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Wednesday, December 21, 2005


Found in the online version of Maxim Magazine. I stopped my suscription a long time ago due to photoshop issues (it's not ok to manipulate girls' breasts and erase their nipples), but every once in a while they make me laugh with articles like this one.

From First To Worst


Six women share their traumatic stories of deflowering dudes.


Maxim Online, Dec 2005 By Carly Milne


Everyone remembers their firsts—their first kiss, their first love, their first Philly cheesesteak—but all pale in comparison to the holy grail of losing your virginity. Men tend to remember it as a paragon of masculinity and carnal skill, but do women? Not always—especially when they're the deflowerer.


The Crier


While most guys are joyous over losing their V card, the one that Merideth inducted into the club left her confused. "To me it wasn't really any big deal, because I'd had a boyfriend before him that I'd lost mine to," she says. "But when Josh and I started going out and he told me he wanted me to be his first, I had no idea what I was in for. The sex was fine, but when it was over he started to cry. And I don't mean a couple tears of joy, I mean outright sobbing like I'd run over his dog or something. I couldn't tell if he was happy or sad, and I never found out—he and I stopped seeing each other after that."


The Jackrabbit


The need for speed is hot…as long as it's kept out of the bedroom. Says Rayanne, "I thought he was going to be pretty good, because he'd assured me he'd been doing his research thanks to porn movies. When we got down to it, he pounded me like a jackhammer non-stop. And it hurt. I asked him to slow down, but he was afraid he'd lose wood if he did, so he throttled me until he was done and I was bruised. Luckily it was only for about 15 or 20 minutes." The Premature EjaculatorRacing to the finish line is great if you're running the New York Marathon, but when it comes to sex? Bad idea. Just ask Kelly. "I knew he was excited, especially because he knew I was a bit more experienced than he was," she says. "But man, he lasted 30 seconds, tops. Literally he pushed in and it was over. He spent more time apologizing to me—which was super annoying—than he did boinking me. Like, I get it—you're embarrassed. You're not the first it's happened to, so let's get it hard again and try a second time, for crying out loud! Instead, I had to listen to an 'I'm sorry' soliloquy."


The Everlast


But on the flipside, there's always the guy who just can't get there—and Viagra isn't to blame. "Oh my God, it was bar none the most traumatizing experience of my life," Angie sighs. "He just kept going and going and going, and he refused to stop—even when I said it was painful, even when I was dry, even when I stopped faking that it was good, which it was for the first while, but about 45 minutes in I just wanted to encourage him to finish. He was on me for at least an hour and a half—I think I lost consciousness at one point. My one tiny revenge was he was raw for a week afterward."


The Sleeper


A word to the wise: while sexual activities can drain your energy, it's poor etiquette to allow that to affect your partner's comfort. Case in point: "I'm a tiny girl—like, 5'2"—and my boyfriend was this hulking football-player type," says Denise. "So the first time we did it he was on top. The second he was done, he fell asleep. And I don't mean he rolled off me and fell asleep; I mean he fell asleep on top of me. I couldn't move him and he wouldn't wake up, so I just had to lie there and pray I didn't get crushed to death. Next time, I was on top."


The Stalker


It's not just girls who equate sex with love—sometimes guys do it too, and sometimes girls are as creeped out by it as you are. "I met this guy at a party during college," says Ellen. "We hit it off, I was in the mood, so we got it on…and it wasn't until after that he told me that he was a virgin. The actual sex was OK, but afterward—like, immediately afterward—he confessed that I was his first and started making plans for us to get married, have a family together, and started debating how he was going to tell his parents. Somehow I extracted myself from him and rushed home, but he staked out my classes, followed me around and called me non-stop for nearly a month until I had a much larger male friend tell him to go away."

Sunday, December 18, 2005

This big fan posted the still-unavailable-anywhere-but-in-Caracas Amigos Invisibles masterpiece, SuperPop Venezuela. The album, after two straight listenings, is growing on me :) Enjoy it: http://www.beyersupreme.com/lokura/superpop.htm

This can be the beginning of the end. EMI is being sued by the Beatles for not paying them circa 52 million dollars in royalties. Good news for Beatles fans, this can mean one thing: Beatles albums going to another record label which might lower the prices and increase the quality of their albums. Come on, fellas, Beatles' CDs have been out in the market since 1987 without any improvement in the album covers or remastering. Go pay 18 bucks for Rubber Soul now and it's gonna be the same copy released almost twenty years ago.

Time for Capitol/EMI to either pay them back and reach another deal or let the Beatles work with another major record label. I would love to see Beatles' albums being remastered, remixed, and released with monaural sonic power. One sweet dream...

Thursday, December 8, 2005

:)

Tuesday, December 6, 2005

ENERO



José A. Trabucco 1952 – 2000


Hugo Dante Rossi 1952 – 2004



Yacen en tumbas contiguas a la de mi padre



tenían mi edad. Los recuerdo niños, jóvenes


los imagino adultos: calvicie, barriga, matrimonios hechos, deshechos, fracasos enfermedad.


Ahora yacen en tumbas contiguas a la de mi padre.



Mario Pollarolo 1918 – 2000



Yo permanezco sentada en la banca bajo un mustio árbol en esta mañana de enero
como todos estos eneros desde que te fuiste.



Algo había que hacer después del entierro.


Inventamos una ceremonia, nos convencimos de que era obligatorio cumplirla
como antes escribir una carta a la semana, llamar por teléfono los sábados, asistir al aniversario de bodas, a los cumpleaños


y a la playa en enero. Del aeropuerto a la casa.



Ahora: del aeropuerto al cementerio.


Comprar flores, sacar las que dejó alguien aunque estén todavía frescas
el olor del agua, botarla, lavar las pequeñas jardineras, colocar agua limpia, acomodar la docena de claveles rojos cuyos tallos nunca acierto a cortar a la altura precisa.


Tardo más de lo que debo porque no quiero terminar.


Acomodada la última flor


el silencio golpea mis oídos, mis manos quietas.



Dolor de corazón.



Pretender que estás ahí, que me has visto llegar y sonríes


reconfortado


reconfortada yo


acá estoy recién llegada para quedarme todo el tiempo que sea necesario


si es cierto


que me miras desde la oscuridad del estrecho nicho donde estás desde aquel día.



Trato de rezar como he visto que hace mi madre cuando viene.


Intento hablarte, como en las películas hablan los deudos.


Contarte qué hago, qué hice


todo va muy bien soy muy feliz es muy bella la vida


para no perturbar tu reposo.



Como si yo fuera la protagonista de una ficción con la cámara delante: Acción.


La escena no tiene fin


nadie dice Corte, Toma 1. Toma 2, Toma 3



no es una película estoy sola no hay más testigos que tú y los muertos que nacieron el mismo año que yo.



¿Me escuchas acaso?


¿Sirven de algo las flores? ¿sirve de algo visitarte como si estuvieras vivo?


Demasiado silencio de ti conmigo. Si estuvieras, me hablarías


podría adivinar tu sonrisa, sentir tu mano acariciando mi cabeza, coraggio figlia, coraggio.



El sol quema mi cara y mi cabeza el calor es demasiado fuerte


pequeños mosquitos atraídos por las flores y el agua empozada castigan mis piernas


el cuello


las manos demasiado quietas.



Me levanto de la banca sin mirar tu nombre grabado ya en el mármol
sin mirar los nombres aún sin lápida de los que nacieron el mismo año que yo. Aquí solo hay moscas sol flores marchitándose agua podrida nuevos muertos.



Dolor de corazón.



(De: Lugar de refugio. Inédito)

Monday, December 5, 2005


Rolling Stone Magazine's article about the great and unique John Lennon is a very good piece of journalism full of important information about the late Beatle. However, it shows a negative side by affirming that the dream was over after his death. Without him, U.S. entered the Reagan Era and England was ruled by Tatcher's iron fist. His death didn't put those people in power, they were elected before that sad day. John was murdered the same way people die in wars: senseless and absurdly. His life stopped and he became more than immortal. He's everywhere and his music is present in every aspect of everyday life. It's hard to miss Lennon, just in the physical plane. John is still pretty much alive when people protest against the war in Iraq, against violence, racism, intolerance, bigotry, social injustice, and specially when people feel pain. He's pretty much there and the sound of his music, from the very "Love Me Do" to "Woman" is soothing, powerful, in-your-face, romantic, introspective and good, very very good.

It's impossible to imagine a world without the Beatles, and the Beatles without him. Enjoy the article!