"One of the smallest , independent kingdoms in the ciberuniverse. Nothing fancy. Population? Just me, myself and my jaguars, my movies and my books (and, at this very moment, YOU). Hided and secret like Skull Island or Opar, the ancients in Guelyland use to read the scrools of a minor god called Voor-Hes.
Most of the treasures of Guelyland are made of paper, plastic and vinyl.Guelyland dreams with expanding in deep more then in surface. The music of Nik Kershaw has been heard here. There are apes, lots of apes in Guelyland. Woody Allen and Bob Hope visit it quite often. Here we love books (the Kingdoms Library is both celebrated and secret) Here we are atheists but very tolerant and think of god a bit too often and much. Guelyland is, the stuff my dreams are made of..."



Monday, May 31, 2010


The man is 80! Sometimes there isn't much to say. So here a very rare picture of him indeed: Yeah! One when he is not über cool!

Sunday, May 30, 2010

R.I.P. DENNIS HOOPER, 1936-2010, MAN!!

No drug could take him away and in his day he must had tried everything! A survivor by his own merit it took a damned prostate cancer to stop six decades of a trip of a movie carrier. Actor and director. Close friend of Jimmy Dean, Elvis and the Duke, Jack Nicholson and David Lynch. With movies like Giant, Easy Rider, The Last Movie (filmed in Perú in 1969), The American Friend, Apocalypse Now!, Blue Velvet, Speed (yeah, man!), True Romance...Okay, I'll take this Tarantino penned scene from the 1993 Tony Scott film True Romance to remember him. Sharing the screen: Chris Walken. as the mob Coccotti.
Sit back and enjoy.

Do you know who I am, Mr. Worley?

I give up. Who are you?

I'm the Anti-Christ. You get me in a vendetta kind of mood, you will tell
the angels in heaven that you had never seen pure evil so singularly
personified as you did in the face of the man who killed you. My name is
Vincenzo Coccotti. I work as a counsel for Mr. Blue Lou Boyle, the man your
son stole from. I hear you were once a cop so I assume you've heard of us
before. Am I correct?

I've heard of Blue Lou Boyle.

I'm glad. Hopefully that will clear up the how-full-of-shit-I-am question
you've been asking yourself. Now, we're gonna have a little Q and A, and,
at the risk of sounding redundant, please make your answers genuine.
(taking out a pack of Chesterfields)
Want a Chesterfield?


(as he lights up)
I have a son of my own. About you boy's age. I can imagine how painful this
must be for you. But Clarence and that bitch-whore girlfriend of his
brought this all on themselves. And I implore you not to go down the road
with 'em. You can always take comfort in the fact that you never had a

Look, I'd help ya if I could, but I haven't seen Clarence -

Before Cliff can finish his sentence, Coccotti slams him hard in the nose with his fist.

Smarts, don't it? Gettin' slammed in the nose fucks you all up. You got
that pain shootin' through your brain. Your eyes fill up with water. It
ain't any kind of fun. But what I have to offer you. That's as good as it's
ever gonna get, and it won't ever get that good again. We talked to your
neighbors. They saw a Mustang, a red Mustang, Clarence's red Mustang,
parked in front of your trailer yesterday. Mr. Worley, have you seen your

Cliff's defeated.

I've seen him.

Now I can't be sure of how much of what he told you. So in the chance
you're in the dark about some of this, let me shed some light. That whore
your boy hangs around with, her pimp is an associate of mine, and I don't
just mean pimpin', in other affairs he works for me in a courier capacity.
Well, apparently, that dirty little whore found out when we're gonna do
some business, 'cause your son, the cowboy and his flame, came in the room
blastin' and didn't stop till they were pretty sure everybody was dead.

What are you talkin' about?

I'm talkin' about a massacre. They snatched my narcotics and hightailed it
outta there. Wouldda gotten away with it, but your son, fuckhead that he
is, left his driver's license in a dead guy's hand. A whore hiding in the
commode filled in all the blanks.

I don't believe you.

That's of minor importance. But what's of major fuckin' importance is that
I believe you. Where did they go?

On their honeymoon.

I'm gettin' angry askin' the same question a second time. Where did they

They didn't tell me.

Coccotti looks at him.

Now, wait a minute and listen. I haven't seen Clarence in three years.
Yesterday he shows up here with a girl, sayin' he got married. He told me
he needed some quick cash for a honeymoon, so he asked if he could borrow
five hundred dollars. I wanted to help him out so I wrote out a check. We
went to breakfast and that's the last I saw of him. So help me God. They
never thought to tell me where they were goin'. And I never thought to ask.

Coccotti looks at him for a long moment. He then gives Virgil a look. Virgil, quick as greased lightning, grabs Cliff's hand and turns it palm up. He then whips out a butterfly knife and slices Cliff's palm open and pours Chivas Regal on the wound. Cliff screams.

Coccotti puffs on a Chesterfield.

Tooth-pic Vic returns to the trailer, and reports in Italian that there's nothing in the car.

Virgil walks into the kitchen and gets a dishtowel. Cliff holds his bleeding palm in agony. Virgil hands him the dishtowel. Cliff uses it to wrap up his hand.

Sicilians are great liars. The best in the world. I'm a Sicilian. And my
old man was the world heavyweight champion of Sicilian liars. And from
growin' up with him I learned the pantomime. Now there are seventeen
different things a guy can do when he lies to give him away. A guy has
seventeen pantomimes. A woman's got twenty, but a guy's got seventeen. And
if you know 'em like ya know your own face, they beat lie detectors to
hell. What we got here is a little game of show and tell. You don't wanna
show me nothin'. But you're tellin' me everything. Now I know you know
where they are. So tell me, before I do some damage you won't walk away

The awful pain in Cliff's hand is being replaced by the awful pain in his heart. He looks deep into Coccotti's eyes.

Could I have one of those Chesterfields now?


Coccotti leans over and hands him a smoke.

Got a match?

Cliff reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter.

Oh, don't bother. I got one.
(he lights the cigarette)
So you're a Sicilian, huh?


You know I read a lot. Especially things that have to do with history. I
find that shit fascinating. In fact, I don't know if you know this or not,
Sicilians were spawned by niggers.

All the men stop what they were doing and look at Cliff, except for Tooth-pic Vic who doesn't speak English and so isn't insulted. Coccotti can't believe what he's hearing.

Come again?

It's a fact. Sicilians have nigger blood pumpin' through their hearts. If
you don't believe me, look it up. You see, hundreds and hundreds of years
ago the Moors conquered Sicily. And Moors are niggers. Way back then,
Sicilians were like the wops in northern Italy. Blond hair, blue eyes. But,
once the Moors moved in there, they changed the whole country. They did so
much fuckin' with the Sicilian women, they changed the blood-line for ever,
from blond hair and blue eyes to black hair and dark skin. I find it
absolutely amazing to think that to this day, hundreds of years later,
Sicilians still carry that nigger gene. I'm just quotin' history. It's a
fact. It's written. Your ancestors were niggers. Your great, great, great,
great, great-grandmother was fucked by a nigger, and had a half-nigger kid.
That is a fact. Now tell me, am I lyin'?

Coccotti looks at him for a moment then jumps up, whips out an automatic, grabs hold of Cliff's hair, puts the barrel to his temple, and pumps three bullets through Cliff's head.

He pushes the body violently aside. Coccotti pauses. Unable to express his feelings and frustrated by the blood in his hands, he simply drops his weapon, and turns to his men.

I haven't killed anybody since 1984. Goddamn his soul to burn for eternity
in fuckin' hell for makin' me spill blood on my hands! Go to this
comedian's son's apartment and come back with somethin' that tells me where
that asshole went so I can wipe this egg off of my face and fix this fucked-up family for good.

Sunday, May 23, 2010


Hay, debe haber, por lo menos una moneda de una corona que ha sido mía, digamos, tres veces a traves de los años. La he recibido. La he dado. Nunca me he percatado de su individual presencia porque para mi todas son iguales y las de una corona valen en el apuro de la economía sólo eso: una corona. Cómo esas personas que nos aman en secreto y nosotros ignoramos, ha pasado desapercibida para mi. Y la he tenido en mis bolsillos y la he traido a casa y ha sido mía y dejado de serlo y no la he reconocido. Y nadie lo ha sabido ni lo sabrá porque no hay un dios que lleve cuenta de estas pequeñeses. Yo mismo no lo sé (menos la moneda que nada puede saber). Simplemente lo especulo y esto sin mayor fundamento que un inutil cálculo de probabilidades.
Pensar que cada moneda tiene una secreta e inutil historia. Que han pagado nuestra generosidad o avaricia. Monedas con nombre común pero no propio. Que viven ciegas en la oscuridad de nuestros pantalones, que nos tintinéan sin saberlo un saludo que jamás respondemos. Semianónimas y pasivas transcurren su existencia inconciente de mano en mano fieles a su destino numismático. Como esa gente con que nos cruzamos muchas veces pero desposeidas de esa cierta belleza o fealdad particular que las haga memorables. Gente cuyo rostro ni tenemos tiempo de mirar en la muchedumbre de un tren a la hora de ir a trabajar.

Saturday, May 22, 2010


I gonna make a confession: I gotta thing for Natalie Wood's face (well, not only face). There's something about it that makes me stare at her continuosly.
In the spotlight since the age of four Natalie Wood (born Natalia Nikolaevna Zakharenko, 1938-1981) until her too early demise at 43 one, is of my favorite beautiful woman ever. Shared the screen with such names as James Dean, Steve McQueen, Tony Curtis, John Wayne, Orson Welles, Warren Beatty, Sean Connery, Robert Redford, Gene Kelly, Robert Wagner, Paul Newman, Rex Harrison, Peter Falk and Christofer Walken, to name some of the known lucky the males. Here, I leave you the reasons for my discreet passion for this not too tall (1.52) angel.


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