G U COM/T / YA N
E L TU/DE NGEL
(ALL SECTIONS INCLUDE PRETTY PICTURES/ TODAS LAS SECCIONES INCLUYEN IMAGENES LINDAS)
carta de la editora
Editor’s letter/pep speech
O Ñ A
IS L G
EN (Poems that don’t rhyme in nature that looks supernatural)
i only have eyes for you
9 10 19
(A loving intervention)
the lending heart (fragment)
IS L G
(By Devin Henstch) EN H S I GL N E (An interviewing space by Maria Schurr. On this issue, Siress 7cut) L A GU N I BIL
(The amazing 12-year-olds that actually act like 12-year-olds)
cerrado por duelo (By Matias E. J. Dinardo) Ñ PA S E
60 Modesta | 5
Cover Art: Bloody Nose Aurinko Sunshine featuring 7cut (collaboration) Blood mixed with media on digital canvas Copyright 2009 The blood is real
Editor-in-chief Executive editor Art director Co-art director
Design Senior Designer Junior Designer Mascot Designer
Founder Publisher Marketing Director Account Manager President CFO Intern
Thank you’s / Agradecimientos To free time, internet and summer /To the poster that said “Learn to make your own zine” that I saw on the streets and gave me this genius idea /To all those who told me “That’s a great idea!” /To all those who thought I was going to abandon this project, and now are giving me the power to point them with my finger and say “HaHa!” / To Adobe® Creative Suite®, for being there for me always /To all my amazing friends, specially those who contributed, and even those who said they would but forgot about it /And mostly, to you, cookie face, who are reading this right now.
Al tiempo libre, a la internet y al verano /Al poster que vi en la calle y decia “Aprenda a hacer su propia zine” y me dio esta idea genial /A todos los que me dijeron “¡Que buena idea!” /A todos los que pensaron que iba a abandonar este proyecto, y ahora me dan el poder de apuntarlos con el dedo y decir “¡Ha-Ha!” /A Adobe® Creative Suite®, por estar siempre ahi, haciendome el aguante /A todos mis copadísimos amigos, especialmente a los que aportaron su material, e incluso a los que dijeron que iban a contribuir pero despues de olvidaron /Y mas que nada a vos, carita de galletita, que me estas leyendo ahora.
Contributors/Colaboradores artistas colaboradores/Contributing artists Photo Mila Martorelli
Mila es una fotógrafa autodidacta remil talentosa, y tiene una gata relinda. Mila is a very talented self-taught photographer and has a very cute cat. http://fotosintessis.blogspot.com/
DNG - Denise Nardini
ON EN TH ES IS I TE SS NÚ UE ME RO
Ella sacó la foto de la página 4 que esta buenísima, creo que es en Río de Janeiro. She took the awesome Picture on page 4, I think that’s in Rio de Janeiro.
Art Fede Andreotti
Fede es un dibujante muy fresco y gracioso, sólo que todavía no lo sabe. Fede is a very fresh and funny cartoonist, he just doesn’t know it yet.
Carina & Hans
Una pareja despampanante dehéroes de la tijera. A dazzling couple of paper-cutting heroes.
escritores colaboradores/Contributing writers Maria Schurr
Está a punto de ser nombrada entrevistadora estrella de Modesta. Sexy. Soon-to-be-knighted star interviewer of Modesta. Sexy.
Autor, profesor y músico. Su banda esta re-re buena. Author, teacher and musician. His band is pretty, pretty cool.
Matías E.J. Dinardo
Joven autor y estudiante de cine, que es igual a Harry Potter. Young author, film student and Harry Potter look-a-like.
Autor y amante del vino. Author and wine lover.
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Modesta #1 Ene. 2010 Carta de la Editora
n bote. El remo consígaselo usted. Un diccionario. El idioma invéntelo usted. Una casa. Amuéblela y viva en ella.
Las cosas se hacen cuando se hacen, y aprender a hacerlas nunca es una meta, sino una consecuencia. Vana la espera de vistos buenos, de bendiciones, de diplomas, de certificados de asistencia, de ceremonias inaugurales. De botella de champagne rota contra el barco nuevo. De mirar el mismo punto fijo del rincón de penitencia. No sé usted, pero yo quiero ser como el primer cavernícola antes del fuego. Y sin ningún preconcepto, tener visiones de lo invisible. Usted no puede esperar a que alguien le enseñe a usar su vida. Usted no puede esperar a que su mama lo mire y lo aliente para tirarse de bomba en la pileta. Usted no puede andar en bicicleta con rueditas para siempre. Usted no es ni ciego, ni mudo, ni idiota ni discapacitado emocional. Deje caer algunas ideas, y péinelas. Si usted me cuenta, yo lo escucho. Lo que le salga de los rulos. Es lo que yo opino. Lo que descubrí. La epifanía que tuve un día, sentada tomando mate en el patio de mi casa. En el día en que no pude esperar mas. En el día en que me dije: “¿Porqué no? “ En el día en que pensé: “¡Peroclaroporsupuesto!” El punto de partida es la nada misma. Es un cero. Un cero bien redondo.
Un agujero negro al que yo, me tiro de cabeza.
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fotosĂntesis Photos by Mila Martorelli Words by Aurinko Sunshine
At exactly 6 pm on Monday afternoon, a chrysanthemum blizzard passed through my door, and through my door only. It was a joyful reminder of all things lost, in two decades and a half of inhaling and exhaling cocktails of oxygen and smog. The list was plump. My father. He loved me so much he hit me. He was so sure of my intelligence that he didn’t need to hear me speak. Ever. My mother. She hated me so much she made me alive. She believed in me so little that she gave me confidence. My friends. They were so neglectful that they never left me alone. My pets. They were so immortal that they died. My boyfriend. I needed him so much that I left him. My love affair. It was so great, so profound, so breathtaking that it didn’t even exist. My identity. So strong that I chose to be somebody else. Wounded chrysanthemums hovered in the air, the day was lovely and entirely mine. I was alone and grateful, doing the dishes while I looked out the window into the ballroom scene of white petals and UV rays. Oh how I adore the sun. My love for it is such that I stay in the shade. Ah water, so crystalline and smooth on my skin that I wear rubber gloves to touch it. My memory. So vague it torments me with pristine details. My brain. So inactive that I can’t turn it off. My blood. So thin it clogs my heart. The kitchen is so clean now. So clean somebody could lick it. So clean I could perform an autopsy on the floor. The bills are paid, the plants watered, the bed made, my shoes shined. The mafia is not after me anymore. Now is the time to take a break from real life, to put on a red haired wig and smoke with cigarette holders. To get a fake ID and cross the border. Invisible pen and paper write: For my heart. I can find a spare part.
chrysanth emum bliz zard Modesta | 13
I said your name out loud, and my seven-headed sister turned her seven heads to me. One-hundred-and-eighty full degrees, and they smiled. They smiled in sympathy. They smiled. All of them, The good one, The pretty one, The fat one, The psycho one, The bald egg-headed one, The toothless one, The cowardly one. All of them. And they had my face. And all the faces of a diamond. And my cousins. My dwarf cousins. Came rushing through a trap door, landed flat on the floor. They got up and formed a row. The cross-eyed one tilted her head to the right, and said :“A”. The fingerless one rolled her eyes, and said: “E”. The feathered one stood still for seven months, and suddenly beamed: “I”. The limbless one spat on the floor, and roared: “O”. The eunuch one nodded: “U”. And there was your name. And everybody howled it.
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A coast. A moment with no static In terrifying solitude. Ursa minor. Cartographers forgot To draw this line. No silhouettes against This cloudless sky.
I want to bring my band, To my travels on this land. But nobody could come This time. Coronae. Maybe magnets pulled me here. Maybe diamonds long to be By the aura of this sea. Now close your eyes, Because I’m uglier than I should be. And I’m not old enough. And I’m not here forever. And I’m too heavy. And I can’t talk to you, Because I have too much to say. And there’s nothing in front of us. And when everything is set aglow, You will see through a pinhole The immensity of the North. If things are easier. Easier. There are no plans. Plans. And it’s the end of a song. A dying piano riff. And the start of a lullaby. A silent movie. A blur.
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I Only Have Eyes For You My love must be a kind of blind love I can’t see anyone but you. Are the stars out tonight? I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright I Only Have Eyes For You, Dear. The moon maybe high but I can’t see a thing in the sky, ‘Cause I Only Have Eyes For You. I don’t know if we’re in a garden, or on a crowded avenue. You are here So am I Maybe millions of people go by, but they all disappear from view. And I Only Have Eyes For You.
Written by Harry Warren and Al Dubin. Appeared in the1934 musical “Dames”.
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The Lending Heart (fragment)
By Devin Hentsch His lending heart could not stop giving, and so, it was in crisis. The usual lending of material things like, books, household items, music, video games, clothes and the necessary baking materials from his motherâ€™s cupboards such as eggs, sugars, vegetable or olive oils and cups of milk, arrived in the end to the lending of money. The sums he lent ranged from 10 to 20 dollars at bars, 50 to 100 dollars to people who approached him with a genuine askance, and unlimited amounts to people he decided he loved. These included: family, close friends, people dying, people he met only once, but being present at a pinnacle moment of change in his life he mistook them as actually causing the change, and anonymous pretty waitresses. Small change he dropped into hands he considered gone, and maybe not even his in the first place, since it always seemed to appear to fatten his wallet pocket and never seemed to leave. From there on was the lending of all invisible peripherals: time, advice, ears, shoulders, sympathy and always a solving hand. He remembered to keep the process whole by lending himself everything he would need to keep operating at an optimal level. It was a lot to keep track of. It was a lending constantly registered and monitored inside his head, having no idea of net or profit, but witnessing gain none-the-less. After his eighteenth year his lending heart gave out.
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Jude stepped off the elevated platform of the cafeteria stage and onto the main hardwood. He’d been up there all night with arms folded and staring at the rows and racks of shut off lights, squinting at the gels and sighing now and then. At times he would spontaneously thrust his arms up by his elbows into a “V” and shout “YES!” Unseen fireworks would shoot out from his head, spray upwards, flower and drop burning cinders into the brown felt curtains behind him. His fist crunched a handful of typed pages. Stepping off the stage and up the empty back corridor to the scaffolding ladder felt a little like the end of a staged T.V. sitcom to him; the cast walking backstage with their backs facing the screen and credits rolling.
This feeling however lacked credits and was soundless save for the cushioning hush of his shoes, ruffling sleeves and crackle of thick papers rolled and crammed through a back belt loop in his pants. He hopped to the first step and pulled himself up the ladder to the grilled platform. He worked his way to the fire escape, up it past the lights and out an open window to the roof. He turned, pushed the heavy glass closed and heard a tiny hinge snap into place before he finally turned his face to the sky, deep in navy twilight. Skipping over to the edge he jumped and slid down the flagpole beside the high school sign. He stood there a bit in the shadow of the brick wall. The huge black thrust of a pine tree branch swooped over his head, covering his face from anyone who could pass. His head lingered and swayed back and forth slightly while he breathed his eyes half shut as if in a trance. Then he seemed to snap to attention, head up spontaneously, tear out into streetlight and across the pavement into a darkened walkway. He galloped with a stiff spine, catching shots of backyards through high cedar hedges woven into black plastic link fences. The walkway extended into a large park and was edged
every 20 feet with supported maple saplings. The rest of the park was a night green void. He burst out into the open space and immediately halted. His eyes were egg size and he made a gesture with his hands as if he were trying to push the air between them and the ground into compression. After a few deep breaths and a jerky look around he put his hands in his coat pockets and slowly walked on. He noticed the space between the park entrance and his moving position grew, but at the same time his sense of security weakened. How could something grow but at the same time not offer some sort of security? If a tree grew it offered some sort of shelter, if a relationship grew some stability occurred. Anything that grew offered more than its previous incarnation and created a sense of security in the form of a barrier surrounding the individual. The very concept of growth implied gain. Unless what was growing was space. The idea that the universe was expanding above him and thereby opening voids of black matter between its galaxies spun in this head. It made him feel completely vulnerable to the night sky above with its heavy planets like giant wrecking balls, quite distant but ready to drop on him at any minute. Before he knew it he had reached the centre of the park. He had walked far off the paved path and into the middle of a soccer field. He could see the neighbourhoods surrounding the park with their toy gold bulbs shining through the cedars. He stood in a black circular puddle with shimmering glitter on the edges. With a clear head he spun around once, snorted and dropped to his knees. He started to dig with is hands what was to be a very deep hole.
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Now that Iâ€™ve got you
With art, photos, love letters a mail to: mod and add u www.facebook.com
ur attention, hereâ€™s the deal:
Yes! and apple pie recipes. We love stuff. email@example.com us on facebook!! m/modestiaesunavirtud Modesta | 39
With Maria “The Panther” Schurrrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Welcome to a section that you may choose to overlook. But don’t. Cuz it’s friggin’ awesome. These pieces will be a double-fisting adventure between star interviewer (and online friend) Maria ”The Panther” Schurr and a different subject on each issue. On this open space for rainbow showers of coolitude, you’ll read a series of interviews with people who aren’t hot A-list celebrities, but that goddamn should. People that don’t lack the talent, attitude or beauty. They just lack the money and a house in L.A. People whose personalities, lives and art make me their number one fan. My friends! Aurinko Sunshine
Bohemia comes from the river near the marina where my mom’s parents’ kept their boat (which feeds into the story of how my parents met). Another fun fact: my dad originally wanted my name to be Aja, after the album by Steely Dan.* What do you like the most about where you live? 7: There’s always food stalls when you’re hungry at night. The black humor and sense of irony of the Austrians. M: Everything I would ever need (within reason) is at a walking distance. Also, I feel less like a weirdo myself ‘cause everybody here is weird. ** Who are you?
7: A German in Vienna, Austria by the name of Carina, better known as 7cut or Donna Hayward. Or 7evy, or Carina Bambina, or wtf. M: Maria; or, in the world of 7Cut, MJB. 7: Please tell the zine readers your whole name, for never have I heard something as beautiful as that. I’m jealous I don’t have a middle name, or even two middle names like you. ;) M: My whole name is Maria Joanna Bohemia Schurr. The Joanna comes from the song by Kool and the Gang, and the
7: Why do you refer to yourself as a weirdo and how do you define weirdness? M: I guess my definition of weirdness is very close to the common definition for social awkwardness--someone with little grace or confidence in social settings, given to say/do inappropriate things at times. That’s me to a “T”, but I also see people with more extreme forms of it each day. Where do I know you from? 7: We met back in 2000 at the BBS (Bulletin Board) of the old great Beck.com - ah, the old days when Truck was in charge of the site.
On this issue
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M: By the way 7, do you remember what caused us to start interacting with one another on the BBS in the first place? My mind can’t go back that far! 7: I am afraid I have very vague remembering qualities so I can’t really remember our first conversation on the BBS... neither of anyone else from that period. ;( What are you wearing? 7: Nothing, ha-ha. Bull, I’m wearing a second-hand woolen sweater with a swan and lots of dots printed on it (that always reminds me a little of fairy tales and Björk), a black kneelength secretary like pencil skirt I stole from my sister (but she didn’t want it anymore), woolen stockings (as it’s gotten very cold here) and black girly shoes that hurt like hell. I must be crazy to wear them. M: A lot of gray made of fabrics that I’m hoping will keep me warm. What is your job? 7: I am the artist and label manager, promoter, assistant and right hand of electro crooner Louie Austen, and over the KJF Muzicales Services hideout. I also do a bit of freelance promo and other services in music - but just for people I really dig and no major artists. Recently I promoted the new Goldene Zitronen record from Buback, before I was promoting Phantom/Ghost off Dial Records. And next...well, be surprised. You? M: Technician in the main research library of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC. 7: What do you wish your job was? M: Something slightly more prestigious in the main research library of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC. 7: Oh I somehow often imagine myself as an archaeologist digging in Greek & Egyptian soil. Oh, and down in Maya/ Aztec country, Peru, Mexico etc. But I fear that it sounds way more Indiana Jonesy and exotic than the plain truth of this profession. I guess it’s yeah well, digging earth for years or at least months and then getting freaking crazy about a little piece of marble. In a romantic mood, I often fantasize about working at a zoo or for a flower store or being an artist. Well if I ever get tired of working in the music biz, who knows...ha.
M: Ha-ha, I read your dream job answer as being what you feel your job is like! Could this be true, though? You’re still digging, in a way. It’s just music instead of ancient relics! Also, I’m sure people in the music business aren’t too friendly, but we’ve got a regular at the library who’s all about the classics and has been on a few digs. She’s a bit of an old wench, so I’m sure you’d encounter your share of humorless people in the field of archeology! 7: Ha-ha, well sort of eh? Maybe a little bit. But my dream job is a non-digital job, and my actual job is all digital and internet and computers and media. What does your house smell like? 7: If only I had one! Just have an apartment but one day I shall have a house and it will be weird, that’s for sure. Beach Boys-y. I want my house to be psychedelic and Beach Boys-y, now you know. Oh, I screwed up the question - what does it SMELL like - ah right, it smells of dust I guess. Or of me. Then, it’s a wild mix of Givenchy’s “Pi” fragrance and Narciso Rodriguez “For Her”. As for Givenchy - yeah, I like to smell like a man: good! M: Cats. My room smells like me, I guess. Why do you like to smell like a man?
7: I like to smell like a man cuz I like the way men smell maybe as I was a bit of a tomboy as a kid. And maybe because I erm, well, am very fond of men...he-he. And I detected that women are nicer to me when I smell like a man. Everything’s easier it seems. M: In what way do women treat you more nicely? 7: No comment...ha-ha. Well, I’ve been kissed by ladies because of my male fragrance usage. I didn’t mind, though I am fairly straight. But it’s nice to be liked by ladies as well. Presupposed the ladies are nice. God, I talk rubbish, sorrs. Is your mum cool? 7: My Mom is a tigress, a lioness. She can be oh so caring and yet very tough. People take her seriously and get intimidated by her, that’s just great. When my Dad is tough everybody secretly doesn’t think he’s convincing but my Mommy...ooh, you better do what she says. And she is so good about giving advice no matter what the subject is. Always, when I don’t listen to her something goes absurd, so I learned that I have to do what she says. Damn. M: My mum is cooler than any mum ever. I owe her crush on David Thewlis pretty much every attraction I’ve ever had.
stubborn and like our alone time a great deal. We’ve also got very offbeat tastes/problems with authority. How are you like your father? 7: I smoke cigarillos and pipe, I am stubborn, I freak out very, very easily. I’m small and tend to get a tummy. I’m my dad w/o the beard. ;) What were you like when you were a kid? 7: As a kid I was kind of a tomboy, I rather played with the boys than with the girls - we went climbing and stuff. I never liked to play with dolls really, and I’ve never been into horses and all the girly things. I kinda looked like a boy mostly when I was little, since my Mom sent me to the hairdresser all the time and I always had shortish hair. And I never really wanted to travel back then, or even drive just a few kilometers off to do something... always wanted to stay in the village, weeee. M: I was really, really happy and chatty. Then adolescence hit...
7: Are you more your daddy’s or your mommy’s girl? I am my daddy’s girl.
Would you have been my friend in high school?
M: I’m more my daddy’s daughter as well, despite looking exactly like my mom. But yeah, the father and I are both very
7: What a question - DEFINITELY! We would have been inseparable. Modesta | 43
M: Fuck yes! I was so much of an outcast; I wasn’t even part Which of the four seasons do you most anticipate? of the pack of misfits at my school. So I needed any attention I 7: Spring! Everything is getting alive after winter slumber and could get. everybody is cheered up and you can wear short-sleeved 7: By the way, like 7/8 of my friends were outcasts back in things again, and run about in the woods...yeeees. school...it’s funny, we’re all the gang now... M: The Fall, because of Halloween and personal memories of M: I like your idea of this outcast gang. What would our name happy events of Falls past. be? If you had to be trapped in a TV show for a month, which show 7: Errm, the shameless twits? ;) No, maybe spud girls from outer would you choose? heaven. Or amazoniac sirens serene. 7: Nah, TV shows aren’t my thing - I’d rather get stuck in a M: Ha-ha-ha, well if amazoniac sirens serene was our gang miniseries...or in a John Waters / Russ Meyer / Fellini / Passoname, then the initials would be “ASS,” so it all depends on lini flick...oh yeah. whether or not you want to go there ;) M: Going with the obvious and saying Mad Men, just for the bitchin’ fashions. I don’t think I’d get treated too nicely, though... What’s your main obsession? 7: Hmm, good one. I guess my 7 cats***! And trying to make How geeky do you feel for having online friendships? Rate 0 to music! Well, good, good music is heaven to me. Good films also. 10. And good books. 7: That depends...I have sooo many friends all over the world M: Music, music, and music. I’m also pretty obsessed with walk- I’ve known for years thanks to the internet, so I can’t feel that ing and routine. And, at the moment, Mad Men. But yes, Good geeky about it. Well, I’d give it a decent 7. Fits, eh? music is heaven! Is bad music hell, then? Or something even M: Not geeky at all. I’ve met some great people online, so a 9 I worse? guess! 7: Yes, in a way bad music is hell. Bad music destroys the mind, the thoughts, it drains each and every sense of creativity...it’s noise, it’s nuisance, eeek. Are you chasing your dreams? 7: Yep, I’m trying to catch up with my dreams. M: They’ve been captured and sacked. Now I’m trying to figure out new dreams to pursue (possibly in the form of attractive males). Were you ever in love? Tell me about it. 7: Of course I’ve been in love but there’s not much to tell about that. It’s the greatest feeling there is but there’s always the danger of losing yourself in a relationship, and doing silly things, and giving up things, and what not. And the butterflies fly, again, way too soon. It would be better to keep them pink shades on for a little while longer. M: Yes, and it was horrible because it wasn’t mutual. Never again.
Some follow-ups… 7: Where do you see yourself in 5 years / 10 years & 20 years? (horrible, stupid, super idiotic question I know... he-he) M: Not a stupid question! I still see myself in NY, whether it’s 5, 10, or 20 years. I’ll probably still be at the museum, hopefully in a much higher position? And I may finally look my age! 7: This question scares me for I have no no no idea. In 20 years I may not even be here anymore among the living, though I intend to get at least 60. In 5 years I’ll hopefully be happy and have created at least one proper thing, be it a (music) album, a book, a theatre play or a movie, or an invention...whatever. In 10 years I’ll probably be pregnant and confused. M: I hadn’t thought about whether I’d still be alive or not! Hell, the world may have ended by then…Hmm. I do hope you get your creating something wish. It’s a good thing to strive for. If you wrote a book, what would it be about? 7: If I wrote a book it would be about - dunno. Guess short stories, fictional. And maybe one non-fictional, like the lion in the garden incident****. If you had to give your life (thus far) a headline - like it was a movie or biography - what would that be and which actor or actress would play your part? M: Good question!! Although I’m going to have to ask it back to you later. Well, I titled the memoir I wrote for grad school “No Dancing in the Bomb Shelter,” so I think I’m going to stick with that. As for who should play me---the only person I’ve ever been compared to more than once is Molly Ringwald, although I don’t know if that would work nowadays! How about you? 7: “Hey, at least I tried” and Erica Gavin. If you ever had a pet otter, what would you name him / her? M: Ha-ha, well, I’d have to see the otter in question first! Off the top of my head, I believe I’d name it Roxy, ‘cause I’ve been listening to Roxy music a lot, and it seems like a good, ambiguous name. 7: What’s your favorite animal? M: The hedgehog! Bats are good as well. What’s your favorite animal, and color of ice cream? 7: The fox mongoose and green (pistachio).
THE END *Maria’s parents proved their awesomeness by that fact. ** Yeah, she’s from New York. *** 7cut has 7cats! ****7cut had a real-life, fully-grown lion visiting her garden some years ago. The causes of the events on that day were very puzzling. ***** Molly Ringwald and Erica Gavin secretely wish they could starr Maria’s and 7ev’s Biopics.
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T 100% Cotton. 30% Nylon. Bamboo. Hemp. Rayon. Gauze. V neck. Round neck. Douchebag neck. No Collar. New. Old. Worn out. Clean. Stained. Spotless. Sweated. Tight. Loose. Fitted. Sheer. Opaque. White. Off-white. Melange. Yellowing. Jersey. Interlock. Soft. Rough. Pristine. Peeled-off. With faded prints. Machine washed. Hand washed. Bleached. Stretched out. Deformed. Made into pyjamas. Premium. Standard. Designer. Mass Produced. Dirt cheap. Plain. Dull. Basic. Boring. Casual. Underdressed. Classic. Vintage. Uniform. Manly. Boyish. Sexy. Asexual. Neutral. Underwear. Outerwear. Essential. Elementary. Clear-cut. Precise. Disposable. Easily Replaced. Eternal. For Sport. For Leisure. For work. For sleeping. For dinner. For breakfast. For lunch. For 5 oâ€™ clock. For welding. For painting. For writing. For fixing cars. For riding horses. For cutting stuff with axes. For reading the newspaper. For dating. For looking good. For looking like crap. For sailors. For soldiers. For flower store owners. For butchers. For Daddy. For brothers. For sons. For Soccer Moms. For haters. For lovers. For Prince. For Pauper. Garment. Accessory. Cloth. Piece. Article. Item. Rag. Thing.
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uberpuber Photos By Auri Sunshine Tengo una sobrina de 12 años, que nacio cuando yo tenía 13. Cumplió 12 el Octubre pasado y es de Libra. La gente dice que ahora es adolescente. Yo la veo, y seguimos jugando al monopoly y filmando videos caseros con mis otros sobrinos. Se la pasa mirando Disney Channel y ama a Miley Cyrus. Aunque no lo admite. Para su cumpleaños iban a venir sus amiguitos de la escuela, iba a haber musica y pizza, y a mi eso me sonó a su primer asalto, Y se me ocurrió que no me lo podía perder. Puede sonar pelotudo, pero en mi preadolescencia un tanto “poco-mixta”, nunca habia visto una interaccion tan fluida y armónica entre ambos jóvenes sexos. No hubo cargadas, no hubo tiradas de pelo, no hubo lo ‘ nene’ con lo’ nene’ y la’ nena’ con la’ nena’. No hubo chicas y chicos en fila pegados a paredes opuestas, con un mar de pista de baile vacía en el medio. Y hubo baile. Baile en grupo, juegos, pizza, torta, gaseosa y joda. Y hasta un mini-pogo con el dvd de AC/DC que puso mi hermana, en un intento impetuoso de ser una madre cool. Y hubo quejas de los vecinos de abajo. Estaba la gordita de aparatos, estaba el nenito que todavía no pegó “el estirón”, estaba la nena que no para de hablar, estaba el dientudo con orejas de dumbo, y no faltaba la nena que ya usa corpiño. No faltaba ningún representante de “la edad del pavo” de los que hacen falta para llenar un aula de clases. Pero nadie quedó afuera, todos eran parte de algo. Hasta la pavota de 25 años con una cámara en la mano!
I have a 12-year-old niece, that was born when I was 13. She turned 12 last October, and she’s a Libra. People say that now she’s a teenager. I see her, and we still play monopoly and make home movies with my other nieces and nephews. She watches Disney Channel all the time and worships Miley Cyrus. But she hates to admit it. For her birthday, her friends from school were coming over, there was going to be music and pizza, and that sounded like her first dance party. And it ocurred to me that I couldn’t miss it. It might sound stupid, but in my own somewhat little co-ed preadolescence, I have never seen such a fluid and harmonic interaction between both young sexes. There was no teasing, no bullying, no pulling of pony tails. No rows of girls and boys leaning on opposite walls with a whole sea of empty dancefloor inbetween. And there was dancing. Group dancing, games, pizza, cake, sodapop and fun. And rocking out to my sister’s AC/DC dvd, that she put on in one impetuous attempt of being a cool mum. And there were complaints from the downstairs neighbours. There was the chubby girl with braces, there was the boy who still hasn’t entered puberty and is way smaller than the rest, there was the chatty girl that never shuts up, there was the boy with huge front teeth and dumbo ears, there was the girl that already wears a B cup bra. And every other awkward fase representative that one needs to fill up a classroom. But nobody was left out. Not even the dorky 25-year-old with the camera!
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- Cerrado Por Matías E. J. Dinardo
Todos, supongo, conocen el año Y lo que es aún peor: siempre Cuando digo “siempre” quiero expresar que l go ni una aproximación. Algunos de dan 40 años Disparidad de percepciones, inclu ¿Hace 30 años que me c
Desde que mi actual esposa dijo “Sí, acepto” (creo que “el instante��� es la única refere sente reciente) es como si los engranajes de dras de mi karma o como si alguien lo hubie
Las salas de espera son un sitio muy curioso para m años dentro, mirando interminables títulos encuadra comentando “lo loco que está el tiempo” (valga la redu Mi
Laberinto que confluye hacia el centro de ún los medidores de tiempo queda muy p ses. Con mucho empeño, me dediqué a hace
Varias lunas pasaron por encima de mi adorado negoc Cerra Por mí duelo, claro está, mi futuro desfallecer
o por duelo -
en que nacieron. Todos excepto yo. supe el año en que iba a morir, lo sé desde que nací, que no sé cuando fue. No tende edad, otros 24, ciertas personas me ven lento y senil. uso desde mi punto de vista. casé, sólo 5 o soy recién casado?
al pie del altar su reloj biológico se estropeó al instante encia vívida del cronos conocida por mí, el pree su reloj se hubieran trabado con una de las pieera sumergido en las profundas aguas de mi tragedia.
mí: nunca sé si estoy en ellas unos minutos o si realmente pasé ados, hojeando viejas revistas de chimentos una y otra vez o undancia) con los compañeros deseantes de ser los próximos.
hay sucesión. un
el año en vigencia, el año de mi muerte. Segpoco para que termine el año, menos de 11 meer un cartel pintado a mano del que estoy orgulloso.
cio hasta que lo terminé. Con letra floribunda y fileteada, escribí: ado por duelo. era un duelo para mí, luego lo sería para los otros. Modesta | 61
Puede parecerles irónico, no me importa si es así, pero de alguna forma un ta cerrada bajo candado, de mi relojería. Sí, vendía aparatos que no eran útiles pa traños (relojes de pie, con formas fáunicas, fluorescentes, antiguos, de arena, agua, ser estético y agradable a los ojos. Disfrutaba de los tic-tac inconstantes, que iba Por suerte los medios no hicieron mucha referencia a lo que ocurría pequeña nota en el diario haciendo referencia al cierre de la relojería Mi esposa lloraba cada vez que empezaba un nuevo día, y los sollozos eran pre le gana al tiempo, o por lo menos en mi caso, y el entorno estaba cubierto Así dicen que es el tiempo. Tenía que morir antes de fin de año. Fiesta, f no de 3 “algo” (no estoy seguro de que sean años, quizás sean lustros) me decí Con mi esposa vivimos los días que me quedaban felices, sin preocupaciones. Hicimos por el mundo, escribimos nuestras memorias unidos, leímos y vimos miles de libros y película Morí claro. No estaría contando esto si no fuera así. El choque provoc “Parece que tenía razón, Mitsé estiró la pata”. La gente paró sus festejos de Año taba que dos de los más prestigiosos doctores hicieran la autopsia para determinar ta profesionalidad dejó constancia de mi muerte de esta manera: “El Señor Pomecio M Y ahora, aquí, no existe el tiempo, y eso es muy bueno. Soy el único que ya v Creo que en vida, al final, al principio, en su conjunto, uno sabe de alguna manera Eterna ambivalencia, siempre, la cuestión de mi defun Sin embargo, mi teoría es que desfallecí en una conjunción de los tres do afirmar, que no sabía el año de mi muerte. Morí fuera del tiempo. Y no es La Muerte todavía no
no termina dedicándose a las cosas menos pensadas. El cartel estaba en la puerara mí, pero a la gente le interesaba ver los raros artefactos que poseía, los más expor supuesto cucús y un extenso etcétera). Un artefacto inútil por lo menos tiene que an y venían, nunca parejos, ora lentos ora rápidos. Curiosos artefactos, muy curiosos. a. Claro que nadie creía realmente lo que me pasaba, todo pasó por una ‹‹Chronos›› por “la insuficiencia mental de su dueño Paco Pomecio Mitsé”. n más fuertes porque las fiestas de fin de año estaban por llegar, el espacio siemahora por colores brillantes, lucecitas, todo verde, rojo y dorado. Inminente, irreversible. familia reunida. Cada cierto lapso preguntaba si era Noche Vieja. Incluso mi sobriía “No, esta es noche no es “vieja”, es “buena”. Y no morí ese día, ni en Navidad. s tantas cosas, más cosas de las que hubiésemos podido hacer en la vida entera: viajamos as. Una hermosa despedida para poder irme en paz de este mundo que gira y gira sin sentido. cado a la comunidad, sumida en sorpresa, se fue corriendo de casa en casa. Nuevo para ver qué ocurría en la (ahora) casa de la viuda Mitsé. La situación amerir la hora exacta de mi muerte. No se pudieron poner en común acuerdo. Su estricMitsé, alias Paco, ha fallecido entre las 23:59 del año pasado y las 00.01 del año nuevo.” viene preparado para soportarlo de entrada. No existe la espera, pero existe el cambio. “el año” en que va a morir, tan sólo por tener la real certeza de que morirá algún día. nción. No sé sí morí en el pasado, presente o futuro. s que, a su vez, no es ninguno de ellos. Pero después de todo, pues porque yo haya sido un ser extraño, sino porque la muerte es igual de extraña. se ha conocido con el Tiempo.
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L ba Desp gigan nuevas
Las cosas querer las Sin darse c un radiotran dejaron lu convertid
Las frecuencias electromagnéticas de las máquinas penetraron demasiado profundo en sus membranas celulares. Los estímulos y sus mensajes codificados afectaron sin remedio todo su cuerpo. Los cuerpos son, sin más, agua y sobre todo energía. Las ondas de radio funcionaron como un percutor sobre una ala y dispararon efectos secundarios nocivos y ocultos. pués de varios años metido en una especie de microondas nte, su cerebro y los circuitos contenidos fueron adoptando s formas.
s que quería las fue olvidando una por una mientras aprendía a s cosas que querían los demás, sus amos más próximos. cuenta, su estructura pensante se degeneró y terminó convertida en nsmisor que recibía y ejecutaba las órdenes de otros. Sus deseos ugar a los comandos ajenos y él terminó perdiéndose sin remedio, do en una especie de Golem del siglo XXI.
Cabeza de radio, por Ezequiel Harsanyi, 2009
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Me rĂo de Janeiro! por Fede Andreotti
Thanks for watching kids,, see you next time!