Nevermore anniversary

It’´s been nine years since the proud America saw its twin economic symbol fall down after an indiscriminate funereal flight to the very heart of hell. Even far across the ocean, we people in Western countries understood that life would never be the same for anybody. Victims threw themselves into a neverendind void as a less grievous alternative to flesh-burning in the World Trade Center. Firefighters died under a thick layer of debris and ashes. Ordinary people couldn’t understand what they had done to deserve that massive display of hatred and free violence.

For nine years some have identified islamic terrorism with islamism. A dangerous overgeneralization. It’s not a secret that a lot of radical muslims consider capitalism as the mother of all evils. For those, who mistankenly compared the highly flawed American Way of Life with the horrendous unbelievers, the 11S attacks were slightly less than divine justice. Very risky way of monopolizing cosmic truth.

In any case, some of the fault, want it or not, was in the interventionist policy of the US during contemporanean times, justifying invasions, abusive treaties and unilateral wars as a necessary measure to maintain world peace.
Capitalism will be conquering the globe for at last two hundred years more and we all will be resting on heaven or burning in hell, but it would be nice to see from the deep blackness of the abyss or the cotton-like clouds over the heads that everybody, western and eastern, anglosaxons and arabs, atheists and fanatics, has learnt to respect other viewpoints, other symbols and other ways of searching spiritual happiness. At the end, it’s only a question of tolerance.

The Twilight Avenger gets a name

Frampton Compton undressed lazily at dawn. The patrol had been intense and exciting. It was time to send the superhero to bed and the supercostume to the washing machine. Only two hours to alarm ring. He had to decide between sleeping or having breakfast. “Bellyman” opted for resting and eliminating the body excuse for that horrible nick. The double-life man read briefly a The Mighty Avengers Marvel Comic and glimpsed a New York City postcard with the word “twilight” written on it. He slept on a brand new name: A vindicator...only working at night...masked hero... This was it! The Twilight Avenger. Spectacular. Sublime. Terrific. The bad guys’ lash. Like a kick in the very face. But he had to start doing some exercise: Sit-ups and push-ups. And no more cocoa cream with honey and peanut butter spread on the doughnuts. But the clock woke up both his body and his stomach. Maybe tomorrow. After dinner. Or supper.

"Who are you?"

A frightened girls scarcely escapes a bunch of evil men. She pants, gasps, puffs and reaches a saviour corner. But, when she goes round, it literally and figuratively turns to be a dead line. The lovely girl nearly faints.The badmen stop running and begin walking solemnly. One takes out a pen knife; another the belt; the other ones a camera, a bloody-dripping syringe and a microphone. Then he appears: top of the roof, flying cape, dumb face and yellow jumping boots. He cries “Leave her alone or confront me, you of the evil stars, you worst than toothache.”

The gang look at each other until the masked hero jumps down to the blind alley. The pen knife guy receives spray in the eyes, and an expansion shock from the hairdrier-like pistol knocks the others out.

- Who are you? - says the relieved woman.
- Well, er, I, uh, I haven’t thought about a name or something. ¿What about “Heroman”?
- No, no, no. This is old-fashioned and vulgar. “Bellyman”. That’s it.
- What?
- “Bellyman”. It really fits you.
- Fuck off, you gust of disgust!
- But I only...

But the dull face saviour is long gone through igniting jets from his belt. He’s considering that “maybe I should replace this old tight costume. It makes me fat although I try to hide my float. And what the hell should I use as a nickname? The Vindicator Avenger? The Thief Eater? American Power? I will sleep on it. “Bellyman!” Fatty seal”.

Zinedine Zidane and the Gods of football

The 2006 Football World Cup Final was going to be the topping in the Algerian French player’s retirement cake, but instead, it cast the midfielder into the mists of back door goodbye, and Marco Materazzi’s chest into the bottom of French desperation.

Zidane was a genius in footballistic life and the perfect gentleman in public affairs. Honest, kind, goodhearted, but also hotblooded and moody, his career was full of brilliant plays and some shameful aggressions. Knowing that and being Italian, Materazzi exploited his dirty tricks against the core of the “bleus”. Zidane’s sending-off was not unfair, just the opposite, the French player really far deserved it. The point is, what kind of noble justice is it which allows the subterranean game to make a good person lose his tempers and –literally- his head?
Zinedine was worth a different end, maybe a Hollywoodian one, in which he scored the winning goal on the very last second of the extra time or the definite penalty in the final round. Almost nobody retires on top of the business. It football, at least, I cannot remember many. People believe in a very romantic sense of justice and rights and in an omnipresent God of football who, from time to time, put things in their right place. When the over-competitive Italy defeated the old France, he had to be on holiday watching a different TV channel. But this is life and top sport was not going to be much different. Zidane was fired because he couldn’t resist provocation or punish back in a slightly more indifferent manner.
This final blemish didn’t prevent the Algerian from receiving the Golden Ball award for the tournament, maybe because he was recognised not only for that World Cup merits, which were not very impressive, but for his complete career. At the end, people remembered him as a delicatessen with a mild sour taste at the end.

Coming back

I promised to come back if something happened. Well, I still don't know if "that thing" will occur, but I have decided to return anyway, whatever happens about my commitment.
I didn't want to continue this blog as, being a teacher of English, I didn't want to commit unforgivable errors. I will, but I don't care now. I won't allow self-correction to prevent my thoughts from pervading the webworld. So this is a sort of rebirth, and I'm happy about my second "web son".

Aphorisms

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• ENGLISH IS EVERYWHERE. EVEN IN YOU.

• I’VE LEARNT MORE FROM YOU THAN YOU FROM ME.

• READING FEEDS THE SOUL. GET FAT.

• THE ONLY THING I DON’T LIKE ABOUT YOU IS YOUR DEPARTURE.

• LIFE IS NOT FAIR. I THINK IT’S MORE BLONDE-LIKE.

• BE WISER IN FUTURE, BECAUSE YOU CAN’T BE NICER.

• THERE ARE TWO THINGS I USUALLY MISS: THE BUS AND YOU.

• SOME THINGS ARE NOT TAUGHT IN BOOKS BUT IN PEOPLE LIKE YOU.

• MY LIFE IS DIVIDED IN TWO: BEFORE AND AFTER YOU.

• I TRIED TO REMEMBER YOUR FAULTS BUT I FORGOT ALL.

• AS FOR TEACHING, YOU MAKE IT SPECIAL.

• A GOOD STUDENT MAKES A TEACHER EXCELLENT.

• I LIKE THE WAY YOU SMILE IN ENGLISH.

• WHEN I MET YOU I THOUGHT LIFE WAS WONDERFUL. NOW I’M SURE.

• WORKING WITH YOU WAS NOT A JOB.

• IF I EVER GOT ANGRY WITH YOU, IT WAS JUST TO GET CLOSER AFTERWARDS.

• FRIENDSHIP IS A BOAT WHICH NEVER SINKS.

• YOU ARE LIKE SACCHARIN: YOU MAKE LIFE SWEETER BUT AREN’T FATTENING.
• AN ENVIOUS MAN SEES WHERE YOU ARE, NOT WHERE YOU COME FROM.

Memories

Memories.
They are here to stay
To remind you of their pain over you
To make you cry
To make you prisoner of the past
To minimize the success of your insignificant present
To make you trip and fall
To kill you innerly.
Nostalgia is an old girlfriend
You don’t want to greet on your way
But she always bumps into you
Like an inkblot painted in the sky
Like a sadness you want to liven up
But that finishes your strength up
And gets you drunk of sorrow.