que propongo es un “evento” semanal/mensual organizado por alguien/grupo, de manera que cada semana/mes le toque a alguien/grupo diferentes.
Por ejemplo: Este fin de semana se encarga Kero de organizar algo, lo mejor sería que él expusiera varias posibilidades en una encuesta y cada uno votase la que más le guste. Después de esto, la liamos parda en el evento y Kero es el encargado de elegir a la persona (o personas) que vayan a preparar el evento de la semana siguiente.

En conclusión, que el encargado de hacer el evento, se encarga de hacer un buen post en este blog explicando lo que propone y exponiendo las ideas que haya tenido para someterlas a votación. It’z zo funny and zo eazy!

Ha intentado explicarme lo mejor que he podido, pero pienso que la idea es una buena iniciativa ¿no?

Depuis cette fin de semaine que je m’amuse à faire des petites animations Gif Et j’ai du fun.

Attention, celui qui suit est somewhat violent.

Iiiii.

Need a last minute Halloween recipe? How ’bout Dead Witches Fingers? They’re suitably ghoulish. See the Wolfy Chicks blog. Author Judith Graves shows you how to make these delightfully gruesome treats.

Pair them with Blood-flavored Ice Cream–a recipe by author Kitty Keswick.

Two treats sure to make your guests howl.

Huge halloween street party, tonight, and I might’ve gone– but my costume still isn’t ready.

I finished my dress this morning, and my mask is on the counter, drying.  I’m so excited.

What am I?  A nurse from Silent Hill, bandaged, warped face, everything.  I just bought a big ‘ole meat cleaver.  There aren’t words for how happy I am.

I’ve been taking pictures all through the process, too, so expect those sometime soon, after halloween, though.

Expect me to describe the process a little, too.  This is just an upcoming warning, though.

Tired of the original WARP from Bloody Beetroots? This December we will have some surprises with their new EP called Spares of Romborama. I and just wanna add this “1, 2, 3, MOTHAFUCKAAAAAH!“

Cansados da WARP original dos Bloody Beetroots? Esperam-se novidades destes senhores para este mês de Dezembro com o seu novo EP Spares of Romborama. Quero só acrescentar o seguinte “1, 2, 3, MOTHAFUCKAAAAAH!”

Fran