Estimados amigos.

Después de la recuperación de Chicho Valentino el pasado día 7 de junio de 2009 en facebook, la dirección colegiada del URH ha adoptado, en reunión del viernes 10 de julio, cambiar el título del grupo de búsqueda. A partir de ahora se llama:

TELETERAPIAS EN RED CON CHICHO VALENTINO

Agradecemos públicamente los esfuerzos que los coordinadores han realizado en la encomiable tarea de recuperar al paciente. Ahora la función del grupo es la realización de teleterapias para el apaciguamiento de nuestras amígdalas.

Proponemos la siguiente teleterapia constrastada por la dirección del URH

TITULO: Gestión del miedo. (gestión de amígdalas)

OBJETIVO: Hacer 1 foto imitando a Chicho.

PROCESO: Coger cualquier gafa, si es gruesa mejor. Respirar. Poner la mueca que más haga reir a tu jefe, a tu madre, a tu vecina o a tu suegra. Dispara tu cámara fotográfica y sube la foto a tu perfíl de facebook. Más tarde la podrás traer aquí, al grupo.

EVALUACIÓN Y DIAGNÓSTICO: Las fotos más desternillantes rotarán como foto de grupo.

Os damos las gracias por no borraros de este grupo sin sentido y esperamos vuestra teleterapia.

Atentamente.

Dr. Christian Shepard

That chuffing cat will be the end of me.

Whiskas, it has to be said, is a pathetically delicate soul. He might look like a stocky big git who could hold his own in an alley fight and even though he can stare at you with in a Lee Van Cleef snake-eyed sort of way, he’s as sensitive as a pampered prince.
If another cat so much as makes contact with his personage, the affected spot swells up, poisoned at being touched by a commoner.

Normal procedure is that the cut/scratch whatever swells and swells; he gets grumpier and grumpier…and then it erupts like Mount Teide sending rivers of blood and puss over his white fur. Not pretty, but the cat’s relief when this happens is obvious. He doesn’t seem to mind that he’s left with a hole like a bullet wound in his leg/head/back.

And so the week before last a cat, or a dog, must have landed a glancing blow just above Whiskas’ eye. For the rest of the week his eyebrow slowly swelled up, his eye began to seep and he started to make more of a fuss about leaving the premises at night when we went to bed.

By the Saturday night his right eye was almost completely shut, but of course there was no way he would let us bathe it or anything like that.  Even worse, he hardly touched his dinner; a sure sign that he was feeling seriously under the weather.

It was the Mueca Festival in Puerto de la Cruz and we had planned on going into town to see what was happening. Whiskas had been in recovery position on his cushion all day (i.e. curled into a ball) and had no desire to go anywhere. So when we turfed him out of the house as we were leaving at around 21.30 there was a right old palaver involving a great deal of growling and hissing and a few swipes (luckily because one eye was shut, his aim was off).

However as we walked down the passage leaving the wounded one-eyed soldier looking after as with an expression which said ‘heartless traitors’ I was consumed with guilt. We had abandoned him in his hour of need.

We weren’t surprised that he wasn’t about when we got home a few hours later. He’d have gone to ground; he always does when he’s feeling at a low ebb. But next morning he didn’t turn up for breakfast. Then lunchtime came and went and no sign. This was serious and we were starting to get worried. By the time darkness fell and he still hadn’t appeared for his dinner we were really fretting. 24 hours without food is unthinkable. We knew that he must have been in a bad way to miss out on food, but we didn’t know where he was. He wasn’t in any of his usual spots.

Images of him being ambushed by a gang of cats hell bent on revenge filled my thoughts, that and worries that with his vision impaired, he might inadvertently have wandered into the path of a speeding 4×4. We spent the night with one eye watching the terrace, hoping that the white wizard would appear. That night I dreamt that Wayne Rooney was confined to the subs bench because of an eye injury and the side of his face was such a mess that Sir Alex Ferguson was crying. Freud wouldn’t have had his work cut out with that one.

By Monday morning when there was another no-show for breakfast and Whiskas had been M.I.I. (missing in inaction) for 36 hours, I feared the worse and wished I could rewind time and have tried a bit harder to clean his eye, or not have cast him into the wild night on Saturday (okay it was 20 degrees and calm, but you get the picture).

Then about 10.30 as I was typing away, I noticed a white shape out of the corner of my eye. Whiskas strolled through the front door and into the kitchen with barely a glance in our direction. His eye still looked as though he’d been whacked by a feline Rocky Balboa, but it was clearer and he purred happily when we ran to welcome home our furry prodigal son.

God knows where he was, we were just thankful that he was back and seemed okay.

If going missing for 36 hours was his way of punishing us for abandoning him on Saturday night, it worked.

Estoy pletórico; ya he visto el programa del festival Mueca de este año 2009 y tengo muchisimas ganas de que llegue.

Es una época en la que el Puerto se llena de gente. Pero no el tipo de gente que viene un domingo, o los tipico que vienen a los carnavales, las fiestas de julio, etc. Los bohemios, los soñadores, los de mente abierta y mas de un genio podremos ver en las empedradas calles del Puerto de la Cruz, dando un epectaculo al que no parecemos estar muy acostumbrados.

Uno de los platos fuertes de este año es Yllana, un grupo de teatro de humor que ya me sacó las lagrimas de risa el año pasado y tengo muchisimas ganas de volverlos a ver.

Sin embargo, como la web oficial aun no tiene el programa; he publicado algunas cositas en la web de ZonÁmbulos

Granja de San Ildefonso – Segovia

29/11/2008 – 14:08 hs.

Lo que quiero es compartir contigo un reloj en la cocina, con su tictac cotidiano, entrega absoluta 24 veces al día.

No quiero, agobiada por el paso del tiempo y la desidia y el mal gusto, tener que salir corriendo y enrojecer de repente, proféticamente transformada en una irreverente mueca obscena con un dedo.

No quiero más hoteles. Prefiero la cocina. Sin más.

Como quitarle al árbol de dios su fruto prohibido. Así de fácil, así de exquisito. Así se teje la magia de hundirse en el olvido, cerrar las puertas y no queden más que ventanas.

Toca la madera de mis latidos una vez más, cierra el círculo, anestesia, silencia. Dame el último grito de la locura, ese que espanta, ese que rocía cloro sobre las pupilas.

Teje lirios en mis brazos para que ya jamás necesite buscarlos en otro sitio, para que tus labios no vuelvan a ser besados por los míos.

Dame el olvido servido en copas de cristal, en sangre que ya no guarde trazas de nadie. Bombas nocturnas asesinas de nostalgias, silenciadores del llanto, el coma más profundo ¡árboles en llamas por siempre!

Porque por siempre voy a quedarme con esta mueca, la piel escrita por tu mano muerta…

]]> http://tenerifevirgins.wordpress.com/2008/04/09/dancingand-all-sorts-of-other-things-in-the-streets/ Wed, 09 Apr 2008 17:00:41 +0000 dragojac http://tenerifevirgins.wordpress.com/2008/04/09/dancingand-all-sorts-of-other-things-in-the-streets/

“Buenas Tardes,” the voice stopped me in my tracks. Not because a stranger had just greeted me in the street, but because this stranger was over 6 foot tall and was a robot.
At any other time this would have caused me some concern and thoughts like, ‘this is it; this is exactly what the Terminator movies tried to warn us about,’ would have raced through my brain. But as I happened to be in the middle of MUECA 2008, Puerto de la Cruz’ street theatre festival, I merely smiled, mumbled a ‘buenas tardes’ back and moved on.

Although the Spanish Met Office had issued an ‘orange’ level weather warning for the western Canary Islands, and winds of up to 120 kph had been predicted for areas above 2000 metres. Puerto de la Cruz remained a blue sky’d oasis for the duration of the festival. We’d only managed to get a glimpse of the fun on Saturday night as two friends were in town which we used as an excuse to go to one of our favourite local restaurants, Cha Paula. As usual the food was first class; the best chipirones (small squid) in town, glistening pimientos de padron of which one on ten really did kick you in the head; cheese from El Hierro drizzled with spicy sauces and country wine which was far too quaffable to be good for you. It was so good that we lingered too long and the waiter started moving tables from around us.
“Sorry,” Andy apologised to him. “We were too busy talking, we didn’t realise you were shutting.”
“No, señora,” he held up his hands. “It’s not a problem. Sit as long as you like. It’s just that the bar upstairs is opening and they have darts. Some people are not very good.”
He shrugged his shoulders and looked up toward the open wooden balcony above. It was a surprise to hear that darts were popular with young Canarios, but we got the point, or rather as we didn’t want to get the point, we supped up, paid the ridiculously low bill and left.

By then we’d missed most of the street performances so Andy and I headed back down the following day. The town was even busier than the previous night. It was full of Domingeros, dressed in their Sunday finest. The street festival had attracted lots of young bohemians as well and the old town was filled with fireaters, jugglers and people playing all sorts of weird instruments. One man was playing what looked like a wok; quite melodic it was too.
Most of the action was taking place around the harbour. On one side lithe young lads spinned and twirled in front of a group of adoring chicas (and I thought break-dancing was way out of date). The bottom end of Plaza Charco had been turned into a faerie grotto of sorts and whilst most faeries entertained groups of bewitched toddlers, a couple of quite vain faeries preened, fussed, fiddled with their hair and pouted to the delight of the older kids and, as they were a particularly attractive pair, some captivated dads as well.
Whilst steel bands drummed and actors played out grim tales, the highlight was the Circo en el Aire; a troupe of acrobats who flamenco’d, twirled and swirled on, and above the harbour’s cobbled streets. At one point two of them enacted a dance routine suspended in the air by silk ribbons that was borderline erotic and incredibly sensual; not what you expect on a Sunday afternoon. It raised the already hot temperature a few notches I can tell you.

It was a wonderful, magical festival with a warm atmosphere which had more to do with the fact that the town was full of people with beaming smiles than the hot sunshine. It was simply Puerto doing what Puerto does best. It was one of those special days when the thought hit us head on like a juggernaut – this wonderful place is where we live.

Por 4º año consecutivo llega el Mueca (4, 5 y 6 de Abril), un festival de arte y teatro callejero que se celebra en el Puerto de la Cruz, Tenerife. La cuarta edición de este festival traerá la próxima semana a malabaristas, acróbatas, bailarines, cocineros, músicos y actores, pintores, grafiteros y magos a las calles de la ciudad turística.

El festival arranca con una pareja de grafiteros de la isla que, personalmente, pienso que son de lo mejor que tenemos. Iker (AKA Muro) y East, como ya contó Gráfica Colectiva, se encargarán de pintar, un año más las puertas de entrada al centro del Puerto. Espero tener la camara en casa para el viernes, que esas fotos luego circulan por la red (A ver si los de Gra:Co quieren alguna ). A la misma hora, otro amigo, Roberto Rodriguez de ‘The Private Zone‘ estará en la plaza del Charco con su espectaculo “The Penguin Family”…

Bueno, pues como no tengo tiempo de redactar todo el programa, solo recomendarles las actuaciones de Magia Callejera de Ela y Javi… viernes a las 9 y sabado a las 8 en la plaza del charco…

Lo dicho… nos vemos en el Mueca!!!