he was drinking a Vascolet when he heard a hand knocking on his wooden door of Venezuela Street 336, 2º floor "J"
... the postman never passed at 4.00 PM, and the whole event was curious for a Mir who walked to the door... opening the door, Mir found a smiling postman behind, waiting with a brown and neat box in his hands:
-"Please sign here, sir"
Lalo Mir knew very well the postman who usually brought him the correspondence, Cornelio Saavedra, the old postman, well-know by the neighbors, but he never saw this young and smiling postman before, who was this guy, and why he brought a parcel at 4.00 PM anyways?
Slightly uneasy, Mir signed with trembling hand pressing too much the BIC® on the paper... almost imperceptible and pearly spots of sweat were emitted through the pores of the hand that signed:
in his nervousness, Lalo Mir delineated a long and pompous signature on the white paper, full of weird flourishes and unnecessary circles.
The postman eyes were fixed in his eyes like two yellow diamonds
once Mir ended signing, he gave the BIC back to the postman, pronouncing an inarticulate and meaningless word of relief, with his eyes fixed on the hands of the mailman
the pen was wet
the postman disappeared, as if he was brought by a dream, as his pants descended through the stairs like blue lamias:
a distant entry door that communicated the building with the streets was closed, ejecting a violent puff of hot air upstairs
the box hadn't any inscription indicating a sender.
Mir opened the box using an alfanje that he had on the table without knowing why, into the box there was a cassette tape of a strange artist, the title was "Momo Sampler", it was sealed.
Mir shattered the cellophane using his fingernails, which provoked a sort of futuristic screech that hurt his ears at the air of the afternoon that smelled like burned cereal and Axe deodorant.
Why someone would send him... Mir realized then that into the box there was a paper:
"Courtesy of Patricio Rey y sus Redonditos de Ricota", for promotional use only.
Lalo Mir now remembered the name of the band, and realized it was a promotional copy sent to be played on his radio show but... why a cassette instead of a CD? And how they knew where he lived?
Why didn't they send this to the radio station?
Mir introduced the cassette in the deck of the stereo and pushed play; the transparent case of the tape shined with unaccustomed fulgor... a first tune started sounding, it was a saturated and twisted noise, the singer sounded as if he was a dwarf about to take a shit, this band was horrible
"Templo de Momo" was the title of that first song
it was unbearable, atrocious, full of slang and nonexistent words invented by the singer, an abortion, absolutely distressing, the sound was scabrous, thick, replete of spaced-out hums and echoing fuzz.
Considerably dizzy, with his head about to explode listening to this insult to his good taste of communicateur social and hombre de radio, Mir stopped the tape and went to sleep: it was 4.27 PM in the afternoon.
II)
Mir shattered the cellophane using his fingernails, which provoked a sort of futuristic screech that hurt his ears at the air of the afternoon that smelled like burned cereal and Axe deodorant.
Why someone would send him... Mir realized then that into the box there was a paper:
"Courtesy of Patricio Rey y sus Redonditos de Ricota", for promotional use only.
Lalo Mir now remembered the name of the band, and realized it was a promotional copy sent to be played on his radio show but... why a cassette instead of a CD? And how they knew where he lived?
Why didn't they send this to the radio station?
Mir introduced the cassette in the deck of the stereo and pushed play; the transparent case of the tape shined with unaccustomed fulgor... a first tune started sounding, it was a saturated and twisted noise, the singer sounded as if he was a dwarf about to take a shit, this band was horrible
"Templo de Momo" was the title of that first song
it was unbearable, atrocious, full of slang and nonexistent words invented by the singer, an abortion, absolutely distressing, the sound was scabrous, thick, replete of spaced-out hums and echoing fuzz.
Considerably dizzy, with his head about to explode listening to this insult to his good taste of communicateur social and hombre de radio, Mir stopped the tape and went to sleep: it was 4.27 PM in the afternoon.
II)
A sudden noise -or something he thought was a noise- woke Lalo Mir up brusquely:
Mir caught the digital clock from the bedside table, which shined with mystic blue light, it was 3.00 AM in the middle of the night:
submersed in a lethargic cloud made of old medicines to dream, and made of how much we don't care about the life, the brains of Lalo Mir stayed during 1 minute 6 seconds completely obnubilated, beholding the blue clock in the darkness, without remembering his name or where he was
in a nervous spasm that scintillated on the corner of his right eye, the cerebrum of Lalo Mir returned from his profound sopor, as his consciousness remembered his name and address:
-"I live in Venezuela 336! Venezuela 336! My name is Lalo Mir! My name is Lalo Mir!"
He repeated out loud for 2 minutes or more, loco, nuts, meshugge:
and I observed him with inclemency from behind the screen of his Compaq Presario 1996, from my shadows which will remain
because at that hour, with steely eyes I observed Lalo Mir from behind the blue screen of his Compaq Presario 1996, that stayed turned off on the desk like a time bomb.
A strange compulsion made him get out of the bed as he remembered everything that happened in the evening:
with the elastic impulse of a Sovietic athlete Lalo Mir jumped from his bed and ran in the direction of the stereo
the cassette was in the deck, intact, stopped exactly at the 2:03 of the first song... with unusual thinkings in his head, Lalo Mir went to the kitchen.
Still sleepy but excited for unexplainable reasons, the swollen face of Mir scrutinized the shelves until he finally found the darned box with coffee malt
32 seconds later Mir started boiling the water to prepare his infusion, and sliced a fat portion of cold tiramisu
4 minutes 27 seconds later Lalo Mir took the large cup of coffee malt and the portion of cold tiramisu to his room, and resumed the listen of "Momo Sampler" with the sick delight of the things that nauseate us excessively. Like the love.
The appalling music inundated the room again... this was not like Peter Gabril or Brucce Springsteen, favorite floripondios of Lalo Mir, this was... so horr... so... so
a vomit, that's what Patrico Rey y sus Redonditos de Ricota was, music made to be automatically disliked, sound without beauty or feelings, created for people who detest the light and the needs of the human, people who detest you.
"Morta.com", "Murga de los renegados", "Dr. Saturno"
... One by one the tunes pass by in front of the ears of a Lalo Mir who, despite the initial impetuses and excitement for the ugliness per se, starts feeling sick, like a sailor arriving to Sumatra inundated by the lava:
when the side one ends Lalo Mir is asphyxiated, buried into his sofa like a Romantic writer from the 19th century emaciated by the laudanum.
With the scarce strength that still remains in his muscle, Mir extracts the tape, and introduces it again into the stereo to play the side two:
play
play?
As the growing effluvium of decibels possesses the air of the room once more, Lalo Mir feels the increased aural attack drilling his timpani, as the walls start... undulating?
Are the walls undulating or it's a mirage come from the avernal corridors?
... Scared Lalo Mir rushes to the stereo, he presses "stop" but it's too late, the analog cartridge won't stop rolling... Mir punches the apparatus but the sound doesn't stop.
Alarmed to the bones, Lalo Mir opens his mouth like a lizard, and stretches his arm to unplug the stereo: impossible: the sound of "Sheriff" is too loud and the song is too tragic or knotty to be stopped:
the red button of the bass boost gets automatically turned on and Lalo Mir falls on the floor like a pajarraco
like Achilles in the strait among the snakes.
Behind his back, the walls start getting inflated by the ever-growing bass intensity, as if the room was a supernatural balloon; inflated, inflated, more, more, MORE.
The body of Lalo Mir is sandwiched by the bestial modulations that squeeze his skull dolichocephalizing it: like a Jewish mother in a mosque he cannot see anything but his own anguish.
But the walls... inflated the walls get, more at every second: see them
inflated
INFLATED
INFLATED
INFLATED
INFLATED
Mir caught the digital clock from the bedside table, which shined with mystic blue light, it was 3.00 AM in the middle of the night:
submersed in a lethargic cloud made of old medicines to dream, and made of how much we don't care about the life, the brains of Lalo Mir stayed during 1 minute 6 seconds completely obnubilated, beholding the blue clock in the darkness, without remembering his name or where he was
in a nervous spasm that scintillated on the corner of his right eye, the cerebrum of Lalo Mir returned from his profound sopor, as his consciousness remembered his name and address:
-"I live in Venezuela 336! Venezuela 336! My name is Lalo Mir! My name is Lalo Mir!"
He repeated out loud for 2 minutes or more, loco, nuts, meshugge:
and I observed him with inclemency from behind the screen of his Compaq Presario 1996, from my shadows which will remain
because at that hour, with steely eyes I observed Lalo Mir from behind the blue screen of his Compaq Presario 1996, that stayed turned off on the desk like a time bomb.
A strange compulsion made him get out of the bed as he remembered everything that happened in the evening:
with the elastic impulse of a Sovietic athlete Lalo Mir jumped from his bed and ran in the direction of the stereo
the cassette was in the deck, intact, stopped exactly at the 2:03 of the first song... with unusual thinkings in his head, Lalo Mir went to the kitchen.
Still sleepy but excited for unexplainable reasons, the swollen face of Mir scrutinized the shelves until he finally found the darned box with coffee malt
32 seconds later Mir started boiling the water to prepare his infusion, and sliced a fat portion of cold tiramisu
4 minutes 27 seconds later Lalo Mir took the large cup of coffee malt and the portion of cold tiramisu to his room, and resumed the listen of "Momo Sampler" with the sick delight of the things that nauseate us excessively. Like the love.
The appalling music inundated the room again... this was not like Peter Gabril or Brucce Springsteen, favorite floripondios of Lalo Mir, this was... so horr... so... so
a vomit, that's what Patrico Rey y sus Redonditos de Ricota was, music made to be automatically disliked, sound without beauty or feelings, created for people who detest the light and the needs of the human, people who detest you.
"Morta.com", "Murga de los renegados", "Dr. Saturno"
... One by one the tunes pass by in front of the ears of a Lalo Mir who, despite the initial impetuses and excitement for the ugliness per se, starts feeling sick, like a sailor arriving to Sumatra inundated by the lava:
when the side one ends Lalo Mir is asphyxiated, buried into his sofa like a Romantic writer from the 19th century emaciated by the laudanum.
With the scarce strength that still remains in his muscle, Mir extracts the tape, and introduces it again into the stereo to play the side two:
play
play?
As the growing effluvium of decibels possesses the air of the room once more, Lalo Mir feels the increased aural attack drilling his timpani, as the walls start... undulating?
Are the walls undulating or it's a mirage come from the avernal corridors?
... Scared Lalo Mir rushes to the stereo, he presses "stop" but it's too late, the analog cartridge won't stop rolling... Mir punches the apparatus but the sound doesn't stop.
Alarmed to the bones, Lalo Mir opens his mouth like a lizard, and stretches his arm to unplug the stereo: impossible: the sound of "Sheriff" is too loud and the song is too tragic or knotty to be stopped:
the red button of the bass boost gets automatically turned on and Lalo Mir falls on the floor like a pajarraco
like Achilles in the strait among the snakes.
Behind his back, the walls start getting inflated by the ever-growing bass intensity, as if the room was a supernatural balloon; inflated, inflated, more, more, MORE.
The body of Lalo Mir is sandwiched by the bestial modulations that squeeze his skull dolichocephalizing it: like a Jewish mother in a mosque he cannot see anything but his own anguish.
But the walls... inflated the walls get, more at every second: see them
inflated
INFLATED
INFLATED
INFLATED
INFLATED
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