lunes, 21 de julio de 2014

Fucking Franco: A Francopera in Three Acts

Act I

With a belly
full of vodka
I try watching 
a brainless movie
Jason Statham
kicking ass
as usual
and you're there 
with an awful accent
and I shake my head 
think "Fucking Franco."

Act II

I go online 
to be words
to drink words 
to read words
about a world
gone to shit
about love
and hate
and murder
and you're there
always
this time
they're publishing 
a book of poems
POEMS!
by you
hahaha
My laughter
sounds
like Werner Herzog
crying
and I feel 
like that time 
I thought 
my Amazon ranking 
depressed me
and then 
I saw yours
And I look at my shelves 
full of poets
good ones 
and I shake my head 
think "Fucking Franco."

Act III
I meet a girl
she looks broken
mean
sour
perfect
we talk
I say books
name authors
geek out
she says
my MFA this
my MFA that
my professor knows
things
many things
I love James Franco
I think
That pervy douche?
Why?

I say bye

and I get mad
hate you a little
dislike you a lot
without any excuse to do so
(except the ones I know are true)
only because
you are movies
you are bad directing
you are selfies
you are books that shouldn't be
you are news
you are alt lit
you are all lit
you are ego
you (think you) are a god
you are PhD
you are theater 
you are everywhere
you are shirtless
you are meta
you are fucking
James Franco
and we all live in your world

Wait
except some of us
Actually
Fuck you, James Franco. Fuck you.  

domingo, 13 de julio de 2014

Buscapié: Bandwagoneros



Aquí les dejo la columna de hoy que, como muchas otras en los últimos meses, no se publicó en la versión digital del periódico. 

Bandwagoneros
por Gabino Iglesias

            Bandwagonero. El término viene de "bandwagon", el concepto utilizado en Estados Unidos para nombrar cualquier cosa a la que muchos se unen en calidad de fanáticos (o expertos) sólo porque parece estar de moda. En muchos casos, los bandwagoneros son la razón por la cual algo cobra relevancia. En fin, el asunto es un uróboros (pseudo)cultural bastante deprimente, pero el punto importante es que la mayoría de los puertorriqueños son bandwagoneros.
            Ahora es fútbol y parece que al grupo de apasionados regulares les molesta, pero puede ser boxeo, política, música o cualquier otra cosa. El boricua se suma como gota de agua a lo que sea que esté cerca del epicentro (aunque sea sólo percibido) del ojo público, y eso no es nada malo. Que somos el país del baile, la botella y la baraja es un hecho histórico y es bueno añadir de vez en cuando un poco de variedad al asunto. Si todos se cantaban fanáticos de Brasil en el Mundial, hoy se ponen camisetas de la selección Argentina para el partido final y mañana lunes se olvidan del fútbol para pasar a otra cosa, ¿que daño hacen?
            Es fácil criticar a los opinionados mal informados, a los fanáticos de cartón y a los que llevan ser veleta como bandera de sus gustos, pero hacerlo es negarles el derecho a disfrutar, aunque sea momentáneamente, de cosas que no tienen dueño. La vida en Puerto Rico puede ser una larga letanía de asesinatos, tapones, políticos ineptos, facturas deprimentes, presiones y depresiones. Para escapar de eso hay una multiplicidad de eventos, figuras y novedades que sirven de paliativos gratuitos. Eso es bueno, y aprovecharse de ello cuando todo lo demás huele a basura y sabe a tamarindo es perfectamente excusable.
            El puertorriqueño es bandwagonero, pero subirse en el tren de los que los detestan es de bandwagoneros. Recuerda aquello que tu madre te enseñó sobre compartir con el prójimo.  
               
             

jueves, 5 de junio de 2014

The Literary Haters Ball: By The Time We Leave Here, We'll Be Friends by J. David Osborne



The Literary Haters Ball: By The Time We Leave Here, We'll Be Friends by J. David Osborne

A review by: Hatebino Hateglesias.

Okay, so by the time I was done reading that freaking title, I felt like I'd done my reading for the day. Were you trying to see how many words you could fit into the front of your book, Osborne? Damn, man, take it easy on the titles. You know what? I'm gonna cut you some slack because this is, after all, your first book. However, I'll say this: we should bring back public hangings just so we can get back at the "editor" that allowed you to get away with that.

According to Amazon, this narrative (I'm calling it that so people will understand, but this damn thing is so convoluted it should be called a "nrrtaaiev") takes place in Siberia in 1953 (Way too keep your shit relevant, Osborne! You sure know what the kids want to read about these days). Stalin is dead and a thief named Alek Karriker (according to what I could find online, the author is a white dude from Oklahoma, so don't be too surprised about the hidden KKK in aleK KarriKer's name) who used to make good money, is now feeling the pressure from other bad dudes. Alek is trapped in an icy prison camp controlled by the criminals where violence, death, and chaos are everywhere (you know, much like in the story itself). Some really bad guys are planning to kill Alek and things are heating up because these lovely folks are running low on opium and getting really antsy about it. Alek knows his only way to survive is escaping the hellish prison, but escaping prison in Siberia is suicide (much like writing about it). To pull it off, he enlists the help of an aging guard and a beautiful, kinky, murderous nurse. Together they need to find a "calf" to survive the trip, which means they need another member in their group who will eventually be cannibalized when things get tough.

First thing first: J. David Osborne? What does the J stand for? I've met a few guys who start their names with a letter, and they've all been douchebags. Anyway, moving on. A sexy nurse, bad dudes doing drugs, and a calf? Wow, seems like Jessica or Johnny or Justin or whoever was trying to cram more tropes into the "nrrtaaiev" than words on the title. That being said, I kinda wish he'd stuck to the tropes, because when he tries to do "original" things, the whole story starts to collapse faster than a tower of cards in a hurricane. I'd love to tell you what doesn't work, but I'm not sure I can because this is one of the most unnecessarily complicated novels in the last ten years, so nothing works. There's a scar that moves around and some dark magic and some other weird stuff not worth mentioning because it doesn't lead anywhere. Listen, J, next time you need some psychotropics, give me a call; I know a guy who sells better stuff than whatever you're buying now.

There's some violence and a bit of sex and a lot of descriptions of cold and snow and then this thing is mercifully over. The only points Osborne gets here are for keeping this nightmare of a book short. Osborne has a smidge of talent, but he needs to do a few things if he's ever going to have a career as a writer. First, he needs to let someone else come up with the titles. Second, he needs to shorten his chapters, explain things a bit more, and use easier words. You know, like the amazing James Patterson. Also, I hope he never again writes a book where I need to go look up words because they're in another language. In the immortal words of Jules Winnfield: "English, motherfucker, do you speak it?"

Here's my verdict on this cold, pathetic mess: I could've written something better while watching a few episodes of River Monsters.

jueves, 15 de mayo de 2014

We're all poor, but you're an indolet jackass

I'm a pretty mellow guy and rarely say anything about online behavior because I understand the world is full of idiots and too many of them are lucky enough to be on the plugged side of the digital divide. That being said, there are times when no one else seems to be mad at the same thing, or at least annoyed to the point where they have to say something. I'm tired of waiting for someone else to write about how social networking sites are now the preferred platform for lazy panhandlers, so I'm doing it.

First of all, let me clear things up: I'm not talking about Kickstarter, Indiegogo, or any of the plethora of crowdfunding places out there. Those are being abused, but I'm cool with them because they're about asking for money in exchange for something they'll produce. In a way, those people are working, or at least they promise you they'll work hard to give you something for your money. What I'm talking about here are folks who ask for money because they want you to fund their dreams or pay them to be struggling artists. Here's my reply to them: fuck you. Yeah, grow up and get a damn job. I'd love to sit at home and put words together all day, but I have bills to pay, so I have two jobs. Hell, any artist in any medium would love to make a living doing what they love, but things are tough and getting to live the dream is a rare feat, so stop bitching and flip some burgers, make coffee, teach a class, walk a few dogs, paint houses, sell insurance, process mail at home, whatever. Hell, if you want quick, easy money, drive to a truck stop and give truckers some hand love for ten bucks a pop. Any of those gigs is more respectable that asking for money.  You have a house, a phone, food, a computer with internet connection...and you're asking me for moolah? You know who does that? The fucking church, and now I respect you as much as I respect them.

Oops, that was a bit of rant. Allow me to take a few breaths and continue with a slightly less abrasive discourse.

Okay. As I was saying, nowadays it's acceptable to go online and use social networking sites to ask for a handout. Since I'm a writer, most of the panhandlers I see are fellow writers/editors/publishers/whatever. You get the point: this is not directed at only them, but they're the ones I see more often. Usually they opted to do their thing full time and something went wrong. They come up with sad stories about how they got a divorce, lost their money to some random occurrence, were screwed by a dishonest publisher, never received their royalty checks, found out the writing life isn't as easy as Danielle Fernandes Dominique Schuelein-Steel makes it look, blah blah blah. Despite their bad luck, their health is intact, but they'd rather get on online and beg for money than get a job like the rest of us bus-riding commoners. Again, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, take a hike, you slothful leech. 

Listen, I'd say I'm dirt poor, but dirt is at least rich in minerals. I moved to Austin about five years ago with $230 to my name and no job. I stole toilet paper from the university and ate noodles like any other poor student. Lack of money kept me up at night. I also had to deal with idiots whose English was nowhere near mine asking me if i had a green card during job interviews. Finally, I got a job as a teaching assistant and complimented that by writing articles at 10-15 bucks a pop. I slept better. Then things got way worse, then they got better and I could afford hot sauce, then they got worse and I ended the summer of 2011 with less than three dollars in my account. Despite the ups and downs, one thing I've never done is ask for a handout because I'm lucky enough not to have cancer or be in a wheelchair, and if folks are willing to give their money away, they should give it to people who really need it for things like food, medicine, hospital bills, and shelter, not some idiot trying to achieve artistic glory.

Here's a very commonplace narrative about publishing: I wrote a novel and spent two years looking for an agent. I got one. Nothing happened and I kept on being poor...and working. I wrote Gutmouth and it got published. It did nothing for my bank account and I kept my day job. I landed more freelancing gigs and kept working as a TA while I wrote and reviewed and did other things I enjoy. Now I'm slowly working on some stuff, and if it gets published, I'll celebrate like a motherfucker, plug it like crazy, and then go to work. See? It's not that hard: a job, or two, is the way you pay for your choices.

If I had to choose between an asshole that puts a link to his book on your wall or one who asks for dough, I'll pick the former. At least that asshole is giving you something in return. Wanna ask for money? Here's the right way to do it: "Hello, my finances are as messed up as they've always been, so I would really appreciate it if you bought my book. You'll have fun reading it and I'll be able to buy cereal. Plus, you can have a year of my life for the price of a cup of coffee. Please click HERE. Thank you!" Yeah, it's that easy. Oh, and 99% of the folks you send that to will ignore your ass. Be ready for that. Sorry if no one told you, but that's part of the hustle.
 
As long as there are kids starving somewhere in the world, idle asses who stay home working on their "craft" and expect the rest of us to pay for it will piss me off. Anyway, I'm done with this. Surely someone will take this as a personal attack and then they'll insult/curse/correct me. Great for them. I'd love to engage, but I have to go to work and then get some writing done. Happy hustle. 

jueves, 17 de abril de 2014

Buscapié: Orgullo



Aquí les dejo la columna del fin de semana pasado. Cuidado con el orgullo injustificado. 

Orgullo
Gabino Iglesias

            Cuando busco escapatoria del trabajo y separarme de la computadora no es una opción, me conecto a Facebook. Por lo general siempre es lo mismo. Hay chistes mongos, noticias faltas, ortografía pésima, algún artículo interesante de ciencia, muchas fotos (la mayoría de mascotas) y la típica frase del que no entiende cómo funcionan las redes sociales ni los humanos: "Estoy destruida por algo que me pasó, pero no quiero hablar de eso."
            Todo ello me parece inofensivo y, dependiendo del día, hasta buen entretenimiento gratuito. Sin embargo, últimamente me he topado con una tendencia peligrosa que apunta a un problema profundamente arraigado en el consciente colectivo boricua: el orgullo injustificado.
            Si alguien critica la Isla del Desencanto o señala con tristeza el grotesco estado de la criminalidad, inmediatamente aparece una tropa de orgullosos y nombran el Yunque, las playas, las mujeres bellas, algún boxeador retirado, un artista (por lo general nacido en Estados Unidos), el Viejo San Juan, alguna montaña y aquel mito ridículo de que Puerto Rico lo hace mejor como prueba infalible de nuestra calidad y absoluta superioridad. Claro está, ninguno de ellos se toma la molestia de explicar en qué exactamente es tan deslumbrante el desempeño del país. Resulta que fuimos, somos y seremos los mejores, pero nadie sabe en qué.
            Da lástima que mis compatriotas sientan un orgullo ciego y vacuo por cosas que nada tienen que ver con ellos. Se puede sentir orgullo por los recursos naturales del país (sobre todo si ese amor lleva a su preservación), pero mencionar la belleza de las playas como contrapunto a la necedad rampante es como decir que Puerto Rico es mejor que Suecia porque el clima es mejor en invierno.
            El amor patrio es una cosa peligrosa. Se puede amar a la tierra que te vio nacer, pero el momento en que ese afecto te ciega, se pasa del apego al fanatismo, y el fanatismo es, por lo general, el más peligroso sinónimo de estupidez.

martes, 11 de marzo de 2014

Buscapié: 15 Verdades



Aquí está el Buscapié del domingo pasado. No salió en la versión digital del periódico. 
 
15 Verdades
Gabino Iglesias

1. Fue la bella quien mató a la bestia.
2. Ante una realidad social con cara de cáncer, todo entretenimiento, por profundo que parezca, es sólo un paliativo.
3. Estudios recientes han demostrado que tanto el tamaño de los aros de un vehículo como la falta de uso de la luz para señalizar un cambio de carril guardan una correlación negativa directa con el coeficiente intelectual del conductor.
4. Las apuestas sobre la duración de la nueva librería de Plaza Carolina siguen abiertas, pero nadie dice nada.
5. Utilizar una sexualidad opuesta a la declarada en público es el nuevo cliché de los videos musicales.
6. Políticos del PNP que no saben hablar inglés son la definición de ironía estúpida, pero hace tiempo que dejaron de ser graciosos.
7. A la vanguardia de la nueva masculinidad puertorriqueña está un grupo de hombres con peinados en hace veinte años sólo se encontraban en las cabezas de "ghetto queens."
8. El buen gusto es subjetivo, pero hablar de calidad hoy en día es un anacronismo imperdonable en casi todas las esferas.
9. Política, basura y estancamiento son sinónimos.
10. Todo hombre que se respete es feminista.
11. Todos estamos (des)enfocados en el progreso del país...siempre y cuando no cueste mucho, los beneficios sean inmediatos y las cosas se hagan como yo quiero.
12. No hay peor pecado que dar la impresión de que se pertenece a una elite intelectual porque ser bruto es "cool"...y duele menos.
13. Toda perversión es mala. La diferencia estriba en que las que habitan a la sombra de la iglesia tienen aire de permisibles.
14. La honestidad escasea tanto en las redes sociales como lo hace en la vida real. Por suerte, en el universo digital la mentira se maquilla mucho mejor.
15. Yo tú el nosotros vosotros ellos es cosa del pasado; la versión moderna es yo yo yo yo yo yo.

viernes, 28 de febrero de 2014

A poem about two men

A man walked 
into a room
and found a small
square 
white thing
on the floor.
The man picked the thing up
turned it
looked for a way
to open it
shook it
hit it with the palm
of his hand.
The thing remained
unchanged.
square
stoic.
The man felt anger
swell in his chest
like a small beast
that punched his
nipples
from inside
his chest.

A second man 
walked into the room
and saw the first man
biting the square thing.
I wouldn't do that
said the second man.
Why?
asked the first man.
Well, because that thing
Yeah, okay, I get it
interrupted the first man
and bit into
the square thing
again.

The square thing
exploded.
The first man's arms
were blown off
the stumps bled
profusely
like a Tarantino movie
his teeth were
mostly gone
like those
of an armless
boxer
his right eye
hung 
rolled 
bumped
against his cheek.

Why didn't you tell me
this thing could explode?
asked the first man.
The second man
shrugged
because he knew
explaining that he'd tried
was now
useless.

The first man dropped
to his knees
made some noise
bled to death.

Humans are stupid.