Posts Tagged ‘Clichés


I Wanna Do Bad Things With You.

Madrid, 2007.

-Don´t give me no shit ´cos… I´ve been tired!-.

(The Pixies, Tired).


She opens her legs, and you feel like the whole sky is opening.

You came to the bar fleeing her, The Other One, seeking a bit of peace in the only place you knew you could find it: the middle of this havoc called No Name Bar.

The first step in, and you felt security, pure, true safety crawling up your spine. The second step, a couple of handshakes with the usual suspects, and you started to relax. By the time you reached the bar, you already owned the place. You kissed the barmaid, got a brew without even ordering (no wonder about paying) it, and you just lay back, enjoying the music and how it helped to put some sense into all this nonsense happening around you. “No need for words now”: you´re finally watching your favourite Life´s TV live program.

So then, when the door opens  and She comes in, you know you´re in trouble. You feel a rumble, as the ground shakes with each of her steps towards you. She grabs your hand, smiles while nailing you to the wall with her perfect big, brown eyes, and speaks in a voice that sounds like petroleum poured over velvet:


It is just a sound, but it seems the one of a tombstone being dragged over your past life. You just can´t believe how lucky you are, as the pain, the misery and the weariness of everything that came before those legs walked in that bar fades away. Hell could froze over, the city could be bombed to ashes, but nothing would stop you for doing whatever she wants you to do.

And you know that you will pull down the zipper of her dress, and the curtain will fall down for your own private act. She will take off her clothes, and it will feel like a new dawn. And yes: she will spread her legs, and you will think the whole sky is opening for you.




It all happened on that college pub, with the “Pub Quiz” signs hanging from the walls, bearing an almost-faded chalky invitation that no one was paying attention to. It was right after The Fat Of The Land was released, and I´d like to think it was House Of Pain or Nirvana playing on the PA, but it´s more likely that the sound that was making the teenage crowd jump and rub against one another was made by Whigfield or Gala. After all, we are talking about the 90´s.

You came to me, smiling, and I had to check my back twice to make sure it was me you were coming for. I was held in place by a pint glass filled with coke, after the refusal from the bartender to pour me a shandy, and thus I remained, still as a wooden pidgeon in a fair´s shooting range.

“Do you wanna dance?”.

“No”, I answered.

“Ok, let´s go outside”. As if I had just spat on your face and the only thing we had left was fighting to death in the dark alley that led to the pub.

I remember my legs turning into jelly as we approached the bench, kicking empty cans of Strongbow as we walked; I also remember the stream of cold sweat that was running down my spine, glueing my blue raincoat to my t-shirt, and the load of stupid subjects I managed to bring up for conversation just to delay the feared moment that we both (but specially you, quietly leading me to the ambush´ spot) knew was bound to come.

I remember talking and talking without really thinking about what I was saying, just checking every detail on you, taking the most perfect picture I´ve ever taken of any situation that I´ve been into. Breathing the summer in with the beer-smelling night air, hearing the distant roar of a car going round the corner of Parker´s Piece mixed with the music coming from the pub´s open door…

“I´m really nervous”, I managed to say through my dry throat, as if it could have passed unnoticed to you, and as if I hadn´t already made a fool of myself.

“Just do it”, you replied.

Yeah. After all, we are talking about the 90´s.


(Bar universitario. Carteles de “Pub Quiz” colgando de las paredes. Acababa de salir el The Fat Of The Land, y me gusta pensar que sonaban House Of Pain o Nirvana, pero lo más posible es que fuesen Gala o Whigfield los que atronasen a la masa de carne adolescente que se movía en la pista de baile y sus alrededores. Al fin y al cabo, estamos hablando de los años 90.

Te acercaste, sonriendo, y tuve que mirar a mis espaldas para comprobar que era a por mí a por quien venías. Seguí allí plantado, como un pato de madera en una caseta de feria, aguantando el balazo de tus ojos negros.


“No”, respondí.

“Ok, entonces vamos fuera”, como si acabase de mentarte a la madre y la única salida posible a aquella situación fuese darnos de hostias en la oscuridad del callejón que llevaba al pub.

Recuerdo cómo las piernas se me iban convirtiendo en gelatina según nos acercábamos al banco, cómo me sudaba la espalda tanto que se me pegaba el chubasquero al cuerpo a través de la camiseta, y la cantidad de conversaciones estúpidas que fuí capaz de inventarme sólo para retrasar el momento inevitable que ambos, pero sobre todo tú, que eras la que había montado toda aquella emboscada, sabíamos que tenía que llegar.

Recuerdo hablar y hablar, sin pensar realmente en lo que estaba diciendo, ganando tiempo y fijando cada detalle tuyo en mi cabeza, tomando la fotografía más perfecta que he tomado nunca de cualquier situación en la que me haya encontrado. Respirando el verano con aquel aire que olía a cerveza, y escuchando el sonido del motor de un coche al acelerar en Parker´s Piece mezclado con la música que salía por la puerta abierta del pub…

“Estoy muy nervioso”, dije, como si no fuese evidente, y como si no hubiese hecho ya bastante el ridículo.

“Just do it”, dijiste tú.

Sí. Al fin y al cabo, estamos hablando de los 90).


A Killing Compliment.

Riga (Latvia), April 2008.

-I´m a lackey to Fate, but no slave to the Law-.
(Tattooed on Nikolai´s skin, on Eastern Promises. David Cronenberg, 2007).


“I´m sorry, I´m sorry, I´m sorryI´msorryI´msosorryI´msorry…”.

The words came out from her mouth like an unending mantra, in such a flow and with such speed that he found himself wondering about the breathing technique she might be using to keep uttering them.

He stood up, trying to think of a way to get themselves out of the really bad mess they were into: a corpse on the bed, a corpse on the toilet, blood everywhere and the two of them in the middle of that hotel room, mentally blocked and starting to panic.

He recalled the last few moments when everything seemed to be going smoothly: he entered the room to deliver the goods, she smiled to him, he ignored her… and then the shots came and everything turned into a blur. When he finally pulled himself together, he was lying on the floor, both the guys were dead as a doornail and the girl was kneeling on the rugged floor, muttering nonsense and blankly staring at the crawling pool of blood that was slowly approaching her.

“Shut the fuck up!”, he snapped, and she went silent as if he had smacked her on the cheek. The blood now started to surround her knees, like the tide rising and embracing a cliff, but she made no move that would show she was noticing it.

He took her by the hand, lifting her almost unexisting weight, and led her through the sliding door and into the balcony: outside, the whole city was standing at their feet, divided by the river like the scar he wore divided his left eye in two. Drops of blood from the girl´s knees marked their trail on the floor.

He put the gun on her right hand. Funny, he thought, how badly his own hands were shaking, and how calm and still her hand was. He closed her left hand around the pistol grip, too, and let go the whole knot he had made.

“Now, I want you to point it at my head, and pull the trigger”.


“I can live a life on the run, but I´m sure you can´t: at some point I will loose you, either because of them or because of yourself. And the result will be this one, too”.

“So? Why now?”.

“Because I´d rather have my head blown off right now by the beautiful animal you are, than live a couple of months more just to have my brains scattered by the mean bastard I am. Seems fair to me, after the life I´ve lived”.

She started to cry, silently and without looking away. Not a single sob, just slow tears rolling down her perfect cheeks and halfway into the corners of her mouth. “Tough girl”, he thought.

“But… why me?”, she asked, calmly.

“Because you´ve already done this”.

“Wha… when?”.

“The moment I entered the room”.

She looked him in the eye, her pupils narrowing. Then, her lips barely parted in what looked like a smile, as she lifted the gun and slowly pulled the trigger.


Rock Out!

Alvaro, from The Right Ons, rockin´ out the Joy Eslava theatre. Madrid, 24th April, 2008.

-¡Rocanrol, joder!-.
(TANTA gente…).


Most of the time, rock´n´ roll is not about your looks, your drinks, your fights, the amount of sex you get or the drugs you do. Sometimes, it is not even about the music you play. Or at least, not about all those things by themselves, separately.

Rock´n´roll is an attitude. An attitude I saw last friday, on the Right Ons concert. An attitude I saw, too, at the Eagles of Death Metal show, past 25th of March, and that can be seen glittering in the eyes of some people that is far from sporting leather jackets and rocker hairstyles: you would find them playing punk-rock, funky-like vibes, a strange type of disco, ska, sometimes even pop, or any kind of music, and they would still be rocking out as no one of your hardened-by-the-road idols would ever do.

Is that a kind of attitude that has nothing to do with how many records you sell, or how mainstream or independent you are. An attitude that includes not giving a shit about what comes next, what came before, or who´s listening to the stuff you do: that´s something you can tell by the looks on many true rockers´ faces.

An attitude that has to do with a different view of what nights are for, what music´s for and, moreover, what life´s for.

And that attitude, unfortunately, is becoming extinct.

Long Live Rock´n´Roll!



Quote 2.

“You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world”.
(Tyler Durden, in Fight Club. David Fincher, 1999).


Hace tiempo que los diálogos de “El Club de La Lucha” dejaron de parecer lo potentes que parecían, de tan trillados como están. Hace mucho, mucho tiempo.

Pero, para mí, las palabras de Tyler siempre serán el periódico empapado en pis de nuestro tiempo, y nosotros los cachorrillos que acaban de mearse donde no deben.


Good night.

2A bar (NYC). May, 2007.

-A veces lo importante no es el camino: a veces, lo importante es simplemente empezar a andar-.
(Me encantaría recordar quién dijo esto).

She woke up in the middle of the night, as usual. The bed smelt of both of them and of what they had done just a couple hours ago.

Outside, it was still dark.

She stood up silently, putting her clothes on almost to the rythm of the heavy breathing that the bulk under the sheets was delivering, and walked through the door and out of the room. Halfway on the corridor that led to the front door, she remembered something and walked back. As she entered the room, she realized he was awake.

“I´m sorry”, she said, “but I have to go. I just didn´t want to wake you up.”

“It´s ok”, he replied, “I wasn´t expecting to see you in the morning, anyway.”


He could tell she was surprised, maybe even about her own question, as if it had left her mouth against her will.

“Well… I guess I knew you´re too good to be true.”



On the way to Zaragoza, August 2007.

Seth [to Gloria]:You. Plant yourself in that chair.
Gloria: What are you gonna do with…
Seth: I said “plant yourself.” Plants don’t talk-.
(From Dusk Till Dawn. Robert Rodríguez, 1996).

Quiero conducir contigo. Mejor dicho, quiero que conduzcas, que nos lleves lejos de aquí, de esta ciudad que no deja respirar ni soñar, donde todo es igual un día tras otro. Quiero que todo pase deprisa por la ventanilla, que se quede en ella dos segundos como mucho: el tiempo justo para admirarlo en su conjunto, sin poder ver ni uno solo de sus detalles, tanto los buenos como los malos. Sobre todo, los malos. Quiero que el aire me de en la cara y no me deje abrir los ojos, y que no digamos ni una palabra durante kilómetros porque no nos haga falta. Quiero encender los cigarros de dos en dos, uno para tí y otro para mí, besándote en diferido y en ahumado (como los cristales de tus gafas) al pasártelos. Quiero que, a veces, la carretera no tenga curvas, para que puedas distraerte y poner los pies en el volante mientras me miras, sonríes, y te echas hacia atrás con toda la pereza del mundo y la falda bajándosete muslo arriba.

Quiero que vivamos en el coche, parando el tiempo justo para echar gasolina, comprar cruasáns recién hechos y batidos densos como la mantequilla, y ver cómo la gente de los bares te desnuda con la mirada y me mata con el pensamiento, soñando que son yo y que se vuelven a subir a ese coche contigo.

Quiero que paremos en mitad de la nada y tiremos botellas de cerveza vacías a la Luna, y que follemos encima del capó todavía caliente y nos durmamos descalzos, con la capota levantada.

Quiero que todo eso pase aquí, allí, o donde sea, me da igual: sólo necesitamos una carretera y un montón de clichés.

Eso, y que suene esta canción.