Néstor Kirchner meets David Palmer
3
Monthly Archives: December 2007
I’m not ready for that final disappointment
Excuse me, miss. I couldn’t help noticing you and I wonder… would you care to join me for a drink? Just talking. I’m having a really… really bad night, and… I can’t seem to find anyone who just… just sit with me… for just… without yelling at me or something, you know? I obviously wouldn’t approach you in this state… were I not so… unusually… intrigued. Well. There. I bared my soul to you. May I?
I remember when I was a little girl, our house caught on fire
I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face as he gathered me up
In his arms and raced through the burning building out onto the pavement
And I stood there shivering in my pajamas
And watched the whole world go up in flames
And when it was all over I said to myself
“Is that all there is to a fire?”
Is that all there is? Is that all there is?
If that’s all there is, my friends, then let’s keep dancing
Lets bring out the booze and have a ball
If that’s all there is
When I was twelve years old, my daddy took me to the circus
The greatest show on Earth
There were clowns and elephants and dancing bears
And a beautiful lady in pink tights flew high above our heads
And as I sat there watching
I had the feeling that something was missing
I don’t know what, but when it was all over
I said to myself, “Is that all there is to the circus?”
Is that all there is? Is that all there is?
If that’s all there is, my friends, then let’s keep dancing
Lets bring out the booze and have a ball
If that’s all there is
And then I fell in love
With the most wonderful boy in the world
We’d take long walks down by the river, or just sit for hours
Gazing into each other’s eyes, we were so very much in love
And then one day, he went away and I thought I’d die, but I didn’t
And when I didn’t, I said to myself, “Is that all there is to love?”
Is that all there is? Is that all there is?
If that’s all there is, my friends, then let’s keep
I know what you must be saying to yourselves
If that’s the way she feels about it, why doesn’t she just end it all?
Oh, no, not me, I’m not ready for that final disappointment
‘Cause I know, just as well as I’m standing here talking to you
That when that final moment comes and I’m breathing my last breath
I’ll be saying to myself
Is that all there is? Is that all there is?
If that’s all there is, my friends, then let’s keep dancing
Lets bring out the booze and have a ball
If that’s all there is
Caddy Compson
“Doomed and knew it, accepted the doom without either seeking or fleeing it. Loved her brother despite him, loved not only him but loved in him that bitter prophet and inflexible corruptless judge of what he considered the family’s honor and its doom, as he thought he loved but really hated in her what he considered the frail doomed vessel of its pride and the foul instrument of its disgrace, not only this, she loved him not only in spite of but because of the fact that he himself was incapable of love, accepting the fact that he must value above all not her but the virginity of which she was custodian and on which she placed no value whatever: the frail physical stricture which to her was no more than a hangnail would have been. Knew the brother loved death best of all and was not jealous, would (and perhaps in the calculation and deliberation of her marriage did) have handed him the hypothetical hemlock. Was two months pregnant with another man’s child which regardless of what its sex would be she had already named Quentin after the brother whom they both (she and her brother) knew was already the same as dead, when she married (1910) an extremely eligible young Indianian she and her mother had met while vacationing at French Lick the summer before. Divorced by him 1911. Married 1920 to a minor moving picture magnate, Hollywood California. Divorced by mutual agreement, Mexico 1925. Vanished in Paris with the German occupation, 1940, still beautiful and probably still wealthy too since she did not look within fifteen years of her actual fortyeight, and was not heard of again.”
Compson: 1699-1945, William Faulkner, 1946
It’s a good time to be Hebrew
It’s hard to be a Jew on Christmas.
My friends won’t let me join in any games.
And I can’t sing Christmas songs or decorate a Christmas tree
Or leave water out for Rudolph ‘cuz there’s something wrong with me.
My people don’t believe in Jesus Christ’s divinity!
I’m a Jew,
A lonely Jew
On Christmas.
Hanukkah is nice,
But why is it
That Santa passes over my house every year?
And instead of eating ham I have to eat kosher latkes;
Instead of Silent Night I’m singing Hoo Hact Toh Gaveesh;
And what the fuck is up with lighting all these fucking candles please?
I’m a Jew,
A lonely Jew
I can’t be merry
‘Cuz I’m Hebrew
On Christmas.
Hey, little boy, I couldn’t help but hear
You’re feeling left out of Christmas cheer
And I’ve come to say that you shouldn’t be sad
This is the one month that you should be glad
‘Cuz it’s nice to be a Jew on Christmas.
You don’t have to deal with the season at all.
You don’t have to be on your best behavior or give to charity.
You don’t have to have to go to Grandma’s house with your alcoholic family.
And I don’t have to sit on some fake Santa’s lap
And have him breath his stinky breath on me.
That’s right, you’re a Jew!
A styling Jew!
It’s a good time to be Hebrew,
On Christmas…
Sacate la ropita
Creo que una de las cosas más difíciles de la medicina debe ser disimular el tono de lascivia cuando uno le pide a una paciente que está buena que se quite la ropa. Al menos a mí me costaría horrores.
Rial, Gelblung, Graña: ¡a romper el chanchito!
Ayer leí en Clarín un párrafo revelador en la noticia sobre el accidente de Mariana de Melo: “La vedette sufrió también cortes profundos en la oreja y pómulo izquierdos y en el párpado del ojo derecho. Uno de los médicos que atendió a De Melo dijo que ‘en el caso de que sobreviva’ difícilmente una cirugía reparadora ‘consiga ocultar’ los puntos de la sutura que le hicieron en esos lugares.”
Y teniendo en cuenta que ya vimos las fotos del cadáver desnudo de Nora Dalmasso y al Balbín agonizando en la tapa de la revista Gente, ¿le habrán ofrecido ya algunos mangos a algún enfermero del Sanatorio de los Arcos? ¿Habrá agarrado viaje alguno? Ya veremos.
El tiempo
“Father said a man is the sum of his misfortunes. One day you’d think misfortune would get tired, but then time is your misfortune Father said.”
The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner, 1929