Buscapié: Deidades

10 de agosto de 2014

Deidades

Por Gabino Iglesias / Estudiante doctoral

Son dos. Vienen en bicicleta. Van de traje y corbata, uno al lado del otro, los pies en perfecta armonía. Si uno no fuera más alto, parecería que es sólo uno de lado ante un espejo. De repente rompen la formación y se me acercan por ambos flancos. Yo, ciudadano de a pie y veterano de los peligros que van atados a la utilización de transporte público, me cuadro.

“Buenas, ¿tienes tiempo para hablar de Dios?”

La pregunta me hace desear que esto hubiese sido un inocente atraco. Bajo la cabeza y nadie me ha dejado un manual contra instintos confrontacionales. Respiro profundo y activo el mecanismo de defensa que me ayudado a sobrevivir tres décadas en este mundo: el humor. “¿Del dios de quién?”

El desencajamiento de caras es simultáneo. Las pupilas del de la derecha tratan en vano de enviar un mensaje a Houston o a su compañero: “We have a problema”. “Dios hay sólo uno”,  refuta el de la izquierda con la inmediatez de aquél que lleva el “chip” bien puesto.

“A lo peor en tu ceguera cultural sólo hay uno, pero yo conozco muchos que no le llaman así a su deidad favorita”. El silencio de ambos es elocuente. Espero diez segundos y relleno el vacío entre nosotros con la punta del iceberg de un discurso que recoge el daño que le ha hecho la religión al mundo en los últimos seis meses. Tragan. Me miran. “Si este es un mal momento para hablar del plan de Dios para ti, dinos cuándo es un buen momento."

Sonrío, los miro antes de contestar y después les abro mi puerta: "El lunes que viene a las cinco de la mañana”. Tartamudean, se ajustan la corbata, miran el reloj. Ellos a eso hora no trabajan.

“Ah, es muy temprano para su dios. Entiendo. Si ustedes no tienen tiempo para mí a esa hora, yo no tengo tiempo para ustedes ahora”.

Aguanté la risa casi hasta llegar a casa.

A short thing on plagiarism

No, this is not a post about the Nic Pizzolatto/Thomas Ligotti ordeal that everyone was talking about yesterday. Sorry. Instead, this is about the fact that I read about twenty long threads on that and repeatedly came across folks who claimed no one owns ideas. In a way, they’re right, but they’re also horribly wrong, and that worries me. You see, ideas are out there, floating in the ether since the beginning of time. They’re as hard to pin down and control as signifiers or coked up butterflies, but once those ideas take shape, mix with other ideas, and solidify in a previously unknown work of art, that particular combination belongs to someone.

Let me give you an example. I love Carlton Mellick’s The Haunted Vagina. I have to pitch my next book to Eraserhead Press, so I could send them a pitch for a novel in which a guy goes on a sexual spelunking trip and ends up trapped in his wife’s vagina, which just happens to be haunted by ghosts and populated by dancing skeletons. It’s not exactly the same as The Haunted Vagina (go to YouTube and look for Vanilla Ice’s ludicrous ding ding ding explanation to see what “not exactly the same” really means), but surely EHP would politely tell me to fuck off because they’ve already published that book. Carlton doesn’t own any of the words he used in that book and he doesn’t own the idea of skeletons, hauntings, being trapped or vaginas, but the exact combination he used in his book is all his, and anyone who thinks the whole concept in that unique incarnation is up for grabs is an idiot.

I spent two years in law school before I decided I’d much rather be a happy, broke journalist/teacher/writer than a depressed lawyer. During that time, my plan was to become a guy who helped artists get some moolah when some unoriginal hack stole their shit. That didn’t happen, but I read enough to learn a thing or two about the pros and cons of having laws against plagiarism. Plagiarism, for those who commented on every thread out there without bothering to look it up, is when someone takes the writings or literary ideas of someone else and publishes/sells/somehow makes money off of them while claiming them as his or her own writing. For those of you who want to argue the small but very important points, using brief quotes and citing is okay, but the amount used and the purpose of the usage will always be taken into consideration before fair use can successfully be brought in as a valid defense. In other words, literary ideas can be owned, and those who steal them should pay the price.

Here are a few simple examples of how this works:

- Creating a mythos full of unknown evil beings with the ability to bring forth the destruction of humanity, not to mention the sanity of any individual who’s unlucky enough to encounter them, is a really cool thing. However, if you call it the Kthulhu Mythos and "create" an aquatic monster/deity called Dag-gon, you’re an asshole and deserve to be punished.  

- Guns, drugs, bad guys, and femme fatales have been used by every crime author out there. However, if your novel is titled The Maltese Bird, deals with a man wrongly accused of murder who’s also trying to help a young woman, and your main character is named Sam Stade, you’re stealing ideas, you douche.

Plagiarism is complicated because of valid things like pastiche, paying homage to someone, and the varying degrees to which certain authors you read in your youth may influence your style and even word selection. Luckily, there are venues to solve this, and they have to do with experts looking at things side by side and deciding if you’re just a bad poet trying too hard to sound like Bukowski or if you’re a thief who paraphrased an entire text in order not to have to come up with something new. However, the important point here is that ideas can be owned. You can’t own killing as an idea, but you can own an idea where a character you created slowly murders another character you created, preferably in a unique fashion and while saying some cool shit you came up with on your own. I know accepting the weird relationship between ideas and ownership is hard, but the relationship is there and it’s an important one, so be aware of it. Okay, you can go back to reading uninformed comments online now. My apologies for the interruption. 

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.  

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.  

               

             

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.

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. 

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.