Deseos cumplidos

Se nos va ocurriendo querer tantas cosas, posibles e imposibles, que cuando se nos cumple un deseo menor se nos vuelve como una promesa. Cuando era muy chica deseaba ganarle a mi hermano en un carrera, tener un perrito, una maleta de Hello Kitty; después quise cosas más sufridoras, ser más flaca de lo que era, o ser más divertida de lo que era, o ser el sueño de los muchos niños de la secundaria que no sabían que existía. He querido cosas fáciles, desde sacar diez en un examen o entrar a una universidad, hasta un vestido del rojo exacto y un evento al que llevarlo; y he querido cosas imposibles, desde tronar los dedos y hacer feliz a alguien que quiero, hasta estar en paz.

Ahora quiero de todo, quiero vivir lejos y cerca de mi casa, quiero que algún ente metafísico decida qué habrá de cena todos los días, quiero hacer una película, darle la mano a Woody Allen,  reírme a carcajadas con alguien que me conozca, pintarme las uñas de azul clarito, quiero que los chistes malos me den risa y que algunas cosas me dejen de doler. Quiero muchas, muchas cosas, pero tengo también la alegría de los deseos -fáciles e imposibles- que se me han logrado.  

Todo esto viene a cuento porque recientemente fui testigo de un deseo tan bien logrado que me contagió el gusto.  Un deseo de infancia que se volvió importante no tanto por él mismo sino por el sin número de deseos que alimentó. 

Muchos años antes de que yo entendiera qué hacía el director de una película, Dani quiso conocer al director que lo hizo enamorarse del cine. Luego quiso muchas cosas, entre ellas mudarse a Los Ángeles en dónde -sin querer- se topó conmigo, que sólo de verlo empecé a tener muchos deseos.

Hace unas semanas Dani conoció a su director de cine y se le cumplió ese deseo inicial, que alimentó tantos otros. Y fue el deseo más cercano, la promesa más clara, porque aunque en apariencia se haya tratado de conocer a un desconocido (que finalmente no es más que un señor), el desconocido es más que una persona, un director de pelis buenas, un tipo. El desconocido - que para efectos del deseo seguiría siéndolo incluso si se volviera amigo íntimo- no es un desconocido cualquiera, sino el símbolo de todas las cosas que se han deseado y la promesa de que pueden estar cerca.

Les dejo aquí el deseo cumplido de Dani, que es -entre otras cosas- el mejor de mis deseos cumplidos.  Promesas, promesas, a ver qué más nos va pasando. 

 THE DAY I MET HIM

I knew he was coming into the office Tuesday morning for a meeting with the head of my company. Even though it was a long-shot, there was a possibility I’d see my childhood idol walking into the office. Or perhaps coming out of a conference room. Or maybe even actually share an elevator with him! (yeah, right).

I parked my car in P4 – we assistants are made to park as far underground as possible – and walked up the first of five escalators at 8:15am, all the while thinking about where I’d position myself so I could maybe see him walking into the building. I thought that waiting (let’s call it waiting rather than stalking) immediately outside the building, where the valet area is located and where he would be pulling in, was the best option.

The only problem was that I had no idea at what time he would be coming in. It could be 10am. It could be 11am. It could be 9:30am. By 9am at the latest I had to be sitting at my desk, so waiting outside by the valet area if his meeting was after that time would most likely make me look like an idiot. I had heard, however, that he is always extremely punctual and tends to arrive very early for his meetings. So if I was lucky enough that his meeting happened to be at 9am I might catch a glimpse of him before going up to my desk. It was a long shot, but definitely worth the awkwardness of me hanging out by the valet area for 45mins.

All these thoughts were flying through my brain as I walked up the fifth and final escalator, the one that leads you directly to the office entrance. At the top of the escalator you can make a left and walk into the  main lobby, or you can continue straight and exit the building through a set of glass doors that lead directly into the valet area, a.k.a. the area I had strategically chosen as my stalking spot.

As I reached the end of the escalator and my line of sight rose to street level, the first thing I saw through the glass doors was a man sitting on a bench just outside the building by the valet area. He was sitting with his back towards me, but I immediately and almost subconsciously picked up three small-yet-crucial details: he was wearing sneakers, he was wearing jeans and he had graying hair. Even though his third trademark was missing – baseball cap – I immediately knew this was Steven Spielberg. Take that Sherlock Holmes.

My heart began to race.

I stepped outside onto the valet and after walking a safe distance turned around to look straight at the man. And indeed it was The Man. Though there had been no doubt in my mind, my eyes could now reassure me of what my heart had immediately known – it was Steven Spielberg. He was sitting alone, typing furiously into his iPhone, a cup of coffee resting next to him.

This was it. This was the moment I had dreamed about since I was 13 years old. And I really mean that; I would actually day-dream that Steven Spielberg was a friend of my dad and would one day come to our home for dinner. I’ve seen every single interview with the man. To this day I have every single poster of his movies up on the walls of my childhood bedroom back home. I can quote every line and hum every musical queue in every one of his movies, from Jaws to Saving Private Ryan; Close Encounters of the Third Kind to Raiders of the Lost Ark; E.T. to Jurassic Park. Now I had to live up to the promise I had made myself many years ago: if I ever had the chance to speak to Steven Spielberg I had to take it. Being an extremely shy person, this was no easy feat. However, I did not hesitate for a single moment. I took a deep breath, and I walked towards him –

“Mr. Spielberg”, I said in a confident voice that concealed just how terrified I was.

“Yes” He looked up from his iPhone and straight at me over his glasses.

“I just wanted to tell you how much I love your movies”, I barely managed to spit out. My heart was beating extremely fast now.

“Oh thank you, thank you so much”, replied Mr. Spielberg as he stretched out his hand to meet mine, “What’s your name?”

“Daniel”. At this point I pleasantly realized Steven Spielberg was engaging in a conversation with me. At the same time, I tried to block from my mind the fact that Steven Spielberg was engaging in a conversation with me.

“I am from Madrid, Spain. Used to be an engineer, but just loved film so much I decided to come here to pursue my dreams.” My voice quivered a little; I was no longer able to conceal just how petrified I was. My legs were jell-o by this point.

“Quite a journey you’ve taken!” he said, slightly overwhelmed with the amount of information. “Where do you work?” He then asked me, with genuine interest.

“I work here” I pointed at the glass doors, not unlike E.T. pointing out of Elliott’s window towards his “home”.

“Oh really. Which department?” 

“I work for Rupert Batch. We do the financial modeling and back-end deal analysis. We work with Shelly a lot”. I surprised myself with this sentence. Not because it’s not true; it is. But because despite my nervousness I was able to think on my feet and give him the name of his lawyer – someone I know he speaks with often.

“Oh, yeah, I know Shelly. What’s great about that is you’re getting to see both aspects of the film industry. Well perhaps one day we work together!” He said very matter-of-factly, surely not grasping that these are words I will take to my grave one day with a smile on my face.

“Yah”, was my clever response. But then quickly decided to launch into an all-encompassing life pitch: “so yeah...I used to work in something unrelated back home, you know, liked what I did, but my passion just laid elsewhere. So I came here to pursue my dreams”. After a beat I passionately added: “And I can’t tell you how much I love and how important your movies were to me growing up.”

“Thank you, thank you very much”, he said in the most heartfelt and humble tone.

At this point I realized this was a good moment to make my exit – I had told him everything I would want to tell him. Not even in my wildest dreams could I have imagined a one-on-one conversation like the one I had just had with Steven Spielberg.  Why ruin it by stretching it beyond its natural conclusion? I also knew very soon an army of super Agents, just like the ones in The Matrix, would come to whisk him away to his meeting. If they saw me there casually talking with Their Number One Client^TM, I could get in serious trouble.

“Thank you. Well, have a good day”, I said as I walked away, and added: “sorry to have bothered you”.

“Oh no, no bother” he replied, as he went back to his iPhone.

Chetumal de posibles

Vinimos a Chetumal, pueblo caribeño y fantástico donde nació mi papá, sus hermanos y el resto de la parentela; pueblo del que huyeron hace ya muchos años cuando vino un ciclón y se llevó lejos las casas, los caimanes y la audacia de la honorable familia Aguilar Camín.

Llevamos apenas tres días aquí pero ya me han pasado tantos posts por enfrente que no he podido escribir ninguno. Así que decidí dejarlos todos aquí, con sus títulos y sus posibilidades, desmembrados como promesas que no me da la cabeza ni el clima para cumplir. Van:

1. Selva, mar, historia y juventud

Este primer post que no voy a escribir empezaría contando que así dice la primera estrofa del himno de Quintana Roo, a que no sabían que Quintana Roo tenía himno. Diría también que el coro termina cantando "la tenacidad como virtud, eso es Quintana Roo" y comentaría que realmente la tenacidad es mucho mejor cualidad para desearle a un pueblo que la valentía.

Escribiría de la cantidad imposible de mitos y leyendas sobre los que se ha construído este territorio, del amor absolutamente ciego que le tienen todos sus habitantes, del orgullo con que andan por éstas calles y sus casas pintadas de anaranjado y verde pistache como si anduvieran por las glorias del París de cambio de siglo.

Contaría cómo mi papá se convierte aquí en el cacique mandón y encantador que debe haber sido en la infancia. Que lloró recordando todo lo que se le ha ido perdiendo en la vida y que recupera de pronto cuando regresa a esta tierra. Que me hizo pensar en mi abuelo, que tiene casi cien años, el suelo perdidio y la obsesión de volver también aquí y recuperar un imperio imaginario que, él está seguro, lo sigue esperando en la selva de los alrededores.

Haría toda clase de comentarios intensos, como a la Gloria Etefan, sobre el poder de la tierra natal.

Cantaría “Suéñame Quintana Roo, no me vayas a aolvidar, quiero estar dentro de ti, cuando el sol te empiece a acariciar” y contaría que semejante cursilería de letra hizo llorar a propios y extraños hace dos tardes, porque somos cursis y porque el amor a este lugar se contagia como la euforia en los estadios.

2. Cabrón Andrés

Este posts sería altamente irregular y falto de vergüenza. Consistiría en molestar a mi poca audiencia masculina quejándome amargamente de que se me atrasó la regla y entre la sal de la costa y el acumuliativo PMS, retengo agua como puerco de engorda; me duele la espalda baja como a una anciana; y siento que mis pies y boobs explotarán en cualquier momento. Debatiría horas si debo escribir boobs o pechos o tetas (odiosos términos y palabras feas, todas).

Admitiría que me es difícil pensar en otra cosa, escribiría párrafos interminables sobre la injusticia de este karma que mi abuela llamaba la lata y la abuela en mí se quedó llamando Andrés (porque viene cada mes, para los que no conocen la ñoñería). Me burlaría de las múltiples mujeres que he oído gritar que no pueden ver sangre cuando alguien se corta con una hojita de papel. Vamos, hasta tendría el descaro de hacer una descripción incómoda y rigurosa de mis múltiples síntomas y particularidades anatómicas. Luego me entraría un ataque de pena y borraría más de la mitad dejándolo clasificación A.

Puesto así es bueno que no tenga yo cabeza para escribir algunas cosas, realmente.

3. Dos arcoiris y la luna

En este contaría que llueve en el pueblo caribeño. Contaría que el diciembre pasado mi hermana y su marido y todos nosotros tuvimos una pérdida que no puedo ni describir. No trataría.

Contaría que hace dos días fue aniversario de esa tristeza y que llovió como si alguien se lo hubiera explicado al cielo. Contaría que cuando paró de llover aparecieron sobre él dos arcoiris redondos y brillantes como dos consuelos; que en mitad de ellos y del día apareció la luna, blanca y limpia.

Contaría cómo mis sobrinos se asomaron a verla con sus caras y sus risas, mejorando el aire con su paso. Contaría que mi hermana es valiente como la luna y sus hijos inabarcables como dos arcoiris.

4. La casa de Santa Clós

Aquí aparecería el primo Aguilar que lleva veinte años decorando su casa de Navidad con tal ahínco que los niños del pueblo empezaron a llamarla la casa de Santa Clós. Todos los años se junta una bandota para ver cómo prenden las luces como si fueran el árbol de Rockefeller center. Y no es para menos, realmente, la casita tropical tiene más luces en una esquina de su fachada que diez cuadras de Park Avenue.

La mujer del primo fue presidenta municipal de Chetumal y durante su gobierno, por petición popular mind you, expandió su espíritu decoratovo al resto de la ciudadcita. Empezando por el palacio de gobierno que ahora brilla en amarillo, rojo y verde con una intensidad capaz de cegar a Mr. Magoo.

Seria un post muy cínico, políticamente incorrecto y mal recibido por los parientes locales, pero no podría evitar preguntarme ¿dónde carajos cree esta gente que vive? Estamos a cuarenta grados a la sombra y toda la ciudad está llena de muñecos de nieve, renos y luces blancas. Debe ser el condado con más decoraciones per cápita en el planeta tierra. Y es imposible no pensar que no podría venir menos al caso, es como colgar collares de flores y cocos en el Big Ben.

5. El sur

Este se trataría de una obviedad: México abarca ochenta y mil mundos.

Estando el Los Angeles rodeado de burritos, se olvida de pronto que existen el axiote y los papatzules. Pensamos en la frontera, en Tijuana y en Culiacán, se nos olvida Campeche.

Me preguntaría por ejemplo si el compa tijuanense sabe qué es el relleno negro. Desvariaría horas sobre las múltiples virtudes de semejante guiso.

Quiero creer que se me ocurriría algo más inteligente que decir para ilustrar esa verdad sonsa que me cayó de golpe, mientras bobeaba frente a la transparente bahía de Chetumal: el sur de México no es una región del país, es su propio universo.

6. ¡Qué me importa que se rían!

En este larguísimo post contaría que fuimos a casa de los primos y cantamos, porque había micrófonos y guitarrista y porque somos una familia sin vergüenza y con garganta.

Contaría que mi mamá cantó "Arráncame la vida” que es el que ella llama su número fuerte. Pero que a mí me gusta más cuando canta "Los mareados" y su voz ronca, lastimada, preciosa suelta esa letra que me parte en dos desde mucho tiempo antes de que tuviera yo edad y pérdidas suficientes para entenderla:

- “Esta noche amiga mia, el alcohol nos ha embriagado, ¿Qué me importa que se rían? Y nos llamen los mareados. Cada cual tiene su pena y nosotros la tenemos, esta noche beberemos porque ya no volveremos a vernos más. Hoy vas a entrar en mi pasado, en el pasado de mi vida, tres cosas lleva el alma herida: amor, pesar, dolor. Hoy vas a entrar en mi pasado, hoy nuevas sendas correremos. Qué grande ha sido nuestro amor y sin embargo ¡ay! mira lo que quedó.”

Enorme. Ya hasta empecé a llorar.

Contaría también que se cantó: “Rival de mi cariño, el viento que te besa, rival de mi tristeza mi propio corazón.”- Y contaría que me gusta, cómo me gusta y cuánto me gusta.

Le buscaría un contexto a la letra de “Lágrimas de sangre”, en lugar de sólo aventarla como haré a continuación: “Yo que tuve tu boca y tus manos y tu pelo, y la blanca tibieza que derramaste en mí, hoy me desgarro el alma como una fiera en celo y no sé lo que quiero porque te quiero a ti”.

Y hablaría de las benditas tedencias pornográficas de Agustín Lara (encontraría una manera más elegante de decir pornográficas) y me quejaría de la cantidad de mochos y censuras que volvieron semejante cosa buena una canción tan obscura que ni los músicos se la saben.

Terminaría contando que mi hermano Mateo cantó a José Alfredo en el rincón de una cantina. Que fue lo máximo oír su voz tersa, buena y tímida, entonar:

“¿Quién no sabe en esta vida la traición ta conocida que nos deja un mal amor? ¿Quién no llega a la cantina, exigiendo su tequila y pidiendo su canción?”

Encontraría una manera simpática y lírica de decir que todos exigimos nuestra canción y nos la dieron. Y diría que fue padre. Quizá diría padrísimo.

Y ya. Ahí tienen todo lo que no me dio la vida y la gana escribir. A úlimas fechas no me da la gana ni la vida escribir casi nada. Me conformo con la idea de que podría escribir tanto. Y me amparo diciendo que las posibilidades son buenas y recordando que Chetumal ha sido siempre, si algo, un lugar de posibles.

Un cuento de niña gringa

Ustedes perdonen el idioma, pero así va pasando. Va un cuento de niña gringa:

Claire caught a glimpse of her naked body reflected on the window across her unlit, purple bedroom. She approved of it, even if she was fifteen and wasn't missing an inch of the self deprecation that comes with such territory; but her breasts weren't too small and her thighs weren't too thick and she approved of the general effect. She stared at the lines she made on the glass, they seemed strangely long, like they belonged to someone else's legs, someone else's neck and waist. She lifted one of her arms and saw the reflection's lift too, it was definitely her. She heard Daniel laugh at her from the bed and was startled by it. She had almost forgotten he was there and felt suddenly embarrassed to be naked in front of him. For a second she wanted him to disappear and then she realized how silly that was: he was the one who had undressed her and now she felt it was somehow forward of him to be there.

They were precocious kids and she had happy-go-lucky, free-love exercising parents, so to Claire losing her virginity at fifteen, to a boy she loved felt almost conservative. The only thing that got to her was that seriousness in Daniel's attitude. He had a conscious -this is major- look in his eye that unnerved her. She took comfort in being the bold one, the one who cracked up when Daniel solemnly declared they were about to "make love". But now that she was standing alone in the middle of her room, exposed and cold, she began to think there might indeed be something momentous about what was happening. As Daniel sat on her bed, his clothes scattered all around him, laughing at her as if it was endearing; she felt glad to have realized it. She quickly moved to sit next to him on the bed and threw her arms around him; she had to cover her body with something, even if it was with his. Again he laughed at her and this time she laughed too. He came closer and kissed her with the strangest mix of eagerness and timidity. His hands were warm and a little sticky, but they moved with unexpected resolve.

-“I love you, Cee” - he said suddenly.

And although she knew he meant it, something in his tone and timing made it sound apologetic. Claire started to laugh but quickly shook her head and laid back staring up at the ceiling.

She felt him pull away for a second and out of the corner of her eye saw him look through his pant's pockets for something. He turned to her and spoke softly, grabbing her toes and leaning slightly on her leg.

- "Are you ok?"

She noded and smiled. She was a lot more than ok, she was a little fascinated.

She closed her eyes and ran her fingers down Daniel's back. Then she heard him begin to struggle with a plastic wrapper; it sounded exactly like when they were six and he struggled to open his bag of Oreos at lunch. Both rustles had the same eager ring to them. The thought of it made her laugh uncontrollably, she couldn't help herlself and couldn't stop, even though when she opened her eyes he looked for his and they looked anxious and miserable; but still she couldn't bring herself to help him. She felt she might die of embarrassment if she tried. She thought of her and Daniel fighting with a condom wrapper, sitting on the same bed she still sometimes dressed with Strawberry Shortcake sheets and felt ridiculous. They were kids in over their heads, no better equipped than two toddlers playing doctor. She was about to officially enter panic when the rustling stopped and Daniel burst out laughing. He leaned back to lay next to her and casually held it up.

-“You know what?” I’ll beat this thing, just apparently not right this second.

Claire laughed and leaned in to kiss him as he ran his hand across her waist. Amazing. She realized she would never be ill equipped to handle anything that felt like that. After a beat, something in the air shifted and it was just happening. It was less romantic and more natural than she could have ever expected. She had no idea what to make of it, in a strange way the only thing she felt unprepared for was its simplicity. If nothing else she was good with homework, so she had read all the books, asked all the questions and had all the talks, yet none of it had really prepared her for this feeling: no pain, no real pleasure, what she felt was the joy of pure novelty, absolute newness and surprise. She stared up at Daniel and brushed his hair away from his face, he smiled at her, almost politely, which she found hilarious. She scanned his face for what he was feeling and thought it looked more intense but also more familiar. He looked interesting, vulnerable and interesting. It was funny how at the same moment she felt he was the only thing that existed, but knew a lot of what she was feeling had nothing to do with him.

Her room had grown darker and warmer. Daniel was far from her, holding her hand across the bed. She was amazed to feel nothing was irremediably different. They got dressed in silence, stepping awkwardly on their clothes and each other. Claire took his hand and walked ahead of him.

They crossed the darkened hall toward the stairs, they passed her brother Tim's room and heard the muffled clicks and rings of frantic Nintendo action, then they passed her sister Abby's and got The killers blasting through the space under the door. Claire walked a few steps ahead of Daniel, but holding on tight to his hand like she needed to make sure he was still there. They walked downstairs.

The house was dark and silent, except for the flickering light of the TV her parents were watching in the living room. Their steps were invetably loud.

- "Is Dan leaving, Cee?" - her mother called out.

- "Yes, he is"

And she kept walking, holding Daniel's hand and leading him slowly towards the door. Behind her she could feel her mom smile and her dad cringe. Daniel pulled her back and peaked into the living room to give her parents the smallest, quietest, most guilty goodbye of their lives, but he got quite the normal response: enthusiastic farewells from her mom; silent head nod from her dad.

He kissed her under the door frame and walked away. Claire watched him go towards his car: he had the bouncy, determined footsteps of a little kid; his hair fell across his face in a light mess; his green stripped t-shirt had a stain shaped like the sole of his sneakers. Claire felt a rush of giddiness come over her - he was flat out adorable, that boy that was leaving her house.

-"Dan!" - she yelled happily across the street at him.

Daniel looked up, his serious demeanor changing into a bright smile with the sound of her voice. She had called him for the sake of it and had nothing real to say so she just shrugged and waved goodbye. He beamed at her, waving back.

Claire went inside and closed the door. Leaning on the frame, she thought of Daniel and felt her entire body react. This she hadn't felt before. At first being able to summon such a powerful physical reaction with a memory was quite unsettling, but it quickly grew on her. She stood there trying it again and again, every time a rush, every time a strange warmth ran from her head to her toes. She smiled blissfully: she had acquired the coolest power.

She looked around at her house, everything felt completely still, except from the flickering light in the living room. She thought of her parents sitting there together and moved instinctively towards them, like a seven year old who had woken up scared in the middle of the night. There was something strange and disturbing about the process of growing up. How had she gone, in just a few minutes, from craving Daniel like a self aware adult to craving her parents like a fragile little girl?

She walked into the living room slowly and sat on the couch between them. They were watching the ending of a black and white movie she didn't recognize. She leaned on her mom's shoulder and her mom put her arm around her, stroking her back lazily, in silence.

Her mom's hands were wrinkled and long, and there was always something minty in the air around her. Leaning against her body Claire thought it really was suiting that her mother was a woman. She thought of herself, her body, her skin - no. It wasn't the same. She would never be as good as her mom at being a girl. She thought nobody would. Everything in her, even her flaws, were exactly what they were meant to be. She suspected it had always been this way, maybe that's why her grandparents had named her Eve; perhaps even as a baby there was something about her that felt like she was the ultimate woman. Not the prettiest nor the kindest, certainly not the softest - but the most accurate; that's what it was: her mom was the most accurate woman in the world.

She felt her dad reach over and take her mom's hand. She stared as they interlocked fingers on top of her knees. She was certain that her parents loved each other and was suddenly aware of how strange that certainty was.

She looked at her dad's heavy hands, his enormous dark eyes. Everything about him was Daniel's polar opposite. She wondered if that was a good or a bad thing and didn't understand why the question made her blush violently. And there it was, she felt it now: something was irremediably different.

- "Daniel said he loved me today" - she stated, very matter- of-factly.

Her dad's eyes pierced her so hard that for a second she thought he might have preferred to hear about what else Daniel had done that day.

-"And what did you say, kid?"

There was something disarmingly sad in the question. Claire took his arm and wrapped it around her, close.

-"I didn't say anything. But I do too."

Claire could feel her mom grinning over her shoulder. She buried her face under her dad's arm and held on to his hand. They stayed there for a long while, curled up in a ball: the two parents who loved each other and their grown up kid who loved someone else.

Sunny L.A. REPRISE

Tengo una ventana en Los Angeles y por primera vez desde que llegué he tenido la mañana para contemplarla. Es fea esta ciudad. Fea como ella sola. Tan fea como el DF aunque de modo completamente distinto. Es chaparra, amarillenta y sucia, hasta donde es limpia: Beverly Hills – chaparro, amarilento y sucio. Del paseo de las estrellas mejor ni hablar; da triquinosis caminarlo en chanclas. Mi ventana mira al downtown, que no parece pertenecer porque es alto y está lejos de la playa y de las montañas; pero es igual o más mugroso y por el fondo de los pasillos que arman los edificios se asoman las carreteras con sus palmeras y su sol blanco.

Llevo veinte años alimentándome el mito Woody Allenesco de que Los Angeles es el infierno pavimentado. Hay que decir que algo hay de eso entre sus calles obscuras y calladas; los pechos ultra firmes y anaranjados de algunas de sus mujeres; y la estúpida cantidad de palmeras que enmarcan sus calles. Pero llevo tres meses en Los Angeles y cada día lo quiero más ¿Tres meses? Igual son dos, me estoy alocando. Lo que sea, ha sido bueno. Cada día que despierto en esta ciudad me conmueve más su dulzura; la cantidad inconmensurable de sueños falsos que sus habitantes persiguen; la paz con que la ciudad los contradice y ellos se aguantan. Terminator gobierna y el cine es rey. El setenta por ciento de la gente que vive en Los Angeles trabaja o quiere trabajar (léase trabaja en Starbucks pero en las noches escribe su guión) en lo que viene siendo “la industria”. Se dice fácil pero lo que implica semejante cifra es que el setenta por ciento de la gente que vive en esta ciudad tiene la cabeza puesta en vender, fabricar o consumir ficción ¡Ficción! En eso les va la vida. Es la gloria. Todos están locos aquí (me incluyo, a últimas fechas). En realidad vivimos en otro mundo y por eso podemos vivir en este horror.

Soy estúpidamente feliz en Los Angeles ¿quién me lo iba a decir? Mi escuela me recuerda a mi prepa – desorganizada, chica y repleta de banda que se toma en serio y se ríe de sí misma con igual entusiasmo. En mi super hay Adviles de doscientos colores, chícharos Del monte, iTunes gift cards y Vel Rosita. En la esquina de mi casa hay un diner que hace los mejores hot cakes que alguien haya probado. El agua tiene tanta sal y cloro como las albercas de El Rollo: me está poniendo el pelo rojo y la piel seca; pero la cara limpia como la de una princesa. Hay también el Egypcian Theatre a donde no llegué a ver el revival de “Barry Lyndon” pero sí el de “The last picture show” y el de “Tiburón”. Está el Cedars Sinai que curó a mi madre hace tanto con una mirada y que me ha dado asilo más veces de las que quisiera.

Está también Giulia mi compañera de departamento que es la niña más niña con la que habré de amistar jamás, que limpia y cocina como Betty Draper; que me ha enseñado (a mis 25 años) a usar base y crema de noche; y que habla chino antiguo como si fuera normal. También están los compadres mexicanos, uno de Tijuana y otra del DF: el norteño es fan de Tarantino pero ahí se le acaban los defectos y todo lo demás es fiesta; la chilanga es tan guapa como feo es Los Angeles y está aquí tan viva como están muertos los bares después de las dos. También están los compadres españoles: una que se llama como la mejor virgen de su tierra y que es una cabra loca capaz de conquistar al gringo más desangelado; y otro que tiene la sonrisa iluminada de un madrileño digno y las maneras suaves de un lord inglés. Junto a su casa viven el irlandés y su esposa, con sus pieles transparentes, sus cabecitas llenas de libros brillantes y su sala llena de gente buena y café recién hecho a cualquier hora del día. También están el californiano corrioso que se viste como niño, graba hip hop en su sala y tiene la voz tersa de los hombres buenos; y el pelirojo de Nueva York que se volvió familia en tres días porque aunque no tenemos nada evidente en común, nos intuímos idénticas la visión del mundo y la rutina. Hay también un editor de Jersey que usa zapatos de dos colores como Santino Corleone; una francesa a la que le cae el pelo por la espalda como una bendición; un israelí amigo de Yaron que me hace llorar siempre aunque es terriblemente simpático; un productor intenso y as gay as the day is long que te arrincona y te habla de Beyonce; un fotógrafo que usa un sombrerito y que se casó a los dieciocho años con una mujer a la que llama “the one”; un maestro con un Oscar y dos ojos de perro azul que te arregla la vida como al pasar, con media frase.

Hay en Los Angeles más cosas buenas de las que me da la gana contar. Hay la obligación de inventar y convivir. Brillan en sus marcos de palmeras, mugre y silicón.

Es simpático, realmente, cómo cuando andas sintiendo que desordenas, la vida limpia la casa y te acomoda en donde vas.

Ana y Miguel

Va esta historia coqueta, que quiero dejar aquí aunque esté en inglés y sea muy larga y no le haya gustado a Javier (Javier todo lo sabe así que si la odian siéntanse en excelente compañía).

Y bueno, suficiente de disclaimers, va:

ANNA AND MICHAEL

She wasn’t immediately attracted to Michael. He was sloppy and short and suspiciously quiet for someone so popular. She wasn’t interested until she heard someone else was, some girl with long messy hair, split ends, loose cargo pants and super tight Ramones t-shirts. Anna despised and envied her in equal measure. She came to her and confessed in the sweetest fashion that Michael was haunting her nights, so Anna giggled in girlish agreement and decided to want him for herself. That’s just the way some women are, and that’s the way Anna was then, before him. The next week she saw him and once opened to the possibility, gave in for real. He was tapping his long fingers on the seat in front of him; his hands looked moist and strong, like a clammy teenager’s. One look and she could feel them on her. She was sold.

Michael had never seen her before that day she came up to him. I mean he had seen her... everyone had seen her, but the thing is - long before Anna - Michael had learned to scan her type and forget it in the same glance. She just reeked of unfulfillable requirements. But then she had inexplicably invited him to a party and he had felt an inexplicable urge to attend. Then she had inexplicably come up to him and drank with him and held his hand. Then he had talked about music and she had talked about writers and they had been both - inexplicably - enthralled. Then she had leaned over and kissed him, and she tasted like whisky and mint; and she had taken him back home with her, and he had let her.

The next day when he woke up she was taking a shower so he left. An hour later, against all his better judgement, he called to apologize for leaving and to invite her out the next day. She accepted his apology casually, like she hadn’t even noticed he was gone and rejected his invitation just as casually, like he hadn’t spent the night all over her. She didn’t sound surprised that he was calling, which pissed him off enormously; he was sure he wasn’t the first complete stranger she had fucked in a drunken stupor and yet he just knew Anna would never have the displeasure of feeling cheap or easy or used. They would all call the next day, exactly like he had, because it could not be helped. He had conquered the pink cardigan and the thin perfect, skin. He was perpetually hooked, officially in deep shit.

He called every day that month and she chose to ignore it. Then out of nowhere, one night he opened the door and she was there. She smiled peacefully and kissed him like they had been married a long time, they went to a movie she had chosen and a restaurant she paid for. Then she took him back to his place and didn’t leave for a week.

Anna couldn’t remember when the whole thing turned romantic. She couldn’t place the moment she had fallen in love with the slob; the boy her parents would do their very best to approve of and fail; the boy who was a boy and would stay a boy for good. He said he wanted to be a musician but his definition of practice was jamming with strangers in after hours bars; and his definition of training was following every indie band who would ever play anywhere and learning the lyrics to every song ever sang by anyone. But he challenged her and mocked her and turned her into everything she felt she had always wanted to be. In his world she wasn’t a journalist, she was a rock and roll reporter. In his world she wasn’t a princess, she was a bohemian with high standards. In his world she was her own definition of wonderful: fun and relaxed and easily beautiful. She could eat cold pasta with her hands and walk around the living room wearing snoopy boy briefs and t-shirts.

Of course she ate the pasta with perfect manicured nails and her t-shirts were vintage Channel, but Michael fell for it all and fell for her. He was in love like he had only read people could be in love, but loved her because of things he couldn’t imagine anyone else understanding. He also felt loved back; admired by the perfect woman for all his imperfect habits; adored for everything he hated about himself. He felt needed but disregarded, completely powerless but never diminished. He loved the life she had led, although he didn’t completely fit in it, and dreaded every time he was dragged into it. He loved the life they led together because it was like a joke only the two of them got. He loved that he took her for granted and yet gasped for breath anytime she wasn’t around.

The moment whatever they were doing had become important was a mystery for both of them, but the moment it had become familiar and easy and spectacular, they could both recognize exactly: it was the night Anna came home with the projector. She had stolen it from her dad, who used it occasionally for case presentations, because she wanted to watch movies on saturday nights but she despised the crowds with the same passion she despised their tiny TV. They didn’t have a screen so they projected on the ceiling because it was the only white space big enough to act as one in their tiny apartment. They watched “The big Lebowsky” which she knew by heart and he had never seen. When it was over their room was dark and warm. She turn to look at him and realized she was looking at her family. He looked at her and simply knew that girl and him were in it (whatever it might be) together for good. They had spent their short lives expecting to find such thoughts terrifying, and were both silently and pleasantly surprised to find them comforting instead.

Anna began to buy movies like it was her purpose in life, which Michael loved because it made gift shopping easy. She accepted anything from old screwball hollywood comedies to experimental German new wave. Eventually her collection became so omnipresent Michael feared she would kick him out to make room for it. But then he hooked up the projector and held it pointing in the right direction which made him feel quite indispensable.

They spent their summers in New York with her parents, where the plan was basically to wear white without spilling on it, a feat which Michael slowly but eventually mastered. And sundays they spent visiting his father, being heavily overfed and listening to old boisterous music. Anna loved everything about those visits. She loved his huge dark arms and the way he hugged her like he could have made her disappear. She loved to bring him records and listen to him and Michael discuss them; they somehow managed to argue all afternoon despite agreeing on practically everything. He always drank two glasses of wine and by the start of the second he began to sing loudly. Anna adored the sound of his huge, accented voice bouncing off the walls, so low she could feel it hit her body.

After three years they moved to LA so she could go to grad school and - as she liked to put it - postpone growing up. Anna had given Michael a copy of “Burn to run” that Springsteen had signed for her during an interview. The night before they left for LA they brought it over to his dad’s house and spent the night listening to him sing “She’s the one” along with Bruce. For hours Anna stared at him, drinking big salty tears that fell down her cheeks and into her mouth. Years later Michael still couldn’t see his dad without thinking of Anna’s face. Anna could never think of Springsteen without missing Michael’s dad.

They had been in LA for about a year when Michael realized he wasn’t a musician; he simply had great ears and loved hanging out with them which is how he eventually fell ass backwards into managing. Not surprisingly he was great at it, he kind of enjoyed it and it also gave Anna a new wonderful answer to the question - “What does your boyfriend do?” - which (he could tell, though she would never admit) gave her enormous peace of mind. She stopped covering rock and roll nightlife and got a job at the LA times. By the time she graduated she was making the front page at least once a month. She also befriended her boss and went from intern to editor in like, a week.

Michael could see that for all her talk about not wanting to grow up, she was actually remarkable at being an adult. She enjoyed it all: paying bills and talking to the gardener and buying flower vases and meeting deadlines. They began to hardly see each other during the day and after a while they could both tell they were slowly getting attached to things the other did not care for or even understood. Once Anna sat crying in her office for forty minutes over a story she was covering; after a week she realized Michael had lied about even reading it. A few months later Michael lost one of his best clients because he was a famous family man and Anna had forgotten to show up for dinner twice. They fought a lot, or worst, lost the energy to fight, but when it got bad they had nights and movies and their ceiling and their bed. When it got bad they had this thing that was only theirs; a habit where they got each other back; a pause where they were both exactly where they wanted to be.

Then Anna got pregnant and after two days of wanting to jump off a cliff she realized she was actually ecstatic. She wanted a boy with Michael’s nose and sweaty hands. She wanted a girl who cried watching her grandpa sing. She wanted it, period. And that it had just happened seemed not only not tragic but almost precise. She was happy, and Michael seemed happy and her family was fine. Two months later she lost the baby and she realized Michael was actually relieved. By the next three weeks she was living with a stranger she disliked intensely. Within six weeks the stranger had moved out.

Ok so Michael shouldn’t have pretended he really wanted the kid. But if you think of it, come on, did he really have a choice? He was twenty nine, had an ok job and the woman he loved came to him wearing a blissful smile and announced she was pregnant. He dared anyone to be the asshole who acts crestfallen. Of course he was sad about the miscarriage; seeing Anna’s face... nothing had made him that miserable before or since. But it had ended, and that was that. Afterwards she just wanted to keep trying, just like that; like an accident had replaced a conversation. He knew there was no coming back from that. By the next week she had lost her too and he was sleeping on his sister Lynn’s couch. After a month he rented the apartment above her and left it unfurnished for as long as he was there. Anna had kept everything: the movies, the music, all their life. He refused to replace any of it.

After he left Anna spent months trying to get his smell out of her bed. She bought every Tide mix she could find, but it wouldn’t budge. She bought new sheets and they just absorbed it. She bought a new mattress, bedspread and pillows but still every night she rolled over and there it was. She felt it on her, raw and sweet and lazy, halting the pit of her stomach. At some point she took to inviting other men to sleep on it and see if that would banish it. She took in as many as she could find, as smelly as she could find them: potheads, sweaty jocks, smoky rockers, superbly old men. About three months after the breakup she heard Michael had met someone else, Faye... the name alone made her want to crawl under a table and never come out. Months passed and she was sure they were still together or Lynn would have mentioned that they had broken up. She couldn’t help herself with those kinds of news. So much so that she was sure Michael was hearing all about the endless parade of seedy men that came and went from her room. Every time one of them climbed on top of her the first thing she could see was Lynn recounting it happily, a concerned “poor little Anna” expression on her face. And she wondered if Michael would know the reason for it, and thought he might, because for all his faults, he had truly known her that well. Then she thought about time passing and how long Faye had been around, perhaps by now Michael’s sheets smelled only of Faye and yet here she was fucking some guy to exorcise him from hers. Sometimes when it was good she felt she succeeded for a second, but still when she was left alone with her face pressed under her pillow, there was Michael.

His smell stayed for so long after he was gone that Anna began to suspect it was actually coming from her. Perhaps that was possible. Perhaps it was possible to become so attached to another body that the line that separates it from yours just blurs for good. She began to resign to the fact, stopped feeling it at night or caring about it, stopped noticing it all together, and then she met Tommy. Tommy who smelled like shiny bath salts and creamy soap, Tommy who smelled like her parents’ bed right after it was made; even while he slept, Tommy had a fresh, spray-on scent. She knew she would gladly sleep next to it for the rest of her life.

Michael rarely thought of Anna, specially since he had left LA. His biggest client had moved his office to New York, he was sick of the heat and Faye wanted to move so he just followed him. Once he had run into Anna’s mother and it felt like he had crashed into a past life. The New York he lived in was so terminally different from the one she had grown up in, it was really no wonder nothing there reminded him of her. Granted going to the movies was excruciating, but Faye had such bad taste in films that he was always successful in blaming the actual movie for the pain. And then when he felt even a hint of nostalgia he remembered she was living with Tommy. Tommy for fuck’s sake! Even when they were together and Lynn introduced them to him he was sure Annie had a thing for him. Clearly she did. Tommy the diligent med student who parted his hair like fucking Don Draper. For sure by now he was an actual doctor who parted his hair like fucking Don Draper. That must be nice for Annie - he thought - a cute doctor like her daddy walking around her bedroom. Surely he was also wealthy like her daddy, and well-read like her daddy and well-bred like her daddy; generous like her daddy; kind like her daddy; and - this is where he stopped, because who was he kidding? He had loved Annie’s father, admired him deeply, and Tommy was probably just as wonderful.

He did rarely think of Anna, except for that freak incident recently when Jack had given him the “Born to run” acetate. He had locked himself in the bathroom and cried over it like a teenage girl. Memories have a strange way of creeping up on you. He knew he had loved Annie, but it had been a long time since he’d actually felt he had loved her. But he had. "Annie" - he said it out loud. Just once; and left the word hang there for a bit. It is remarkable - he thought - the way some things never end.

Tommy had called her Annie just once since they met. They were standing at a gallery, staring at some painting when he casually leaned over and whispered it into her ear. She felt like time had stopped; she could feel Michael standing in front of her; and his dad singing; and Lebowsky flickering. She could feel her entire body aching for something her head had completely forgotten. She turned around and held Tommy close, stroking his hair gently. –“Don’t call me Annie” – she said soflty, and time went on again.

Te escribí una canción de Arjona

Hoy desperté y mi primo Daniel (que es dios en la tierra) me había mandado un correo con el título de este post. Y adentro traía la joya que les dejo aquí.

Tiene pasatiempos raros mi primo Daniel (que es dios en la tierra) entre ellos le dio por escribir una canción de Arjona, es decir emulando la brillantez de estilo que caracteriza a este poeta urbano de tantos, tantísimos, alcances y limitaciones. Limitaciones que son evidentes y no tiene caso discutir, pero alcances que son capaces de una altura tan salvaje... vamos, el hombre nos ha regalado botellas con pestañas; problemas que problematizan problemáticamente; amantes que se aman aunque uno coma caviar y otro tortilla; mujeres que se sientes tales porque lavan los platos mientras se destapan el escote detrás de su ventana; y por supuesto, el pináculo de pináculos en fondo y forma: lágrimas negras que ruedan por mejllas y retrovisores que dicen "¡Uff! ¡Qué pantorrillas!".

Quien no se inspire con estos tesoros de la lírica no puede llamarse propiamente humano. Mi primo Daniel (que es humano a pesar de ser dios en la tierra) se inspiró ¿cómo no? Y nos regala esta chulada:

QUE VOY A HACER SI A MI (Canción de Arjona por Daniel Mastretta)

Parado en la esquina de tu casa,
Una marchanta me tortea,
Será que no estoy de gua-asa,
o me parece un poco fea,
Pero me ofendo y me volteo,
Para hacerle un comentario,
Y me pongo un poco serio,
Cuando veo que es lo que veo,
Es la nada y na-ada maaaaaas.

Que voy a hacer si a mi,
Las muchachas me tortean,
Yo no soy como la gente,
mi trasero es de madera,
y se quema facilme-enteeee.
como el corazo-o-o-o-o-o-ooon.

Esperaba en la parada del micro,
a que se vea tu silueta rebosante,
cuando bajé la guardia un poquito,
sentí un toqueteo rosante,
Y no es que yo sea un miedoso,
pero no conteste nada,
pues al voltear fulminante,
habia solo un taquero y un mozo.

Que voy a hacer si a mi,
Los muchachos me tortean,
Yo no soy como la gente,
mi trasero es de madera,
y se quema facilme-enteeee
como el corazo-o-o-o-o-o-ooon.

No es porque que yo este bonito,
que me torteo yo solito,
es porque sé que ya te has ido,
a los estados unido-o-o-os,

Que voy a hacer si a mi,
Los muchachas me tortean...

Que voy a hacer si a mi,
Los muchachos me tortean...

como el corazo-o-o-o-o-o-ooon.
como el corazo-o-o-o-o-o-ooon.
como el corazo-o-o-o-o-o-ooon.

Sálvame de mí, amor mío y otras consecuencias cortas de la mudanza.

Finalmente me contectaron internet en la casa angelina. Pero por supuesto al mismo tiempo I have officially entered panic: tengo que escribir dos impresionantísimas sinópsis que hagan a mis compañeritos desmayarse de emoción frente a mis talentos guionísticos y dramáticos, para que mueran de ganas de trabajar conmigo y me consideren para siempre lo máximo y ya así padre. La bronca es que no tengo nada.

Confieso que me puse a buscar formas de autoplagiarme para salir del paso (o buscar inspiración en mis glorias de antaño, como les parezca menos condescendiente), y leyendo mis sinópsis viejas encontré una cosa relativamente simpática que les dejo aquí. Es el resumen de un película falsa que mi emblemático maestro Ricardo me dejó hacer de tarea la primera vez que lo vi.

Me han pasado tantas cosas dignas de este espacio en los últimos días que me da un poco de tristeza dejar un refrito. Pero ni modo, la mezcla de flojera existencial y la cantidad de distracciones tramitológicas y escolares que me embargan estos días me tienen ofuscados la cabeza y el teclado. Y este pobre 400 lleva muchos días en el abandono, así que les dejo aquí la sinópsis del peliculón que sería este "Sálvame de mí, amor mío".

Igual y un día hasta la hacemos ¡chingá! ¿Cómo no? Va:

Sálvame de mí, amor mío (sinópsis imaginara para la solapa del DVD)

Del aclamado director de Sonaron tiros sobre Ocotitlán, Alberto Concepción García, llega esta divertida comedia de muerte y romance que promete hacerlo dudar y reír hasta el último minuto.

Cuando su cuñado decide terminar la relación adúltera que sostiene con ella, Rosa, una simpática y romántica ama de casa interpretada por Lupita Morales y Morales (ganadora del premio Ariel 2006 por Cuando Lola viva sola) cae presa de un ataque de celos que la obliga a asesinarlo con la pistola de su marido Marcelo. Cuando Marcelo llega a casa y Rosa alega haber actuado en simple defensa propia, el abnegado marido decide darse a la fuga para hacer creer a la policía que él es el responsable del asesinato.

Sin embargo las cosas se complican cuando Ramón, un policía mujeriego y desencantado del amor interpretado por Pedrito “el negro” Romero (Un hombre y sus seis pistolas) desconfía de la versión de Rosa y decide investigar. Por medio del hermano de Rosa, quien está ávido de venganza ya que al huír Marcelo se llevó su camioneta Voyager '96, Ramón descubre la verdad del crimen y promete informar a Marcelo obligando a Rosa a escapar también.

Este es el inicio de la hilarante carrera de competencia entre Rosa y Ramón en la búsqueda de Marcelo. Una carrera plagada de sorpresas en cuyo camino de encuentros y traciones ambos encontrarán un destino que jamás imaginaron.

Felicidades a mí

Este H. blog Cuatrocientos cumplió un año en junio y yo me acabo de dar cuenta. Maldito año desaparecido que corrió como si lo persiguieran y de cualquier modo se las ingenió para pasar con pena y gloria.

Como celebración, aunque venga tarde y sea un acto de absoluta autocomplacencia, les dejo mis posts favos de este año. Total, en caso de que anden profundamente ociosos.

El tiempo - porque fue el primero.

Los tres pasos de Clinique - porque hace unos días me encontré a Julissa y le volví a comprar todo.

Extraño a un extraño - porque, patéticamente, lo sigo extrañando.

Placeres culpables - porque hoy como ayer, hay que asumirse.

Alan, el circo y el monstruo - porque no mamen, sigo teniendo pesadillas con ese foro y los pechos de Ninel Conde.

Tengo que escribir un guión - porque ahora tengo que escribir otro y así sucesivamente.

Un texto viejo sobre otros tipos de gente - porque es necesario mantener una oposición moral a la banda que cena huevo.

Home - porque así son los vicios, ni modo.

Little Rushes - porque tiene fotos del Waldorf, de la virgen y de mi viejecito David Hyde Pierce. What's not to love?

El hombre perfecto - a ver si aparece, el cabrón.

Llévelo, llévelo - porque La Ganga en el pasillo Cuahutémoc justifica, ella sola, la existencia de cualquier blog.

Y ya. Ahí tienen lo que considero los highlights de este año cuatrocientos. No es el blog más activo, ni más consistente, ni más divertido. Pero ha tenido su onda. Confieso que me da orgullito y algo de paz que exista. Y antes de que empiecen a entornar los ojos de hartazgo, les aclaro que me vale: cumplí un año y me creo un chingo ¿y qué? ¿y qué? ¿y qué?

Finalmente, ya para matar este post tan falto de pena y tan urgido de que alguien lo mate (casi desde el título) les digo que los quiero, que están bien padrísimos y que muchas, muchas, todas las gracias.

¡Llévelo, llévelo!

El sábado pasado nos presentamos a ver a Alan en "Qué plantón". La obra fue padre, pero ¡oh por dios! el previo fue demasiado bueno para soportarlo.

Para los que no tengan el gusto les cuento que "Qué platón", igual que el 95% de las obras cómico mágico musicales que se presentan en este país, está en el los teatros Telmex, ubicados arriba de un rascuachísimo centro comercial en la muy sana encrucijada de Cuahutemoc y Chapultepec. Fue ahí, damas y caballeros, en el pasillo Cuahutemoc, corazón de la plazucha de los teatros Telmex y pináculo (junto con la galería de las estrellas) de la decadencia comercial de nuestra gran nación, donde les presumo ahora que encontré la dimensión desconocida. Es ahí donde encontré el lugar más extraño en el que he estado jamás, y se hacía más extraño en tanto se sentía más familiar.

Es un lugar más alucinante que el umbral de la homosexualidad de Beto cuevas; más mágico que la entrada al castillo de Greiskol; más misterioso que la fuerza motriz de la mansión del Conde Patula; más sobrecogedor que el mundo bizarro de Superman. Abarcarlo es imposible, incluso en posesión de la espada del augurio que, como todos sabemos, ve más allá de lo evidente. No me alcanzarán las descripciones para hacerles entender, no me alcanzarán las imágenes para hacerles sentir. Este es un lugar que supera calquier atajo nominal: es el súper "La ganga" en el pasillo Cuahutemoc.

Empezamos con el primer ofertón: el gemelo malo del Kool Aid - Mixium del Chavo. Fabricado en Tabasco of all places - Reflexionen por dios, este producto es prueba irrefutable de que hay vario individuo en Tabasco que responde a la pregunta "¿A qué te dedicas?" con la frase "Empaco y transporto Mixium del Chavo". Y yo pensaba que mi amigo que vende huevo en polvo tenía un trabajo obscuro.

Segunda ganga: cereal choco Ronis ¡Choco Ronis! me cae. Doce pesitos la caja. ¿Qué tan malo puede ser? Al lobo asesino que está retratado en la portada se le ve contento.

Y ¿Qué tal este abusivo individuo que alega llamarse Gustavo quitándole el pan y el household name de la boca a la abuelita de México? Ya no hay moral.

Y aquí tenemos la aportación de "La Ganga" a la mala salud dental de los niños de México, por lo menos de los cinco niños de México que tendrán el valor de abandonar a los Dulces Vero (que son primero) por un producto de nombre tan sospechoso como -paleta Pica Pepino-. (En la esquina superior izquierda se dan el taco de apuntar: "Denominación de Origen - Pantitlán Edo. Mex." No es broma).

También había algunas joyas en el pasillo de higiene personal. La primera, cuya grandeza salta a la vista, aquí:

La segunda, cuya grandeza es igual de evidente pero requiere aclaraciones para ciegos: el producto se llama Butt Aid y el claim de la banderita de abajo reza: Relief for the un-happy butt. Así que ya saben, if your butt is already happy, save your money.

Había más cosas en "La Ganga". Demasiadas para creerse. Absolutamente imposibles de enumerar: desde sartenes y moños para regalo, hasta velas aromáticas, papel de baño color durazno, plumas marca Timbiriche, DVDs de Soft Porn (el cuento Vaquero en live action, banda. ¡Adquiéralo ya!). Finalmente en un rincón hasta encontré esas galletitas de mantequilla que vienen en una lata azul de pisitos, idénticas a las que mi abu compraba cuando éramos niños. Ocho pesos costó que yo me llevara mi nostalgia en una bolsa de plástico frágil y maligna.

¿Qué les digo, damas y caballeros? ¡Llévelo, llévelo! encontré un umbral a otro mundo.