Candidato afroamericanochileno para presidente.

El candidato sigue dando candentes declaraciones en inglés

-Health is one of the most important issues for everybody.
-Do you think so? C'mon, we've got the fucking Curepto hospital! Chilean Health is so good, that even a hospital without a single motherfuckin' bed inside counts! And the patients are not even sick! Isn't it a fucking-A way to improve public health?

-Even so, it seems like an unsolvable problem.
-And it is if you pay shit to everybody involved. Shit to the doctors, the paramedics and the nurses. Shit for the buildings, that are falling apart. Shit for the ambulances. Shit plus shit equals two shits.

-Again, is this a money issue?
-I'm sorry to fucking dissapoint you, but politics ain't poetry. Yes. Everything is about fucking money. How you earn it and how you spend it. The Chilean State is very good at collecting money -basically they grab your balls and squeeze them for about 50 years and then you're nothing more than an old fart who dies in a fucking public hospital because the doctor was an asshole or was at his shift in a fucking private clinic and didn't get to the OR on time. But it is very bad at spending: it looks like a bunch of moronic motherfuckers who can hardly keep their fucking saliva inside their mouths, while every possible crook in town steals his or her piece of the cake. Raise, oh carpenters the new hospital's beam! Before you fucking wink, the carpenters are running away with the fucking nails, the concrete, the electrical appliances...

-Seriously. What would you do?
-I'd get rid of all the fucking old ladies who crowd the ERs of this country for a simple headache. I'll put a fucking general medicine private clinic, a small one, every 10 or so blocks in every fucking city. In poor neighborhoods it would be completely subsidized. It would cost ten times less than running a fucking scanner because some motherfucker has an headache -and the doctor is shitting in his pants because the old lady can sue him for not running the fucking scanner. You got a headache? Here, take an aspirin. Go fucking home. The government pays for the aspirin, the doctor, and saves money -and schedule time- for those motherfuckers who are really needing a scanner.

-People would still want the scanner.
-People are so fucking dumb. I'll like to fucking whip them in the ass to change the fucking culture of this country, but it is illegal. Yea. But the fucking point is that we don't have scanners for every fucking body. And the point also is that not everybody needs it. But since it is daddy government who pays for the shit, the doctors don't give a fuck about asking for exams,. We'll tame that by tendering home clinics, family medicine, and subsidizing it. The motherfuckers will complain the first time. But not the second. And they'll rather go some place near home than to the fucking hospital.

-Private medicine for the poor?
-Yes. So fucking what? Why does the State has to be everybody's dad? We're still paying for the poorest, so the fucking doctor will have to treat that person with dignity.

-And the rest?
-I have a message for the fucking Isapres's Association: FEAR ME MOTHERFUCKERS. I'll go after you like a mad dog. There has to be more competition in that fucking market. In ten years from now there'll be only one mega shit Isapre and that is inmoral. But they're the fucking assholes who'll made possible for me to go after them. The Isapre's Association is doing nothing but fucking SHRINKING, so I'll be the powerful one.

-And Fonasa?
-With all the money we're going to save in hospitals, Fonasa will rock baby. And if some motherfucker is thinking about how to steal from it, we''l cut his fucking head off. Islamic justice. Why the fuck not? Can I tell you a joke before we move on?

-Yeah, sure.
-"Doctor, I fart rose-smelling farts". "Let's see. Please fart now". "Prrrr". "Mhhh... You need surgery". "An ass-fixing surgery, doctor?". "No, a surgery that fix your FUCKING NOSE MOTHERFUCKER"


Candidato ideal: educación

Continúa la entrevista al candidato imaginario concedida a un medio imaginario de un país de habla inglesa imaginario:

Education has been a huge issue for some years. What would you do about it?
– Before I answer that, I would say this to the fucking penguins who almost overthrew Bachelet back in 2006: improve your fucking grades and we’ll talk. The hi-ho about how bad education started this way –with people who had never got a seven, let alone a six or even a five. I’m flabbergasted at the idiocy of the political world, who never check out the fucking kids's grades! The revolution for a better education was started by the very ones who suck at being educated! So of course they blamed every-fucking-body around but themselves. I didn’t see students in the streets who got sevens or six in their classrooms. Most of them were having sex or smoking joints, or doing God knows what. And the fucking hairdos! And the peircings! The parents deserve going to jail for allowing that shit in the first place!
But you agree that education in Chile is bad and unfair.
– Of course, international tests have demonstrated it, but we knew this way before the fucking kids went to the streets. I only disagree about having fucking lazy and ugly teenagers at the negotiation table telling authorities what to do. Go and squeeze some pimples first, motherfuckers. Go and take a shower first and then we can talk.
Would you allow lucrative education?
– If some rich motherfucker wants to teach Nuclear Engineering to his or her five-year-old, who am I to stop it? Lucrative education is not the point. The country has already enough resources to finance a fucking-A education for most poor kids. But today every single motherfucker in the way from those funds to those kids gets home a chunk of that money. The Ministry of Education, for instance, is a fucking Godzilla. I’d fire 90 % of their employees, and give the money to schools, so they can have 20 or 25 kids in a classroom, and not 50. This is a country were most can’t read “cock” in a public restroom door, yet teachers have the same social status and income of a delivery pizza boy. Every fucking rookie teacher in this country should earn, I don’t know, 1,5 million pesos a month. But of course no motherfucker under 750 PSU points should put a feet into Education Schools, under penalty of being shot in the head. So yes, I would not only allow lucrative education: I’ll make it lucrative for the fucking teachers in the first place.
Where are you going to get the money to do that?
– Where? I am going to buy a huge printer and start printing motherfucking money to pay the teachers! From taxes, that’s where I’m going to get the money!
Nobody’s going to like it.
– From taxes the government already collects, but are either stolen or misused in the way down. Let me give you just one example: The tobacco industry. The fucking assholes who want to kill themselves by smoking give millions and millions of dollars to the government through amazingly expensive taxes –by the way, I’ll refuse public health care to all of them, they’re the jerks who want to kill themselves. Where the fuck is that money? Who knows. Probably in some abstract shitty and overpriced painting bought by the undersecretary of who knows what shit for banging his secretary in a prettier office. And do you want to know who sold that monstrousity? The same undersecretary’s hippie brother who claims to be an “artist” and who, at the same time, got to paint that piece of shit with money given away by Fondart because his brother put two or three cocksucking phone calls to the ministry of culture. So my proposal is simple: fuck the undersecretary of who knows what shit and close his whole fucking office. And certainly fuck Fondart. And the ministry of culture.
So you claim there’s already resources for a big change in education.
– Are you kidding? There’s a shitload of money around. But of course when you got shit like the ministry of old age, the ministry of the woman, the ministry of the young, the national buyer’s service or the ministry of the ass to give away jobs to the motherfuckers who put two or three posters in the streets when you were a candidate, there’s less and less money for poor kids’s education.
That’s a very right-view point.
– Because the left is keeping the money and buying 4x4s with it. We are financing the fucking red-set soccer moms! Of course, be the the right the one in power, it would be a very left-wing idea. I don’t give a shit what the name of the idea is, all I fucking care is getting the money to the teachers and so to the kids.
Do schools have the right to select their students?
– Private schools can do whatever the fuck they want. They can select their fucking kids by the smell of their farts if they want. They can teach mathematics in Roman numbers for all I care. There’s no government money in there, so I don’t give a fuck. When you get government money in, though, I do care. A lot. If I put a fucking five-peso coin on some school’s budget, I care. And I wont let those motherfuckers alone: I want to see those five pesos well spend. And since the public money aim is to give education to every fucking kid who needs it, no, the motherfuckers cannot “select” the kids. They take whoever knocks at their fucking door. The only reason for a school to get rid of a fucking student is that his or her grades are shit.
How do you see university and college education?
– So far not a single fucking Chilean university has invented or created something important for the rest of the world. Nothing. Nothing in the field of energy, nothing in aeronautics, nothing in computing, nothing in nothing. Two or three copper-related shit for obvious reasons but that is. And yet they suck from government money as if they were Harvard or Oxford! I’ll shut that money off for fucking good unless they work in something real and useful.
– Listen, I don’t care about universities beyond that. They are the ones who are supposed to be smart; they gotta figure the fuck out how to make money for their shit! I’m just the dumb, egotistical and ambitious politician. I am going to be pretty busy trying to get fucking people into work again, after all these years of lazyness and whining!

Next: health care


Candidato ideal

¿Cómo sería un candidato presidencial como éste? Inventé esta entrevista que dio a un medio extranjero. Esta es la primera parte. Habla sobre energía.
What are the most important issues for a future government?
– The same old shit. Get people’s asses to work. That’s how you fight poverty. And for that you need energy. And a fucking government that don’t steal. Or at least one not so fucking dumb as the one we got now, that lets everybody get away with chunks and chunks of cash while worried about, I don’t know, stupid and uninportant shit like gender parity.
Let’s start with energy…
– Yeah, let’s start with that. I wanna say this to all the sorry motherfucking environmentalists: fuck you. No dams in Patagonia? Sure, and then no mining in the Great North, no industries in the Metropolitan Region, no wineries in Curico and no fucking ports in Valparaiso! We’ve been our whole history avoiding the Argentines to bomb us into the stone age and now we have this bunch of idiotic phds who wants us back to candle lightning! And when they do it they’ll put a fucking tax on wax!
So you’ll support the hydro projects…
– Are you fucking kidding me? Of course I’ll support the hydro projects. I’ll carry the fucking concrete on my back myself to tap the Baker river if it were necessary.
Energy is a big business. Big corporations will take over the place, charge whatever they want and destroy everything that’s beautiful.
– I got enough balls to fuck with the big corps. Don’t worry about. I’m not giving away the shit. I’m not stupid. I read English and I know that the small print in contracts is to be read. I’ve eaten in good restaurants, you know –just one blowjob is not enough to buy me out. Nor two or three for that matter.
But how would you defend our environment from these greedy corporations?
– By taxing their asses off! They don’t want to pay taxes? Well, fuck ‘em. I’d say to them: Go to Bolivia, motherfuckers. There they got a lot of energy resources to be exploited and oh, they are so in love with gringos! They’ll honour their part of the contracts, sure! You can sure make business with them if they don’t have a coup next week. And if corps are so fucking dumb to actually going to Bolivia, I’ll use the copper savings and build the motherfucking Baker river dam myself! It’s something better than warming the money by being seated on top of it, as we are today, don’t you think?
Taxes do not protect the environment.
– Jesus fucking Christ. I’m not God, you know? I can’t make perpetual motion exist, so I got to get energy somewhere, and I got to fuck something to get the energy –that’s physics, not politics. And we have parks for the fucking nature to grow, anyway.
You sound like a planning minister of Soviet Russia.
– What do you want me to tell you? Let’s go back to the woods? Be hunters-collectors again so nature can rule again? Nature will fuck us at the first chance she’s got. So we got to get her reined in. And if in the process we can get energy from her, great. For crying out loud! You need energy for washing your fucking teeth every morning.
So you’re a hydro fan. What about nuclear energy?
– Sure! Why not? Because of the fucking nuclear waste? We can pay the Bolivians well to keep it buried in their fucking salt fields. They’re not going to produce any fucking thing there in the next two thousand years, so there will remain, untouched. And when the Argentines are finished fucking the rich and beautiful country they got, and run out of everything, we’ll sell ‘em the nuke energy for a lot of money. We can even cut the supply in winter because we fucking want it, don’t you think? Sweet revenge!
You don’t sound very diplomatic.
– And where our fucking diplomacy has gotten us? Chavez, for Christ sake, Chavez! He fucks us everytime he fucking feels he wants to. If you give me two minutes with that asshole, I’ll straighten him up! He’ll be my motherfucking puppy. Peru: they fuck us when they want. Argentina, don’t even mention it. The Bolivians said “not a molecule of gas”, remember? Next thing and Antarctica will have a claim on Cape Horn! I got a limmerick about Cape Horn by the way: There was a man from Cape Horn / Who wished he had never been born / and he wouldn't have been / if his father had seen / that the top of the rubber was torn. We’ve been too kind for too long: nobody fucking respects us. We're the neighborhood's nerd.
We’ll go into foreign affairs later. What about coal?
– Sure, too. But it’s expensive. I’ll go with hydro: the fucking water belongs to us, we don’t have to buy it anywhere.
Coal is the number one culprit of global warming.
– Don’t give me that shit. Give it to fucking Georgie W. or the Russians. We are the arse of the globe in global warming, the world has not noticed yet we even exist!
What about alternative energies?
– Again: I’m not God. The environmentalists are full of shit. These energies cannot compete today with hydro or nuclear, let alone coal or fuel. Envirofreaks like alternative on aesthetic and political grounds, but sell it as if it were... I don’t know, the new wheel. We can have some fucking windmills somewhere, but they won’t solve the problem today. I don’t know in 20 years, but today we’re fucked: we need hydro and nuke.
– I’d give it a try. We got the fucking desert up north! We do nothing with it! I’ll put solar panels all over the First and Second regions. Oh, and the Fifteenth! Who was the fucking genious who decided that the Fifteenth region shoud go before the First?!
Let’s go back to hydro. Douglas Tompkins doesn’t want the powerlines over his property.
– I don’t give a shit what Douglas Tompkins does or does not want. The country needs those powerlines. We’ll legally expropiate the fucking terrain we need. He won’t comply? We’ll send the Army to kick his sorry motherfucking ass all over to California again, so he can go back to smoke pot with their fucking baby boomer hippie friends. Shit, we’re a nation, not the country club next door! He thinks his rights are violated? He can sue me. Period.

Next: education


Sabiduría en Californication

¡Y yo, que hice clases de expresión escrita!


HENRY ROLLINS -Cuál es tu última obsesión?

DAVID DUCHOVNY -Simplemente el hecho de que la gente parece volverse cada vez más tonta. Tenemos toda esta sorprendente tecnología, pero los computadores se han transformado básicamente en máquinas caras para correrse la paja. Se suponía que Internet nos iba a hacer libres y democratizarnos, pero todo lo que nos ha dado es la candidatura abortada de Howard Dean y 24 horas de acceso a porno infantil. La gente ya no escribe, "bloguea". En vez de hablar, "textean", sin puntuación, sin gramática, LOL esto, LMFAO lo otro; a mí me parece que es un montón de gente estúpida seudocomunicándose con otro montón de gente estúpida en un protolenguaje que parece más el que usaban los cavernícolas que el inglés del rey.

Proyecto Ficción 2008 - 2009

Me embarqué en una novela. Es histórica; la época es la de la guerra de independencia. Se trata de un tipo muy malo que intenta ser feliz. Tiene, creo, un muy buen título al menos, pero me lo reservo hasta la publicación en papel. Para seguir con la tradición, aquí va el primer capítulo, o más bien la introducción... hasta ahora

Ciudad de Nueva York. EE.UU. de América.
Octubre de 1879.

Esta es, hasta donde he podido saber, la historia de mi padre, Santiago Salvatierra, capitán de milicias del Ejército de su majestad Fernando VII: esposo y hermano. Asesino de cientos, además.
Sus correrías militares en las campañas que culminaron con la independencia del reino de Chile han sido documentadas hasta el cansancio. Se sabe que la historia la escriben los vencedores. Mi padre, desde su modesto sitial en el bando derrotado, no tuvo interés en reivindicar su figura para la posteridad. Simplemente dejó que las letras de oro fueran de otros, que los libros de historia se rindieran a los pies de sus enemigos, que Diego Barros Arana pusiera la corona de laurel sobre las sienes blancas de los O’Higgins y los San Martín: ilustres muertos que en vida temieron a mi padre más que a sus sombras y al día de sus muertes.
Sin embargo, no quiero, desde esta húmeda ciudad llena de luces, barcos y prostitutas, ser el encargado de reivindicar la memoria de mi padre. No niego que me gustaría decir: “Otros mataron tanto como él, pero por el bien de la nación, la historia los ha olvidado. Qué injusticia: ¿Por qué no se ha tenido la misma consideración con su memoria?”. No puedo, empero, sostener algo así. No solamente porque soy ya un anciano, poco amigo de las emociones, sino porque no es cierto: mi padre, Santiago Salvatierra, fue, efectivamente, el más grande asesino de la guerra de la independencia. “El fierro del rey”, lo llamaban en la cúspide de su demencial carrera militar.
Quiero, antes de continuar, decir que hoy he conocido, en la oficina del señor Alva Edison, la luz eléctrica. Se trata de un artefacto pequeño y sobrecogedor, un sol hecho a la medida de los hombres. Creo que hay, efectivamente, y pese a mis peores pronósticos, sueños y esperanzas para la humanidad. Tal vez, tal vez, el siglo XIX cumpla al fin y al cabo su promesa de acabar para siempre con la sed de sangre, y traer felicidad a este mundo.
Mientras miraba el bulbo incandescente, y ponía mis manos para sentir el calor, y a través de la naranja piel, en los extremos de los dedos, podía contemplar la silueta de mis viejos huesos, pensé que el pasado se iba, se caía como una pesada capa que he cargado sobre mí desde una lejana noche de 1832, cuando enfrenté a mi padre y a sus crímenes. Soy un nuevo hombre, pensé. “A new man, mister Alva Edison”, le dije.
“A new man indeed, mister Salvatierra”, respondió él pensando que me refería a las posibilidades maravillosas que implica su invención.
Pero al salir a la calle la sensación de optimismo se había esfumado, tal como la sorprendente hebra de bambú del señor Alva Edison, que atrapada en el imposible vacío de vidrio no tardaría en apagarse unas horas después. Caminé bajo la llovizna por la Tercera Avenida, intentando proteger mi sombrero de las ráfagas de viento que salían desde el río del Este, en cada esquina, en cada calle. Conseguí a duras penas llegar a mi cuarto en el Greenwich Village y me eché en mi modesta cama. Hay una nueva araña en el techo.
Ojalá pudiéramos dejar el pasado atrás. Ojalá pudiéramos partir de cero. Pero es imposible. Amé a ese asesino y él me amó de vuelta, y lo extraño, aún hoy, cuando soy un hombre de más de setenta años. Las acciones de mi padre no merecen perdón, tampoco olvido, pero quién soy yo para perdonar u olvidar. Un viejo chileno muriendo en la ciudad de Nueva York, mientras piensa en una tierra y una época que ya no volverán.
No me he reproducido, ¿saben? Y es difícil que lo haga a estas alturas. Tuve una mujer, una buena mujer, que murió en una noche de granizo hace muchos años, y que solo en su lecho de muerte me comentó que echaba de menos los hijos que no tuvimos. ¿La amé, no la amé? Vi su rostro pálido, no muy diferente de cualquier noche o cualquier mañana. Era la primera vez que veía a alguien muerto y no sentí nada. Éramos nosotros solos en Nueva York y no me convencí de que estaba muerta hasta que vi el ataúd cubrirse de tierra días después en un cementerio barato de Queens. No lloré. Simplemente deseé ocupar luego ese mismo privilegiado sitial. Aún aguardo.
Salvo la página y media de mitología carnicera y chismografía barata que Barros Arana le dedica en su monumental “Historia de Chile”, conmigo se irá probablemente el último recuerdo de Santiago Salvatierra sobre este mundo. Es cosa de meses, a lo más un año, uno y medio. Creo que será en el invierno: otro invierno más y sanseacabó. Ahora que he visto la iluminación incandescente creo que puedo irme sin hacer demasiado escándalo: no salgo mucho del cuarto, las discusiones de los poetas en los cafés, la basura en la calle, no me atrae mucho. Si me voy como creo que me voy a ir, la señora Murray, la casera, tendrá que soportar uno o dos días de desbarajuste –mal olor, policías, trámites– cuando me encuentren, pero eso será todo, nada que una eficiente rentista no pueda solucionar.
Pero tal vez esta nueva luz que se derramará por el planeta no baste. Qué digo “tal vez”. No, no bastará. Será insuficiente, a pesar de todas las buenas intenciones de Alva Edison. Vendrán nuevos reyezuelos y nuevos revolucionarios con ambición y cinismo, la tierra será la misma y todos la querrán. Y entonces pienso si mi historia, la historia de mi padre… y luego me convenzo de que no, de que no cambia nada, de que contarla antes de que se vaya conmigo es solo una ceremonia para una sola persona: yo. Frente al espejo manchado y roto, esta cara arrugada y fea, entonces, contará cómo el asesino llegó a ser feliz y amado. No sé si así lo salvaré. Probablemente no. Pero si lo hago, también sus víctimas, aunque sea por unos pocos minutos en estas décadas insólitas y brillantes que las sucedieron, en este mundo de industrias y ferrocarriles, de acero y rascacielos, volverán a vivir.