Pearls of BS

Loving: Theophilus London, "Wine & Chocolates"

2011-05-10T23:48:00.003+02:00

"Run the world (Girls)" - "Pon de floor" or the wonders of recycling

2011-04-24T21:54:00.007+02:00

So you might have heard Beyoncé's new single, Run The World (Girls), where she's back to easy girl power messages. You know, boys are so bad and they make us girls cry, but we girls we are strong and powerful and we can hold them by the balls if we want to.

The funny thing is, she samples, well, she practically just puts her vocals over a track called Pon De Floor by dancehall artist Major Lazer, and that video doesn't look all that feminist to me... I warn you, this is some viewer-discretion-advised kind of thing, NSFW, and not suitable for homosexuals allergic to raunchy displays of heterosexuality.

Major Lazer "Pon De Floor" ft. Vybz Kartel and... par DowntownMusic

I just wonder, will Beyoncé copy some of the moves for her video? Now I can't shake off the image of her and Jay-Z recreating the jumping-off-the-ladder trick at 3:14 and I don't know if I'll sleep tonight.

Videos like this make me really think Anderson Cooper should not only be the US President but also Earth's President

2011-04-23T20:28:00.005+02:00

[via Mediaite]

My two cents on "Judas" (the song, not God's tool for great storytelling)

2011-04-17T22:29:00.009+02:00

Disclaimer: I'm sort of a Gaga fan, but I also happen to be prone to awkward displays of admiration, like when I said to a female friend in high school: "I love your earrings, they look like toilet flush chains". Actually, that music monster and, above all, media monster called Lady Gaga makes it very easy for everyone to walk that line between snickering praise and amused disapproval.

I'm aware of all the "borrowing" going on with her, musically and aesthetically, but I don't care. I'm pretty skeptical when it comes to originality. Just name one artist, any field, that doesn't make you think of someone else or a mix of references. What's important is that the artist achieves his/her own, recognizable blend, and nobody can deny the Upper East Side crazy girl that accomplishment. If when Born This Way was released everybody was pointing at the resemblance with Madonna's Express Yourself (which I'm sure most people wouldn't have spotted if they hadn't read or heard about it first), now for her next single, Judas, Lady Gaga has borrowed from someone she really loves: herself. Let's say this song's about her Bad Romance with a biblical figure. RedOne's aggressive, overwhelming boom-thump-boom-thump production is back. And, for everybody's fun, Gaga's antics as a lyricist are back in good shape.

Let's face it, there's no song in The Fame/ The Fame Monster in which she gets to make sense from start to end and stick to the subject. Maybe one, Brown eyes, which stands out for its simplistic beauty. If it wasn't for that song and her lucidity while interviewed, I would tend to regard the Gaga phenomenon as post-modern horror vacui, an overload of whatever she can come up with to hide the void, without filling it with purpose or depth. That's why I was happy to hear Born This Way, her first song with a real message, even if it was a message we've heard before: express-yourself-because-you-are-beautiful-no-matter-what-they-say-McDonalds-come-as-you-are.

Well, for those who found that was almost too explicit for her, there goes Judas.

Lady Gaga - JUDAS by igapromotion

Oh Gaga, you falling in love with the wrong guy again, and he gets you splitting syllables again. OK, I got it, you're all yin yang now, and this album's about that conflictual but complementary duality. "How can I protect something so perfect without evil?", you were wondering not so long ago. And now you're in love with Judas but something's putting you away from him, basically your virtue, Jesus. Yeah, you say "Jesus is my virtue", three lines after uttering the words "ear condom". Girl, that's bad-ass, as you promised this song would be. I'm actually surprised you didn't say anything along the lines: "Judas, I could be yours, but Jesus is cock-blocking you".

And Gaga, just admit your singing in the track is not Caribbean-inspired as some are saying, but just your way of hiding the prevalent lack of rhyme in the verses. You get to rhyme "fool" and "cruel", though. Wow.

Plus, there are moments where it seems you're talking as if you were Jesus. You're calling yourself "just a holy fool". You present yourself as the one who washes feet, as the receiver of Judas's kiss and the victim of Judas's betrayal, "even after three times"... By the way, you have some confused memories of your Bible readings as a child: the "king with no crown" was Jesus, Judas wasn't a demon, he didn't kiss Jesus because he felt offended but in order to let the baddies know which one they had to arrest, and the three times in the Passion don't have to do with Judas but with Peter (AKA San Pedro, the one Madonna fell in love with), who denied Jesus three times before the rooster crowed.

*Sigh*

Mess.

The only words of wisdom in the song: "I’ve learned love is like a brick, you can build a house or sink a dead body". Amen, Gaga. Happy Easter!

PS: sorry for getting pedantic on the Scriptures. I spent twelve years of my life in a Catholic school and I learned how to keep the right distance between mouth and mic reading at church. That's my excuse.

Discovering: Theophilus London, "Flying Overseas" and "Why Even Try"

2011-03-30T22:07:00.007+02:00

I'm in love with the wacky shirt. The video art effects are nice, the music's nice, but he got me with that shirt. I'd Fly Overseas with anyone capable of wearing that shirt and that hat and not looking like a fool. For a more serious introduction of the artist, check Zion'ology, thanks to whom I just heard about this Brooklyn rapper with such a theatrical name.

And he has just released a new video, Why Even Try, which I like a little bit less because of the "I'm still in the sample-borrowing mixtape phase but I pretend to be already big and chased by paparazzi" attitude. But hey, if more famous artists are doing mixtapes (PayPal-record-breaking though they might be, Lil Kim, cue snickering) or borrowing-slash-stealing samples and pretending they're hot shit (you hear that, Will.I.Am?), why not.

Theophilus London - Music - More Music Videos

Admitting I like: Random Singer AKA Britney Spears, "Selfish"

2011-03-30T21:09:00.005+02:00

For many of us, Britney is like that old acquaintance from high school who we sort of grew up with and who, we all know, has had 99 problems and the bitches are more than one (it's Britney bitch), so we go easy on her, we don't slam her performances even if they're incredibly disappointing (VMA 2007, GMA 2011...), and we pat her back for the slightest sign of improvement (hey, she doesn't do drugs anymore, hooray girl!).

But listen, I have a confession to make: I do like this bonus track from her Femme Fatale effort (sic). Obviously, it's Stargate's merit, because with any other random singer the track would be just as good. But hey *patting her back* hooray girl!

And I also must admit some of the lyrics of this song got me tempted of making this another "Say it for me" post...

Say it for me, Madge

2011-03-30T20:11:00.005+02:00

The only line I don't relate to is the very first one, "Your heart is not open", because it was mine that shut down. And he "was my fortress", as well...

I was in my early teens when this video was released. It was back in the days when I would use music to improve my English, checking the lyrics on the album booklets or on websites (which took much longer to load but had far fewer ads back then), thoroughly looking up every word I didn't understand. often translating the whole thing into my mother tongue, Spanish. If my memory's right, this song was pretty easy to translate, and I only learned two new words: yearn and bruise.

But the dictionary could only help me understand this and other songs to a certain extent. In order to fully apprehend the meaning, I yet had to live.

Madonna - The Power of Good-Bye par foxysoul

PS: never did Madonna appear as beautiful as in this video.

Liking: Cazwell, "Get my money back"

2011-03-25T17:06:00.002+01:00

Gay rapper Cazwell has just released a new video, "Get my money back", changing the sticky and sweet melody of "Ice Cream Truck" for a more aggressive, club banger sound -but keeping some of the dancers, if my visual memory is right. If he describes the video as "Fight Club versus National Geographic", I guess I'm not the only one to see the shadow of that Bloodhound Gang "Discovery Channel" video...

[via ACDG]

Liking: Rohff & Zaho, "Fais doucement"

2011-03-23T01:47:00.008+01:00

My favorite Arabic girl in French-speaking urban music treats us with this collaboration while we wait for her upcoming sophomore album. Don't let the car ride fool you, Rohff and Zaho want you to slow down, do things slowly but surely in life, and avoid any kind of excess. I'm not such a big fan of French hip hop but it sounds like a good break from designer-brand-naming American rap.

Rohff (Featuring Zaho) - "Fais Doucement" par rohff

Liking: Tinie Tempah, "Wonderman"' ft. Ellie Goulding

2011-03-23T01:07:00.004+01:00

OK, I'm really late for this one as the video is two months old now, which means really old considering the pace of today's music industry ("OMG, that's so January!"), so sorry, especially UK-based readers. I discovered Tinie Tempah not so long ago when his successful song Pass out started playing at an HMV store in Ashford, just in time to prevent me from, well, passing out out of boredom while waiting for my co-workers to decide if they were buying anything or not and what -by the way, one of them, officially straight, was about to buy Madonna's Celebration album if you can believe that.

Talking about believing, Tinie's gym demeanor is rather doubtful but I love that he doesn't take himself too seriously in this The Six Million Dollar Man homage. Ellie's voice distortion doesn't do justice to her singing abilities but oh well. And yeah, rap purists are rolling their eyes at Tinie's diversion from grime to a more mainstream sound -hey, look, even gay guys are blogging about him, anathema!

Order and structure and red peppers

2011-03-22T23:37:00.004+01:00

Yeah, I'm here, sort of. Lacking time, absorbed by work -it would really help if Google made a Blackberry-friendly version of Blogger so I could post and check all your blogs during my long commutes... But lacking motivation as well, as whenever I try to write a personal update I feel overwhelmed by everything that has happened to me since the previous entry and I'm supposed to give you an account of...

So guess what? I'll leave that for some other time. Let's just say that I'm fine. I've spent these last days off cleaning, tidying up, reorganizing everything in my shitty tiny studio, even sorting out my bank mail since 2005... I need order and structure, both at home and in my mind. I'm working on it, and I feel it's paying off, really. Tidying up thoroughly, I found some hidden mementos, half of which I decided to get rid of as those events and moments they were supposed to make me remember I know I'll never forget anyway. And I also found the p of p-e-a-c-e o-f m-i-n-d, that's a beginning. In many ways, I still haven't figured out where my heart is, or where my head is, but I have a guess now. Does that make sense? No. Who cares. I feel better. Not so weak. Not at such a loss. That's a beginning. The other day, one of my co-workers gave me a keyhole compass some guest left behind, and now I wear it symbolically attached to my uniform pants. Apparently, its arrow doesn't really point north, but who cares, I'm not planning to go there anyway.

What's really encouraging is to see that whenever I squeeze a new post in, you guys show me you're still there. Thank you for that unconditional support. And to thank you, here's a treat: model Courtney Grant gracing the current issue of DNA with his... red peppers [via ACDG, more pics there].

Don't speak, Hillarys of this world, just go

2011-03-22T03:45:00.001+01:00

Liking: Jessie J, "Price Tag"

2011-01-31T20:36:00.000+01:00

Loving: Chiddy Bang, "Bad Day" ft. Darwin Deez

2011-01-21T22:12:00.001+01:00

Liking: Kanye West, "Monster" ft. Rick Ross, Jay-Z, Nicki Minaj, Bon Iver... Am I forgetting anyone?

2011-01-06T15:13:00.003+01:00

Yeah, I'm easy these days. Anything that reminds me of two of my favorite series (True Blood and The Walking Dead), with Nicki Minaj and the lyrics "[sniff] I smell a massacre" on it, I like.

Oldie of the week: Encarnita Polo, "Pepa Bandera"

2011-01-06T12:09:00.004+01:00

Liking: Jenifer, "Je danse"

2011-01-05T02:07:00.000+01:00

The last four months. Part II: Getting in trouble

2011-01-04T22:08:00.005+01:00

The problem with fantasies is that they belong to the realms of the unreal, the untouchable. Their power is your longing, their beauty is your crave, but as soon as they become real and they're no longer out of your reach, you feel all was vanity and chasing the wind. If there is no record of the discovery of a real unicorn, it is probably because if anyone ever found one and took it home, they eventually realized it was just a horse with a horn, shitting all over their yard, and out of embarrassment they didn't tell anybody.Those who got to spend a night with Marilyn Monroe woke up with a woman with messier hair and a character harder to handle than they had thought. Look at that poster boy you drool over and think of the next day after taking him home when he shouts that he's run out of toilet paper and you enter the bathroom to hand him some more before he flushes. You wouldn't mind? Well, maybe that's love, not just a fantasy...

A head taller than me, dark chocolate skin, lean muscle showing through a black tank top, his shaved head sticking above the crowd in the club, and those big, dark eyes meeting mine and holding the stare. Too many party queens on the dance floor to make it easy to dance, I was getting pushed by everybody around me, I gave him a shy smile, I got pushed once again and rolled my eyes, and with a subtle hand gesture he invited me to join him and made some space for me. We exchanged our random first words and I caressed his hand slightly, he smiled and held mine. I saw his dentist had some work to deal with, but the sight of his tongue curving against the gap of his front teeth just turned me on even more.

My boyfriend had dumped me earlier that week, I was feeling abandoned, unattractive and unable to move on, and all of a sudden I had that piece of African splendor paying me some attention. It was a joke of destiny, or the kind of cheap way of trying to save a show after some alarming November sweeps: enter the hottie. This one was a mix of Mehcad Brooks and French TV journalist Harry Roselmack. Kudos to the casting department.

You heard well, that was when my boyfriend had dumped me. A hot summer night during our short break-up before the attempt of reconciliation and my turn to dump him. Everybody scream: SLUT!

In my defense, technically my beau and I weren't together, so that wasn't cheating, and the African Prince and I didn't do much more than flirting and kissing. It was fun, but I got irritated by the Parisian gay bitches coming between us every five minutes to steal my new date, drink thrown at my back out of jealousy included. I met him again the next evening, but then he paid more attention to his friends than to me and I got a couple red alerts, like signs of huge ego, macho attitude and not the slightest intention of getting his wallet out to pay for drinks. The next day, I called him to tell him nicely that I couldn't go on seeing him, because I wasn't totally over my recent break-up and I needed time on my own. He said that he understood and that whenever I felt ready I could call him to see if he was still available.

Days later, I found myself going back to my beau, who claimed he hadn't really meant to break up but only to give me a lesson (hello?), but the reconciliation didn't happen to be such either. When I announced it was over, I did mention vaguely that I had flirted a little bit during the break-up, but I made it clear that I wasn't dumping him for anyone else.

Which was true, even if I kinda started dating the African Prince little after my new ex flew back to the States. Everybody scream: SLUT!

As soon as he'd landed in New York, my ex had been sending me veiled hateful messages through Facebook updates and messages, which I could sort of justify because of the pain he had to be feeling, but which still looked unfair, as I'd done everything I could to end things as smoothly as possible, considering my own share of suffering. The whole process leading to the break-up had been way too long and I felt he didn't have the right to affect me anymore. I wanted so badly to move on, to start walking the next stretch of my path without him in the picture. And deep inside, I was so scared of giving in and calling him to say "Please take me back" just out of fear of being alone...

When I texted the African hottie, I didn't have dating in mind. I just wanted to get some fun to shake all the gloomy thoughts away. But he didn't reply in the next hour, actually he didn't reply at all that day. That night, I decided to go chill in Le Marais. I got in the first bar, ordered a beer, I turned my back and, who did I see? Him. Sometimes destiny likes repeating the joke, just in case you didn't get it.

The last four months. Part I: Break-up with three-week notice

2011-01-04T19:30:00.008+01:00

During my three-month break-up with my boyfriend, there were many times where I wanted to blog about what was going on in my head... and in my bed. But I just couldn't.

Why? Because I didn't have much time on my hands between working my ass off at the Factory (with an average of two trips to England a week) and starring in my very own daytime drama series. Because it takes some thought to write a post and, after having spent most of 2010 overthinking, I was trying a less reflective approach on life, for a change. And because, I must admit it, I was afraid of my readers' judgment.

Now, where should I begin? After months of crisis, a short break-up that was his decision and a weak reconciliation, I decided to end things with my beau early in September. Despite the break-up, we spent three weeks together and we went on the trip we had planned, but obviously not exactly as planned. Ever since he left I've been trying so hard not to look back at those three weeks than it's only now that I realize how painful they were.

A broken heart becomes selfish and mine was no exception. I had been suffering for months and I had been telling myself: "I don't want to suffer like this", which translated as "I don't want to suffer from this relationship", which translated as "I don't want to love him". That's what consciously or unconsciously I had been repeating myself, and eventually I believed it, eventually I was sure I didn't love him anymore. And I wanted to be done with the suffering, with the relationship, with him, and make sure he understood there was no going back, with little gestures that were just necessarily harsh for me but downright cruel for him. In my mind, I was just putting my foot down, while he felt tortured. Protecting my feelings at all costs, I was trying to see in those moments of fun we got to have together during those last three weeks a sign of a healthy and mature break-up, whereas for him they were the unbearable reminder of what he was about to lose forever.

Of course, my imaginary fortress wasn't all that unassailable. One morning, I woke up and I immediately realized the man who was in bed with me, whom I had thought the man of my life, was leaving in a couple hours, to never come back. I cried like I had promised myself not to cry over him again. During the train ride to the airport he looked cold and distant, but his eyes screamed defeat. He was broken. I couldn't stand it. I wanted him to go so all the pain could be gone. And still, for one second, already at the airport, I told myself: "If he says it, if he just says I love you or Please don't do this, I will give in".

But he didn't. He finally disappeared behind the security control, and that's when the whole Terminal 2 of Charles de Gaulle Airport, the infamous scene of so many of our separations and reunions, collapsed on me, and even some planes crashed on top of the tones of blood-splattered debris. End of Act V.

On my way back home, I figured out there was maybe someone I could text...

Loving: Ellie Goulding, "Your song"

2010-12-28T19:50:00.004+01:00

Okay, we've heard this song many times, but I like her version, and my man is coming tomorrow -that if his flight dodges the wrath of winter-, so I'm in the mood for this.

Oldie of the Week: Gene Pitney, "Mecca" (1963)

2010-12-27T00:38:00.002+01:00

Next week on Pearls of BS...

2010-12-25T18:10:00.008+01:00

The answer to your question Where the hell have you been?! and why I've neglected my blog for three months...

How I tried to forget my ex with another man and failed...

The problem with fantasies: they are like unicorns. When you finally find one, you realize it's just a horse with a stupid horn and it shits all over your yard...

How I got an African hunk moving in so I could watch him doing crunches in D&G briefs while I had my coffee in the morning... but also sprinkling holy water all over my apartment before going to bed...

Why I had to dump his ass...

How my ex-boyfriend became my re-boyfriend...

And more...

Happy Holidays!!!

2010-12-25T13:23:00.003+01:00

* Joyeux Noël = Merry Christmas

Hello... again

2010-12-15T12:11:00.000+01:00

Misleading Searches Jul-Sep'10

2010-10-05T13:13:00.006+02:00

[section formerly known as "Misleading Google"]

I haven't written this section for three months, I actually haven't written much in the last three months, and people keep landing on my blog for the wrong purposes. Especially asking questions that I can't really answer. Or can I?

"Why isn't Julieta Venegas in the Bajo Otra Luz video?". That's something that I was wondering myself when I posted that video. Only for you, I've spent twenty seconds of my life googling for an explanation and, according to Wikipedia, "Julieta Venegas does not appear in the video because of her pregnancy". Now you're going to ask who got her pregnant, but I can only help you this much. I'm not exactly the geeky-looking girl with thick glasses from Criminal Minds and I usually get the information I want from the net. If I can, you can...

"Is Mike Posner gay?", or better, "is Mike Posner Jewish and gay?". I don't know, I don't care. But can a man be Jewish and gay at the same time? How is that possible? I don't think so. Oh, and men from the south of Italy can't be gay, either, according to one of my co-workers who's from there so he must know what he's talking about.

"Does Mike Posner has any relation to Lady Gaga?". No. Lady Gaga is neither homosexual nor Jewish, it wouldn't work.

More disturbing than Mike Posner's sudden relevance on the list of internet searches misleading people to this blog, there are certain inquiries about certain individuals I've never heard about and I don't think are remotely famous. "Que se sabe de la muerte de Robert Hundley Doria?" ("what is known about Robert Hundley Doria's death?") is probably the weirdest search in the last three months. When I googled the name myself, the first thing I learned is that Robert Hundley Doria is on Facebook. Creepy. Another person was looking for information on "Marybeth Dupain's family". I don't know anyone with that name, trust me, I'd remember.

Changing subject quickly, let's get dirty! "Legs and hands in sex": yeah, you can use them. Don't forget to wash them before and after, though. "Zib": I didn't know this word and, apparently, it can either stand for Zuse Institute Berlin or translate, according to Urban Dictionary, as dick in Arabic, which might stand or not. However, not everyone likes cryptic names and others love to be clear and concise to find what they're looking for: "big black gay dick". Wait a minute, maybe it's not that clear. A dick can be big and black, but can a dick be gay? Is the dick gay in itself or the owner is? I'm imagining some guy on a talk show complaining: "I'm straight but my penis is gay", and suffering from spasms like those of Dr. Strangelove's prosthetic arm. Hmm...

And to shake those neurological or maybe philosophical thoughts off our heads, nothing like a new hottie discovery: Deray Dalone. Enjoy.

Liking: Mala Rodriguez, "Galaxias Cercanas"

2010-10-05T13:08:00.000+02:00

Liking: Shakira, "Loca"

2010-10-05T12:01:00.006+02:00

Shakira seems to be a little bit tired of rock guitars, disco beats, gongs, banjos and vuvuzelas, as well as of composing her own music, so here she comes with this cover of something my hometown's local verbena band could have come up with, rather effortlessly, in a couple spare hours between their day jobs and their family duties. Pure, plain, latino sound. Crazy but I like it.

The only foreign elements are her hair color, the English language (there's a Spanish version, too, don't worry), and the British touch by Dizzie Rascal -whose existence I ignored until that night I was bored in my hotel room in Ashford, Kent and I gave British TV a try only to come across Must be the music...

And I assumed you all heard about the shaky Colombian's trouble with authorities in Barcelona for the shooting of this video.

Oldie of the week: Donna Hightower, "This World Today Is A Mess"

2010-10-05T10:53:00.005+02:00

I discovered this pearl thanks to a funny French comedy, Palais Royal! (French comedy and funny do not necessarily go together, but in this case they did).

I was about to name this post "Say it for me, Donna", but no, I'm not being all that negative these days...

Αθήνα

2010-09-07T22:19:00.006+02:00

So yeah, I'm in Athens. And yeah, I'm traveling with my ex.

Long story short, a couple weeks after the break-up, I got offered an open-ended contract at the Factory and I called him to check if he was still planning to come to Europe, so I could figure out the way to get those days off. That led to an apparent reconciliation. But during those weeks before his arrival in Paris, I realized that break-up had been the last stab to our relationship. I was already heartbroken. Two days later, we were arguing again. It wasn't the brand new chance we had promised each other, but it was just about taking things from where we had left it, which wasn't a good place. I still had feelings for him, but I felt like I really needed to try a life without him. In a different relationship, with fewer arguments, less suffering, with someone who's at least only a metro ride away. Or alone, but free. And certain things had happened to me during the break-up, just some innocuous flirting but quite an eye-opener. It was over with him.

I felt bad. I felt evil, weak, immature. Should I have told him before he got to Paris? Maybe, but I didn't. Because I was hoping I would have a change of heart as soon as I saw him in person, the big epiphany of the rebirth of love. And if that didn't happen, I needed a real break-up, face to face, not on Skype, not on the phone, not through texting, Facebook, or Twitter, an old-fashioned break-up, so it would feel real and definite.

He arrived, and as hard as I was trying to convince myself it could still work, it wouldn't. My attempts to stage normality only led to sudden outbursts of crying. And he said: "whatever is going on, I need to know". And I told him. It took me one more day to finish giving him all the reasons, and I sort of regret the fact that what got stuck in his mind as the main reason was my need to have other experiences while I'm young, which is inaccurate, but I'm fine with that. All in all, he proved to be the caring, understanding, generous person I fell in love with.

The only thing is... there was a trip scheduled. Paris-Barcelona-Athens-Mykonos-Paris. I asked several times if he really wanted me to come with him. Yes, he insisted. Why should I stay in Paris? Everything was booked and paid for, it would be a huge money waste if I didn't come. And the break-up would probably be even more radical and traumatic for both of us. But how could I travel with my brand new ex? I didn't want it to look like I was enjoying the perks of dating him even after dumping him, like the ultimate freeloader. And this time, the break-up was supposed to be effective immediately, not to come with a three-week notice.

I started packing.

I just spent three days with him in Barcelona, our second time there, and today we arrived in Athens, our first time here. Our hotel is kind of old but decently kept, and the views from the rooftop to the Acropolis and to the city are amazing. If that wasn't enough, there's free wi-fi, hence this blog update. I'm in the room. He's sleeping. We have separate beds here. We tried being friends with benefits in Barcelona, but sometimes it is too painful. I'm enjoying this trip and I thank him for making this easier than I thought, but that doesn't mean I don't feel like screaming now and then, or counting down the days until he leaves back to the States on the 21st so the whole thing is over and done with.

Maybe awkwardness tastes better with tzartziki.

When you go get tested, you don't want nurses panicking, do you?

2010-08-29T19:30:00.003+02:00

Just some minor anecdote. Two days ago, I went to get tested, not for any particular worry but it had been a year since the last test and I like to do it periodically. I always go to the same center, where they do anonymous, free blood tests. The only pain in the ass is that you have to wait ten days for the results, and you need to get them in person, obviously.

The process is always the same. You get there and you wait for your turn to get in the front office where a nurse asks you your date of birth, your age and if there's any particular reason why you want to get tested. Then she gives you a handmade card with a number for the doctor's waiting room, and another card with a sticker with the reference number for your test. Identical stickers with the same reference number are going to be put on the notebook where they keep track of everything and on the plastic bag with your blood samples. But we're not there yet.

Before that, you go upstairs to the second waiting room, too small and with not enough chairs so people end up having to sit all the way down the stairs. Some people will say bonjour as they get there, others will try to be as invisible as they can be. You can read fear or shame in some faces, some will avoid eye contact, some will read the 20 minutes free newspaper -which might take you more than twenty minutes to read but never longer than the wait-, others will isolate themselves with their headphones. And here's the trick: people coming for the results have to see the same doctor, they are on the same waiting list and at the same waiting room. You can't really tell what people are there for until they get out of the doctor's office. If it is really quick and they have a bunch of papers in their hands when they leave, they were there for the results and they're negative. If it takes around four minutes and they leave with only one sheet, the test prescription, well, they're going to get tested today. If it takes much longer than that, but then they leave in a rush with the papers, they were coming for the results, and... well, who knows. You only know for sure when you hear a sudden cry from inside the doctor's office.

Anyhow, when the doctor calls your number, you go in, and he asks you if you've gotten tested before, when that was if you have, if you have sex with men or women, how many sex partners you've had in the last year... And, accessorily, where you're from, with what airline you can fly cheaper to the Canary Islands, and when is the best time of the year to book a trip there, like a giddy Greek doctor asked me the first time I went there two years ago -the fact that I did have somehow a particular reason to get tested at that time just made it even more surrealistic.

Then he signs your test prescription and you go back downstairs to the blood draw room. The nurses ask your date of birth and a couple more questions again to double-check. They prick you, they fill a couple tubes with your most precious fluid, and alea jacta est.

Unless, you know, something awkward happens.

The other day, I hesitated, as I always do, when I was asked my age at the front office. I'm going to be 26 next month, so I said: "26, well, 25, I'll be 26 next month". "So you're 25", the nurse concluded, abruptly, and I saw her writing a thicker 5 over the 6 she had written initially. I did give her my right date of birth.

Then I had to wait even longer than expected to see the doctor -he had arrived late, when a dozen people were already waiting to see him- but everything was normal until I went to get my blood drawn. There were three female nurses and a male trainee nurse. One of the females was holding the notebook and asked me my date of birth. I answered. "Sorry?", she said, alarmed. I answered again. She looked at the other nurses and said: "it doesn't match".

Nurse panic.

It only lasted five minutes, but it felt long. Really long. Apparently there have been a mistake and it wasn't the right reference number stuck next to my info. And as we were in France, their first reaction was to think it was my fault. The four nurses were looking at the notebook at the same time trying to understand what had happened when one of them turned to me and asked: "have you swapped your reference number with anybody at the waiting room?". "No". "Did you drop it and pick one from the floor thinking it was yours?". "No", I insisted, and I was more annoyed by the tone than the question. Another nurse got kind of cocky and said: "You understand that this is very important, in order that nobody gets the wrong results". I was about to tell her: "Oh really?", but it wasn't the time for sarcasm, so I said, solemnly: "I do, that's why I'm doing whatever I can to sort this out"'.

When I thought my good will had been acknowledged, they called the nurse from the front office, she came in, grabbed the notebook, and asked: "what's your date of birth?". I answered, once again. "Then why did you tell me you were born on June 15, 1977?", she almost shouted at me. That's when I felt like getting up, storming out and running for hours, out of Paris and not stopping until I reached some green pastures under the sun and away from human follies. But I just replied: "I didn't tell you that. I was born in September 1984. That's why first I hesitated and said I was 26, then 25, because I won't be 26 until next month, remember? There's a thick 5 over the 6 in your handwritten notes".

She stopped to think for half a second, and then... She asked me, no, she told me to show her my identity card. I didn't hesitate for a second to comply, and I even pointed at my date of birth, as it was a Spanish identity card she probably wasn't familiar with. I just wanted to get done with it. It wasn't until a minute later when she had left and everything was clear and the trainee nurse was pricking me that I thought: shit. With no protocol or tact whatsoever, they had broken the principle of anonymity, and not until they had done that had they stopped accusing me indirectly of dishonesty. Maybe I was some idiot who had lied about my date of birth out of over-cautiousness to conceal my identity and who, being an idiot, couldn't even remember the fake date of birth I had given. Or maybe I was just an asshole, a despicable human being that couldn't find any better way to spend the early morning than going to an HIV and STD testing center to fuck everything up. But when it was clear that that wasn't the case, did you hear a désolé? Neither did I.

I won't be hating because, well, they just panicked. And they were kind of nice to me after the mess was over, despite the absence of an apology. The trainee nurse admired how fast my blood flew into the tubes: "I can see you do sports", he said. I've been failing to go running for a month and the last time I put my feet on a gym Michael Jackson was alive -happy birthday by the way-, but I guess the physical part of my job qualifies as sports. Then another nurse gave me two condoms in some beautiful flowered packaging. They were giving them to everybody but she really made sure I got them.

I'm not switching to a different center, all in all. But phew...

From the Editor/Bullshitter-in-Chief

2010-08-29T18:01:00.003+02:00

As I announced a couple days ago, I'm back to blogging. I'm going to be pretty busy in the next weeks and I might not be able to post or comment on your blogs as often as I'd like to, but I'm here.

I've missed you all and I insist on thanking you for all your comments. I'm not going to reply to them one by one as I'm navigating shaky waters right now. There's too much stuff going on in my head and in my heart, and I would just stumble on my words. For this very same reason, I'll be dropping less personal pearls in here. Since "Day 2", certain things have happened that I'm not ready to write about, at least until I can do it without needing these many question marks ... or exclamation marks (although I know you love exclamation marks). But what the hell, you know me, maybe it won't actually take me that long to spill the beans...

As of now, thanks for your love and support, thanks to those who always sound sweet and to those who don't sugarcoat it, because I feel blessed to have such awesome blogging friends.

Loving: Mark Ronson, "Lose it (In the end)" ft. Ghostface Killah

2010-08-29T17:32:00.002+02:00

I'm alive

2010-08-27T15:34:00.003+02:00

Quick post to let you know I'm still alive and yeah, I'm OK. Thank you sooooooooo much for all your comments and sorry for my long absence. I'm back, posts are dropping very soon, stay tuned.

I love you all

Day 2

2010-07-31T18:05:00.003+02:00

Yesterday, he said we weren't compatible. He said that he was afraid we loved each other for the wrong reasons, that he was afraid he wasn't the one for me, that I would understand a couple years from now. He said I needed someone who didn't make me feel controlled, and that he needed someone who didn't struggle for equality (read: someone who automatically assumed he's the one who's always right).

Yesterday, he broke up with me.

After a three-hour conversation on Skype during which I tried in vain to persuade him he was making a mistake, I had to utter a tearful goodbye.

Then I got two texts from him. One saying he would always love me. The other giving me a tiny bit of hope: "For now I'm still planning on coming to Europe, maybe we can work this out over the vacation...".

I'm so lost. I don't know what to do. I don't want to lose him, but I don't know if he's right. I don't know if I should cling to the hope of winning him back in September. Maybe I should take this opportunity to think and ponder things, but I can't think, I just feel, pain.

I may take a break from blogging, niños...

My 14th of July

2010-07-15T21:48:00.005+02:00

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this here, but the 14th of July is somehow my designated date of death.

Let me explain: I happen to share my birthday with an uncle I never met, because he drowned in the ocean at age 30, on a 14th of July. When I was born, my superstitious mother was more than aware of the coincidence, and she refused to name me after him as some of my aunts suggested, since obviously she didn't want me to follow the same fate.

Since the tragedy, my mother had become afraid of the sea and it took her ages to let me bathe in it without adult surveillance. That's probably why I didn't get to go that much to the beach as a child, my skin was never as sun-kissed as my friends, and I've always been "too pale for a Canary Islander".

Although I knew about my uncle's death and the shared birthday, I ignored his date of death until the summer before my 18th birthday, when I insisted to go to a beach camp with all my classmates, for three days starting July 12th. It took me long hours to get the permission, and I almost caused a marriage row because my always less strict father agreed before she did. In the end, she said yes, with a condition: "you come back tomorrow, not after tomorrow".

The beach camp was actually on a tiny, almost inhabited, neighboring island, connected by boat to mine. The next day, thirty minutes before the last boat of the day, I called home to tell my mother I wasn't coming back that evening. I was having fun and I just couldn't see the problem of staying one more day. We argued and, right before hunging up, she said: "Haz lo que quieras" ("Do what you want", one of the most twisted and effective lines you can learn at Spanish Mothers' Emotional Chantage 101). It worked: I cut my fun short and rushed to catch that damn boat.

My father came to pick me at the port. On the ride back home, I was raging like the teenager I was, until Dad finally told me about what the 14th of July meant for Mom. Stupid as it sounded, I somehow understood her fears. When I got home, I hugged her, not without reproach: "you could have told me in the first place!".

From then on, when I was studying in Madrid but I'd still spend the summers back on my Island, I tried to honor Mom's request not to go to the beach on that date. I'm not that superstitious myself but it was just about her peace and quiet. Then I came to France on a one-year Erasmus student exchange and the 14th of July gained different connotations. I first attended the Bastille Day Fireworks on Champs de Mars in 2006, when I was leaving Paris the next day, not knowing if I would ever come back. I had to spend the next academic year in Madrid to graduate there, but I didn't want to go. I remember lying on the grass, looking up at the flowers of fire drawn in the sky, so close to the Eiffel Tower it felt like they could touch it, classic music bursting out. I remember my tears. It was as crowded as it can get, and I was with some friends, but for a moment, it was just Paris and me, saying goodbye.

I did manage to move back here a year later and, unless I'm not in Paris for Bastille Day, I never miss the fireworks. Not only because they're the most beautiful I've ever seen, but also for their special meaning for me: celebrating my romance with this gorgeous bitch hard to leave called Paris, and celebrating my survival another year past my designated date of death, like a second birthday.

Yesterday, it was the first time I was going there alone. My best friend here is in Spain due to a family loss, and her absence has made me realize how much I depend on her. My other friends in the city are not so available or so close, and nothing I can call a posse like those I had on the Canary Islands or in Madrid. Just some scattered friends who are not friends among them, and whose schedules are hardly compatible with mine. This doesn't help when I'm already missing my family and my boyfriend.

So, alone, I decided to head to the Eiffel Tower a couple hours in advance, thinking I would entertain myself taking pictures... But I got there and all I could see were couples, families and groups of friends. I had hoped to blend in the crowd and hide my loneliness, but I couldn't stand it, and I left. On the thirty-minute walk back home, I had the time to go through everything which is wrong about this moment of my life, cursing myself out for any possible bad decision in the last three years that led me here... I started thinking of leaving Paris, starting over somewhere else, probably Madrid, where it might be as hard as here to get a job, or harder, but where I have a solid group of friends, and things are cheaper, and I can afford to fly to the Islands and visit my family if I get a couple days off... Yeah, once I'm done with the master's degree and the contract at the Factory, I'm moving back to Madrid...

When I got home, my mother called and I just couldn't hold my rant. Consoling is not Mom's strongest suit so she just said: "Well, that's what you chose". I replied: "Cool, that's why I'm mad at myself, now sorry, I don't feel like talking, bye", and I hung up.

Then I thought of her 14th of July. Of that other side of my 14th of July. The survival. The celebration of the life that still lies ahead. And I left home again, walked the same streets and avenues for the third time that day, fast enough to get to Champs de Mars before the fireworks started. I didn't miss them.

They were far less spectacular than last year's (budget moderation), and they didn't rise that high up from Trocadéro so they weren't all that visible from the other side of the Tower. But I enjoyed them. The soundtrack paid homage to the French-speaking world and it included two classics that moved me to tears: Emmenez-moi, by Charles Aznavour, and La valse à mille temps, by Jacques Brel.

Emmenez-moi jusqu'au bout de la terre
Emmenez-moi au pays de merveilles
Il me semble que la misère
Serait moins pénible au soleil.

(Take me to the end of the land.
Take me to Wonderland.
It seems to me that misery
Would be less hard under the sun.)

Et Paris qui bat la mesure,
Paris qui mesure notre émoi,
Paris qui bat la mesure,
Me murmure, me murmure, tout bas.

(And Paris, marking the rhythm,
Paris, measuring our excitement,
Paris, marking the rhythm,
Whispers to me, whispers to me, very softly).

Oh Paris, you're a goddamn bitch hard to leave. I'm not going anywhere. Until I can leave you for a greater love, I won't leave you.

Remind me never to miss, under any circumstances, Bastille Day Fireworks. If I'm here.

Bonus: check this video of last year's fireworks, which celebrated the 120th anniversary of the Eiffel Tower. Pure magic. I was there, I saw the Tower dance.

Vive la France!!!

2010-07-14T12:29:00.008+02:00

Today, France celebrates the 221st anniversary of the Storming of the Bastille... and did anybody say storm? The Military Parade got soaked up this morning.

It was really crowded despite the thick rain and your bullshitter couldn't get close enough to give you some pictures of hot military men. And I so need a camera upgrade. Cue booing.

If it keeps raining like this, as much as I love the evening fireworks on Champs-de-Mars, I think I'll pass...

Say it for me, Sanchez

2010-07-13T23:23:00.003+02:00

God, I want my boyfriend... And some Jamaican beef patties...

We don't say it often here, but straight love is also beautiful

2010-07-12T19:44:00.007+02:00

Watch reporter Sara Carbonero's attempt to interview her boyfriend, goalkeeper Iker Casillas right after Spanish victory, and the obvious result.

Call me pussy, but I don't even need that soundtrack to be moved to tears. If Iker cries, I cry. Forget about Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem, these two become right now my favorite Spanish celebrity couple.

Qué bonito...

Viva España!!!

2010-07-12T18:06:00.003+02:00

If I didn't blog earlier about La Roja's triumph at the 2010 World Cup is basically because I was out celebrating it big time. There were so many Spanish flags and so many cars honking all over Paris that I almost forgot I was abroad. I got to sleep only three hours and then I had to survive my shift at the Factory, despite the alcohol intoxication I still could feel when I got to work, and the hangover that followed.

Football/soccer is just football/soccer, but I guess a country with a historical loser complex and going through a rough economic crisis can really use some national pride.

And Iker Casillas is soooo cute crying...

Liking (un poco): Nelly Furtado, "Bajo otra luz" ft. La Mala Rodríguez

2010-07-10T19:17:00.002+02:00

I like the vibe of this song, even if Nelly screams a little bit too much in it and the video is rather poor -digital HD doesn't make her lips look good... The original version of this track also included Mexican singer Julieta Venegas, and I ignore the reasons why she and her sweet voice got edited out and consequently not invited to the costume party. Somehow, you can hear the void she left in the middle part of the song.

The good news: La Mala is still on the track, with her Andalusian accent and her mad style. Dressed up as a bullfighter just in case you were wondering where she's from.

Ah, the old clichés about Spain. Now let me start making my potato omelette while I fight the heat with some sangria. Oh, by the way, that white sangria they sell at Mexican restaurants in the States is... cómo se dice... bullshit. That's not real sangria. Sangria is made with red wine, never white wine. Lo siento.

Loving: Sheryl Crow, "Summer day"

2010-07-10T14:17:00.004+02:00

Back in my teens, I was somewhat a Sheryl Crow fan, which might say a lot of me as a gay young man, or not. I liked her close-to-the-guts If it makes you happy album better than her later singles like Soak up the sun, which I found a little bit too sugary.

Now, Summer Day tastes like fresh peach juice, and I'm loving it. Maybe because now I can relate to those lyrics about love and hope. I have the former, I need the latter.

Cute (straight) interracial couple in the video, too.

VH1 TV Shows | Music Videos | Celebrity Photos | News & Gossip

Liking: Prince, "Lay Down"

2010-07-10T13:55:00.003+02:00

[via PMA]

Never been a big Prince-slash-whateverhewannabecalled fan, but I'm feeling this new song. Not sure the title is Lay it down, or Laydown, or Lay down...

Prince - "Laydown" by Some Kind of Awesome

The hottie and the mom

2010-07-08T19:09:00.006+02:00

So far I've spent most of my day off dealing with the annoying household tasks I've been goofing around to for weeks. Believe it or not, it took me five hours to tidy up and clean my 13-square-meter studio, and then I headed to the laundry.

When I got there, there was this six-foot-three, moccha-skinned hottie with a goatee, bending over to load the machine, and I just had to check him out, unapologetically, because if you know you're hot and you just wear some nips-revealing beater and running shorts that only cover half of your thighs, and instead of flexing your knees to put your dirty laundry into the washing machine you just bend over, you can't complain if a gay Spaniard checks you out.

Then I saw him talking in American English to a white woman with curly hair that looked older than him, and also to a short bald guy, and it took me a minute to understand that they were his parents. As I do whenever I go to the laundry and I find American tourists struggling with the payment system, the Celsius degrees or the dryer, I helped them out, with which I earned a sweet smile from the hottie. Unfortunately, he told his parents he would be back in forty minutes and left.

The woman asked me for help once more and a conversation started. I learned that they were from North Carolina, that indeed that was his son and his name was Sebastian and he was only 21 -I didn't blink at the race difference between him and his parents, but his age was a shocker, damn, all that hotness and last year he couldn't even drink-, and that they were heading to Barcelona after Paris. The dad wasn't talking much but the mom was a charming lady and I was enjoying my laundry buddy chit chat with a mother unaware of the kind of things I would do to his son if I was in the market.

Both husband and wife were art lovers, and she told me how overwhelmed they got at the Louvre. I asked them if they had been to the Pompidou, but she made a face and said: "No, were were going there the other day, but my son almost got in a fistfight and I got so upset at him that I was no longer in the mood". I improvised some concerned grimace and said: "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that", and she replied: "Sebastian is a good kid but he just thinks he knows everything".

Guess who was back right behind her as she was saying that? Sebastian. He looked embarrassed, she looked embarrassed, and I was embarrassed, too, because by that time I was already folding my underwear and he caught me holding not exactly my best briefs. He sat on one of the machines while his dad sort of tried to distract me asking me about my work and my studies in Paris. On the background, I could hear son discretely bitching at mom, right before leaving again. She looked back at me, smiled and shrugged: "Now he's mad at me".

"I hope everything is alright with your son, enjoy Paris and Barcelona", I said, getting ready to leave, and she was so sweet at our good-bye moment that I had to contain myself not to double-kiss her. When I stepped out, I looked around to see if Sebastian was in the perimeter, but he wasn't. I would have just given him a pat on the back and said: "Look, kid, alright, Mom embarrassed you, but that's what mothers do. You're lucky she didn't show me that naked pic of you at age 2 lying on your back and showing your wee-wee, like mine would do".

God, laundry can be fun.

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!!!

2010-07-04T08:54:00.003+02:00

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY TO MY AMERICAN NIÑOS!!!

And my other niños, have a great day too!!!

Illustrating the truth

2010-07-01T15:01:00.003+02:00

Just a sample of what you can find at Stuff No One Told Me, by Alex Noriega, who describes himself as "an illustrator from Barcelona with poor spelling and grammar skills... Think of him as a wise LOLcat that happens to draw".

Misleading Google Jun'10

2010-07-01T00:46:00.007+02:00

Not much fun this month on the list of Google searches leading to this blog, so I'll keep it short.

"burkina faso gays'': I have several friends from Burkina Faso (a name that apparently means "House of Men of Integrity") but none of them are gay so I can't hook you up. You'll have to fly to Ouagadougou to get yourself a nice Burkinabè, but be warned: homosexuality is not illegal or repressed there like in other African countries but it still strongly stigmatized. Bad.

"black couch interview/your boyfriend will never find out": I did mention a black couch and I did admit feeling tempted, but what are you trying to say? Oh, that? NO!

"male model in the boy who murdered love video": I just wasted five minutes of my life trying to find out for you, and he's not even my type. Anyway, sorry, I failed. Maybe you can ask Diana Vickers directly, on Twitter.

Oh well, more and better next month.

Isaiah Mustafa spices it up again

2010-07-01T00:38:00.002+02:00

And he gets wet... And he's not the only one...

Dirty brown water

2010-06-29T21:48:00.002+02:00

My team leader called me yesterday to ask me to start today at 10 instead of 9, so this morning I was happy to get ready at a relaxed pace instead of my usual Benny-Hill-esque early rush. I left home confident about my timing... And then my flip-flops slipped on a rain puddle, I avoided the fall by grabbing hold of the side-view mirror of a parked car, but I still got splashed with dirty brown water all over. I had to go back home, shower again and change clothes, which compromised my punctuality.

While on the RER train, my boyfriend texted me:

"Getting my fat ass kicked at work can't even get a break"

"Sorry to hear that, boo", I replied.

"Boo? When did you become black?"

"As you say, by injection, papa, by injection"

"Didn't you start at 9?"

"No, I start at 10", and then I told him about the rain puddle.

"Oh and you couldn't just go to work and put on your uniform. Such a pretty princess"

"R u kidding me? I just can't arrive at work looking like I just got gang-banged in a swamp"

"Well, that's the French way"

"Je ne suis pas français, mon ami". In four years in Paris I haven't heard one single person using mon ami that way but I don't want to break his X-Men lover bubble.

And then we started sex-texting. I got to work with a smile on my face and I clocked in only six minutes late. And forgive me if my mind went straight to the gutter when my team leader informed me of my scheduled two-hour "gestures and positions" training. Yeah, they taught me how to take heavy loads without hurting my back. We even did some practice.

Mmm...

[Image via Shutterscript]

Just a draft

2010-06-28T20:25:00.008+02:00

To: US Department of Homeland Security
From: Eduardo Guize.

Object: Loving Visa.

Dear Sir/Madam,

I want a visa to love my man. He's an American citizen and as such, I assume you care about his security, mental stability, and happiness. Therefore, as a Spanish citizen who, as stated in several visa waiver forms, has never been involved in espionage or sabotage, or in terrorist activities, or genocide, and who wasn't involved, in any way, between 1933 and 1945, in persecutions associated with Nazi Germany or its allies...

... and who's seeking to work in the US but promising to always be nice to my American co-workers as I am to the Factory's multiethnic staff right now...

I, Eduardo Guize, humbly request a loving visa in order to move to the United States and make my man happy and be happy with him, to be there when he comes back from work and welcome him with a kiss, to have sex with him before he goes to work so he can take care of patients with a bigger smile on his face, to contribute to New York City's economic growth -especially that of Havanna Central, Cabana, Calle Ocho, Spice, BBQ, Southern Hospitality, Eastern Bloc, G-Lounge, XES and that Italian pizza place run by Mexicans on 1st Avenue-, to try to help people on the subway even if I don't know which way I should go myself...

It's just this little favor I'm asking. If you can make it a loving green card, that's even better.

In return, whenever I come back to Europe, I'll try to convince every restaurant to put enough ice on your American tourists' Coke, and the hotels to keep the AC at Siberian levels as you guys like it.

Just another customs situation where I would be grateful if you could look the other way: I know I'm not supposed to introduce obscene objects into your territory but there's one I really need to offer to my boyfriend as a gift: me.

Yours faithfully.

Eduardo Guize.

PS: If you send it by mail, just don't make the packaging look like something the ~~bitch~~ charming lady I share my mailbox with would feel like stealing.

Liking: Mike Posner, "Cooler than me"

2010-06-28T18:17:00.005+02:00

Apparently he's kind of new so I knew nothing about this guy. Checking Wikipedia, first shock: he's an 88. Yeah, born in 1988. 84 here: when exactly did I get old? But listen, Mike, not because you're four years younger you can think you're cooler than me, mmkay?

Damn, I still want to make it in the music business before I'm 30. Which means I have a little bit more than four years to learn how to sing, make a mixtape and move it around, keep my relationship on the DL for a while, suck some label big fish, sign a record deal, have a marketing-oriented affair with Lady Gaga, break up with her and start dissing her publicly, and get my career-boosting "Yep, I'm gay" People cover.

If there's anything else I can do to speed it up towards the Hall of Fame, like kicking Justin Bieber's ass while Perez Hilton films it with his iPhone, just let me know.

41 years ago...

2010-06-27T18:24:00.002+02:00

It was June 27th, 1969.

The day that the fags, dykes, and queens of New York City finally said "Enough!"

Keep on reading on JMG, especially the New York Daily News story from those days.

We've come a long way...

First Blog Anniversary!!!

2010-06-26T22:02:00.005+02:00

After a busy week and a first day off that wasn't really calm either, it's been mostly a lazy-ass Saturday, but I don't want this day to go by without pointing at the fact that...

IT'S MY FIRST BLOG ANNIVERSARY!!!

THE PEARLS ARE ONE YEAR OLD!!!

Honestly, my first reaction is: "Really? Only one year?". So many things have happened since I started this blog and, many of you, it feels like I've known you for much longer. But this year has been a long journey in many ways, which, curiously enough, ends at what really looks like the start case: in the same tiny studio in Paris, waiting for my beau to get online before going to bed, having to wake up early tomorrow, and dealing with the prospect of another summer away from both boyfriend and family.

Depressing? Not really. In the meantime, I left the Office and the Factory, I spent the fall in New York, Christmas on the Islands, then I came back here, worked on finishing my master degree, worked back at the Factory... I've traveled, I've worked, I've partied, I've fucked, I've laughed and cried, lived and survived. And I have blogged about it all.

Have I learned? Yes, a lot.

Do I feel stronger? No, just older, but that will do...

Muchas gracias, niños.

Work, fun, work, fun...

2010-06-23T23:21:00.006+02:00

"When I get older / I will be stronger / They'll call me freedom / Just like a wavin' flag..." Is it wrong to love this song after bitching against the World Cup a week ago? No, but probably it is to actually watch a match, last Sunday. It was unplanned, I swear. I just went to have a beer with a friend around Bastille, then we got a little bit too excited about the happy hour (3 euros the pint), and then, before we knew it, it was 8.30 pm and the Ivory Coast-Brazil match started and the bar was full of supporters of both teams. I had forgotten how fun the World Cup can be here in this cosmopolitan city called Paris, where you can find citizens of whatever countries are playing at every bar and, no matter who wins, you'll get cars honking and flags waving in celebration. I didn't know exactly which country my heart should be with, hesitating between going with the hysterical Brazilian forty-something woman on my left or with the sinfully hot Ivorian bouncer. Brazil won. Poor black muscle god. And poor me the next morning waking up at 7 to go to work after only four hours of sleep and hungover.

But that was Monday and I had already planned to go to a barbecue with my co-workers. If my they are already hilarious during working hours, that was something else. Children's playground crashing, merguez sausages, my fellow Spaniard watching the match inside and making noises like Regan in The Exorcist, beer, boob-job rumors, truth or dare... I can't believe I've known these people for only two months and I was already invited to be part of that sort of summer-camp-with-high-school-buddies moment. Thank God one of them drove me home safely from that place in the middle of nowhere on your right. I got in bed three hours before my alarm clock blasted.

Yesterday I survived the after-party exhaustion, but today I had a really shitty day at work. One more day to go before my two days off, Friday and Saturday.

Friday, by the way, Ivory Coast plays against North Korea, so I might go to the same bar just to see if Ivorians win so they can celebrate it like this:

"Siaka Tiene... Tiene un polvo"

And Saturday, guess who's celebrating the first blog anniversary?!

That black couch

2010-06-18T15:37:00.004+02:00

I'm still going through this rough period with my boyfriend. Fighting on cam, via chat, through texting... And music videos. Yeah, even if he always denies it has anything to do with me, the music videos he posts on Facebook always seem to carry a message. The other day, he got mad at me for chatting with other people while talking to him online, hence Shakira's Objection (Tango) ("Objection / I don't want to be the exception / to get a bit of your attention"). This morning he took it to a whole new level with Lauryn Hill's most beautiful and heart-crunching song, Ex-Factor.

He got online after work, and we had breakfast (in New York) / lunch (in Paris) together. I mentioned the song but he avoided the subject. He was exhausted after a hard night at work and he got kidnapped by Morpheus. Now I'm watching him sleep on that black couch, in his green tight briefs, still wearing the headset. He looks peaceful, his lungs expanding and contracting without hurry, no snoring, just that smooth breathing that sounds like sea waves. I've always resented him for being able to get knocked out even after the worst of arguments. He doesn't need as many hours of sleep as I do, maybe because his slumber is more intense. It's his fortress.

I'd love to sneak into his dreams right now. But what I really want to do is sneak onto that couch, pull his arms around me -very slowly, not to wake him up-, lay my head on his chest, caress with my fingertips the black hair on it which curls full circle, wrap my legs around him, feel the warmth of his skin, get rocked to sleep by his breathing cycles, our lips touching.

Feel home.

74 more days to go.

Liking: Kelis, "Fourth of July (Fireworks)"

2010-06-18T14:49:00.003+02:00

[via Maybe it's just me]

It took me a while to like Acapella but I ended up loving it, and despite the desert in the video this new song feels like summer sea breeze at sunset. I'm not feeling her aesthetics and I kind of miss the sexual bluntness of her Milkshake days, but now that all the girls are bluffing with their muffin and offering tastes of their woo-hoo, I understand Kelis has moved on to a more ethereal electro sound.

Can French men shake it?

2010-06-18T13:01:00.010+02:00

Yes, they can...

At least those coming from the old colonies and the overseas departments and territories...

Let's start with Thomas Fontaine, Mister Réunion 2009, who finished second at the Mister France 2010 contest, but who won't let that stop him from getting some of your attention. Need a car wash? Réunion can be a long ride from where you are, and driving over the ocean can be tricky, but you can always enjoy this "20 seconds of a man in briefs" video offered by Vogue la Mode [via ACDG].

Next? Jessy Matador, who represented France in Eurovision 2010, being one of the few blacks to ever put their feet on that European, or pseudo-European (if Azerbaijan is Europe I may as well be Asian) festival of tackiness, three-layer make-up, mediocre music and geopolitical voting. Yes, he's from Congo, and that coupé décalé he sings and dance to is a very African genre, and he's borrowed a good bunch of moves from New Zealand All Blacks' haka, but as the BBC commenter says at the end of the video, "oh go on, admit it, you enjoyed that!"

And last, just for the fun, this video in support of Les Bleus at 2010 World Cup, by my favorite French comic duo, Omar et Fred. Always determined to celebrate the country's ethnic diversity in their quirky, absurd humor, they sing: "buy a rooster, put a beret on and support the French Team", and "it doesn't matter if your name is Raymond, Moussa, Karim or André-Pierre". To show French ID's near the end of the video is not an innocent gesture, as much has been discussed in recent years on what it takes to be a French citizen.

"And François, what if it doesn't work?"
"Well, we'll use the hand".

Bisous.

Loving: Nicki Minaj feat. Sean Garrett, "Massive Attack"

2010-06-18T00:35:00.005+02:00

OK, this song is not so fresh (released in April if I'm not wrong)...

And Nicki Minaj is not Lil Kim despite the colorful wigs, or Lauryn Hill who she claims to have always admired, and she's borrowed the whole Japanese thing from Gwen Stefani, and she's just joined that sickening hip hop trend of mentioning as many designers as they can in each song...

And Sean Garrett's talent doesn't match his hotness, probably...

And the sidekick in the car looks like Kanye's hoochie-slash-girlfriend, and she should take notes from the black girl in Pink's Get this party started video to learn what a nameless video sidekick is supposed to be like...

And the crazy jungle soldiers grossed the hell out of my friend while watching the video for the first time with me...

But I can't help loving both song and video!

Nicki is probably trying too hard but I love her enthusiasm and her funny faces, and I love how she exposes herself, bootie included, despite not fitting in Anna Wintour's standards. Sean is hot -I already said that but let me insist on the lips-, or maybe I need bromide. And, I won't try it at home, but I love those freaky dancing jungle soldiers!

All those missing words become annoying, though. Most of them, I don't even know why they got censored . Those motherf______ puritan b___es are really f___ed up.

Loving: Robyn, "Don't fucking tell me what to do"

2010-06-17T19:08:00.005+02:00

I could sign probably 80% of the lyrics...

Tarot de Marseille. not to be confused with the Savon de Marseille

2010-06-12T18:21:00.010+02:00

The other day, I was worrying about the whole situation with my boyfriend while doing the dishes, when my friend texted me asking if I wanted to go with her to a Tarot reading. I didn't hesitate, even if I kept some skepticism in my pocket.

We went to Le Falabar, in the 2oth district, where every Thursday you can consult one of Jodorowsky's disciples. Alejandro Jodorowsky, a Chilean filmmaker, writer, comic book author and more, developed his own approach to Tarot readings, not as fortune-telling but as a way of opening paths from the present, adding some psychology into the mix. He used to come himself and read the cards, but now I guess he's too old for that.

When we got there, there were two readers and one was already with someone. I was kind of nervous, so I told my friend to go first. I waited while having a beer and talking with the owner's eight-year-old kid who insisted in showing me his progress with the Pokémon on his Nintento DS. Meanwhile, I was trying to decide what to say exactly, what to ask exactly.

When it was my turn, I walked to the table with the purple cloth and introduced myself to the woman with thick-rimmed glasses, but she didn't shake my hand or said her name, she just asked me to sit down in a soft, low voice. She gave me a summary of Jorodowsky's technique, insisting it wasn't about foreseeing the future and waiting passively for things to happen but about providing perspective and analyzing what can be done. I wanted to ask about my relationship, so I gave her the strictly necessary information. She didn't even blink when I said I was in a homosexual couple, and she told me to mix the cards, spread them face down on the table and pick a first one to describe me, a second one to describe him, a third for our relationship and a fourth to see how that relationship could evolve.

Me - The Fool.
She asked me what I found interesting about the card and I thought: "great, when did I sign for a Rorschach test?", but I told her that I found it weird that the dog seemed to be trying to keep up with the owner, but it looked like the owner was turning his back on the dog. She said that the dog could represent my animality, my drives and instincts, and the owner could be my head, my rationality. I wanted to leave, travel, see the word, but I needed to understand that I couldn't leave my gut feelings behind, because dog and owner were traveling together, and the dog actually appeared to push the owner forward.

Him - Death.
When I turned this card up, I knew this was going to be more emotionally intense than I had expected. I didn't freak out, since I already knew the Death card doesn't mean literal death, but I was struck by the aggressiveness of the drawing and how it kinda fitted with those texts I had received. She told me she could see a lot of violence under the surface, someone revolting against lots of suffering from the past, who tries to get rid of the pain by chopping heads and hands off. She told me that I could feel like I was getting some of those strikes of scythe, but that I needed to understand that it was a rough but necessary process of transformation, and once those heads and hands chopped off fell to the ground, they would feed it and new life would grow. That's when I dropped the first tear, call me pussy. She also pointed at the fact that my walking stick and the handle of his scythe were parallel, meaning we were connected, we were together in this.

Relationship - The Juggler.
Like the motive of the card, our relationship was young, full of potential, all the tools were there on the table, but there was hesitation, lack of action, and something needed to be done for all that potential to be developed.

Evolution - The Lovers.
Love could reign, but love would reign when the bodies regained their place. She pointed at how those below Cupid were touching each other, suggesting that action needing to be taken had to lead to a physical reunion, the physicality of love. I was too moved to ask why there were three characters instead of two and if that meant that we needed to try a threesome... But mind in the gutter aside, everything that woman was telling me seemed to make sense.

Actually, there was nothing revealing, nothing that I couldn't have figured out already, but what astonished me was how the cards I had randomly picked and her interpretation seemed to confirm and expose what shone like the truth.

Wow.

Yesterday, when I got back home from the Factory, I found a post notice on my mailbox, so I walked to the post office wondering what the package could be. My first guess was a gift from my beau, but when they handed the big carton box to me and I felt how heavy it was, the relentless ly fearful part of me took over my mind for a minute and I started wondering, on my way back home: "what if he's breaking up with me and he's sending back the stuff I left at his apartment?".

I guess my card is The Fool in more senses than one.

It was his second anniversary gift. Four t-shirts and two pants, those Goldfish crackers I love, and a can opener to replace the shitty one I have here and with which he struggled last time he came to Paris. And a letter who reminded me how sweet he can be.

He got online and we talked. Not about the texts or the argument, but mostly about our flight options in September.

Football, soccer, BS, whatever you wanna call it

2010-06-12T17:43:00.004+02:00

The FIFA World Cup has merely started and I'm already fed up.

It's not just that I can't shake this song out of my head...

(By the way, maybe it's the contrast with the background dancers, but when did Shakira become the whitest Colombian ever? Years of selling us the whole half Latina, half Lebanese exoticism and now she looks all Anglo...)

It's also that it seems that many of my co-workers can't talk about anything else...

And mainly, that I couldn't have my nap on the RER train back home today! There were a bunch of French hooligans screaming on my wagon, stridently laughing at jokes that must be funny when you're drunk (and dumb), and embarrassing pretty girls who had the misfortune of being alone. The whole time I was wondering how Parisian males, normally not the most macho men in the world, could be so deeply transformed by a sports event. That was until one of them started playing... A drum? A horn? No: a flute. A goddamn flute. Beethoven's Ninth Symphony and that kind of stuff. I smiled, not only at the ridiculous choice, but also at the thought of where exactly in their anatomy they could put it away.

So many unemployed and those shitty MSN writers do have a job...

2010-06-09T22:13:00.007+02:00

I don't know if it happens everywhere, but MSN web portals, those automatically loaded when you log off your MSN/Hotmail account, are usually so full of it, at least in Spain and France. If most of the articles are poorly written, they reach sky-high levels of stupidity on those days without enough news when they have to come up with ridiculous rankings and compilations.

Today, on MSN Entretenimiento in Spanish, "The oddest couples". If you're wondering why I paid attention to that bullshit to begin with, just know that I'm asking myself the same question. But this just shocked me:

Let me attempt to translate the ignominy: "she's a model of international success, whereas her husband is an exceptional singer, although he doesn't share Heidi's beauty. And yet they have three kids and they are crazy in love".

Now, let me tell you something. About a year and a half ago, I was still working at what I used to refer to as the Office on this blog, and my co-worker and I went downstairs to grab a coffee. We were at the hall waiting for the elevator when I saw all these people walking down from the first floor, photographers and bodyguards surrounding an amazingly attractive, 6 foot four black man, in an elegant dark suit, sticking out in the center. I was staring at him, in a trance, while he was getting closer and I muttered to my co-worker: "regarde, c'est Seal" ("look, it's Seal"). The last two words in French sound just like the name Cécile, which happened to be the name of several girls in the company, so my co-worker, looking elsewhere, said: "Quelle Cécile?", "Which Cécile?". And she didn't get it until he walked by, two feet from us.

Now, trust me, that's a gorgeous man. Yes, he has those scars on his face, but I was surprised to see they weren't even that obvious without the dramatic lighting of most of his music videos. There's nothing wrong with him and Heidi Samuel (!) as a couple, and it's actually probably one of the most beautiful celebrity pairings out there.

So how and why, dear MSN, is Seal out of Heidi's league in terms of beauty? Because he had lupus as a teenager? Or is it that mixed-race couples are odd?

*spitting*

I didn't know CNN could fall so low

2010-06-09T21:14:00.002+02:00

This is important

2010-06-09T14:15:00.004+02:00

More important than our own share of drama, actually.

Read thegayte-keeper's words on the tragedy of this Senegalese gay man.

And for those of you who think: "oh well, that was in Africa", listen, you're wrong. Brutality is everywhere. Injustice is everywhere. Every victim of homophobia is one of us. It's our people being murdered. Every case falls close to home.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me...

2010-06-09T13:18:00.003+02:00

"OK putting my foot down get your fuckin ass home now and u better not be drunk when u get here u wanna have a bf start acting like one"

And an hour later:

"don't even bother u're a waste of my fucking time"

What did I do to deserve those hateful texts from my beau? Just go shopping with my best friend in Paris to help her choose an outfit for her graduation party, instead of coming home straight after work to talk to him on Skype.

Who am I trying to fool, this is a fucking mess.

On a lighter note, today...

2010-06-06T22:41:00.005+02:00

NADAL, CAMPEÓN!!! Rafa Nadal just won Roland Garros for the fifth time in his career. I'm not big in sports, and I'm not as obsessed with him (and his bootie) as my boyfriend is, but I love that guy and I love how he stays humble, sweet and natural. It was moving to see him throw himself and cry with joy. Oh, and our Queen was there, too.

I'm also happy like a schoolgirl because one of the team leaders at the Factory told me I have visibly lost weight since I started working there. I need to bust my ass a little bit more, though, as it looks like Tremayne is taking me to Mykonos in September, so I need to look better than good.

I'm not so happy about Hector, my beau's lookalike at work, commenting on some chick's hotness, not once but twice today. It's not that I'm sad I don't have any chance with him, because I wasn't planning to try anything in the first place, but I'm pissed off at my gaydar's apparent failure. My new theory: he's in denial. If not, there should be a law against people looking like other people but having a different sexual orientation. It's confusing.

And to end with another good thing that happened today, I made a new friend. They sent me to pick some stuff at the other end of the Factory and I got lost driving there, so I asked the way to this guy walking next to the road. He said: "I'm going in that direction, I can show you". I'm not supposed to let anyone from other departments in the car, but I didn't hesitate for one second. He led me to the right place, then I offered to drive him to the other building he was going to, and he gave me the biggest grin ever. So my lost ass in a car saved this blue-eyed, mixed-race dancer from San Francisco from a long walk in the humid heat of the afternoon. The kind of things that I'm not allowed to do, but hey, next time they want me to come back quickly they can draw me a map.

Help your neighbor!

Post-anniversary thoughts

2010-06-06T20:41:00.008+02:00

I was too tired to post anything yesterday, but it was actually our second anniversary. It's funny, because June the 5th 2008 was the day we met, not technically the day we officially started a relationship, but that's the date we've picked to celebrate. We didn't verbalize the nature of our connection until weeks later, but it kind of feels like we've been together ever since that first day.

And yes, our anniversary is the day after his birthday, and that will always remind us that I got cold feet and I didn't show up for his birthday dinner with friends, and it wasn't until I heard the sadness in his voice message that I grabbed some courage to call him back the next day.

This year, we've spent both special occasions apart, but we got on Skype and drank some wine together, virtually. I also sent him some flowers through The Flower Factory's website, and, just some piece of advice, avoid that company. Obviously, as it was meant to be a surprise, I didn't call him to tell him to be home to get the flowers, and I included in the online order, under farther specifications: "Please leave at the apartment door if the recipient is not at home".

When I came home from work, I had an e-mail from costumer service telling me delivery had failed because nobody had opened the door and the recipient hadn't answered their calls. "We will deliver as soon as we hear from him", they wrote. Bullshit. My boyfriend got online and told me he had heard the message they had left on his voice mail and called them at 1.30 pm, then at 4.30 pm, but the flowers hadn't arrived yet. He finally got them at 6 pm, in a hot box and visibly wilted. They must have been sitting on a truck for all those long hours without proper climate control. I sent an e-mail to the company to complain, but have you heard from them? Neither have I.

But well, that was just a little dark cloud.

Now, let me clarify something about what I said two posts ago. I received many comments, very diverse comments, I read them all and I would have sworn that I published them all, but now only two appear. So just to let you know that if you can't see your comment, that's completely unintentional and it doesn't have to do with your view on the subject or whatever, because I appreciate all your opinions.

Most of the comments were hinting one way or the other at the possibility of opening my relationship, especially considering the long distance factor, and also the fact that I'm young and it could feel like I'm missing out on something. Others, notably Dovie in passionate, beautiful phrasing, were campaigning against that. I'm not going to lie and say an open relationship hasn't crossed my mind, or my beau's. We've discussed it several times during these two years and we've always reached the same conclusion: temptations are out there, flesh is weak and shit could happen, but if one of us ever cheats on the other, we'll take it from there, deal with it, be honest to each other and try to save whatever there is to save... if it happens. The idea of declaring it an open relationship beforehand feels awkward, like an invitation to an all-you-can-eat buffet.

And in our hearts, an open relationship is not really a relationship and it makes love much less meaningful. I say in our hearts because I know this can be subjective and I totally respect people who think or feel differently about it. In terms of relationships, I don't think there's such a thing as the one way to go and I'm more a "whatever works for you" kind of guy.

Also, I know that in that post it kind of sounded like what was making my LDR harder was mainly a conflict between fidelity and temptations, but that's just part of it. I don't feel all that tempted in the first place, in the sense that I don't feel frustrated for not doing anything about all that eye candy in the world and I do not feel like I'm missing out on anything now. Underneath what I call temptations, lays a mixture of anxiety about the future, the prospect of another year apart, the uncertainty about when we will get to live in the same place, the fear of our love getting eroded by the time spent apart... Like a devil on my left shoulder telling me: "How long are you ready to wait for? If you are to give up one day anyway, why don't you cut it short right now and enjoy your youth?".

But I started that very same post talking about work and saying that I was brought up to believe nothing comes without effort. And effort is sacrifice. And love can't be true without sacrifice, as I see it. Maybe I'm young and naive, maybe as a kid I overheard too much of the telenovelas my mother devoured, maybe I read far too many pre-twentieth-century books when I was a teenager, but a tragic vision of love is rooted in my mind and guts, and I'd rather give something up for love than give up on love for anything.

Some months ago, when I brought up the subject to TheGayte-Keeper, he replied: "there are no temptations when you really love someone". Sometimes it doesn't feel like that to me, but I understand that embracing real love is about making all the rest invisible, maybe not the eyes, but to the heart.

So fuck temptations, damn it!

Pearl of art by Sacha Dean Biyan

Happy Birthday Baby

2010-06-05T00:52:00.003+02:00

35 years ago today, in Los Angeles, CA, Angelina Jolie was born... But, no offense, I don't really care.

35 years ago today, in Spanish Town, Jamaica, my beau was born.

SO HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMOR!!! TE AMO!!!

May I?

2010-06-03T17:46:00.005+02:00

Unrelated pearl of art by Raymond Carrance

May was a busy month here. No, not busy doing what the picture above illustrates, bitches. I've been working my ass off at the Factory, working overtime and accepting sixth days whenever I get the chance to make some extra cash. As unsubstantial and far from my career dreams this job is, I was brought up to believe that nothing comes without effort and that you need to work hard to earn, to deserve, the money you're getting in exchange. It seems it's paying off, as there are already rumors that they'd want to renew my contract in September, but do I really want that? Let's see. Being broke is ugly.

At the same time, I must admit it, I like the job. With the variety of shifts, I get to do different stuff and it never gets monotonous. Even if it's physically demanding, it's not as stressing mentally as my previous job at the Factory, and I laugh a lot while working. Inappropriate as it sounds for the children's fantasy place it is, the air of the Factory's backstage is filled with parental advisory content, like: "did you hear about the double dildo the security guys found while scanning two girls' suitcase?". Days ago, on our break, a female co-worker turned her back to me, pulled her pants down to show me half of her butt and asked: "do I have a bruise? It hurts. Yesterday this guy I'm fucking wanted to see if the kitchen table can be used for more than eating". This same girl enjoys feeling my butt cheeks gently while I'm dealing with a guest, and chasing me around the premises with her fingers pinching the air behind my ass.

I find it funny but sometimes I feel a little uncomfortable with the no privacy policy among co-workers. I'm being pretty reserved about my life, not because I'm afraid to be out -I have several gay co-workers and everybody is pretty respectful-, but because I'm not used to mixing business and pleasure, if you will. Obviously, gaydars are beeping and the other day, coming back from lunch with these two gays, one of them asked me out of the blue: "So what's your type of men... [teasing pause] or women?". "I don't really have a type", I replied, uncompromisingly.

There's this other guy in his early twenties whose sexual orientation is yet to be official but who has this playful attitude with me that looks a lot like highschool flirting. And this team leader, married with kids, who seems a little bit too enthusiastic about my fashion choices once I take the uniform off: "oh, you're so sexy with those shorts". It's just for the fun, I guess.

Now, if there was ever a temptation, that's Hector, who's started working with us yesterday. I arrived at work and I saw this African hunk that could be mistaken, from a certain distance, with my beau's doppelganger: the same roundness of the head, the same sweet smile, the same broadness of the shoulders, the same big hands, only two inches taller and with a higher waist so I don't have to look that far down to get some rear eye candy in tight uniform pants.

Damn it.

I'm going through one of those phases when being in a long-distance relationship gets really hard. Maybe it's the heat, maybe it's that I know I won't be seeing my boyfriend until September and that means four months of sex-deprivation, maybe it's because it's our second anniversary in two days and we will spend it apart, in sharp contrast with last year when we were defying the American-standard, Siberian AC levels of our hotel room in Waikiki Beach.

I feel kind of guilty for not looking away from all the eye candy I come across at work, on the RER train, everywhere. For being back on Gay.com a bit too often, meeting interesting guys with whom I need to stop at friendship. I guess I'm just missing my baby, missing his touch, missing the thrill of our first chats, our first days together, two years ago. Now we're stuck in our glass cages on Skype, which also happens to be giving us a lot of bullshit lately and my patience gets really tested after ten minutes of exchanging can-you-hear-me's. I'm scared by the idea of being apart for another year, as the chances of finding a job or an internship in New York for the fall are pretty limited.

Anyhow... Maybe I have too much time to think now that Lost is over and there will be no V and no Brothers and Sisters for a while. Literature is a good replacement, and I'm savoring every page of Stanley Bennett Clay's Looker.

In three weeks, if I'm not wrong, this blog will be a year old, and I'll be a year older than when I started writing it, too. So I'll avoid the gloom and doom and start celebrating that.

Kinda liking: "The Boy Who Murdered Love", Diana Vickers

2010-06-03T16:55:00.004+02:00

I discovered this British chick the other night while watching TV before going to bed in a hotel room in Ashford, England. She appeared at The Graham Norton Show after Joshua Jackson (aging good) and Chris Rock (he got a little bit on my nerves, trying too hard to be funny).

So in comes this girl in a pink and black dress, with more make-up than three Eastern European Eurovision contestants put together, laughing at absolutely everything like she was on something. And that camp-loving part of me kinda liked her.

Misleading Google May'10

2010-06-01T00:35:00.004+02:00

HiStats never fails to surprise me with this monthly search engine referrer list, even if this month I've broken my own record of blogging scarceness and consequently the flow of visits has decreased.

So here we go. My favorite Google searches accidentally leading to this blog in May were:

“does penelope like her spanish language”: I promise I will ignore any reference to Penelope Cruz in this section from now on, but this was just too much. What kind of question is that?

“hot sexy and spicy siya latest photoshoot wallpapers”: so I had to Google Siya and she looks like some Bollywood diva. I will pass.

“eyjafjallajokull punishment god”: let me guess, punishment for homosexuality? That volcano is a pain in the ass, for sure, and I know the name sounds like one of those demons the Halliwells used to fight, but that doesn't mean it's evil. It simply means that the Icelanders used the same technique as Charmed writers to name it: they dropped a cat on a keyboard.

“guys shoving things up there buts”: that's wrong... that's so wrong... I mean, it's their, not there, and there's one t missing in butts.

Now, as my weekly V review was discontinued, let me make up for that with two V-related Google searches:

“song featured in v we can't win”: yeah, that cheesy sex scene between Tyler and Lisa on a space shuttle... The music in it is, how convenient, Cosmic Love, by Florence & the Machine. I don't love it, but here it is for those of you who might appreciate it:

And still on V, guess who a lot of people were looking for when they landed on the Pearls: Morris Chestnut! Yay! There's no new hottie discovered this month, so just enjoy one more pic of the V-licious hunk.

Loving: LOL Boys, "Arabesque"

2010-05-28T18:42:00.003+02:00

Hey, I'm too stupid to manage to embed music on my blog, so you can check the PMA post where I found this electrifying track right here, and listen to it, dance to it, shake it to it.

I've tried different solutions to get the song on my blog, none worked, I published two faulty posts that I had to delete, I erased Writer's comment unintentionally (sorry about that)... So I finally give up.

More posts soon, I promise.

Just a thought

2010-05-14T00:56:00.006+02:00

Pearl of art by Hans Breder, Body Sculpture.

I'm not posting much lately but that doesn't mean that I don't love you all, babies.

I'm liking my new job at the Factory, I'm having fun while working which makes my shifts go by fast, and I can put my money worries to rest for a while. I'm still struggling to get my school project done for next month but for some reason I'm not really stressing about it.

The new job, the new uniform got me thinking of all the different me's there have been. I'm looking back at all the places I've been, all the people I've met and all the things I've done and it's quite an exciting thought, even if not everything has been good and it's easy to feel disoriented: am I who I want to be? Am I where I want to be in life? But I'm feeling like I'm not this exact moment right now but the sum of all the moments. The sum of all me's, which is not probably a harmonious structure but at least a beautiful chaos.

Does that make sense?

Nike "Annonce la couleur" campaign

2010-05-09T22:55:00.003+02:00

This Nike campaign for their Grand Chelem polo shirts is all over Paris metro and RER train stations, illustrating inadvertently how some people's stardom is exaggerated. I know some won't like what I'm going to say but please, advertisers, stop mistaking Cristiano Ronaldo for a model. Handsome? Yes. Hot body? No doubt about it. Charisma? As much of it as the bowl of lettuce with no dressing they serve at the Factory's canteen. This guy's face transmits less than a walkie-talkie without batteries.

Meanwhile, Patrick Evra, a lesser known Senegalese-born French footballer, totally rocks it with his shy but seducing, confused but determined eyes. And yes, he's the black one and I'm biased, but at least you will admit I'm right on this one.

For the record, in the actual posters and billboards you can read "Annonce la couleur" ("Announce the color"). Patrick was the first one I saw and it took me a while to see the Nike logo and realize it was just the color of the polo shirt they were talking about...

Doin' fine: Photo-Studio by Rainer Elstermann

2010-05-02T23:02:00.004+02:00

via ACDG and Artitled! website.

Traveling between African cities like Brazzaville, Bangui, Bamako and Lilongwe, while day dreaming of the formidable Samuel Fosso and energetic Malick Sidibe, I was stopping in Karen, at the foot of the Ngong Hills.

There was a little Photo Studio. It was used a long time ago as a Portrait Studio for emigrants who wanted to show their families and friends how well they were doing in their new life.

Music was always in the air. Next door was an old bar where once a beautiful woman used to sing slow songs full of longing and zest of life with a hunky voice in a golden microphone.

Here I set up a studio for a few days. I rented it from the owner, just like Irving Penn had done in Cuzco in 1948. Some of my new friends came by and I took their pictures. I dressed them up in old clothes, that I found in the backroom, using the props lying around and dreamed my African dream.

That is Rainer Elstermann's presentation for Photo Studio, his exhibition at Artitled!, a contemporary art gallery in Berghem, Netherlands.

And here, some of those pictures, which definitely prove the models are "doin' fine":

Liking: "No pidas perdón", La Mala Rodríguez

2010-05-02T18:34:00.004+02:00

Surprisingly low-paced video for an energetic song in which Andalusian bad girl, good rapper La Mala Rodríguez experiments with electronic sounds and undervolumed vocals. I'm not sure if the video plot is too silly or I'm too silly to get it, but Mala's fierce with those pistols in her stockings.

Misleading Google Apr'10

2010-05-02T18:11:00.010+02:00

The list of Google searches leading to this blog last month is pretty weird. There's no big magnets, but just a long list of word combinations used once or twice for the most part. And worse, let me say it now, there's no hottie discovery: people were just looking for hotties I've already featured, or at least heard about, like Gilles Marini (search: ''pics of the french guy from brothers & sisters''). And there aren't actually that many sexy pictures of Gilles Marini on the net, surprisingly. Or maybe that's subjective, because I don't like him. So for the visuals of this post, some random pearls of art by different photographers.

''dogs in the bathtub sex video'': wow, three weeks ago I didn't know what this was and now I have people searching for that on my blog.

“éjaculation black gay”: that accent on the e can only mean it was a French speaker typing, so, Monsieur, allez sur Xtube.

“what is the accent for people living in maida vale”: under the risk of turning today into my Let's Offend the Brits Day, I had no idea where Maida Vale was, and I must admit I have difficulty distinguishing the myriad of local accents in the UK, so I'm not of much help. But that reminds me, my new job at the Factory may include spending nights in Ashford. How is that place?

“intertextuality of the song sweet dreams beyonce”: this must be like one of my favorite Google searches since I started doing this section. Let's get all brainy about a Beyoncé song, come on. By intertextuality, do they mean connections with the homonymous song by Eurythmics? The influence of MJ's “Beat It” on the electronic baseline? The recurring combination of beautiful and a negatively-connoted word, here “beautiful nightmare”, but also found in other songs like “Beautiful Liar”, featuring Shakira? The possible reference to Goethe's “Licht, mehr Licht!” in the repeated line “Turn the light on”? Next week, to stay in Beyoncé's circle, we'll analyze Jay-Z's “On to the next one” from Weber's perspective as exposed in “The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism”. Consider yourself warned.

[Photo credits: Arthur Tress / Dianora Niccolini / Will McBride / Minor White]

My last two weeks

2010-05-02T16:48:00.006+02:00

So I've been pretty absent here lately for several reasons. First, because of this school project that's draining the life out of me. It's something that I'm not doing alone so it requires a lot of coordination with other people, which we hadn't really had... I would go into details but I don't want to bore you. It's been exhausting, but the good news is that we've made big progress.

Then my beau was here, hooray! Take that, volcano! Well, T was upset after spending his first two days pretty much on his own because of my school work, but I managed to make up for that and it was great to have the rest of the week just for us. We couldn't afford any weekend getaway but we enjoyed some early summer days in Paris. Now he's gone and there's scattered rain. Cue melancholic piano. Anyhow, I like this emotional place we're at these days. It's been almost two years, and all this time of adjusting and learning to understand each other is really paying. It's sad that we won't spend our second anniversary together next month, and even sadder that most probably I'm not seeing him again until September. We're back into our cages on Skype. But we're strong (I personally feel stronger than last year), we love each other and we have hope that this situation will change one day.

In other news, guess what? I'm back at the Factory. I started yesterday. Same company, hi-ho, hi-ho, but completely different job and working conditions, this time full time for four months, at least to survive and to start giving back to my parents the money I've been borrowing from them lately. I don't even know how I'm going to do that and also finish my master degree in June. And after that, no clue either. As I owe money, after those four months I will still be broke and without much margin for maneuver. I'll try to find some internship or job in New York for October but it's far from easy, especially for somebody that's not already there, that's never worked there and that will need a visa. And without savings I can't afford to take an unpaid internship. And when will I get to spend another summer back home with my family, bathing and sunbathing on one of the best beaches of Europe? I don't know. But well...

I'm not being optimistic, or pessimistic. I'm not trying to convince myself everything is going to be just fine, or worrying about the opposite. I'm just trying to be patient. The good times will come, I don't know when or how, but they must come, sooner or later. It seems already too late to think 2010 is going to be a good year, but hey, there'll be a 2011. And a 2012 -which I hope will be less twisted than that hot mess of a tower they're building for London Olympics (sorry, UK).

Meanwhile, I'll be trying.

[Photos by yours truly]

Catching up on V: We Can't Win, Heretic's Fork

2010-05-02T12:15:00.008+02:00

I've been catching up on the episodes I've missed of V, United States of Tara and Brothers & Sisters that I couldn't watch earlier because of my extremely busy schedule. I'll try to keep it short and sweet.

Starting with V, the latest two episodes, We Can't Win and Heretic's Fork allowed me to regain some faith in the show's future. No masterpiece but for once I could really focus on the story and the characters and not on the green screen interiors of the mothership. I even found Tyler is becoming more than a jerk, even if his all reptilian sweetheart Lisa is outshadowing him with her own share of personal conflict. And talking about drama, Val's betrayed Latina faces in response to the revelations about Brian and the baby lizard were somehow hilarious. I loved it when she didn't want to believe her boyfriend is an alien, saying “But I'm pregnant”. Read: “Your dick looked pretty normal to me”. And now, before the next paragraph, let's all lust over Morris Chestnut some more.

Done.

And now that we're talking sex, both Chad's wet dream with Anna and Lisa and Tyler's outer-space sex scene with that poorly chosen soundtrack were just, you know, ratings-oriented. Next thing we know Erica's going to flash her boobs around the house while talking on the phone with some of her church club buddies, or infiltrate a brothel to kick some V-itches, like Pam Grier in Coffy (or was that Foxy Brown? I can't tell one from the other). And still, a whorehouse would make more sense as a setting than that amusement park where that guy who had “red shirt” written all over his face ended up like any red shirt does. And by the way, why do people in movies and series always try to escape to a rooftop? Spiderman is not coming to rescue.

Anyhow, while the resistance is getting tougher, fashion icon Anna keeps delivering smart-ass answers to questions. “Why are we giving humans blue energy?”, she's asked, and she replies: “because once they're dependent on it, we can turn it off”. This dialog device is a little bit overused, but oh well.

For a funnier, more thorough review, you can check Tom and Lorenzo's website. They cracked me up with their criticism of Father Jack's dumb moves while dealing with the V-collaborationist:

Although we probably shouldn't single out Jack for his naivete because there's more than enough to go around. Hey! Let's all use our first names in front of our prisoner. And hey! I'll just mention in passing that I'm an FBI agent to the guy who's standing there in a clerical collar! And oh! Here's a call from the mother ship! From JOSHUA!!! Did you hear me say that, prisoner? JOSH-U-A!! Oh, and I'm an FBI agent, so why don't I wander around headquarters openly talking about the Vs on my cell phone! And let's shoot our guns in this private home, then leave with several dead bodies lying on the floor! No one would ever trace it back to us! Seriously, people. If a couple of fashion-obsessed homos like us can see all the things you're doing wrong you're in serious trouble.

Finally, another ten seconds lusting over Morris Chestnut and we're done.

Done.

WTF: Devendra Banhart, "Foolin'"

2010-04-30T19:54:00.004+02:00

via Tania.

While I prepare my comeback after two weeks without posts, I'll leave you with this music video that has just left me speechless. I don't know what to think. A Brünesque parody gone too far? Involuntary racist undertones? Just for fun? Postmodernism?

What are your thoughts?

Devendra Banhart "FOOLIN'" HD Version from Isaiah Seret on Vimeo.

Letter to Eyjafjallajokull

2010-04-17T18:00:00.006+02:00

Dear volcano,

You're being a bad boy. A very very bad bad boy, you little hellmouth. I know that with that name, which sounds like a Charmed or Buffy's demoniac enemy, we shouldn't expect any better from you.

But my beau needs to arrive here next Thursday. I'm having a rough time with my school project and he's working his ass off to pay his bills so it would mean a lot to us if we could be together for real, outside Skype's glass cage, at least for one week. If he can't make it because of you, most probably I wouldn't be seeing him for another four months.

Therefore, I would be very grateful if you could shut the fuck up and hold your flaming, smoking tantrum for another two centuries or so.

Otherwise, consider yourself warned, I'll have to out-erupt you.

Best regards,

Eduardo Guize.
Bullshitter in Chief at Pearls of BS.

It must be something psychological

2010-04-16T19:25:00.003+02:00

Sorry for the lack of posts this last week, I have a lot on my plate lately.

Meanwhile, I'll leave you with this beautiful song I just discovered thanks to United States of Tara. Thumbs up for the latest episode, by the way.

Be good, and if you're not, be good at hiding evidence.

Straight agenda? "Recruiting'', by Hoban and Poirier

2010-04-09T22:41:00.002+02:00

RECRUITING - a short film from Bobby R Poirier on Vimeo.

Thoughts?

Care Bears Countdown, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

2010-04-08T22:17:00.010+02:00

Brad, seated, Los Angeles, CA, 2006.

Brian, Atwater Village, CA, 2006.

Charlie, Fort Lauderdale, FL, 2006.

Rudolph, San Diego, CA, 2008.

Tom, San Francisco, CA, 2007.

All these pearls of art taken from Blake Little's 2008 exhibition The Company of Men: "I also wanted to document a particular type of masculine gay male that I appreciated and related to but that I did not see photographed anywhere else; an alternative to stereotypes or what is usually seen as the physical ideal of a man in the mainstream." [source: Wessel + O'Connor Fine Art]

Sad note: Rio

2010-04-08T20:03:00.003+02:00

Up to 200 buried, feared dead in new Rio mudslide

By BRADLEY BROOKS (AP)

NITEROI, Brazil — As many as 200 people were buried under tons of mud and feared dead on Thursday after a slum built atop a former landfill gave way in the latest deadly landslide to hit metro Rio de Janeiro. [Read more]

We can't look at our own tragedy, and we prefer not to look at others'.

V 1.06 "Pound of flesh"

2010-04-08T19:07:00.005+02:00

[SPOILERS]

I'm a little bit baffled about V. Last week I was enthusiastic about writing a weekly review, but Pound of Flesh illustrated everything that feels wrong with this series. I'm not sure the fact that it's scheduled after Lost on ABC is a good thing, as the comparisons that were already hard to avoid between the two series become even more obvious. Lost makes you swallow not so great CGI, a fragile combination of mythology and sci fi, gamechangers that would be deemed as jumping the shark in any other series, and a good bunch of plot holes, because you care about the characters and you enjoy the ride. With V, you're never sitting on the edge of your couch and you won't hesitate to take a leak while they're discussing something at the church. It's an entertaining show, but it doesn't reach farther than that.

Lost fans are pretty good at sorting out the episodes in different categories, one of which is the “moving the pieces on the chessboard” kind of episode. Well, maybe the problem with V is that all the episodes are like that: the action keeps progressing, leaving hardly any time to stop for character development. It's no secret that the best way to work with a big group of characters is letting them take turns to stick up individually. V just jumps from one to another, but the writers should maybe follow Anna's orders and “skin them”, metaphorically, to see what's underneath.

I know this kind of contradicts what I wrote last week about the show's steady pace and the lack of dramatism being coherent with the genre, but V really needs to give us something else if we are to cope with the unnecessarily flashy camera movements and, above all, the chroma-key interiors of the mothership, which suck big time. If the budget is that tight that the most luxurious thing they can afford is Anna's wardrobe, they'll have to use some extra creativity.

Now, after the rant, some comments on the episode:

Erica, wake up, Anna's stealing what was supposed to be your show. To defend yourself with a frying pan when attacked is really cool, but you need to muscle up and take the lead. Stop looking elsewhere when somebody needs to go on a risky mission and stop assuming the classically female role of moderator whenever two of your male allies want to punch each other. Elizabeth Mitchell's fabulousness is rather underused, but she did give us some beautiful, heartfelt tears when she left her son behind.
Much unlike Lost, the show doesn't let a mystery stall before giving you the answer. Last week, I was wondering why Ryan showed feelings if the V's are supposed to be unemotional, and I got my full explanation this week. Of course, new mysteries need to take over, and now we wonder what they mean when they say Erica has a lot of baggage, what's up with Tyler and “who he really is”, how that dyed sugar they called phosphorus is going to affect Valerie, and if we're going to see a sex scene between Joshua and his new little friend Samuel -how fast a gay man seems to forgive a late lover...
I can't wait for the summer to arrive in V-occupied New York so the male actors appear with only a t-shirt, or shirtless, more often. Ryan's uniform was already a suggestive upgrade from the long coat, but when he rocked that t-shirt leaving the mothership, hundreds of gay viewers understood what the Bliss must feel like. Even Georgie has been going to the gym, shame he had to be tortured for us to see that. And I felt like a pervy when I couldn't help noticing the effect of the cold on Tyler's nipples outside his father's country house.
What's great about Anna is that she can see an advantage in anything. So the Fifth Column sabotages her gigantic iPads? Good for them. By the way, I loved that they showed the gigantic iPad over Madrid, represented by the iconic Tío Pepe neon sign.

So next week, more V, hopefully better V.

Liking: "Bittersweet" and "Heartbreak" by SEB

2010-04-07T01:12:00.007+02:00

Hey, somebody posted on Facebook Sophie Ellis-Bextor's marvelous Murder on the Dancefloor video, and that made me realized I had been ignoring her for so long! Actually for three albums or so. I've been catching up a little bit.

Those are the two singles released so far for her latest album Straight to the heart. Both videos are beautiful but sadly uninspired, and I loved her best when she's interacting with, say, dancing contestants, window mannequins or the whole city of Venice, but I won't complain, because at least she's there. There's something about her English looks, her minimal moves and her coy gestures that made this young gay man recognize the makings of a diva, when we were both almost ten years younger. And she got me again with lyrics like "Despite my mind, my body is too curious, so won't you show me all there is to know?" and "I know I shouldn't call, but something makes me crave the heat".

Pearl of Art by Rubendario

2010-04-06T21:27:00.006+02:00

via ACDG

Rubendario, one word, is a Venezuelan photographer living in Spain's biggest village, Madrid. He's just published his first book, appropriately titled Mucho Macho. With Mapplethorpe's fascination for male muscular anatomy and a dash of LaChapelle's naughtiness, looking at his pictures is "understanding that the human body has more CORNERS than those our tired eyes could see", as writes Ana Milán on his much recommendable website.

United States of Tara

2010-04-06T14:42:00.006+02:00

[SPOILERS for Season 1, 2.01 and 2.02]

Following Sean's recommendation at Just a Jeep Guy, I started watching United States of Tara... And well, it was one of those one-season-in-two-days marathons I do now and then when I need a break from the real world. Is it because there's nothing more evasive than the idea of transitioning into someone else to escape from your problems? I could definitely use some time off from being me now and then. I actually started to wonder what my alters would be like. Awesome.

I really like this series, even if I take my eyes off the screen when I know the name of the executive producer is going to pop up, so it won't irk me. Toni Colette doesn't only prove to be versatile enough, but also smart enough to make us love Tara, the real one, and not only her alters. There's also John “Long Legs” Corbett in the role of the man I would love to breed with if I was a woman, Rosemarie DeWitt playing Charmaine, Tara's sister, and making art out of a contradictory character, Brie Larson as Kate or what creator Diablo Cody probably was or would have loved to be like when she was her age, and Keir Gilchrist as Marshall or the gay teenager I could never be, maybe because I didn't have those guts, maybe because I'm generation Y (why?) and he's generation Z.

The series keeps a dynamic balance between the sugarcoated suburban family sitcom and the edgy subversion. The Gregsons can apologize, forgive and hug each other like at the end of a Full House episode, but they surely don't speak or behave like the Tanners. Their liberal coolness can actually be exasperating: they do not only accept their son's sexuality and their daughter's sluttiness, but also they are like “no biggie” if they drink wine several times a day, burn stuff, take the car without permission or join a hell house for a love interest... Hello? Luckily, to counterbalance this lack of real family conflicts, there's T, Alice, Buck, Gimme... The alters. The mess these fuckers leave behind them is bigger each time. Before, it was mostly about the public embarrassment, but now Tara's other personalities are stepping on the betrayal-unfaithfulness territory. Wow.

However, I'm a little bit worried about the second season, after seeing two episodes of it. I usually don't like it when you can really tell it's a new season and not only the continuation of the story, as it always suggests far too many executive meetings have taken place. Some changes are fine but it feels like United States of Tara is transitioning (I couldn't help it) or rather slithering into “Modern TV Writing 101”. That's probably an overstatement I hope the other fans of the series will excuse, but I think we could have lived without the mental mirages, like Tara seeing and talking to Buck (Ally McBeal, are you there?). Then, Max's secret search for Trip Johanssen was already a little bit weak, but I'm afraid the suicide next door is going to take us to a Desperate Housewives kind of mystery...

And gay as I am, I was shocked to see three different homosexual storylines on the second season premiere: gay neighbors, gay students posse, pseudo-lesbian moment between a woman and another woman that think she's a man... Have we become a bargaining chip? Is Lionel there to bring an interesting reflection on different ways of being gay, or is he there to make Moosh feel like running back into the closet (he's already kissing a girl!)? Scratching my head...

I know I sound paranoid, but I did see the executive producer's name, and I never trusted that guy...

Misleading Google Mar'10

2010-04-03T03:13:00.004+02:00

Do you want to know what was the Google search leading the most people to this humble blog last month? Well, if we're talking about exact words, it would be, once again, "Duane Michals". But if we think thematically, the subject that brought the most people here from Google was...

Penelope Cruz's freaking accent!

"penelope cruz accent", "penelope cruz english accent", "what's penelope cruz accent" "can't penelope cruz improve her accent"... Guys, get over it! If we add the searches for that line of hers in Nine that I mentioned, it looks like my blog was mainly Pearls of Pe. Enough.

Otherwise, the searches that got me giggling like a suburban housewife mixing meds were:

"guys giving a guy a bj#ii=8": I guess I've mentioned bj's quite tangentially, but no, I don't think I've talked about guys (plural) sucking a guy (singular) at the same time. And what annoys me is the set of odd characters at the end of the search. Was he (I assume it was a male) drunk while typing? Was he typing with only one hand? Was he trying to draw a penis like those teenagers who think that this 8========D looks like dick and balls?

"Hot naked french guys": next time, search for "dieux du stade", you'll see.

"Eduardo biggest cock": now, let me explain I (Eduardo Guize in here) posted an article about a diplomat whose name meant Biggest Cock in Arabic. I'm happy with my size, that's all I have to say.

No hottie this time? Thanks to someone who asked the search engine if "Leonardo Corredor gay?", I learned about this Venezuelan model with a past: he was a singer in a teen salsa group, then he became a telenovela star, and years later, in 2008, he appeared masturbating in a private video that leaked on the net. I let you Google that part.

If Gaga wasn't famous

2010-04-03T03:01:00.001+02:00

Thanks, WGB.

"If I have to cross a line to blow that bitch out of the sky, I will"

2010-04-03T00:52:00.007+02:00

I'll keep my promise and I won't review or spoil any of Lost, but I may be writing about V after each episode, if I'm for once constant. Actually I'm trying to fight the descent into chaos of my Parisian life with a certain sense of schedule, and I'm approaching the R-word (routine) as a holistic mixture of work and pleasure. As part of it, I'm planning to watch an episode of a series over breakfast, as a lure to wake up early and to not skip the most important meal of the day, just like when I was a kid and I would get up at 7 am on a Saturday only to watch cartoons.

Anyway, why V? Well, because when Lost is over, it's going to be the most decent replacement out there, or at least I hope so, if they don't mess it up. I've never watched Heroes and for some reason I don't care. As of Flashforward, the title is already a turn-off for me, but I might give it a try. And V being a remake, we already kind of know what we can expect, unlike all those sci fi series who tried to rival with Lost but had already jumped the shark by the second season and/or got canceled while still toddling.

Also, I choose to write about V because I already commented on the first four episodes here (briefly) and because I really don't think -again, considering that it's a remake-, that there are any major spoilers ("hey, the V's are evil lizards, duh!"), but I'll put that spoiler warning anyway.

And, who am I trying to fool, I'll write about V because in it, like in Lost, I can watch the only woman whose lips for some reason I can't stop staring at, Elizabeth Mitchell, and because Morris Chestnut is the sexiest black man on American TV.

SPOILERS for "Welcome to the War", with V's (that is "Velcome to the Var, beVare, beVare! Bela Lugosi we miss you")

So, after the ridiculously long hiatus and some musical chairs behind the scenes, the mid-season premiere episode didn't actually change much from what we had seen, but it kept pushing the story forward with the fast pace that I consider one of the main virtues of this show. And I don't agree with those who claim the show lacks heart (efficiency over emotion, in Anna's words), especially when you may as well watch Brothers & Sisters on the same channel if you're looking for drama and warm and fuzzy moments. I was also surprised by some reviews where the plot was deemed outlandish, as four people, now apparently five, think they can defeat the invaders: what part of sci fi don't they get? Wait until they assemble an army of mercenaries.

What I loved:

Erica: her fight (especially the frying pan moment), the quote that serves as title for this post, and Erica's fake acceptance of Tyler's behavior at the end of the episode after she realizes she's being watched.
The mouse moment (even if that almost spoiled my breakfast), and in general all those images of Valerie stuffing herself, because, you know, you can't get laid with the hottest black man on American TV and carry his biracial lovechild without consequences (call it the Jill Scott Curse).
The weird but cool forks Anna and Chad use to eat Japanese, in the shape of bifid tongues.

What I liked:

Just in case you were doubting ABC wants to drag Lost fans towards V, Erica steals one of the catchphrases from the mysterious island: "Don't tell me what I can't do!".
Anna subtly sniffing her candidates to mate, only to finally pick the tallest, hunkiest one -stop pretending, greedy lizard, it wasn't the smell you were following.
Her soft porn mating sequence on that lavish HughHefnerish bed, even if I wasn't really convinced by the oh-so-shocking teeth at the end (I don't know of any reptile with those straight-out-of-Alien teeth).

What I didn't like:

Please, those chroma-keys need an upgrade!
Anna's drift to Star Wars fashion.
Tyler. You need an explanation, really?
Their unexplainable way of getting out of Hobbes's apartment in the middle of a raid, leaving the surveillance system where Erica and Father Jack's presence was most probably recorded for the V's and the FBI to find. Definitely an eye-roller.

And what puzzled me: if Anna's suggesting the invading species aren't emotional, how can Ryan, for example, show all that love for Valerie and all those worries?

V-viewers, what were your thoughts?

Pictures from ABC's website.

OMG Ricky's out!

2010-03-29T22:04:00.004+02:00

''I am proud to say that I am a fortunate homosexual man. I am very blessed to be who I am.''

Ricky Martin finally confesses here. The longer you deny it, the harder it is to do what he's doing now, so he's just proving right now that he's a brave man.

Oldie of the week: Gino Paoli, "Il cielo in una stanza" (1960)

2010-03-27T23:45:00.004+01:00

When you're here with me, this room has no walls but trees, endless trees...
This ceiling doesn't exist anymore, and I see the sky above us...

Gino Paoli claimed the lyrics had come to him while lying on the bed of a brothel. You can say what you want about Italians, they really can reach the sublime anywhere.

There's a French-Italian cover by Carla Bruni, but that was before she moved to my neighborhood as Madame Carla Bruni-Sarkozy. You can say what you want about the French, they have a gorgeous First Lady.

Liking: Sia, ''You've Changed''

2010-03-27T23:23:00.001+01:00

Thanks again, PMA.

Hugh Jackman dances for the tea

2010-03-23T17:55:00.001+01:00

Flowers, flowers, flowers!

2010-03-23T00:53:00.006+01:00

A shop on Île Saint-Louis where you can live spring to the fullest buying hats with flowers, aprons with flowers, umbrellas with flowers, bags with flowers, shopping trolleys with flowers! You name it, they put flowers on it!

And they say Parisians are sober! Don't stop giving those magic mushrooms to that designer granny!

Not cool to do this to Marilyn

2010-03-23T00:42:00.003+01:00

Graffiti somewhere in Le Marais.

Written in and on water

2010-03-23T00:27:00.004+01:00

I was out for a walk with my regular sidekick in Paris and we found this water installation at Place du Palais Royal, created by the NGO Solidarités International. Cool and thought-provoking: I had no idea unsafe drinking water was the leading cause of death in the world.

(Sorry for my shakiness)

Tweet me love

2010-03-22T17:21:00.003+01:00

So finally I've decided to get on Twitter. I actually opened an account months ago, but I wasn't convinced... My user name is edgyEG -don't ask me why "edgy", it was late at night and I wanted something that sounded similar to the initials EG. It was that or "itchy", so I chose the one that won't imply I have lice or crabs.

It's going to take me a while to learn the ropes, so be patient if I don't appear that active.

Hugs.

Loving: What else is there?, Röyksopp

2010-03-22T00:39:00.002+01:00

OK, this was 2005, but it's beautifully sick.