Mario Batali (B+), orange crocs and pony tails (F), Mgmt (B-), Mgmt lyrics (B), Mgmt wardrobe (F), Bill Buford (B+), food and the written word (C-), Heat (B), "dirty realism" (A), Dario Checchini (A -), Falstaff (A), Trader Joe's Organic Oatmeal (F)

For a long time the sight of Mario Batali on TV was all that was needed to change the channel. There is something about a grown man wearing orange crocs, sporting a ponytail and getting overly excited about his way of preparing food that makes me want to do one of three things: a) change the channel b) go back in time and give him more attention when he was a child or c) cut his god damn ponytail. I’m admittedly superficial on this front, but I have a hard time moving past the personality portrayed by an artist to see what he/she might produce. Take the band Mgmt for example, I hear “Time to Pretend” and instantly classify it as a song I enjoy and an album I want to hear. Between the sound and lyrics like: I'll miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms / I'll miss the comfort of my mother and the weight of the world /I'll miss my sister, miss my father, miss my dog and my home / Yeah, I'll miss the boredom and the freedom and the time spent alone. I’m fucking sold. Ah, but then I go to buy the cd on iTunes and see this picture.

Now I personally don’t care that they dress like this but I’d be lying if I said that anytime I listen to their songs the image of these two prancing around on the beach in their MC Hammer meets Ziggy Stardust getups doesn’t pop into my head and take the music down a notch. Now, getting back to Mario Batali and Bill Buford’s Heat (An Amateur’s Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante Quoting Butcher in Tuscany). Two things immediately turned me off when I first heard about Bill Buford’s book: The aforementioned Batali and food. Food and the making of it does not translate well into written word (for me anyway). You might say oh this so and so is spicy yet earthy and the reader will get the hint but to talk twenty pages about polenta or the flavor of a butchered pig (Buford does both) is a bit boring. Buford, a writer and former fiction editor at the New Yorker (also credited with coining the term “dirty realism” when he edited Granta but I digress), realizes this and cuts most of his cooking recollections effectively to put Batali, kitchen workers and the melodramatic, brooding Italian butcher Dario Cecchini at the forefront of the book. This last subject makes for the best forty pages or so. As for Batali, TV persona aside, Buford reveals him as a temperamental, debauchery-seeking, restless Falstaff type blessed with the one thing Shakespeare’s famous portly character always swore he didn’t have, talent. Now I can’t turn off the TV if this guy is on.

.

Oh and speaking of food, don’t buy Trader Joe's Organic Oatmeal. It tastes like dirt. 

--jw

En todo este tiempo en el Falstaff sólo ha habido una invitación realizada a desgana. No tenía alternativa. O le cortaba la cabeza y me ponía a jugar al fútbol en Venus 3 o le servía la maldita cerveza que estuvo pidiéndome semana tras semana. Aquella chica quizá debería aprender de la última que consiguió sacarme una estrella a base de demandas, las hay que saben diferenciar entre una simpático juego de negociación y una absurda pesadez que conduce al ridículo.

A lo que iba. Ayer me apetecía invitarles. Lo hice como me gusta hacerlo. Estaba hablando con dos habituales,... en un instante me acerqué a la barra, le pedí una cerveza y un agua a mi contacto al otro lado y... "aquí tenéis". Dejé las bebidas encima de la mesa y volví a la calle.

Off topic: Tras varios meses de ausencia las nenitas se vuelve a pasar por el Falstaff. Si todas mis peticiones se cumplieran tan rápido...

La noche también ha dado para conocer a una atractiva 'hormiga atómica' con vestido palabra de honor. Espero volver a verla.

Ah! Tenemos vecinos. Una restaurante francés llamado 'Atmosphère', con una exquisita decoración parisina, se acaba de convertir en una interesante alternativa al Bilbao, culinaria y económicamente hablando.

Off topic: La que termina ha sido una semana de mediáticas caras conocidas, conocidas antes de ser mediáticas. Un guionista de programa de éxito (no confundir con 'guionista de éxito') con el que compartí algunas asignaturas; la imagen de una niña de nueve años que entonces hablaba como lo hace ahora, con un cierto deje empijado que no me gusta un pelo (fue la estudiante '10' de la promoción); un cantante bailarín o bailarín cantante que va de canal en canal haciendo lo mismo que hacía cuando lo conocí, eso sí, ahora con más audiencia; y finalmente, la reportera de ojos verdes y con cierto parecido Real a la que admiro desde aquel lejano 2002 cuando la descubrí en la cafetería de la facultad.

When I heard that Warren Buffett was in favor of the deal, I knew in my heart that the American cause was lost. The last vestige of our empire in the new world would fall victim to the Euronauts - Budweiser would be bested by the Belgians.

But before we all get overly jingoistic about the affair, let us remember those other great American brewers whose market shares were diminished or crushed by the juggernaut from St. Louis: Schaefer, Stroh's, Schmiidt's, Piels, Falstaff, Genesee, Narragansett, Rheingold, Knickerbocker, Hamm's, Olympia, National Bohemian and of course the venerable - Olde Frothingslosh. Who amongst us has shed a tear or raised the flag on their behalf.

I believe that ridding ourselves of one company that has dominated better than fifty percent of the marketplace for such a long time is good for America. Just because InBev took Budweiser doesn't mean that we can't still kick some Bass.

Like our forefathers we must shed monarchy. We shall not be ruled by the king of beers.

I say, "Pabst for president and Schlitz for VP!"

Posted by: Chris Poh, Publisher

Termina otro atípico viernes de julio en el Falstaff, demasiada gente para las altas temperaturas del verano. Por alguna extraña razón muchos han decidido pasar una calurosa madrugada en Venus. Fauna para todos los gustos. Desde los caballitos encamisados, hasta las horteras bermudas que sólo me pondría para una jornada de casera holgazanería.

"Me voy ya a la cama, a no ser que decidas venir conmigo...". Me encanta. Musa del erotismo y la seducción para algunas, siempre he mantenido las distancias porque es esa la mejor posición para disfrutar de la situación. Aún recuerdo aquella segunda oportunidad que tuvo con un no habitual y atractivo cliente. No hubo suerte. En cualquier caso, la cara de él al entrar en el bar justo cuando ella salía es de los inolvidables momentos de mi último año de 'laboro' nocturno. Despidió a su amiga y volvió adentro. Lo estuvo intentando hasta las tres de la madrugada.

Por lo demás la noche ha tenido un poco de todo: alguna alcoholizada proposición para seguir la noche en compañía, una víctima de la calor echada en la calle con una bajada de tensión (o era presión... no debería meterme en estos temas sanitarios, más propios de algunas lectoras de esta paranoias literarias que de este pseudoescritor que escribe) y unos no habituales que no estaría mal que se convirtieran al lado falstaffiano.

Off topic: Está la que se va a Tailandia después de volver de Chile mientras otros ya tienen listo el viaje a Vietnam. Están los que acaban de comprar los vuelos para aterrizar en Los Angeles y las que ya disfrutan de la Gran Manzana. Está la que explica su próximo mes de agosto en la India... mmm... Tendría que plantearme hacer algo durante mis cuatro semanas de vacaciones pagadas, la falta de costumbre me está causando una cierta falta de ideas interesantes.

A las tres y media de la madrugada, a dos pasos de la Diagonal, sesión de diván con Santi. Teníamos pendiente esta conversación desde hacía un par de semanas. Él apunta su explicación sobre lo acontecido en los últimos tiempos. Yo asiento, no por la seguridad de que esta vez tenga razón, sino porque ha vivido lo suficiente para saber qué se esconde detrás del comportamiento de la gente.

Ah! Cómo se nota que es julio! El Falstaff, local de invierno por antonomasia, recoge a cuatro gatos sin terracitas a las que ir, ni apartamento en la costa (en la montaña) en la que pasar el fin de semana,...

Off topic: Cuánto tengo que aprender de la piruleta de fresa, entre otras cosas, la importancia que tiene la amistad y la sinceridad. Conocía de su existencia, pero...

Say what you like about him – and plenty do - but he has an infectious enthusiasm and a real passion for pubs. He's a character and I like him.

Eine Themenvorschau

Grüner Veltliner Grand Prix 2008. Fred Loimer holt den Titel ins Kamptal. Zweiter ist "Falstaff-Winzer des Jahres" Bernhard Ott aus Feuersbrunn, Platz drei ging an Markus Huber aus Reichersdorf im Traisental. Ein umfangreiches Tasting rund um den Grand-Prix finden Sie im Tasting-Corner.

Der Falstaff-Weinguide 2008/2009 - jetzt neu! Mit Rankings in Rot, Weiß und Süß und allen wichtigen Infos rund um die elfte und bisher umfangreichste Ausgabe des Wein-Almanachs.

Prickelnder Prosecco. Auf den Spuren einer der schönsten Nebensache der Welt - der fröhliche Schäumer ist eine der größten Erfolgsstorys der italienischen Weinbranche!

Österreichischer Fisch aus Wildfang. Schätze aus Österreichs Seen. Das Bewusstsein, dass heimische Fische aus Wildfang absolute Luxusprodukte sind, wächst. Und der österreichische Wein bietet dazu exzellente Begleiter.

Falstaff Tastings-Corner. Nahezu 30 Seiten Tasting-Notizen warten auf Weinfreunde. Auf dem Prüfstand waren unter anderem die Weine zum Kremstal DAC Reserve Cup 2008, die Niederösterreich-Landessieger 2008, Bordeaux - Circle Rive Droite und die besten Weine Südtirols aus dem aktuellen Falstaff-Weinguide 2008/2009.

Nach Österreich

Unas cuantas horas antes...

El 'peix pallasso' vuelve al Falstaff por segundo sábado consecutivo. Hay algo en él que no termina de gustarme. Potser és aquella opacitat... no ho sé ben bé, però fa temps vaig llegir quelcom sobre aquest personatge.

Mientras espero la llegada del cierre, cambio de tertualinos y la conversación se torna mucho más interesante (tampoco era muy complicado).

Off topic: mmm... Iba a contaros una cosilla pero no es bueno avanzar acontecimientos, además, aquí todo queda escrito y después...

La pareja de buitres del viernes encuentra su objetivo en dos habituales, víctimas del alcohol (cuán importantes son a veces las comas para evitar confusiones). El pobre pretencioso y el coleccionista de mujeres. ¡Vaya par! Este último es de los que podría entrar en el local diciendo: “tengui, tengui, falti, tengui…”

Off topic: Una rizada, rubia y miopiosa niñata me ofrece un ‘fuck you’ gestual que le devuelvo con la falsa mirada que algunos (pocos) creen que tengo de: “Hoy te perdono la vida, mañana quizá no tengas tanta suerte…”.

You yell out “Wow!” and sit shaken. You are alone and no one hears you. Sometimes tears are found rolling down your face like rivers and you look around—but there is no one there.

It may be that you have just sat before a masterpiece that exists only in the minds of a few. It may be that you have been slain by a work of art that is only enjoyed by the devotee who has found the hidden trail and has taken that road less traveled.

But you see it differently.

You see that here is that work that can lift souls, move hearts, thrill, chill, and just plain old dazzle.

You see that you, yourself, want to yell out its glories so that others might be brought into the fold.

You see that you must make sure that this work of pure genius never goes begging again.

You see that here lies a work that, at the very least, the masses must be told about. Here lies a work that will transport, lift, jolt, punch a person through this old, boring landscape far into the next.

You see that here lies a work that should be shared with the world.

Evangelist.

Yeah, you.

Do not deny it.

There no one else.

Go forth.

Compel them to come in.

Go forth.

Spread the news.

Go forth.

Take the risk of your taste.

Go forth.

And say

With Robinson Jeffers,

“It Catches My Heart in Its Hands.”

Go forth.

Let

The

Whole

World

Know!

You yell out “Wow!” and sit shaken. You are alone and no one hears you. Sometimes tears are found rolling down your face like rivers and you look around—but there is no one there.

It may be that you have just sat before a masterpiece that exists only in the minds of a few. It may be that you have been slain by a work of art that is only enjoyed by the devotee who has found the hidden trail and has taken that road less traveled.

But you see it differently.

You see that here is that work that can lift souls, move hearts, thrill, chill, and just plain old dazzle.

You see that you, yourself, want to yell out its glories so that others might be brought into the fold.

You see that you must make sure that this work of pure genius never goes begging again.

You see that here lies a work that, at the very least, the masses must be told about. Here lies a work that will transport, lift, jolt, punch a person through this old, boring landscape far into the next.

You see that here lies a work that should be shared with the world.

Evangelist.

Yeah, you.

Do not deny it.

There no one else.

Go forth.

Compel them to come in.

Go forth.

Spread the news.

Go forth.

Take the risk of your taste.

Go forth

And say

With Robinson Jeffers

“It Catches My Heart in Its Hands.”

Go forth.

Let

The

Whole

World

Know!

You yell out “Wow!” and sit shaken. You are alone and no one hears you. Sometimes tears are found rolling down your face like rivers and you look around—but there is no one there.

It may be that you have just sat before a masterpiece that exists only in the minds of a few. It may be that you have been slain by a work of art that is only enjoyed by the devotee who has found the hidden trail and has taken that road less traveled.

But you see it differently.

You see that here is that work that can lift souls, move hearts, thrill, chill, and just plain old dazzle.

You see that you, yourself, want to yell out its glories so that others might be brought into the fold.

You see that you must make sure that this work of pure genius never goes begging again.

You see that here lies a work that, at the very least, the masses must be told about. Here lies a work that will transport, lift, jolt, punch a person through this old, boring landscape far into the next.

You see that here lies a work that should be shared with the world.

Evangelist.

Yeah, you.

Do not deny it.

There no one else.

Go forth.

Compel them to come in.

Go forth.

Spread the news.

Go forth.

Take the risk of your taste.

Go forth.

And say,

With Robinson Jeffers,

“It Catches My Heart in Its Hands.”

Go forth.

Let

The

Whole

World

Know!

One requires, alas, no less than the literary equivalent of NASA to design a proper suit, one which can hold up in the watery, or windy, or sometimes fiery -- but always extreme, always shifting and temporally unusual  -- conditions one finds in a work by William Shakespeare.

If anyone would know how such a suit should be designed it's Harold Bloom, one of the most accomplished and important literary scientists of all time (right up there with his cross-epochal lover and soul-mate, Dr. Johnson).  But in his Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Bloom approaches the greatest of all writers – “greatest” being a superlative which one can safely and liberally employ (as Bloom does, exuberantly, in a variety of ways) when writing about Shakespeare -- from a different, or rather reverse and astonishing angle. 

Each of us, Bloom insists, or at least anyone who can engage in a discussion of Shakespeare, is a creation of Shakespeare.  That is, our very sense of self and nature, the way we reason and behave, is nothing less than our evolutionary adaptation to Shakespeare’s art.  We’ve been living and breathing and surviving in the strange and alien-seeming substance of Shakespeare from the moment of our self-awareness.  “I do not know if God created Shakespeare,” writes Bloom, “but I know that Shakespeare created us, to an altogether startling degree.” 

This heady argument – and yes, for Bloom it’s an “argument” – appears to arise more out of distress than pleasure.  Bloom has a bone, a skull you might say, to pick with Marxists, multiculturalists, feminists, nouveau historicists (“the usual suspects,” he quips) who misinterpret and travesty Shakespeare’s plays and ultimately produce what Bloom, quite wonderfully, calls “ideological jamborees.”  One can’t help cheering Bloom on here, although sometimes we see Bloom as a courageous David, other times as Ali the boxing champion, other times it’s Bloom the pit-bull in a dogfight, a crowd of academics carousing around the bloody spectacle.

Bloom acknowledges early in his book that critics of Shakespeare, writing what they see in Shakespeare’s mirror, tell us more about themselves than about Shakespeare’s work.  Bloom, we quickly learn, is a “devout Falstaffian.”  Shakespeare, he writes, invented Harold Bloom as a parody of Falstaff.  There is, indeed, a Falstaffian fleshiness to Bloom’s book, the inflated theatricality, the bombast and self-indulgence, the stylistic rotundity – folds of repetitive flabbiness hanging over his belt – and (perhaps most of all) a sense of youthfulness in old age not unlike Falstaff’s.  And yet Falstaff would never write a book a like this one. 

Bloom understands the Shakespearean illusion.  We think we see in Hamlet what everyone else sees, but it’s the reflection of our inner selves we’re witnessing.  And Bloom also knows, brilliantly, that the image of himself which he sees reflected in Shakespeare’s mirror is not what we see in Bloom.  Falstaff and Hamlet are Bloom’s favourite characters because they display a passionate charisma mixed with what he calls “inwardness” (a type of self-consciousness, self-reflection, self-revisionism).  On Bloom’s stage, where the main players include Nietzsche, Dr. Johnson, Montaigne, Chaucer, Cervantes, Beckett and a kind of Shylockian Freud , with minor parts given to Hegel, Wittgenstein, Kierkegaard, Wilde, Spinoza, Anthony Burgess, Eliot, Hart Crane and countless others, Bloom is his own favourite character. 

Bloom, too, displays charisma and inwardness; and he knows that what he writes is both insightful and fleeting, precise and prolix, enthusiastic, laborious, accurate and yet never quite right.  At times it’s difficult to take anything Bloom says seriously, such a believer is Bloom in revisionism. A Whitehouse Secretary, a Scott McClellan type of literary scholarship. And much of what Blooms says -- especially about how poets operate -- is simply wrong, but being wrong, in Bloom's production, is a temporary affair.  Give it time.  Wrongs will right themselves eventually.

Bloom as Falstaff?  But also Cleopatra, it seems to me, with her “longing for a lost sublime,” and I hate to say it (this will hurt Bloom terribly), Henry V, because Bloom finds his strongest inspiration when fighting an enemy.  Hamlet was an expert swordsman, easily defeating Laertes in their duel, but his most powerful weapon, like Falstaff’s, was his wit, coupled with his air of indifference (or “disinterestedness,” to use Bloom’s term).  Bloom is massive and lovable, sensitive, beautiful, brave and thrilling, profoundly alive, a miracle of nature, soaring loftily, jubilantly in the raging slipstream of Shakespearean studies; but he isn’t witty. 

Wit is the interpretation of words “out of frame” (to use Hamlet’s metaphor).  It is to literature what a trick of light, or a piece of camouflage, or a reflection in a window, is to a painting.  The word is not what we first think; the little shadow reveals itself to be a blackbird; the woman’s silky-seeming veil is made of alabaster; and the woman is really a man.  Anne Salmond, in her wonderful book on Captain Cook, informs us that some of the island men mistook a few members of Cook’s crew for ladies and excitedly pursued them into the foliage for coupling, only to find themselves the butts, so to speak, of a Shakespearean charade, a wonderful play of cultural wit.

Hamlet was a cannibal (Gloucester his supper); and he was Captain Cook, too.  The Maori, who always paddled their canoes while sitting forward, believed the approaching British sailors, who paddled toward shore in a backward manner, were a convoy of faceless goblins.  Hamlet-the-Maori traded feathers for a mirror and admired his clear reflection in the smooth device.  Hamlet-the-ship’s captain awarded human dignity to the natives who ate his friends.  Hamlet was a conquistador and a slave, a native and a foreigner, a feminist, a Marxist, a multiculturalist and, at the same time, he was Bloom the “Brontosaurus Bardolator” (as Bloom urbanely, unpoetically calls himself).  He is a member of the human species, but from another country, an undiscovered country – or rather, a country discovered and observed, but beyond our comprehension, beyond our control.

La barba más atractiva que se pasea a veces por Venus 3 entra como siempre, quejándose de la cantidad de tíos que van entrando en el bar. Sin embargo, se lleva una de las pijas 'buenas' de la noche. He aquí un 'quejoso vicioso'.

Casi cinco meses después, Enric se vuelve a dejar caer por aquí. Descubro que tiene la extraña costumbre de buscar, entre las caras de la foto de la entrada del Falstaff, un parecido a su acompañante. Anoche no tuvo la misma suerte que en aquel lejano mes de enero. A aquella simpática rubia no era difícil encontrarle una 'gemela'.

Este es un mensaje para algunos clientes que salen de noche con el teléfono móvil pegado en la oreja: "En la 'pecera', aquel espacio comprendido entre las dos puertas de entrada al bar, hay cobertura. No hace falta berrear en la calle".

Ah! En estos días no han faltado algunos clientes indeseables como el que anoche apalizó a muerte la pared que utilizo como medio de comunicación con los amantes de una muerta tranquila y de pago, también conocidos como fumadores habituales.

Off topic: Hay días en los que no me importaría llegar a trabajar algo salpicado de sangre. Eso sí, siempre y cuando el viscoso líquido enrojecido provenga del estallido simultáneo de los dos timpanos, y por apróximación todos los órganos auditivos, del maleducado elemento del tren que escucha una especie de 'ruido' estrediente a través de su mp3.

Contrary to this ad from a former St. Louis brewer, these bottles are now highly returnable.  Although you won't get a return of deposit in Missouri or Illinois, please find out more about the recycling program in your neighborhood.

A leur décharge, c'était avant leur grand déménagement dans les nouveaux locaux du groupe à Etterbeek, bien plus accueillant, lumineux et moderne !

Voici les articles que j'ai publiés dans La Libre Belgique - pages Bruxelles - entre le 25 septembre et le 21 octobre 2006.

Fête de la Communauté française. Les oubliés de la Deuxième Guerre. 27/09/2006

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Consommation. Une plate-forme unique en Europe. 29/09/2006

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Une. Le parc Josaphat enfin restauré. 3/10/2006

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Uccle. Urbanisme. Le Jardin Lados bientôt détruit ? 4/10/2006

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Ixelles. Conseil consultatif des enfants. "Présente-toi, c'est vraiment super !"

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Ixelles. Enseignement. Des locaux insalubres et dangereux. 6/10/2006

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Cinéma. Festival d'Attac. Un autre cinéma. 6/10/2006

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Entreprise. Innovation et exportation à l'honneur. 12/10/2006

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Horeca. Le Falstaff a fermé ses portes. 13/10/2006

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Une. Communication. Découvertes sonores au programme. 14-15/10/2006

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Société. Journée mondiale de lutte contre la pauvreté. Un Belge sur sept est pauvre. 17/10/2006

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Entreprise. Plan Transmission. Reprendre une activité viable. 18/10/2006

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Jeunesse. La relève est assurée. 20/10/2006

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Brève. Spectacle de clown au profit d'Erasme.

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Mobilité. RER. Début des travaux à Meiser. 21-22/10/2006

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Pompiers. Mécontentement syndical. Un investissement qui a du mal à être digéré. 21-22/10/2006

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Spectacle. Dans l'univers magique du clown Pignolo. 23/10/2006

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Off topic: La semana pasada olvidé comentar mi primer día de trabajo, como si careciera de importancia. Un par de apuntes, ni del sitio ni de la gente, sino del camino hacia la oficina. En el tren, un Paquirrín en potencia. Durante todo el trayecto su anaranjada corbata anduvo suelta, a punto de salirse de una camisa desabrochada; en la calle, Bargalló padre (al hijo le perdí la pista hace un algo más de un año) cruzando Balmes entre dos pasos de cebra... "Uno de cada tres muertos en accidentes de tráfico en Barcelona es un peatón..."

"Aquí nadie baila, sólo hablan". mmm.... Le otorgaré parte de razón a unas palabras que oí hace algunos días. No obstante, en el Falstaff conviven los extremos: la pareja de baile enloquecida; y la manada de felinos buscando su presa.

"Siempre que vengo aquí no bebo". He aquí un buen cliente (clienta, en este caso). Qué poco iba a cobrar si todo el mundo siguiera el ejemplo.

La semana que viene cuando el Falstaff se convierta definitivamente en un hobby muy bien pagado, necesito tener algo más que el sueldo para seguir manteniendo mi visita semanal a Venus 3. El viernes lo tuve.

Hay dos clases de mujeres que me fascinan. Las primeras, como la ex-intocablemente rubia, ofrecen una de esas fachadas que siempre gustan de ver, pero que una vez cruzado el umbral de la puerta... Las segundas, sobre las que casi nunca escribo, son sencillas musas de un mediocre artista que intenta no estar mucho tiempo junto a ellas. No soporta tanta belleza. Cuando comenzaba la madrugada llegó una de estas últimas. No la vi entrar. Fue ella la que vino a buscarme. Dos besos, tres frases y cuatro segundos más tarde ya estaba lejos.

¿Del resto de la noche? Un grupo hiper-mega pijas saliendo con cierta cara de horror por haber respirado algo de humo nicotinado. Pobrecitas.

Off topic: nenita1, me encanta tu blog. No te lo tomes como un cumplido, más bien como un consejo para que vuelvas a escribir.

Sale del bar pasadas las tres de la mañana. Le dedico mis últimas paranoias pseudocómicas y lo veo marchar con una sonrisa que se convierte en el mejor final de noche desde hace meses. Cuánto nos queda por aprender!

Off topic: El estúpido de la noche, una manzana podrida entre el agradable y respetuoso público extranjero. La excepción que confirma la regla. No, anoche tampoco tenía granadas, ni pistola, ni abogado... estoy buscando una teletienda de confianza.

Hablando de gente poco recomendable. Ayer le puse adjetivo a un par de mujercitas que estuvieron hace algunas semanas en el bar. 'Guarras, míseras guarras sin sentimientos'. Esa fue mi conclusión al conocer qué hicieron tras salir de Venus 3. En fin, espero tener la muy agradable satisfacción de no verlas pisar suelo falstaffiano nunca más. Con mis amigos no se juega. ¡Estúpidas!

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(from Complete Minimal Poems; audio courtesy Ubuweb)

The series comes to an end with this third and final issue. Sadly, and strangely enough, the story has tumbled down hill since the premiere issue. Gone are the elements that I loved from that initial first offering. It’s like I’m reading a complete different comic complete with other characters.

The bartender finishes telling the heroes the story of the Huntsman and how a wizard (Orlok) saved and cursed the dying man in the woods. Mr. Lear senses that Orlok is nearby and they go off to seek him out. After a confrontation, the Huntsman returns to town, daring anyone to face him. After some heroics, the Huntsman finally gets repose - the story is left open, hopefully to tell more and better stories.

Boatwright’s art is fun and striking as usual, but it's ultimately the story that failed me. And I really wanted to like the story. I’m still going to purchase the announced trade. It'll include the never-before-seen series "The Curse of Wallace Manor", plus two unpublished tales of Ridley and Falstaff: "The Inconvenience Store" and "Let's All Die in the Lobby!”. Hopefully, these extra stories will contain some of that magic the first issue had.  (Grade: C)

-Daniel Yanez