Doña Chispita
Dicen que lleva ahí más de un siglo. Hay quien piensa incluso que llegó junto con la primer bombilla eléctrica de la Ciudad. Su nombre es Ambar Electra Gomez Volta, pero todo mundo la conoce como “Doña Chispita”, la señora de la tienda de electrónica del número 110-B de la calle República del Salvador. (more…)
Miss Little Spark
Some say she’s been there for a whole century. Others say that she arrived to Mexico City with the first light bulb. Her name is Ámbar Electra Gómez Volta, but everyone knows her as “Miss Little Spark”, the owner of the electronics shop at number 110-B, República del Salvador, Mexico’s own electronics shantytown. (more…)
These days (or janitor of lunacy)
Sometimes I find the connections a bit too overwhelming. Six degrees of separation and all that. Back in the early 80s, I had returned from working in Casablanca to Manchester, and I got involved in the music scene there again. I used to do the door at various venues for Alan Wise, a promoter and manager, and for Factory records. I was working on the door the night the Hacienda opened, though I don’t appear in 24 Hour Party People. (more…)
A Thursday, too many lifetimes ago…
“The trick is to keep it steady” says Valerie as the camera’s LCD display keeps showing a steady flow of blurry, grainy messed-up photo ops. (more…)
Coffee with Orestes: Johnny English Reborn, The Rum Diary, Justice, Immortals, Contagion
We gave our jack of all trades, Orestes “H. is for Tom Baker Hatin’ Bidmead” Xistos a couple of tenners and a list of films to review. This piece of shit is what we got. A free CD and a pint if you can point out all the references to other films.
The Sunday Soapbox – The Box
Howdy, you beautiful carbon units typing on ergonomic keyboards and sipping chai-lattes with demerara sugar that is both ecofriendly and fairtrade and recyclable. It is me, Orestes P. Coltrane Xistos (P is for Pisstake) and I welcome you with open arms (and a Turk-slaying knife) to this new edition of The Sunday Soapbox.
Today’s rant: Richard Kelly‘s The Box.
Coffee with Orestes: Cars 2, Captain America, Super 8, Horrible Bosses
We gave our jack of all trades, Orestes Xistos a couple of tenners and a list of films to review. This piece of shit is what we got. A free CD and a pint if you can point out all the references to other films.
Webcomic: Deadly Notes
So, previously we brought you the story of two lovely slackers and a frog. That was here. Then we went for some side-character development shenanigans and ended up in a Dr. Who quality cliffhanger. That was here. Now we are back in action. Here starteth (!) the new chapter of our webcomic.
Agony Aunt Sock – 12
Jonny’ll fix it … or he’ll fix you is Sloucher’s own “Agony Aunt” section. These are true cases, but the identities of those involved were changed to protect them. Feel free to send your troubles our way.
This week, we keep talking about office problems, not exactly related to who will replace Michael…
Coffee with Orestes: Transformers 3D, Bridesmaids, Larry Crowne, The Conspirator
We gave our jack of all trades, Orestes Xistos a couple of tenners and a list of films to review. This piece of shit is what we got. A free CD and a pint if you can point out all the references to other films.
Webcomic: Plot boiled Frog
Hey, remember last week how our webcomic ended up in cool cliffhanger? Well, it was cool to me. Here’s part 2, Plot Boiled Frog
We’d like to ask the BBC not to sue us. We do love the show.
Webcomic: Rana que vuela a la cazuela
Ahí tienen que la semana pasada, nuestro trío de héroes (cobardes, pero héroes) Ogo, Miller y la Rana estaban en un callejón maligno y sospechoso (por el Sanborn´s de los azulejos, ¿cómo no?).
¡Continuamos!
La Recepcionista
Cuando tú duermes yo vigilo. Cuando tú comes yo duermo. Soy una especie de vampiro hospitalario (haciendo alusión a la “hospitalidad” y no a los “hospitales” aunque parezca lo mismo) Soy una lámpara que se mueve, una contestadora con alma. Soy la voz que te despierta a petición expresa y la que te recibe con una sonrisa, honesta o fingida, cosa que nunca notarás.
The Receptionist
When you sleep, I stay vigil. When you eat, I sleep. I’m a sort of hospitality vampire, more on the “hosting” side than the “hospital” side, even if they seem to be similar). I’m a moving lantern, I’m a beacon in the storm, I’m an answering machine with a soul, I’m your own personal caretaker. I’m the voice you wake up to and the one that will smile at you when your weary body comes to my presence. Whether my smile is true or a hand me down, you’ll never notice.
Webcomic: El reptil que me amo
Hace mucho tiempo, entre sobredosis de azúcar, dados de 20 caras y música nerdosa, tuvimos la idea de crear un webcomic. Se nos ocurría que fuera algo diferente, no el típico webcomic sobre videojuegos o temas nerds que fuera el mismo template con los diálogos cambiados.
Webcomic: Ready, steady…Frog!
Some time ago, during a massive sugar rush, d20 rolling and nerdy music, we had the idea of creating a webcomic. We thought about something different, not your usual fare about videogames and geek stuff using the same drawing template with changed dialogue balloons.
All that just because the neighbours smoke a lot
Since I started living in this flat, all Thursday to Sunday mornings from has been the same nag: I’m awakened by the acrid smell of cigarettes coming up from the neighbours’ apartment below, disrupting my thoughts and my life.
The other thing I also noticed, since the first days, was another of the inhabitants of the building. She, who lived two stories below, who appeared to me as beautiful as any woman I’ve ever met. Or at least I saw her like that when I met her, the day I moved here. Of course, she’s not perfect, but neither do I nor I would like her to be. I still think we would look really good together, walking down the street, alone or with the dog that none of us had yet, but would surely buy if we were a couple.
We even have some important things in common. Important to me, anyways. Both of us are, to a minimum common ground, interested in literature, even if she prefers to read London-based magazines and I’m more of a New Yorker guy. And perhaps most important, both of us were single when we met.
She once arrived as I was talking with the building’s doorman. Each of us had a brand new set of the week’s magazines waiting for us and the conversation started easy and flowed naturally. I realized that not only did she have exceptional good looks, but also a good taste for her reading, paired with a sound opinion, which, even if not identical to mine, was intelligent and full of respect. It would have been completely natural to invite her to my apartment, maybe drink some coffee or have dinner together and continue talking, but just thinking we had to walk up the stairs, with its awful cigarette smell, killed the idea which was starting to forge in my brain.
Later, when she got herself a boyfriend, our opportunities of seeing each other and start a relationship I dreamed of, diminished with each day that passed. The day she broke with him, I was arriving to our building, with great timing apparently for the first time in my life. She got out of his car, yelling at him. She blushed after seeing me there. When the car dashed quickly through the street, I approached her. It was a beautiful moment, so peaceful, even in the circumstances it happened. There were no words; I just held her in my arms until she wept. Then I guided her through the stairs until the second floor, where she lives. I expected to leave her there, but she pulled me in. I kept my arms around her, as she cuddled in my chest.
When I woke up the next day, still in the sofa of her living room, she was not there with me anymore. I could hear her singing and muttering to herself, with a sad happiness. We had breakfast together, and we talked a lot, about our readings, about the school days and about what we could be doing the following weekend.
It would have been perfectly natural to talk to her the following days, but I didn’t, and then a week passed, then a month, and there was no other magical moment where I found her weeping in the street, so we stopped seeing each other.
Of course, she still lived two floors below of mine, and every day I reminded myself that I should go look for her, invite her for lunch and talk, arrive to her house with a rose bouquet and tell her that I needed her, or that I longed for her, or that it would be nice to have more time together. Mainly that I was sorry for not calling her and not looking for her. Every day something else happened that made that impossible, and I could never do any of those plans.
Until now, that will, for the first time since I live here, actually impossible. She is moving overseas today. Yesterday, we met in the stairs and she smiled at me, her unique sad smile. Without words, she told me she had always liked me, and she would still like to try something. I know I should now jump up and run to her flat. I know I shall not be able to convince her not to move, but I would love to keep in touch with her, and, who knows, perhaps I can make the trip overseas in a year or two? I always have wanted to live there anyway. But now I know I won’t do anything, and all that just because the neighbours smoke a lot.
Words: Manuel Sandoval.
