Let me think for a moment...if Nicole and Ron have been gone for 14 years right now, I believe that makes Nicole's children old enough to walk hand in hand with their father through the cameras surrounding the spectacle. But, I never saw either one of them walking into court with Dear Ol' Dad. Arnelle, the perennial hand-holding daughter was there, but not the two children of a murdered mother. I wonder why that was? Do they know something that Arnelle refuses to know?

So, Yaley boy, exactly where are the people who are not happy today? I don't know about the circles you run in but sign on to your computer and look around! Just a quick peek around the Net popped up these glowing endorsements and opinions:

The Kansas City Star described Simpson as "Hall-of-Fame running back and social pariah".

Recent Comments left to and about Simpson:

"WOO WHOO!!! Rot in the cell...Fry in HELL OJ..."

"...It’s time for Simpson to go to jail. Just like Rodney King, he’s had more “second chances” than anyone deserves..."

"I lost all respect for the great American Justice when OJ got away with murder!"

Some dude named Muhammad that knows an English idiom, but not grammar states:

"O.J is an Idiot in my book need go jail"

Actually, I can't find anyone other than Yale who WOULDN'T be happy today. OK...I'll give ya OJ and 4 family members. But I refuse to believe that ANY family has MORE than 4 morons at any given time. Even the Osbornes only have 4 on TV, the rest are smart enough to leave us alone. Think about it, 4 Beverly Hillbillies, 4 Bundies, and 4 idiots in The Family Guy. (The dog and the baby are rather bright, for a dog and a baby.) So, MAYBE 4 of OJ's relatives believe he didn't kill Ron and Nicole, but no more. That's 6 unhappy people at the most.

Who the hell isn't happy about this?

Anyone?

Anyone?

Now that everyone is in a good mood, how about some fart humor?

http://mywordandwelcometoit.wordpress.com/2008/09/30/the-story-of-my-favorite-fart/

Ever since my last detective case was deemed closed after I murdered a man in cold blood, I have needed an outlet for my amazing detective skills.

Luckily the latest episode of Kara's show (she's so dreamy!) gave me some good ideas. For now, I'll use my skills of detection to investigate the hybrid's rants. Of course, I won't tell the fleet about it for now because good detectives always work in secret!

Moving on, let's consider this quote:

Under pressure-heat ratio ides of evolutions have buried their fears.

Didn't Starbuck say something like, "I'm not afraid anymore" right before she presumably got crushed in her viper?  The question, then, becomes what is the "ides of evolution" and does this give us a clue about Starbuck's (hot!) special destiny? 

Add to that the "Marlboro" that was clearly visible on Kara's mom's cigarette.   What is this "Marlboro?"  Is this some kind of Earth-human speak?

Looks like old habits never die lets see how this one unfolds,Seven felony's all in one wow how does that happen ? Joey are  you there..??You see that shit oops bridgett hows your attorney gonna defend this one....If I was the judge I would throw away the key..................RxIxPx

Ujú.

¿Querrá decir algo?

Teorías:

-me estoy volviendo más escritora que periodista.

-la novela es la vía de escape más tramposa que haya probado ésta Houdini de los deberes.

-nunca fui periodista.

-soñé esa oficina donde trabajo. En realidad nunca he tenido seguro médico ni me llegan mis cheques quincenales. Mi verdadera vocación es morir de hambre como poeta maldita. (Eso se hará realidad si no empiezo, YA, a escribir el reportaje).

-la mujer que quería que yo muriera (en lugar de un personaje de ficción como Carrie Bradshaw) después de leer la columna en Chilango sobre Sex and The City tiene razón: yo misma me he convertido en un personaje de ficción. Mea culpa.

-lo frito de mi cerebro después de varias horas de reescribir una cuartilla para mi novela (para la que no hay link of course).

-un blogartículo para el blog de periodistas Mundo Abierto que está super lindo y le llega a un chingo de gente que no lee blogs. Me place decir que dicho EMO article encontró su semillero en El Taza un par de semanas atrás. Como quien dice: ¡usté lo vio primero! (o más bien, usté vio su forma primigenia).
Porfa, visite ud Mundo Abierto y si puede, dígame qué piensa de este primer artículo.

-una columna de cine que hago ahora mensualmente para la revista Chilango.

-y last but not least la emoción de coche* que me dio cuando supe la noticia: MAÑANA ME VOY A LONDRES.

¡Ah su mecha, mano!

*en Chiapas los cerditos bebés se ponen a correr con sus cuatro patitas cortas alrededor de la granja cuando algo les emociona. Les dicen 'coches'.

***

Me encantan las oficinas de gobierno. En la entrada deberían tener un anuncio con la leyenda "Frustrándome aprendo".

No falta el güero mamón que ve a todos por encima del hombro y como no sabe leer, no trae la copia correspondiente. Se enoja (¿por qué la gente rica es tan berrinchuda?), si pudiera pataleaba y se tiraba al piso.

Pobre güero. Llama al 'gerente' que se tarda otros 45 minutos en decirle lo mismo: usté no trae la copia correspondiente. Venía en las instrucciones.

Entonces el güero grita: ¡Por eso no progresamos, carajo! Y sale dando portazo.

Traducción (punto de vista del güero): este país no progresa porque ustedes, pinches nacos, no hacen lo que yo quiero cuando yo quiero.

Traducción (punto de vista del gerente): este país no progresa porque cada vez menos güeros saben leer las instrucciones.

Hace mucho que escribí algo de eso y la verdad  ni me acuerdo qué decía. No soy de las que releen el blog.

Ah pero cómo me genera tráfico ese post. Así que ahí les va de nuevo, nomás quería atraer gente para que leyeran lo que me pasó el otro día que seguramente les vale madre y no vendrían sin engaños.

Cómic erótico, cómic erótico, cómic erótico.

Los que se fueron, ni modo. "Nunca fueron míos".

***

Busco un dato sobre un cuadro de Francis Bacon que tuve la suerte de ver en la Feria de Arte Contemporáneo en Madrid.

Google, el dictador, lanza más de 100 mil páginas como respuesta a la consigna "Bacon ARCO 08". Abro la primera (que terminará siendo la única) de la lista. (***nota a mí misma*** el mundo real no debería funcionar como google pero a veces lo hace).

Empiezo a leer la nota: efectivamente, el Bacon fue la pieza más cara de toda la Feria este año, 20 millones de euros. Efectivamente, recuerdo esa pieza porque a Benjamín se le hacía cagado: "MIs piezas son las más baratas de todo ARCO y la de Bacon la más cara. Alguien se fijó en un periódico y me pusieron junto a él, en la misma oración." Je. Je.

Qué suerte estar en algún lado junto a Bacon, pienso yo.

Recuerdo esa pieza y recuerdo más cuando el Benjamín me dijo: "No creo que la puedas volver a ver, así que vamos, te llevo al stand de la Marlborough Gallery.

Lo que no recuerdo es a qué horas nos tomaron esta fotografía (la de abrigo, pelo rojo y backpack es su servilleta):

Tampoco nos dijeron que sería usada para ilustrar la nota de un periódico electrónico de Vizcaya, el nunca bien ponderado El Correo Digital (y como no sirve el linkeo hoy para Wordpress, pueden leerlo acá: http://www.elcorreodigital.com/vizcaya/20080214/cultura/bacon-impone-arco-20080214.html

Así que ahora estoy, yo también, conectada bella e irremediablemente a 'Man at washbasin' del buen (Black) Francis Bacon.

***

Otra de mis aventuras en la metarealidad tiene que ver con una persona que luego de saber de mi existencia 'física' y (seamos francos) parecerle de alguna forma un poco molesta, se dio cuenta de que me leía y tuvo la gran amabilidad de hacérmelo saber.

Estábamos en una fiesta y se acercó a decirme que me leía desde hace tiempo, antes de saber que la que esto escribe también era yo, la otra, la que tiene pasado y es bien mamona cuando no conoce a la gente.

La yo mamona la había visto feo un día --creo-- y además, qué cosa, compartíamos el conocimiento carnal de un bato, yo 10 años antes que ella.

El caso es que yo era, para ella, dos yos, una mamona y otra que la divertía por blog hasta que se dio cuenta de que las dos era yo.

Fuck.

Ni pa donde hacerse.

Así que me dijo: Yo te leo hace mucho tiempo. Me gusta leerte.

Yo me moría de pena porque lo escondo muy bien pero en realidad soy una tímida enferma que nomás escribe porque cuando habla casi siempre la cajetea.

Estuvo bien.

Para cuando terminamos de contarnos que si los hijos (los de ella, claro) que si las cosas diarias que si el novio que estuvo conmigo y luego con ella, ya se me había pasado un poco la pena.

Luego se fue y me quedé pensando cuál de las dos estaría ese día en la fiesta. La mamona yo, la bloguera yo, la que nunca sabe dónde meterse cuando le pasan estas cosas.

¿Cuál de todas llevaré a la fiesta de hoy, por cierto

Alert - Philippines
27 March 2008
Source: Center for Media Freedom and Responsibility (CMFR), Manila

Court halts trials of alleged masterminds of journalist's killings

The Cebu City Court of Appeals issued a 60-day temporary
restraining order on 25 March 2008 on the trial of the suspected
masterminds of the killing of a journalist.

Osmeña Montañer and Estrella Sabay, accused of ordering the 24
March 2005 killing of journalist Marlene Esperat, filed a petition
on 4 February 2008 for a temporary restraining order to prevent
Cebu Regional Trial Court Branch 7 Judge Simeon Dumdum from hearing
the case.

Montañer and Sabay argued that Dumdum has no jurisdiction over the
case since the 23 November 2005 Supreme Court resolution approving
the transfer of the case from Tacurong City, Sultan Kudarat to Cebu
City, Cebu only applied to then accused Estanislao Bismanos, Rowie
Barua, Gerry Cabayag and Randy Grecia, who were all found guilty
and sentenced to life imprisonment except for Barua, who was
discharged after he turned state witness.

The case was transferred following a successful petition by the
Freedom Fund for Filipino Journalists (FFFJ), a coalition of six
media organizations working to promote and protect press freedom.
The FFFJ, of which CMFR is a founding member and serves as
secretariat, asked for the transfer in response to the safety
concerns of witnesses and the need for a more neutral court and
environment, the accused being allegedly influential in Tacurong.

Esperat, who had written exposés accusing Montañer and Sabay of
corrupt practices, was gunned down in full view of her children
while the family was having dinner in their Tacurong City residence.

Montañer and Sabay were not included in the Supreme Court
resolution granting the transfer of venue because Tacurong City
Judge Francis Palmones, then presiding judge of the case, had
dismissed the case against Sabay and Montañer. Palmones dismissed
the case against the two alleged masterminds even before the
prosecution had presented evidence.

The Cebu City Court of Appeals has yet to issue a resolution on the
petition for certiorari, also filed by Montañer and Sabay on 4
February 2008. A certiorari is a writ which could be issued by a
superior court to a lower court to annul or modify ongoing
proceedings if the latter judge acted on a case outside his
jurisdiction.

Private prosecutor Nena Santos said that the Montañer and Sabay
petition for certiorari and temporary restraining order is "another
scheme to get away with murder through technicalities".

Santos filed a letter to the Supreme Court on 24 March 2008 asking
for a "declaratory resolution" on the case's change of venue. In
her letter, Santos asked for the Supreme Court to state "that only
the Supreme Court has sole authority to act on matters affecting
the change of venue of trial in criminal cases and that [the 23
November 2005 Supreme Court resolution ordering the transfer of
venue] clearly subsumes and encompasses the trial" of Sabay and
Montañer.

Santos also asked for the Supreme Court to require the accused to
explain why they should not be cited for contempt since the issue
of transfer of venue has already been resolved by the Supreme
Court, to direct the Cebu Court of Appeals to dismiss Sabay and
Montañer's petition for certiorari, and to direct the Cebu Regional
Trial Court Branch 7 to proceed with the case.

"Considering the absurdity of the position the accused have now
taken, i.e., that the case should be returned to Tacurong City, or
refiled in Cotabato City, we feel that it behooves the Supreme
Court as a court of law and equity to use its plenary power to
assist the People of the Philippines, private complainants and the
media group in obtaining a speedy, just and inexpensive
determination of this only media murder case where the masterminds
have long been identified, investigated, re-investigated, charged
and re-charged but never arrested and  brought to trial," Santos
said in her letter.

"The authority of the Court and respect for fair trial are put to
the greatest test when influential high government officials are
the accused. Even when they are tried they have resources and
connections to reduce the trial to a farce. In the case of Marlene
Esperat, the accused mastermind's abuse of the judicial process
makes a mockery of our laws and the concept of fair trial. Their
unwarranted reliance on technicality, which amazingly has been
aided by some judges have openly embarrassed the administration of
justice with impunity," Santos added.

Dumdum issued arrest warrants for Montañer and Sabay on 4 February
2008, but the two were never arrested.

(No me gustan todos todo el tiempo, vamos. También conozco gente a la que adoro pero que tiene una postura -política- ante la vida que me parece irreflexiva y simplona...¿No les caga darse cuenta que tienen un amigo tan conservador que ni siquiera se percata de ello? ¿Qué pedo con la conversión a buenas conciencias que nos ha dado últimamente? ¿A qué horas los 30 y something nos pegaron de a gacho? Y lo digo por tres amigos, no sólo por el que están pensando.)

***

1.

Decía que mis amigos me caen re bien porque hacen cosas super ultra hi fi plus con tres monedas y una cuerda.

Por ejemplo este, que de unas pinchis fotitos que yo postié en la semana (que realmente ni estaban tan chics) él encontró algo bellísimo:

Se llama Ernesto y ya tiene una recámara con dos cajones para calcetines y calzones en mi blog/corazón. Tienen que seguir su bló, porque trae varias de estas joyitas gráficas, aunque inspiradas en otras imágenes. Dice que las 'roba', pero creo que las re-crea.

Ay si, tú. Muy pinchi semiótica.  

(Bueno, me tiene conmovida, qué quieren.)

***

2.

Otro de mis cuates se llama Benjamín Torres Towers y con él tengo historias viejas y privadas. TOP SECRET.

Otro día las cuento, hoy no puedo porque me encuentro 'trabajando' en una sala de prensa en Madrid, España (cubriendo la feria de arte ARCO ¿no les dije?). No me da tiempo.

La neta iba a decir 'la madre patria' pero me re-caga la gente que usa este término para referirse a España. ¿Madre de quién? ¡No mamen!

La onda es que jooooo, como dicen estos vatos, el Benja la hizo bien y es uno de los pocos artistas mexicanos que este año se pudieron colar en ARCO.

Es la neta el pinche chaparro. Buen artista, pero además re listillo para eso de la conceptualización de sus obras.

Total, que cuando yo anduve con Benjamín (no que no les contabas güey) hace 10 años, el chaparrillo apenas empezaba. Era un artista 'en ciernes'. Es decir, tenía grandes problemas de credibilidad, sobre todo donde el artista suele tener grandes problemas de credibilidad: en su propia casa.

A su papá, por ejemplo, le parecía que estaba usando su cuarto para producir, y cito chale, cómo me caga la gente que dice "y cito": "basura incomprensible". Un día le dijo que nunca iba a poder vivir de eso y que lo que hacía ni siquiera podía considerarse arte. "¿Por qué no pintas un cuadro, como la gente normal?", le espetó.

Total (ahora si, total) que yo aguantaba vara con mi chaparrito, no porque yo fuera la gran visionaria y supiera nada de arte, sino porque pensaba que esa basura incomprensible era lo único que lo hacía realmente feliz. Me acuerdo que le dije: "Tú síguele, chingá. Igual somos teachers pobres el resto de nuestras vidas, pero ¿estás dispuesto a no volver a pensar en arte, estás dispuesto a convertirte en espectador?" Nel.

Yo tampoco, le dije.

Me caga ser extra de mi propia vida.

Así que aquí estamos (10 años después de que Benjamín se negó a pintar un óleo o una acuarela, 'como la  gente decente' ) juntos en Madrid por azares del pinchurriento destino que a veces se porta lindo conmigo.

Juntos haciendo lo que teníamos que hacer: mandar al diablo a quienes les pareciera incomprensible.

Acá algunas fotos de su obra (que luego comentaré con más calmilla):

***

3. 

Yet another one I like very much-a es el Témoris. Es un periodista fantástico, de esos que todavía creen en el oficio (no como yo, que me caga el periodismo m'anque viva de'l).

Este travelling journalist llegó hace unos meses de un viaje de dos largos años por el continente más pobre del mundo (me cagan los eufemismos).

En una de esas ni la cuenta: casi se nos muere de una infección de hígado en Tanzania. In the middle of fucking nowhere, pa que nos hacemos mensos. 

Algo tiene que hacer todavía acá, porque después de estar internado unas semanas en el middle of lo que les digo, regresó.

Ahora tiene un blog personal, con mucho texto y muchas fotos de sus viajes. Se llama temorisblog en wordpress, ahí ta.

La bamba callejera de 15 minutos con jaraneros de 15 a 80 años estuvo bien. Todo es espontáneo, nadie en Tlacotalpan está jodiendo con que 'deberíamos respetar nuestras tradiciones'. Más bien las viven y ya.
Les da orgullo zapatear, les da orgullo lanzar décimas.

(José Emilio Pacheco debe estar muy contento por el fenómeno de poesía viva en esa parte de Veracruz. En su ensayo Ovidio en el iPod, demuestra por qué a él se le admira de forma cotidiana, sin grandes altares. Se le admira como se admira a un tío fantástico, no al padre omnipresente y amenazador. Se le admira porque nunca se ha declarado muerto en vida).

En fin. Aquí algunas fotos de mi reciente estancia en Tlaco, un pueblo excepcional (y excepcionalmente borracho, como yo) a orillas del Papaloapan.

Los perros callejeros, mi nueva obsesión:

La barra del "Lobo Hombo, bar ambulante".

El joven hippie, un día después de su lobohombada.

La muchacha de la jarana mágica zapateando.

With all the negativity in the world . Where is the good , the love and joy? I truly believe better must come. With so much hatred and violence this day and age, Where does one turn for pure happiness ? Is it god? but even church goers and good citizens have horrible unspeakable acts happen to them . What is the true meaning of happiness or even life for that matter? Just some food for thought folks.  Also is what they say true what goes around comes around ? and/or Karma/payback is a bitch .......What about Justice who really administers "Justice" Ill will leave it up to the bloggers to think about this one . I mean THINK about it leave comments if you will help me try to understand shit sometimes so on the note here is an update of Joey Deom..........................................................

Any how Bridgett Cordova skated on killing Joey Deom she is free to risk it again . Matthew Lacey got for caught a few more unrelated cases  obviously dope fien moves such as forgery, and theft he will hit nevada state prison soon as for Goodner I know he plead guilty on all that stolen shit they put Joey in but he too skated on the murder charges and to the result of his final outcome I don't even know if he went back to prison I  cant find him in the Jails website any longer. What a bunch of LOSERS. All over dope and Jeolousy and thinking you're a killer tough guy crap. THIS SHIT SUCKS. to lose someone who really didn't deserve it or went before there time while the guilty parties involved are free to enjoy the rest of their lives don't seem fair ........ but then again the old saying is what goes around comes around

More to come from the killing of Joey Deom . The Drug Addict bitch Bridgette Cordova who set him up. The loser five time felon Matthew Goodner, Who brutally murdered Joey, Matthew Lacey,  the wanna be skinhead who snitched on Goodner, And helped in every step of concealing his body The bitch ass defense attorney Draskovich that sets child molesters and cold blood killers back on the streets. The incompetent District Attorney's office for failing to provide the people with an adequate  trial. Time to start doing your homework folks,?!  I am currently in the process of gathering as much information as possible in regards to Joey's case. If I write a best seller maybe little Jo Jo will be able to benefit from all this .The poor kid has to grow up always wondering what happened.!! to his Dad that loved him so much , And on that note Bridgette Is out on the streets and Goodner is being held only on 4 counts of all the stolen stuff he used to conceal Joey's body. Revenge is such sweet sorrow! Die motherfucker die!!

Es un trabajo árduo, pero alguien tiene que hacerlo. El blog se quedó rechinando sin aceite 3-en-1 porque me fui a Alaska en un crucero VTP de viejitos toda la semana pasada y el pinche barco sólo tenía conexión a módem. Lo intenté, pero bloguear con modem...vaya, ni cargaba la página.

¡Módem! ¡No mame oiga! ¿Quién tiene una computadora con módem? Pues nosotros señorita, los dueños de los cruceros cuyo asistente promedio tiene la friolera de 65 años. Nosotros señorita o lo que usté se precie de ser, que somos gringos dueños de un 'estado' cuyo territorio equivale a un poco más de la mitad del de Argentina, (dueños aunque les duela a los tarados conservacionistas, a los pinchis canadienses y a los rusos y a los nativos y a los descendientes de Mr. Vitus Bering), gringos no tan gringos como los texanos (aunque ahora que recuerdo, la Exxon y el tanque Exxon-Valdez que tiró 11 millones de galones de crudo en nuestros mares, ¿esos güeyes de dónde son?), no vaya usté a creer, nomás gringos enough como para valernos absoluta madre si usté tiene o no un blog que atender.

Además no tenemos ¡voy a creer! ni una computadora a la que se le pueda conectar (¡como en Rumania!) una memoria USB porque (y cito) "si se le llega a meter un virus infecta tooodo el sistema del barco y al rato no podemos abrir las puertas o bajar el ancla" ¿EEEEhhhh? ¿Por eso no puedo bajar ni un archivo de word en sus pinchis máquinas pedorras? ¡Ya no vean las Bourne Supremacies, no chinguen!
Así que váyase a su Stateroom de dos por dos o asista a la clase de macramé de las 4.45 (ni un minuto más tarde, acuérdese que somos gringos y muuuy anales) y deje libre la pista central de nuestro barco de mal gusto. ¿No ve que los viejitos están bailando I will survive en silla de ruedas?

Me fui, me regresé a mi stateroom, el 3126 del repinche pero regrandote navío bautizado con el intrincado, poético e inteligente nombre de Serenade of the Seas. Por cierto que la madrina del Titanium, como pudo haberse llamado (menos poético pero com más amarre) con foto central y todo era, naturalmente, doña Whoopi Goldberg. (Y antes de que se me olvide ¿qué clase de nombre es Whoopi?)
Decidí entonces ponerme flojita y cerré mis intenciones de bloguear por casi dos semanas. Tragué como peloncita de hospicio en ese mall-all-inclusive de altamar, donde durante los días de cruising, lograron hacerme sentir dentro de una rueda-prisión para hámster, plasticosa y movediza.

La buena nueva es que por unos momentos disfruté llamarme 'periodista': a mi camarote llegaban regalitos pendejos a diario. Que la champaña barata, que los binoculares para verle las nalgas a las nutrias, que la chamarrita anticaca de albatros, que la cajita de madera de ciprés para guardar el recuerdito.

Nomás me pongo a pensar en que un día alguien se entere de que los ventilo aquí ante quién sabe quién. Me linchan.

Bien.

Más de caminar en un glaciar (esa si, una experiencia valiosa) tomorrow.

Back to those cuentos, pues'n.

***

*Nota al editor:

De antemano me disculpo por tres cosas: mi manía de poner dos puntos para enfatizar una idea; la de encerrar toda acotación entre paréntesis como si la pinchis acotaciones no se encerraran solas por contexto; y mi nueva neurósis que consiste, según señaló acertadamente mi novio, en mentar madres como si me pagaran. Soy una peladita, ni modo.

Siento no poder subir fotos del Castillo de Bran (Flakes) por ahora, pero estoy en un cafe internet en Brasov, un pueblito a 20 km del timo ese que llaman el castillo de Dracula.

Cual castillo de Dracula inchis rumanos...desde que llegue me estan timando, son unos gandallas! Hoy que ya me regreso a la bella Budapest, hasta gracia me hace. De algo tienen que vivir, pienso. De chingarse al capitalista; porque aqui el capitalismo todavia es un tema de conversacion. A diferencia de los hungaros, estos batos solo tiene un par de decadas aprendiendo a hacer bizne de lo ajeno.

La mayoria de los autos en un pueblo pequenio como este son Renaults de los 70 y oh gran dios celestial, por fin se me hizo ver un Trabant circulando.

Me siento en Bolek y Lolek.

Decia que no puedo subir fotos (o cambiar el idioma del teclado y por tanto los acentos) por una razon organica, ilustracion elocuente de  la mayor parte de mi estancia en Rumania: en estas maquinas todavia funciona el Windows 98, son unos armatostes con 'llave' y lo mero bueno, no tienen entrada USB.

Ok.

Aca funciona un teleferico, fer christ sakes. Los ninios de 8 y 10 anios tienen una maldad a la vez terrible y tierna: fuman como chacuacos.

Las puertas de entrada a las casas son de madera, enormes, como de establo y cuando se ve que no paso por alli algun 'camarada' con billete, miembro del Partido, huelen a humedad y polilla.

Por fuera, por como esta planeada la ciudad, es exquisita. Tiene algo triste, algo de medieval, algo de oscuro.

Algo he aprendido en Europa del Este. Cuando el cielo dice 'agua va' no esta jugando: van tres veces que llego hecha una sopa (sopa como cuando nos mojabamos en sabado de gloria, con la cola mojada pa que me entiendan) a mi casita. Dos de esas veces he sentido verdadero miedo de que algo me ocurra bajo la lluvia y el aire. Una de esas veces, la tapa de un basurero me sirvio como escudo contra el granizo, que, no miento, eran rocas filosas que alcanzaron a dejarme algunos moretones en los brazos.

Asi de cabrona la lluvia y todo, pero sigue siendo verano. Ayer por la tarde hacian 30 grados, sudabamos como camellos en el castillo, subiendo escaleritas como imbeciles. Luego dormite (no se puede llamar 'dormir' a lo que he hecho en este viaje) y como por ahi de las 2 am los relampagos empezaron a recordarme donde estaba: you are in Transilvania, my friend, so start being scared. And I was.

Cayeron unos cuantos cerca, en el bosque circundante. Lo digo porque los oi (recuerdan eso de y retiembla en sus centros la tierra? pos el Bocanegra por ahi era transilvano) pero tambien los vi. Usssh. Ayyy cabron.  

Durante este genunino road trip he tenido tres casitas (bed & breakfast que les dicen, aunque la mayoria te queda a deber el breakfast), un hotel y un hostal de estudiante. He conocido gente muy generosa en todos lados. Ayer los seniores de Bran me invitaron un brandy baratito que diluyen con agua y que sabe como a bacardi con azucar y claro, pero of course que acepte. Hablabamos en todos los idiomas posibles, me hicieron reir, me calentaron un poquito el corazon que ya se me andaba enfriando con tanta pinche empapada.

Si. El sol sale a veces. Sale en cualquier parte del mundo, igual que 'lo otro' aquello que nos convierte tambien y por momentos en una especie hija de puta  (cuya pertenencia no me dejan olvidar estos ninios que se golpean, literalmente, mientras prenden un cigarro con la colilla del otro aqui en el cafe internet de Brasov).

Bien, sin fotos, sin USB, con un chingo de ganas de echarme unos tacos de biste... asi me despide Brasov. Manana salgo para Bucarest, una ciudad harto parecida a la Ciudad de Mexico, donde me recibio un hombre en la estacion de tren con aliento alcoholico, me arreglo el ticket del tren y me pidio propina... buena onda el rumanito. En Bucarest tomare el avion para Budapest, una noche mas y de regreso al monstruo que trae en la boca mi cama, mis gatos, mi oficina, mi rutina, mi terapia. Sobe todo estan mis cuates, mis bares, mis puestos de tacos, mis otros calzones (ejem, no calcule bien) y mi novio que es buenisimo para quitarmelos y mi herma que me va a reganar por no abrigarme lo suficiente.

Que mas quiere uno chinga.   

(Enteramente distinto  al racismo mexicano, a mi parecer en eso nos los chingamos. Somos mucho más ojetes. Ya tendré tiempo para hablar de eso a mi regreso de la Comicon).

Ya lo sabemos: conversar con un chicano es conversar con un outsider. No los quieren en México, no los quieren en Texas ni en el resto de los Esteits.

Su espíritu es de mexicano güaraguero: llenan sus casas, sus cocinas, de tarugadas 'por si acaso', como ratones de fonda; se rigen por la ley del aquí y ahora; no ahorran ni se aguantan las ganas de tener casa chica, amante, otros hijos, otras vidas.

Lo extraño es que su cuerpo, escindido de lo otro, se rige bajo las republicanas/anglicanas leyes de Texas.  Ups.

Son criaturas extrañas, de verdad interesantes. No creo que se les haya hecho justicia aún en literatura o en cine. Corríjame usté si sabe de algo.
Segunda o tercera generación de inmigrados mexicanos, en su mayoría campesinos desesperados. Muchos ya ni hablan español. Tienen la manía de disculparse por su andar bilingüe, pocho, incomprensible de donde los oigan. Defienden a ultranza lo que consideran 'mexicano', aunque los que vivimos en otro México (que quién sabe si seamos más mexicanos que ellos) ya no consideramos propio.

"Los mexicanos no nos rajamos", me dice el pintor Joe López.

¿No nos rajamos? ¿Disculpe Joe, hace cuánto que no va México?

Y me cuenta una historia de hace 15 años, cuando empezó a vender camisetas que decían PURO GALLO y la empresa de vinos Gallo Wines le puso la demanda de su vida.

'Gallo' era, para los vineros, una palabra italiana, marca registrada.

Je.

Así que 'por merito y me lo enjaulan' al Joe.

"Nomás que nos pusimos bien cabrones acá. Yo dije, yo vengo del barrio, a mi nadie me espanta y se me unieron y nos pusimos cabrones. Hold still, me dijeron y aguantamos y hasta salimos en el New York Times porque esos otros cabrones se culearon y droppearon la demanda."

Ándele puto.

"Mientras andábamos en la lucha yo le decía a los partners que nosotros, como nuestros antepasados no éramos ni villistas ni zapatistas, nosotros éramos GALLISTAS. Los mexicanos no nos rajamos. Los gallistas no se rajan".
Pinchi Joe, me partió el corazón.

Sé que es una historia mil veces contada, pero no creo que por eso menos interesante.

***

Es extraño. Uno pensaría que en E.U. hay ciudades más interesantes, más cosmopolitas como NY, Seattle, D.C., Boston... donde la tela para el blogueo es interminable. San Antonio, sin embargo, me resultó más dulce.

A lo mejor soy una romántica.

Más de San Antonio a mi regreso de San Diego. Ahora a hacer la maleta.

Mañana parto (¿parto?) hacia un destino largamente esperado, lo confieso, nunca antes vistado. Cómo envidiaba a aquellos que se iban en bola en los 90, mis cuates pudientes o mejor dicho, mis cuates que trabajaban tooodo el año para asistir con cierta dignidad.

Dicen que este año va la friolera de 150 mil personas a esta convención, por mucho la más grande de todo el continente.

Créanlo, me lo merezco. ¿Alguna vez han intentado explicarle las dimensiones, la importancia, la riqueza, las posibilidades de una crónica de la San Diego Comicon a personas que nunca ha sostenido un cómic en sus manos?

Difícil, pero según puedo corroborar, realizable. Ujjuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.

Espero que mi vida pinte así por mucho tiempo. Esta chamba es a veces el cielo con patas.

***

Fontanarrosa murió y dolió mucho. Ayer tuve tiempo de hacer my own private mourning. Sólo tuve que ir a mi librero y volverme a reír cuando un rayo parte a Inodoro Pereyra o cuando la Eulogia le pega al Mendieta porque piensa que es un cojinillo parlante.

Hace como 15 años AAAAAYYY 15 años 15 años...fui a una protoconvención de cómics en el D.F. Yuri, el ex-novio al que le debo gran parte de mi geekiness, me llevó a ver a Fontanarrosa. Un poco a fuerza hice mi chamba de novia querendona y hasta me formé en la fila de los autógrafos.

Nos firmó un par de cuentitos. Yo no entendía ni pio de gaucho, por lo que  Inodoro Pereyra todavía no estaba en mi top. Cuando Fontanarrosa me dibujó un Mendieta con un globo de diálogo que decía Ira! salí un poco decepcionada (tarugo que es uno luego). Yo hubiera querido un Boogie, como el que siempre leíamos en el baño mis hermanos y yo, en la contratapa de la revista Proceso. Tardaría unos años en darme cuenta de que muchos hogares de izquierdas teníamos la misma costumbre: Mafalda era un pasquín materno para enseñarnos de undercover  el significado de impertinencia, nostalgia de la niñez y  militancia monera, mientras que Boogie nos daba instrucciones para reírnos de nuestras ganas de pegarle a las viejitas indefensas.

A qué ganas de pegarle a una viejita me dieron. Usté disculpe mi incorrección política.

Fontanarrosa murió la semana pasada muy muy muy joven. Todos estamos muy tristes.

Saludos mour-neros a Yuri y gracias, muchas gracias.

It had been years since anyone had heard from Roxanne. She used to live across the hall from me in Ottawa. It was comforting to have my baby sister nearby, even if there were times when our lifestyle and choices differed greatly. At least someone would be there for Rox when she needed help and the baby sister had needed help many times in the past. When she was two she had been removed from my mother, falsely, and placed in a foster home. The natural son of the foster parents, a club-footed teen, had no girlfriends; girls his age laughed at him. I feel for a kid like that, but what he did to my sister was unforgivable. The system that had taken her from a good mother and placed her in that home is a sick one indeed.

The club-footed boy was raging with hormones, yet the only girl he could ever get close to was my two year old baby sister. He took her. In the middle of the night, he crept into her room and molested her. She was in a vulnerable position, needed the love of her family, of the father she never knew, needed her father to protect her, but no one, not even the deformed boy’s parent cared about her safety; their precious son with the mangled feet were their only concern. They did nothing as he began to rape my little sister on a regular basis.

He raped her with regularity until she was the age of five. Then finally my mother won the custody of Roxanne and got her from the home. But it was too late for the little girl. She was now very much a mess. She never got the help she needed and my mother could not win against the state run home, so little Roxanne grew up thinking her only use in life was to please men sexually; her only use was to be used by men.

Now that she was grown up, there was not much anyone could do to help her. She had tried to live a good life, but an Eastern man raped her again when she was fifteen and got her pregnant. She married him and raised their daughter. She was a good mother to her little girl, a very good mother. She swore to protect her daughter from anyone who would harm her.

Then one day the man who had taken her from her own, the father of her child, took their daughter back the east where he stayed for six years. It was the last straw that sent Roxanne crashing over the edge. Her world soon became full of drugs as she tried in vain to forget about the heartbreak she felt at the loss of the one thing she loved, her little daughter. Her husband never came back and Roxanne had no way to bring her daughter home. The government would not, could not do anything about it. Roxanne felt so doomed, tortured at the thought of what might have happened to darling daughter, her inability to be a good mother. Roxanne longed to see and hold her daughter again. Finally drugs helped to ease the pain and prostitution soon followed as a way to pay for her new habit.

Rox chose to live on the west coast, in a neighbourhood called the ‘Downtown Eastside’ (DTES), where no one in the family wanted to visit, let alone live. The DTES is a neighbourhood of Vancouver. It was a bad place to live, the most notorious, dangerous and poverty stricken neighbourhood in the whole country. The most dangerous people in that area however, were from somewhere else and came only to prey on the poor. Naturally, everyone in the family was worried about Roxanne, she had dropped out of sight and no one had heard from her in years. Mom had tried to report her as missing, but police said Rox was around, but wished no communication with the family.

We had all tried to help her and wanted very much to see her straighten out and change her lifestyle. We wanted her to clean up and get off drugs, somehow turn her life around. We knew how hard it was for her to except that her daughter had been ripped from her arms and we hoped someday she would come back to us. We were all worried that someday we’d get a phone call from police telling us she had been found dead. So on this day when the phone rang and I heard her voice, it was with great relief that she was still alive.

“Roxanne, where have you been? Everyone has been so worried about you”, I told her.

“I know. Mom worries about me and I have avoided calling her”, she answered.

“Why? Is that why you told the police you wished to have no contact with the family?”, I scolded.

“God, the cops, I am not surprised they said that, but I never told them I didn’t wish to communicate with the family and they have never told me anyone was looking for me. I AM sorry. I didn’t know they had done that to Mom. I worry Mom, but don’t mean to. Sometimes I feel it worries her more to hear from me than if I just didn’t call”, she replied. “But I never told police that I didn’t want to speak to you guys; I just figured you didn’t want to hear from me”

“Well we do want to hear from you. We want to help if we can. Where have you been?”, I asked.

“Oh I have been around”, she said with a laugh. “You know me. It’s hard for me to live the kind of life you would like for me to live”, Roxy said.
“Yeah, but you haven’t called anyway”, I chided.

“I wonder if it was Dave who told her that. He’s the only cop I ever said anything like that to. What I said is I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me; he invented the rest. I’ll call her and straighten things out”, she said.

“Who’s Dave?”, I asked.

“He’s a cop who is a John of the girls. We were on a date and I told him I knew how much it worried Mom to hear about my troubles. He never said she called looking for me. I would have called her if he had. But I never said I didn’t want to talk with her, just that I knew it worried her to hear from me; I don’t lead the kind of life she would like for me to lead”, she told me.

“A cop uses your services? Boy that’s rich”, I said.

“Yeah I don’t trust that guy. He pretends to be a friends of the girls, but we’ve got his number, literally”, Roxy said.
“I heard you had gone straight and was a born again Christian. Any truth to that?”, I asked, hoping she had.

“Well I did clean up my act. Met a guy who took me in and took me to church”, she answered.

“How did that work out?”, I asked.

After a pregnant pause she said, “You know me, not long. I just can’t get the hang of religions. They are more your thing than mine. When people want to save my soul, I know they want me to live by their set of rules and I don’t really want to be like them. They treat you like they are so much better than you. It’s so hypercritical. The churches are locked an empty places when there are poor, homeless people sleeping on their steps… in the cold rain. That says something about religion. No I don’t need an exclusive club to save my soul. I am saved“.

I heard her voice break a bit. She wasn’t the type to get emotional. I hadn’t seen her cry since she was small. “Roxanne what is bothering you? I know you well enough. Tell me what is wrong.”

“Ah you wouldn’t believe me if I did, the truth is so strange”, she replied.

“Try me. How many times have you shocked me in the past?”, I answered firmly. She knew I had been trough some pretty tough stuff with her, near rapes, bikers, her ex-husband who beat her, the man she shot when he tried to attack her, the three bikers who gang-banged her in Grandmere back east. What more could she tell me that would shock me worse than she already had?

The was a moment of silence before she began. “Do you remember the little old lady in Syracuse who lived down the street from us on Kirkpatrick? Remember the little old lady I used to go visit, I’d go to the store for her?”

“Yeah I remember there was a little old couple you used to visit. What brings her to mind now?”, I asked.

“Do you remember her name? It’s an unusual name and I had never met anyone with that name before until I met my best friend” she answered.

“Yes now I remember. You really got on well with that old lady. You use to go there after school and sit with her, go to the store for her, she really treated you well. I remember her well“, I replied.

“Well there’s this place outside of Vancouver. It’s a huge piece of land owned by two brothers and, I think, their sister. They have a pig farm there. On the land there are a lot of buildings. One of the buildings the brothers have turned into a party club for bikers, cops and politicians. They call it “Piggy’s Palace”, she told me as she began her story.

“What about it?” I asked, knowing I was heading down a path I didn’t want to know about.

“I’ve been out there a couple of times. The brothers get girls from the DTES to go there and entertain the men, mostly bikers and cops, but a few local politicians party there as well. I was out there a couple of times and recognized some of the cops who party there. The girls were there not only to entertain the men, but also to help make movies…” she got out before I interrupted.

“Porn movies?”, I ventured.

“Some of them are porn, but what they do is have the women pretend to be killed on video. They pay the women well, give them drugs and treat them well. But I noticed that after the girls had been out there twice doing the porno and ‘pretend death’ scenes, the third time they went out, they didn’t come back. I warned my friend not to go back out there. She had gone out with me twice before, but they are so generous with the drugs and money and the girls are treated so well the first two times that she thought I was being paranoid. She went out there a third time on her birthday and she never came back. The men make snuff movies out there, among other things…” she continued before I cut her off.

“Excuse me, Roxanne, what is a snuff movie?”, I asked.

“That’s a movie in which the 'stars' are actually killed on video…”, she answered before I interrupted her again.

“Roxanne are you serious?” I said in utter disbelief, “You mean, they actually kill the women and film it?” I stopped for a moment to absorb the impact of what my baby sister had just told me, then surmised, “If they were making that sort of movie, then it would be evidence. You go tell the police”, I demanded.

“It wouldn’t do any good to go to the cops; like I said, they already know. They already know all about it”, she said calmly. “I was out there twice before. The good old boys treated me real nice the two times I was there, me and my friend, but then the next time I was hard up for some down…”, she got out before I interrupted her again.

“What is down?”, I naively asked.

“Heroin. At the time I was living at this hotel near the cop shop. That’s where a lot of the women lived. There was a women named Linda who lived there with us. She works with the brothers who own the pig farm. She watched and when a woman, who had been out to the pig farm twice before, was hard up for a drug, she’d call Willy”, she continued. “One day I was hard up for some down and she came knocking at my door, telling me ‘Willy was there for me’. I knew what that meant. He came in waving the heroin in my face. If I wanted it I had to follow him. We went behind the hotel and after he got me in his white van, he made me strip…” she said before I again interrupted her.

“Why did you go with him? Oh my God Rox, please come home. It really isn’t as bad as you make it seem. I love you and can watch over you here like I always have. Please come home”, I pleaded.

“I was so sick, Sis that I needed that hit of heroin and thought I could sweet-talk him out of it, but that’s not what happened. He stripped my clothes off then shackled me, wrists and ankles, to the floor of the van in the alleyway behind the hotel, then took off. I knew where I was headed, to star in a snuff movie. I looked around and saw that the van was really clean, so I threatened to have a shit in the van if he didn’t let me up for a poop. I knew he didn’t want me to shit in the van, because there might be blood in my poop, so he stopped in an alleyway behind a shelter in the DTES. He put a wire pig noose around my neck..” she said before I interrupted her again.

“What is a pig noose Roxy?”, I asked feeling very afraid for my baby sister.

“It’s a wire noose they use to hold pigs with before they slit their throats, to keep them from running away”, she answered before continuing matter of factly. “He put the noose around my neck then let me out of the van into the alleyway to take a shit. I was still naked at the time. But when I stooped down to poop, I grabbed hold of the wire behind my neck and yanked it out of Willy’s hands, then took off running. I got away and tried to tell Dave about what had happened, but he just told me I was tweaking. I didn’t think he would really help. He knew all about the pig farm anyway; he is a John of the girls, so I was hoping he really cared, but he is just a pig after all.”

“Oh my God! do you mean to say the cops are in on what goes on out at that pig farm?”, I said with my blood pressure rising and my knees starting to weak with fear for my sister.

“Oh yeah, they know all about the place. There have been some government officials of all sorts out there. They help distribute the movies and make a shitload of money on them”, she said. “I bet they even sell organs on the black market too. Just imagine, someone somewhere has the liver of a drug addict…. oooo! The patient probably died.”

“Well get a hold of one of those movies and take it to the press”, I naively demanded.

“The films are not sold here. Asia is the biggest market for snuff films… and organs”, she informed me.

“So what about your friend? Did she go out there?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away, gaining her composure. I could tell it was hard for her to talk about. “I told her not to go back out there. I warned her that the girls didn’t come back the third time they went out, but the boys treated us so nice the first two times, gave us money, all the drugs we wanted, they really treated us like queens. It is disarming. It is so tempting to believe it is a good trick”, she told me.

“A what?”, I asked.

“A trick, when you go with a John. You know when a guy hires a woman, he is called a trick”, she informed me. I was so naive about the kind of life she led. “Anyway I guess she never thought they would hurt her. It was her birthday and they invited her to come party with them. She was in the mood to party so she went. That was the last I ever saw of her. I was hoping they wouldn’t do anything to her, but… well it didn’t work out that way. She never came back.”

“God Roxy, you have got to get out of there. That place sounds perfectly evil. Come back to Ottawa. Stay here with me. I have a big place. You can get a decent job. Please get out of there”, I begged her.

“Oh heavens Sis. You are so sweet, but there is no way I could live in Ottawa anymore. I couldn’t hold a regular job. I never could. You know that. Thank you. You have really been a good sister and I love you, but there is no way I could live in Ottawa anymore”, she said. Then she changed the subject. “Sis, do you know where Uncle Bubba is?”

“God no, I haven’t seen him since I left San Francisco. Why do you want to know about him?”, I asked. “What ever you do, don’t go to him for help.”

“No I remember what you told me about him. No it’s just that I saw him out at the pig farm when I was out there. He is friends with the brothers that own the place and with the bikers and apparently he is friends with the cops, too”, Roxy said .

“Oh Lord, you mean they never caught him? Roxy you must be very careful of him. He is a very dangerous man. He’s Illuminati. He'd think nothing of killing you... even you. I’m not surprised he would be involved with those men”, I said. “Mimi and I both believe he is the Zodiac Killer. Stay far away from him. Never let him have your hands. Never get near enough for him to grab your hands. He is very strong and dangerous. He’ll use your wrists to haul you around and you can’t get away.”

“I remember what you said about him when you came here in 1970. No I would never get near him. I am afraid of him, too. I believe you and believe me I won’t go near him”, she answered.

“Roxy if you won’t come here, then at least get out of Vancouver. Get out of the DTES”, I urged.

“Yeah, you’re right. I know someone I could go stay with. He lives in Castlegate. You’d live like a queen!”, she said.

“Be careful Roxy. I don’t know why you have avoided us, but believe me we do love you and want you to stay safe. I do not want to get a phone call from anyone else about you. You call me if ever you need any help. Please promise me you will. Call me on a regular basis, collect if you have too, but stay in touch. You know I am here for you”, I reassured her.

“I know and i am sorry I have taken so long to call. Please don’t tell Mom about what I told you. It would worry her too much. She can’t handle this kind of stuff anymore”, she pleaded.

“No I don’t want to worry her either, but you call her. Go visit her at least for an hour. Call her because she is worried about you”, I begged.

“Okay I will call her, but don’t tell her any of this”, Roxy implored.

“No I won’t. I am so glad you called me. It is very disturbing news. I am afraid for you, so I want to hear from you more often”, I asked.

“I will. Sis I love you for being there. You have always been good to me”, she said.

“I love you too. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you. I don’t have much money, but I will help in whatever way I can”, I reassured her.

“Well, there may be something you can do in the future, but we’ll talk about that then."

"Roxy, you call me collect if you have to, anytime, day or night, if you need help. I love you Baby Sister. You take care. I'll tell Mom we spoke and can she expect a call from you soon? She'd love to hear from you", I said hoping she would make that call.

"Don't worry, I will Sis. I promise to call Mom, maybe next week. You're a real treasure Sis; I love you." there was a moment of silence that I knew when it ended it may be the last time we'd talk. "Well I gotta go. Bye Sis."

We both said together. "I love you”, and then she was gone.

Terri Williams © 2007-2057

• Uncle Bubba
• Treading on the Snake
• DC Snipers
• Fatwah

Seguro hay muchos más, pero con eso de que el ser no es cognoscible, pues nomás no se puede ser enciclopédico. Y menos en una revista de viajes. (Cualquiera diría ‘viajes, viajes, hello? A quién le importa la escritura en una revista de v-i-a-j-e-s.

La onda es que mi jefe pidió una foto “vanitifairesca” (whatever that means these days) para aceptar este artículo, cosa que costó muchos mails de ida y vuelta; citar a mucha gente en un solo tiempo y lugar es un rollo, pero terminó por armarse.

Los Klint

tomaron unas fotos fantásticas (aqui una muestra de lo que puede hacer con la luz el buen Gerardo Montiel Klint. Desgraciadamente no puedo publicar las fotos de los escritores porque tienen copyright.)

El texto quedó bueno (or so I think) y sus respuestas, aunque no cupieron carajo, estaban re interesantes.

Casi todo ensaya en torno a incidencia de la ciudad de Tijuana en su obra.

Este mes que lo vi publicado, me di cuenta que habíamos conseguido de forma casi malévola “glamorizar” a personas cuyo trabajo, en lo práctico, es lo menos glamoroso del mundo.

(Sé que todos hemos querido ser escritores alguna vez en la vida, o cineastas, o artistas plástico,s pero lo que todos hemos querido ser en realidad es FAMOSOS. Lo otro, el trabajo de sentar nalguitas a leer o escribir desechando pinche mil ideas para que una sola sea parida dolorosamente y luego rechazada mil veces dolorosamente, ese trabajo no lo quieren muchos)

Y glamorizamos por una razón sencilla: cuando algo se ve bonito se antoja, pues’n.

Como en lo de periodista a uno le toca glamorizar muchas tarugadas, al menos hoy me da gusto glamorizar la lectura (cada uno tendrá sus preferidos, sin duda) como antídoto a mi glamorización del shopping.

Ok, ok. Aquí se acaba la pretensión.

Es posible que muchos pasajeros en los vuelos de Mexicana pasen sin pena ni gloria las páginas del artículo, pero si a 10 pelaos se les antoja leer (lo que sea, pero de preferencia a estos escritores tijuanenses) yo ya la hice.

I’m getting away with murder, como quien dice.
Ojalá puedan leerla (o pedirle a alguien que viaje por Mexicana que se las traiga, son gratis).

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/kent/6108530.stm

This recent shooting was apparently in response to an armed robbery. Police spokesmen are saying it was a 'kill or be killed' situation. But let us recall the lies and distortions issued by these same "spokes-people" in the wake of the killing at Stockwell. Jean Charles was "running" from Police, he was wearing "bulky clothing", all the rest of the misinformation put out in the immedate aftermath of Stockwell. One thing the Police are very good at, is covering their own asses.  No doubt we will hear more in coming days and weeks. 

According to BBC Radio 4, the Metropolitan Police have only been involved in three fatal shootings in the last few years, and this one officer has been involved in two of them. Bad luck? Bad training? Bad judgement? Bad intention? All of the above?
It seems this officer only returned to duty in July, after a long lay-off and inquiry following the Stockwell incident. Some "security consultant" on Radio 4 expressed surprise that the officer in question would want to return to duty after such an ordeal. I share his surprise. Surprise he wanted back, and amazement he was allowed.
This officer took part in the brutal murder of Jean Charles de Menezes. And then he returned to work. Maybe he thinks he can get away with it.....? Certainly, he will be aware, like the rest of us, that his political bosses have been getting away with murder, for years, in Iraq.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4158832.stm
http://nationalpriorities.org/index.php?option=com_wrapper&Itemid=182