The alter ego.

As you know, l'm quite keen on comic books. Especially the ones about superheroes. I find the whole mythology surrounding superheroes fascinating. Take my favorite superhero, Superman. Not a great comic book. Not particularly well-drawn. But the mythology... The mythology is not only great, it's unique. Now, a staple of the superhero mythology is, there's the superhero and there's the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When that character wakes up in the morning, he's Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man. And it is in that characteristic Superman stands alone. Superman didn't become Superman. Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears - the glasses, the business suit - that's the costume. That's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent. He's weak... he's unsure of himself... he's a coward. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race.

Kill Bill Vol. 2 (2003), Quentin Tarantino.

Though things like this make me sick.

I want somebody to share the rest of my life, share my innermost thoughts, know my intimate details. Someone who'll stand by my side and give me support, and in return, she'll get my support.

She will listen to me when I want to speak about the world we live in and life in general. Though my views may be wrong (they may even be perverted) she will hear me out and won't easily be converted to my way of thinking. In fact she'll often disagree, but at the end of it all, she will understand me.

I want somebody who cares for me passionately with every thought and with every breath. Someone who'll help me see things in a different light; all the things I detest I will almost like.

I don't want to be tied to anyone's strings; I'm carefully trying to steer clear of those things. But when I'm asleep I want somebody who will put their arms around me and kiss me tenderly.

Though things like this make me sick, in a case like this I'll get away with it.

Somebody (Depeche Mode), Martin L. Gore.

The tip of the spear.

Gentlemen, you are the top 1% of all naval aviators: the elite, the BEST of the best. We'll make you better. Fly at least two combat missions a day, attend classes in between, and evaluations of your performance. Now in each combat sequence you're going to meet a different challenge. Every encounter is going to be much more difficult. We're going to teach you to fly the F-14 right to the edge of the envelop, faster than you've every flown before, and more dangerous. Now, we don't make policy here, gentlemen. Elected officials, civilians, do that. We are the instruments of that policy. And although we're not at war, we must always act as though we are at war. We're the tip of the spear. In case some of you wonder who the best is, they're up here on this plaque on the wall. The best driver and his RIO from each class has his name on it. And they have the option to come back here to be Top Gun instructors. You think you're name's going to be on that plaque?

Top Gun (1986), Tony Scott.

The ability to bullshit.

It was the oddest, most unexpected thing. I began writing what they call a Mission Statement for my company. You know -a Mission Statement- a suggestion for the future. What started out as one page became twenty-five. Suddenly I was my father's son. I was remembering the simple pleasures of this job, how I ended up here out of law school, the way a stadium sounds when one of my players performs well on the field... I was remembering even the words of the late Dicky Fox, the original sports agent, who said: The key to this job is personal relationships. Hey, I'll be the first to admit it. What I was writing was somewhat "touchy feely." I didn't care. I had lost the ability to bullshit. It was the me I'd always wanted to be.

Jerry Maguire (1996), Cameron Crowe.

Inspiración.

-La inspiración acude cuando se pegan los codos a la mesa, el culo a la silla y se empieza a sudar. Elige un tema, una idea, y exprímete el cerebro hasta que te duela. Eso se llama inspiración.

El Juego del Ángel, Carlos Ruiz Zafón.

Simple y pura biología.

-Está en nuestra naturaleza sobrevivir. La fe es una respuesta instintiva a aspectos de la existencia que no podemos explicar de otro modo, bien sea el vacío moral que percibimos en el universo, la certeza de la muerte, el misterio el origen de las cosas o el sentido de nuestra propia vida, o la ausencia de él. Son aspectos elementales y de extraordinaria sencillez, pero nuestras propias limitaciones nos impiden responder de un modo inequívoco a esa preguntas y por ese motivo generamos, como defensa, una respuesta emocional. Es simple y pura biología.

El Juego del Ángel, Carlos Ruiz Zafón.

Todo es un cuento.

-Todo es un cuento , Martín. Lo que creemos, lo que conocemos, lo que recordamos e incluso lo que soñamos. Todo es un cuento, una narración, una secuencia de sucesos y personajes que comunican un contenido emocional. Un acto de fe es un acto de aceptación, aceptación de una historia que se nos cuenta. Sólo aceptamos como verdadero aquello que puede ser narrado...

El Juego del Ángel, Carlos Ruiz Zafón.

Hair grows even after you're dead.

Imagine you go away on a business trip one day and when you come back home your children have grown and you never made your wife moan, and people make you nervous. You'd think the world was ending and everybody's features have somehow started blending. And everything is plastic, and everyone's sarcastic, and all your food is frozen; it needs to be defrosted.

Well maybe you should just drink a lot less coffee, and never ever watch the 10 o'clock news. Maybe you should kiss someone nice or lick a rock or both. Maybe you should cut your own hair cause that can be so funny, it doesn't cost any money and it always grows back. Hair grows even after you're dead.

The Ghost of Corporate Future, Regina Spektor.

Train of thought.

Leonard:What did Penny mean, "you'd make a cute couple"?

Sheldon: Well, I assume she meant that the two of you together would constitute a couple that others might consider cute. An alternate, though somewhat less likely interpretation is that you could manufacture one. As in, "Oh, look, Leonard and Leslie made Mr. and Mrs. Goldfarb! Aren't they adorable?

Leonard:
If Penny didn't know that Leslie had already turned me down, then that would unambiguously mean that she, Penny, thought I should ask her, Leslie, out, indicating that she, Penny, had no interest in me asking her, Penny, out; but because she did know that I had asked her, Leslie, out, and that she, Leslie, had turned me down, then she, Penny, could be offering me consolation - "That's too bad, you would have made a cute couple..." - while thinking, "good, Leonard remains available.

Sheldon:
You're a lucky man, Leonard.

Leonard:
How so?

Sheldon:
You're talking to one of the three men in the Western Hemisphere capable of following that train of thought.

Leonard:
Well, what do you think?

Sheldon: I said I could follow it, I didn't say I cared.

The Big Bang Theory, Season 1.

Sagittarius.

Penny: I'm a Sagittarius, which probably tells you way more than you need to know.

Sheldon:
Yes, it tells us that you participate in the mass cultural delusion that the sun's apparent position relative to arbitrarily defined constellations at the time of your birth somehow affects your personality.

The Big Bang Theory, Season 1.

Chance.

You have about as much chance of going out with Penny as the Hubble Telescope has of finding that at the center of each black hole there's a little man with a flashlight trying to find the circuit breaker.

The Big Bang Theory, Season 1.

La entrada número 200.

Sí, otras 100 entradas más. Y una vez más vuelvo a escribir. Tardé mucho tiempo en postear esta entrada, casi un mes, porque quería hacer algo especial para esta ocasión (por alguna convención que desconozco, todo número redondo es digno de algún tipo de festejo o distinción). Evalué la posibilidad de volver a mostrar algún texto mío, pero nada era digno de tal merecimiento. Y durante todo este tiempo, si bien me encontré con varios textos que merecían aparecer en este blog, quería que la entrada 200 me representara de alguna manera. Y hoy, por esas cosas del azar, me volví a cruzar con un cuento que leí hace muchísimos años, y releí hace otros tantos muchos años. Un cuento que me fascinó desde mi infancia y que me marcó de alguna manera, ya que lo recuerdo como el primer cuento por el cual sentí algo mucho más fuerte que el simple placer de la lectura. Un cuento que me despertaba pasión, admiración, felicidad, y tristeza al mismo tiempo. Un cuento que recuerdo como el primer gran final de una saga que haya leído. Un cuento que comenzaba así:

Tomo la pluma con tristeza para redactar estos pocos párrafos, que serán los últimos que yo dedicaré a dejar constancia de las singulares dotes que distinguieron a mi amigo el señor Sherlock Holmes. Me he esforzado, aunque de una manera inconexa y, estoy profundamente convencido de ello, del todo inadecuada, en relatar como he podido las extraordinarias aventuras que me han ocurrido en su compañía desde que la casualidad nos juntó, en el período del Estudio en Escarlata, hasta la intervención de Holmes en el asunto de El Tratado naval, intervención que tuvo como consecuencia indiscutible la de evitar una grave complicación internacional. Era propósito mío el haber terminado con ese relato, sin hablar para nada del suceso que dejó en mi vida un vacío que los dos años transcurridos desde entonces han hecho muy poco por llenar. Pero las recientes cartas en que el coronel James Moriarty defiende la memoria de su hermano me fuerzan a ello, y no tengo otra alternativa que la de exponer los hechos tal como ocurrieron. Soy la única persona que conoce la verdad exacta del caso, y estoy convencido de que ha llegado el momento en que a nada bueno conduce el suprimirla. Por lo que yo sé, sólo han aparecido en la Prensa tres relatos: el que publicó el Journal de Geneve el día 6 de mayo de 1891, el telegrama de Reuter que apareció en los diarios ingleses el día 7 de mayo y, por último, las cartas recientes a que antes aludí. El primero y el segundo de estos relatos son sumamente lacónicos, en tanto que el último tergiversa por completó los hechos, según voy a demostrarlo. Me toca a mí el contar por primera vez qué es lo que verdaderamente ocurrió entre el profesor Moriarty y el señor Sherlock Holmes.

Arthur Conan Doyle, "El problema final", Las Memorias de Sherlock Holmes.

Polite.

You shouldn't think that just because I'm looking at you while you're talking to me, that I'm necessarily listening to or caring about what you're saying. It's just something I do to be polite.

Sports Night. Season 2, Episode 2, "When Something Wicked This Way Comes".

Fifteen Minutes of Fame.

To quote Andy Warhol, "Everybody has fifteen minutes of fame."
To quote myself, "I wish they didn't".

Mick Mars, The Dirt.

Last looks.

Because we have a moment here, let me tell you that I have recently become a secret connoisseur of 'last looks'. You know the way people look at you when they believe it's for the last time? I've started collecting these looks.

Elizabethtown (2005), Cameron Crowe.














For WetGirl.

Too great to be gone forever.

Disco will never be over. It will always live in our minds and hearts. Something like this, that was this big, and this important, and this great, will never die. Oh, for a few years - maybe many years - it'll be considered passé and ridiculous. It will be misrepresented and caricatured and sneered at, or - worse - completely ignored. People will laugh about John Travolta, Olivia Newton-John, white polyester suits and platform shoes and people going like *this*, but we had nothing to do with those things and still loved disco. Those who didn't understand will never understand: disco was much more, and much better, than all that. Disco was too great, and too much fun, to be gone forever! It's got to come back someday. I just hope it will be in our own lifetimes.

The Last Days of Disco (1988), Whit Stillman.

The end of the end.

In any case, this is how all our stories begin, in darkness with our eyes closed, and all our stories end in the same way, too, with all of us uttering some last words -or perhaps someone else's- before slipping back into darkness as our stories of unfortunate events come to an end.

A Series of Unfortunate Events, "The End" Book the Thirteenth, Chapter Thirteen, Lemony Snicket.

Born yesterday.

But the three siblings were not born yesterday. Violet was born more than fifteen years before this particular wednesday, and Klaus was born approximatley two years after that, and even Sunny who had just passed out of babyhood, was not born yesterday. Neither were you, unless of course I am wrong, in which case, welcome to the world, little baby, and congratulations on learning to read so early in life.

A Series of Unfortunate Events, Book The Tweltfh "The Penultimate Peril", Lemony Snicket

The beginning of the end.

Dear Reader,

You are presumably looking at the back of this book, or the end of the end. The end of the end is the best place to begin the end, because if you read the end from the beginning of the beginning of the end to the end of the end of the end, you will arrive at the end of the end of your rope.

This book is the last in A Series of Unfortunate Events, and even if you braved the previous twelve volumes, you probably can't stand such unpleasantries as a fearsome storm, a suspicious beverage, a herd of wild sheep, an enormous bird cage, and a truly haunting secret about the Baudelaire parents.

It has been my solemn occupation to complete the history of the Baudelaire orphans, and at last I am finished. You likely have some other occupation, so if I were you I would drop this book at once, so the end does not finish you.

With all due respect,
 

Lemony Snicket.

A Series of Unfortunate Events, Book the Thirteenth "The End", Lemony Snicket.

Después de todo.

Y te subís al último tren de la noche, acompañado por el resabio de unas copas, una leve euforia y una pizca de melancolía. Y entre tema y tema que suena en tus oídos, te das cuenta que después de todo, tu vida no está tan mal.

Rooms.

I'm gonna base this moment on who I'm stuck in a room with. That's what life is. It's a series of rooms. And who we get stuck in those rooms adds up to what our lives are.

House M.D., One Room, Episode 12 Season 3.

We sell cigarettes.

People, what is going on out there? I look down this table, all I see are white flags. Our numbers are down all across the board. Teen smoking, our bread and butter, is falling like a shit from heaven! We don't sell Tic Tacs for Christ's sake. We sell cigarettes. And they're cool and available and *addictive*. The job is almost done for us!

Thank you for smoking (2005), Jason Reitman.

The voice of God.

Metatron acts as the voice of God. Any documented occasion when some yahoo claims God has spoken to them, they're speaking to me. Or they're talking to themselves. Human beings have neither the aural nor the psychological capacity to withstand the awesome power of God's true voice. Were you to hear it, your mind would cave in and your heart would explode within your chest. We went through five Adams before we figured that one out.

Dogma (1999), Kevin Smith.

Cada tanto una puerta se abre.

Las puertas han sido el tema de este último programa. Las misteriosas puertas que comunican momentos de nuestra vida, habitaciones de nuestro corazón y puertas que permanecen siempre cerradas, de modo que algunos sectores del alma jamás se comunican.
Yo les deseo a todos ustedes que alguna de esas puertas que están cerradas con candado se abran aunque sea por un rato. Vivimos, le decía yo hoy a un amigo que me hizo un entrevista, casi siempre solos y encerrados. Cada tanto una puerta se abre, un puente se establece. No les deseo yo una vida de puertas abiertas porque es insoportable, pero sí que cada tanto en medio de esa soledad se abra la puerta y se asome una cabeza amiga y diga “hola”. Pero esos milagros solo suceden en dos ocasiones: en ocasión del amor y en ocasión del arte. Ojalá que todos ustedes tenga momentos de amor y momentos de arte.

Alejandro Dolina.

Three New Yorks.

There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. […] Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion.

Here is New York, E.B. White.

The only one.

You’re the only one I cry for, the only one I try to please. You’re the only one I sigh for, the only one I die to squeeze. And it gets better everyday, I play, with you it’s such a scream. Yeah it gets better everyday, I say, with you it’s so extreme. Yeah, it gets wetter everyday, I stay, with you it’s like a dream.

The only one, The Cure.




20.06.08 MSG - Cured.

Cut here.

But how many times can I walk away and wish "If only..."
But how many times can I talk this way and wish "If only..."
Keep on making the same mistake
Keep on aching the same heartbreak
I wish "If only..."

But "If only...."
Is a wish too late...


Robert Smith, Cut Here, The Cure.

A un día...

Hugh Gallagher's 'College Essay'

3A. ESSAY: IN ORDER FOR THE ADMISSIONS STAFF OF OUR COLLEGE TO GET TO KNOW YOU, THE APPLICANT, BETTER, WE ASK THAT YOU ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTION:

ARE THERE ANY SIGNIFICANT EXPERIENCES YOU HAVE HAD, OR ACCOMPLISHMENTS YOU HAVE REALIZED, THAT HAVE HELPED TO DEFINE YOU AS A PERSON?

---

I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.

I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.

Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.

I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.

I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven. I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.

But I have not yet gone to college.

Notes from the pulpit.

I am not qualified to speak about God. I am going to speak about advertising. That is something I believe in. When I mention that I am in advertising, people's instinctive reaction is that you are trying to sell people things the don't want.

They regard advertising as being a bit distasteful. I am no more distasteful than you. Yes, of course, I am selling. But so are all of you.

You are hustling and selling or trying to make people buy something. Your services or your point of view. Tupperware parties, for example. They are selling.

You clean your car to sell it, showing it to its best advantage. People even put bread in the oven to make their houses smell nice when they are trying to sell them. The way you dress when going for an interview or a party, or merely putting lipstick on. Aren't you selling yourself?

Your priest is selling. He is selling what he believes in. God.

The point is we are all selling.

We are all in advertising.

It's part of life.



It's not how good you are, it's how good you want to be. Paul Arden.

Fail.

Fail. Fail again. Fail Better.

Samuel Beckett.

The rebel.

"Life conspires to beat the rebel out of you."

Alex Bogusky.

Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein.

Today... today, you find yourselves equals. For you are all equally blessed. For I have the pride, the privilege, nay, the pleasure of introducing to you to a knight, sired by knights. A knight who can trace his lineage back beyond Charlemagne. I first met him atop a mountain near Jerusalem, praying to God, asking his forgiveness for the Saracen blood spilt by his sword. Next, he amazed me still further in Italy when he saved a fatherless beauty from the would-be ravishing of her dreadful Turkish uncle. In Greece he spent a year in silence just to better understand the sound of a whisper. And so without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, I give to you, the seeker of serenity, the protector of Italian virginity, the enforcer of our Lord God, the one, the only, Sir Ulllrrrich von Lichtenstein!

A Knight's Tale (2001), Brian Helgeland.

Everybody lies.

It's a basic truth of the human condition that everybody lies. The only variable is about what. The weird thing about telling someone they're dying is it tends to focus their priorities. You find out what matters to them. What they're willing to die for. What they're willing to lie for.

House MD, "Three Stories", Season 1 Episode 21.

Where the birds always sing

The world is neither fair nor unfair. The idea is just a way for us to understand. But the world is neither fair nor unfair. So one survives, the others die and you always want a reason why.
But the world is neither just nor unjust. It's just us trying to feel that there's some sense in it.

Where the birds always sing, Robert Smith.

Not anymore.

Innocent? Is that supposed to be funny? An obese man... a disgusting man who could barely stand up; a man who if you saw him on the street, you'd point him out to your friends so that they could join you in mocking him; a man, who if you saw him while you were eating, you wouldn't be able to finish your meal. After him, I picked the lawyer and I know you both must have been secretly thanking me for that one. This is a man who dedicated his life to making money by lying with every breath that he could muster to keeping murderers and rapists on the streets! A woman... so ugly on the inside she couldn't bear to go on living if she couldn't be beautiful on the outside. A drug dealer, a drug dealing pederast, actually! And let's not forget the disease-spreading whore! Only in a world this shitty could you even try to say these were innocent people and keep a straight face. But that's the point. We see a deadly sin on every street corner, in every home, and we tolerate it. We tolerate it because it's common, it's trivial. We tolerate it morning, noon, and night. Well, not anymore. I'm setting the example.

Se7en (1995) David Fincher.

The Flight of our dreams

... so rapid is the flight of our dreams upon the wings of imagination...

The Three Musketeers, Alexandre Dumas.

You haven't lived.

Love is passion, obsession, someone you can't live without. If you don't start with that, what are you going to end up with? Fall head over heels. I say find someone you can love like crazy and who'll love you the same way back. And how do you find him? Forget your head and listen to your heart. I'm not hearing any heart. Run the risk, if you get hurt, you'll come back. Because, the truth is there is no sense living your life without this. To make the journey and not fall deeply in love - well, you haven't lived a life at all. You have to try. Because if you haven't tried, you haven't lived.

Meet Joe Black (1988), Martin Brest.

The Summer of 1959.

I was twelve going on thirteen the first time I saw a dead human being. It happened in the summer of 1959—a long time ago. But only if you measure in terms of years. I was living in a small town in Oregon called Castle Rock. There were only 1281 people, but to me it was the whole world.

Stand By Me, Rob Reiner (1986).

Decenas de poemas.

Y lloré con la almohada mi estúpida plegaria, y me tragué con vinos una desolación tras otra, perdido en la intemperie que suele ser mi abrigo. Y escribí decenas de poemas que convertí en canciones deplorables.

Adolfo Castelo, Revista TXT, Año 1, Número 35.

The mind is its own place.

Farewell, happy fields, where joy forever dwells!
Hail, horrors! Hail infernal world!
An thou, profoundest Hell,
receive thy new possessor
-one who brings a mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place,
and itself can make a Heaven of Hell,
and a Hell of Heaven.

Paradise Lost, John Milton.

Miserable.

You're gonna be miserable. At home, at work, somewhere. The goal in life is not to eliminate misery. It's to keep misery to the minimum. Someone's gonna be miserable sometime. Accept it. That's how I stay so happy.

House MD, Season 4, Episode 5 "Mirror mirror".

Mrs. Robinson.

For god's sake, Mrs. Robinson. Here we are. You got me into your house. You give me a drink. You... put on music. Now you start opening up your personal life to me and tell me your husband won't be home for hours. Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me.

The Graduate (1967), Mike Nichols.

You were a tomato!

MICHAEL DORSEY
Are you saying that nobody in New York will work with me?

GEORGE FIELDS
No, no, that's too limited... nobody in Hollywood wants to work with you either. I can't even set you up for a commercial. You played a *tomato* for 30 seconds - they went a half a day over schedule because you wouldn't sit down.

MICHAEL DORSEY
Of course. It was illogical.

GEORGE FIELDS
YOU WERE A TOMATO. A tomato doesn't have logic. A tomato can't move.

MICHAEL DORSEY
That's what I said. So if he can't move, how's he gonna sit down, George? I was a stand-up tomato: a juicy, sexy, beefsteak tomato. Nobody does vegetables like me. I did an evening of vegetables off-Broadway. I did the best tomato, the best cucumber... I did an endive salad that knocked the critics on their ass.

Tootsie (1982), Sidney Pollack

Success.

All you need in this life is ignorance and confidence; then success is sure.

Mark Twain.

Second Chance.

When the Washington Sentinels left the stadium that day, there was no tickertape parade, no endorsement deals for sneakers or soda pop, or breakfast cereal. Just a locker to be cleaned out, and a ride home to catch. But what they didn't know, was that their lives had been changed forever because they had been part of something great. And greatness, no matter how brief, stays with a man. Every athlete dreams of a second chance. These men lived it.

The Replacements (2000), Howard Deutch.

Fermín Romero de Torres III.

Mire, Daniel. Las mujeres, con notables excepciones como su vecina Merceditas, son más inteligentes que nosotros, o cuando menos más sinceras consigo mismas sobre lo que quieren o no. Otra cosa es que se lo digan a uno o al mundo. Se enfrenta usted al enigma de la naturaleza, Daniel. La fémina, babel y laberinto. Si usted la deja pensar, está perdido. Recuerde: corazón caliente, mente fría. El código del seductor.

Fermín Romero de Torres, en La Sombra del Viento (Carlos Ruiz Zafón).

Fermín Romero de Torres II.

La televisión, amigo Daniel, es el Anticristo y le digo yo que bastarán tres o cuatro generaciones para que la gente ya no sepa ni tirarse pedos por su cuenta y el ser humano vuelva a la caverna, a la barbarie medieval, y a estados de imbecilidad que ya superó la babosa allá por el pleistoceno. Este mundo no se morirá de una bomba atómica como dicen los diarios, se morirá de risa, de banalidad, haciendo un chiste de todo, y además un chiste malo.

Fermín Romero de Torres, en La Sombra del Viento (Carlos Ruiz Zafón).

Fermín Romero de Torres.

Vive Dios que yo nunca me acosté con una mujer menor de edad, y no por falta de ganas u oportunidades; que hoy me ven ustedes en horas bajas, pero hubo el día en que tuve presencia y gallardía como el que más, y aún así, por si acaso y me daba en la nariz que eran un poco golfas, exigía cédula de identidad, o en su defecto autorización paterna por escrito para no faltarle a la ética.

Fermín Romero de Torres, en La Sombra del Viento (Carlos Ruiz Zafón).

(RED)

What we choose to buy.

A t-shirt can change the world.
What we collectively
choose to buy
or not to buy
can change the course
of life and history
on this planet.


Gap t-shirt, Product (Red) Campaign.