Oh Bob !!!! ...,BOB BAKER, WE'LL NEVER FORGET YOU!
Bob Baker has left behind a profound legacy in Los Angeles and beyond, with his unbounded imagination and childlike spirit, he persisted throughout his life in bringing happiness and creativity to countless children and adults though his Marionette theatre, which became an extension of his own self. The man who was initiated into puppetry by Bullock's Wilshire's Tina Gainsboro, who mastered stop motion animation in Georg Pal's Studios and managed the creation of Disneyland's puppet dolls, on a handshake with Walt Disney, has kept alive the ambers of puppetry's magic for a lifetime in a city that has seen it's golden years of creation become a haze like nostalgic dream of the past. May we appreciate his work of unbounded love and support the Bob Baker Marionette Theater to solidify this essential Los Angeles' icon for generations to come, and keep the creative and innocent spirit he personified alive with us. Thank you Bob!
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0048278/
The images are from Bob's 90th birthday tribute this past January by Councilman's Cedillo at City Hall. Read the LA Times article here:http://touch.latimes.com/#section/-1/article/p2p-82120705/

La Habana 20 de noviembre de 1930

Un dia, como siempre , andabamos desnu-
dos por la cubierta de " El Relampago de
los Mares", para tirarnos por las bordas
y subir corriendo , nos vieron desde la
Capitania del Puerto y vino volando una
lancha con dos policias para "cargar"
con nosotros.........
Sin embargo, esta vez nos perdonaron ,
porque yo les eche un discurso diciendo-
les que otros muchachos nos habian lle-
vado la ropa a Regla y que " seguro , se-
guro" no nos la iban a traer hasta por la
tarde , asi es que si querian " cargar con
nosotros" , no les quedaba mas remedio
que llevarnos en cueros....Y se fueron
diciendo que eramos unos "mataperros".
que ya los teniamos " muy cansados", y
que si no sabiamos que alli habia muchos
tiburones y mantas...

Otro dia , como el Polaco no sabia nadar,
se nos ocurrio amarrarlo por la cintura
con una soga y traerlo a remolque, mien-
tras chapoteaba igual que un gato , pudien-
do apenas sacar la cabeza del agua turbia
de la ensenada....Y nosotros nos reia---
mos....Pero de pronto , la soga se solto
y Garcia se hundio para salir en seguida
con la cara y las manos desesperadas,gri-
tando: " Me aho....go ....Me...a....ho...go.."
Cada vez salia con mas trabajo, y se fue
al fondo , de puro cansancio, y lo tuvi-
mos que izar como un bulto , como un
gran sabalo pescado....Se tiro en el bote
y se puso a vomitar,,,,Luego nos mento
la madre a todos....

! Caballeros, pero cuanta cosa hay que
contar!....
! Cuando nos ibamos a Cojimar , y mas
alla, y se nos hacia la noche remando, y
volviamos a obscuras, oyendo la respira-
cion ancha del mar en las rocas de la cos-
ta!...

! Las veces que nos metiamos por el gran
maja dormido del rio, que se iba llenando
de silencio cada vez mas adentro...De un
silencio tal , que los gritos que dabamos,
entre los grandes paredones arborecidos
que custodiaban las margenes , eran como
peces que saltaban del agua y huian por
el aire, rio abajo, rio arriba....Huian junto
con las  auras negras, las garzas lentas y
con caraicas  unica que paso una vez....!

! El desembarco en las playas ! ! La lucha
con la resaca y con las rompientes , para
que no se estropeara el bote de Pim Pam!...
Luego , ! las carreras por la " Playa de los
Tarahumaras !....! El avance trabajoso por
entre los residuos de las basuras de La
Habana, que la Corriente del Golfo echa
contra la costa, y sobre los que las tiño-
sas repulsivas se atreven a descender
bamboleandose sobre las olas , como
habiles marineros en balsas pequeñas!...

!Y cuando decidimos , una tarde , irnos
en bote hasta Cayo Hueso, porque unos
mambises lo habian hecho una vez...Y
a la hora de estar al remo, horizonte alla,
subiendo y bajando por la cordillera de
las olas , pensamos que " como nos la
ibamoa a arreglar con los aduaneros ame-
ricanos , sin saber ingles" !

! Cuanta cosa que se queda ahogada entre
tanto recuerdo del mar!....

Bien, yo creo que ya lo dije antes. Armando
le cogio el gusto a venir con nosotros los
domingos por la mañana , cuando su ma-
ma no estaba muy mala, porque  los domin-
gos , como decia con pena, " no tenia tra-
bajo en la fabrica".

Auque parezca mentira, se las entendia en
el mar mejor que nosotros; preparaba siem-
pre la sogas de manera que durasen mas
y que fuesen mas fuertes; si se partia un
remo , con el que aun teniamos , podia llegar
facilmente a la orilla; y , aunque era menos
fuerte que todos los del grupo, remaba mejor,
y el bote se deslizaba por el agua sin esfuer-
zo cuando Armando cogia los remos.....A
nosotros nos preocupaba eso un poco, y al
fin yo consegui unas explicaciones absoluta-
mente cientificas del fenomeno, comparan-
do esto del remar, con los boxeadores que
tienen punch y con los pitchers que lanzan
la pelota como cañonazos , no obstante ser
flacos muchas veces. Todos aprobaron mi
tesis , y Armando se rio con solo dos risas
pequeñas.

Sabia tambien manejar la vela , y la cachu-
chita de nosotros , en las mañanas de vien-
to alborotado, era como una paloma sobre
la bahia ...Una paloma que se pusiera a
bailar el minue sobre las olas, mientras no-
sotros nos poniamos mas contentos que no
se que , y el Polaco pestañeaba , como el
timbre de un despertador, a cada viaje vio-
lento que metia un golpe de agua en el bote...

! Aquella mañana ....La mañana aquella
era de esas mañana en que hay sol esplen-
dido y fuerte, y al mismo tiempo hace frio.

Era de esas con que terminan los "nortes",
cuando ya las olas, en La Habana, no saltan
al galope sobre el malecon, como una impe-
tuosa carrera de caballos balnco, pero que
todavia al estallar contra el muro, se revien-
tan en millones de alfileritos salados, y la
gente extraña y los chiquitos incorregibles,
se dan gusto paseandose junto al conten
para salpicarse....

Era una de esas mañanas en las que uno,
por mucho que reme, no suda , pero siente
calentarse la piel bajo el sol ardiente....

! Ya tanta luz!.... Y el mar alegre , y azul
mientras una nube blanca y gorda, como
una galleguita , pasa aprisa por el cielo de
la bahia!....

Ya nosotros habiamos estado bajo los mue-
lles , donde el agua no deja nunca de hacer
plaf-plaf....plaf-plaf....contra los espigo-
gones que rechinan ...mueve las lanchas pe-
queñas ; hace gemir las bordas , pone tiran-
tes los cables, como las cuerdas flojas de los
circos.....

Ya tambien habiamos estado en "El Relam-
pago de los Mares", y nos habiamos zambu-
llido las mismas hoyas que hay al pie de la
Cabaña donde dicen que duermen los tibu-
rones.....

Ya habiamos remado hasta la ensenada
de Guanabacoa, donde exisitia una enorme
cantidad de pilotes de cemento tan bien
acostados, como si fueran a dormir alli
muchos años .....Parecian los ataudes de
piedra de un millar de postes de telegrafos,
muertos por el viento de la tempestad....

Ya habamos bromeado con el marinero noru-
ego de un barco ingles, que se estaba comien-
do un platano con las manos, y que cuando
Roberto le grito , reindose; " Saramanvich,
americano" ,,,,nos tiro las cascaras, que le
dieron a Garcia, poniendolo furioso.

Ya todo lo habiamos visto en una inspeccion
general , cuando de pronto, enorme y negro,
anclado en la mitad del puerto, el " Espagne"
grito con su gran voz de bajo:

MHMHMHMH.............MHMHMHM....MHMHM
MHMHMH....

"Corre, que se va el frances!" ..grite yo,
y nos pusimos a remar desesperadamente.

Pero el frances no se iba . Solo estaba virando
para acercarse al espigon y atracar.

Viraba lleno de majestad, con mucha rapidez
para su tamaño , y al mismo tiempo recogia
el ancla, que empezaba a salir llena de fango...
Cuando volvimos la cabeza un momento para
verlo, la gente se apiñaba a las bordas. Me
acuerdo que vi un oficial , todo vestido de blan-
co , con una gorra blanca.
Y Roberto y yo , levantando la boga hasta lo
ultimo , haciamos avanzar la :cachuchita" como
si fuera un buen caballo troton......

! A cojer el oleaje!...grite!...........

Ya el " Espagne " estaba cerca , y entonces
fue que el oficial empezo a gritar . Armando
dijo con su voz gruesa: "Cuidado con la propela!"

! Que cuidado ni cuidado ! ! A coger el oleje!....
Y hundimos los remos en el agua.

A la tercera boga , como ya la marejada era tan
fuerte y desigual , cogi " un cangrejo" fallando y
con todo el impulso que llevaba me fui de espal-
das violentamente ; di en el costado del bote y,
perdiendo el equilibrio , me cai al mar.... En el
agua , con la espalda rota, lo vi todo, espantado....

Como Roberto hizo su boga con todo vigor y
yo no, la chachucha se desvio con violencia....
Ademas, el " Espagne " estaba virando.....El bote
entro de lleno en el remolino poderoso del agua
hecho por la helice , y si fuerza ya para dominar-
lo se precipito hacia el....Un clamor inmenso se
asomo a las bordas y el oficial vestido de blanco
gritaba desesperado hacia no se quien , con la
gorra en la mano.....

Los periodicos lo relataron todo con un letrero
que decia: " Espantosa tragedia ensta mañana
en el puerto."

Pero yo jamas podre olvidar aquellos segundos
en que todo el fuego de mi vida se apago, como
si solo fuera un pedazo de leña encendida que
cayera al agua....

Yo no puedo recordar sin estremecerme, aque-
llos segundos gigantescos, cuando Roberto , con
su tremendo vigor , agarrado por Garcia que se
ahogaba , luchando brutalmente por despren-
derselo y salir del remolino de la helice.

Ni tampoco las voces continuas de Martinez,
que se tiro con tiempo del bote y subia y baja-
ba en el oleaje , para gritarme a cada ascension
que huyera pronto del remolino de la propela ...
! Aleman , la propela! .....!La propela , Aleman!..

Y es mas imposible aun que yo olvide
aquella espantosa lucha de los brazos flacos
y amarillos de Armando , que nadaba deses-
peradamente por escapar, mientras todo el
pasaje de popa gritaba, y se asomaban los ma-
rineros por las ventanillas redondas del casco
negro , diciendo cosas en frances....Pero el habia
caido mas cerca que ninguno , y al fin un golpe
de mar empujo el bote y este a el , y la helice
como un pulpo , lo atrajo , lo enredo, y le dio
dos vueltas de hierro mortal dentro del agua,,,

! Yo lo vi salir las dos veces fuera!..........
! Yo lo vi !...Y a la tercera , cuando paro la ma-
quina de pronto, y parte de la helice quedo arri-
ba chorreando agua y el....! Yo lo vi !....! Yo lo vi!..
Ya tenia la cara tranquila y cansada ,,,,Y se cayo
muerto al mar, como una gota de agua!....

! Cuanto detalle se apresa en un segundo de
angustia ! Al mismo tiempo que Armando caia
al mar, desde lo alto de la paleta de la helice ,
yo vi como Roberto , vencido por la desespe-
racion de Garcia que se ahogaba , era arrastra-
do al fondo y sacaba las manos del agua...

Y vi tambien como yo me hunida, muerto,
con los brazos hacia atras...mientras varios
hombres , desde lo alto del trasatlantico, se
caian despacio...se descolgaban entre gritos
lejanos e inmensos....

En la Capitania se agolpaban la gente...
Cien caras y mil ojos me veian los ojos

Nosotros no pudimos ir al entierro de Arman-
do , ni al de su mama, que se murio llorando,
" poco a poco y muy pronto", segun nos conto
Ma cuando lo supo todo.

Alla estan , en el cementerio de Regla , a
donde todo el pueblo los llevo conmovido,
y que se ve desde lo alto de las lomas peladas,
como un huerto de arbolitos blancos.....


La Habana 1930 

Julian del Casal Ciento cincuenta años de su nacimiento

Julian del Casal

Nov 7 1863 - Nov 7 2013


Los Funerales de Una Cortesana
by Julian del Casal


Tras la cortina de terciopelo carmesi , guardecida de flecos de oro

que ornaba el marco de un balcon de la regia estancia, se hallaban

juntos, en fria tarde invernal , arrullados por las rafagas heladas del

viento y por las gotas de lluvia que golpeaba los cristales de la ven-

tanas , un monarca de eterna recordacion y la ultima de sus favoritas.


El se llamaba Luis XV y ella la condesa Dubarry. La favorita , envuelta

en lujoso abrigo de pieles , apoyaba el brazo en mullido cojin de seda

azul , bordado de flores plateadas ; el principe vestido de gala se ha-

bia tendido sobre ancho divan de damasco, prodigando a la bella pe-

cadora todas las ternuras y todos los anhelos de su alma enamorada.

Al cabo de algun tiempo, se incorporo el monarca ,- arreglandose la

empolvada cabellera , cuyos rizos habian deshecho los dedos eburneos

de la Dubarry se detuvo en el umbral del balcon.


Un espectaculo triste se prensento ante sus ojos.

A lo lejos , entre los arboles del camino , desnudos de hojas y vestidos de

escarcha , se veia pasar el reflejo moribundo de la tarde, cuatro humildes

capuchinos que llevaban pobre ataud de madera, cubierto de paño negro y

tachonado de estrellas.

Dentro del ataud iba el cadaver de Madame de Pompadour

Ella , habia sabido elevarse desde el hogar de humilde carnicero hasta las

gradas del tronco; que era la diosa del bosque de Senart, donde se presen-

taba con un halcon en la mano, semejante a las antiguas castellanas ; que para

cambiar el orden de las cosas no tenia mas que pronunciar una sola frase

de amor;que habia sido la Madona de los grandes hombres de su epoca,como

Maria lo es de los cristianos; que sabia ejercer las funciones de la diploma-

cia tan bien como las de la galanteria; que merece el nombre de Hada de la

Frivolidad por haber creado un mundo de preciosidades artisticas , bajo al

sepulcro , en el mas bello periodo de su existencia , revestida del burdo traje

de la tercera orden de San Francisco , con el grueso rosario a la cintura

y la cruz de madera entre las manos , siendo enterrada, por orden suya,

en pobre fosa del convento de capuchinos de la plaza de Vendome.

Cuentan que el rey , al retirarse del balcon , exclamo friamente, besando

las mejillas coloreadas de la Dubarry que se habia inclinado en sus hombros !

- !Pobre Ponpadour ! ! Que frio va a sentir esta noche en su sepulcro !

A la memoria Alberto Rabagliati y los Lecuonan Cuban Boys

Alberto Rabafliati nacio en Milan . En los veinte viajo a Los Angeles , California. En aquellos tiempos era facil poder entrar de extra en los estudios. Su primer papel fue en la pelicula del director  Frank Borzage " Street Angel" en el elenco estelar actuaba la joven Janet Gaynor y el reconocido actor Charles Farrell .El papel que que intrepretaba es el de un agente de la policia.  A principio de los treinta y gracias a su bellisima voz logra acaparar la atencion del compositor cubano Ernesto Lecuona y del pianista Armando Orefiche, juntos comienzan varias giras todas ellas plagadas de grandes exitos. 

In 1927 he moved to Hollywood as the winner of a Rudolph Valentino look-alike contest. He later recalled: "For someone like me, who had seen no more than Lake Como or Monza cathedral so far, finding myself on board a luxury steamer with three cases full of clothes, a few rolls of dollars, gran-duchesses and countesses flirting with me was something extraordinary".^{[citation needed]}

He remained four years in America, but his career as an actor never took off. During his stay he had however the opportunity to get to know new musical genres such as jazz, swing,scat singing.

Back in Europe he became a singer. After a brief experience with Pippo Barzizza's orchestra, he joined the Lecuona Cuban Boys, a Cuban band. He performed with his face painted black and made a hit with the song "Maria la O".

While with the Lecuona Cuban Boys he met Giovanni D'Anzi who proposed him an audition with Italian state radio station EIAR. Rabagliati soon became a radio star, and in 1941 had his own radio show. Every Monday night EIAR aired Canta Rabagliati ("Rabagliati sings"), with the singer presenting his most famous songs such as "Ma l'amore no", "Mattinata fiorentina", "Ba-Ba-Baciami Piccina", "Silenzioso slow", "Bambina innamorata".

He was so popular that his name was sung in the lyrics of La famiglia canterina, Quando canta Rabagliati, Quando la radio. At a time when anything foreign was banned, the idol Rabagliati was allowed to maintain his American-influenced style. Indeed, the Fascist  government decided to make use of his popularity by choosing his song "Sposi (c'è una casetta piccina)" ("Wed (there's a little home)") as their demographic campaign anthem.

His fame as a singer helped his acting career restart. From 1940 to 1965 he starred in some twenty movies, including The Barefoot Contessa, Montecarlo and Il vedovo. In 1966, he starred in The Christmas That Almost Wasn't.

Rabagliati was active also on the stage until the mid-1950s. He performed in musical revues and comedies by Garinei and Giovannini.

His last public appearance was in 1974 as a guest in the TV show Milleluci hosted by Mina and Raffaella Carrà. Soon afterward he died of cerebral thrombosis.

1966The Christmas That Almost Wasn't
Santa Claus

1966The Birds, the Bees and the Italians
Commend. Galeazzo Casellato

1964Panic Button

1964Biblioteca di Studio Uno: Al Grand Hotel (TV movie)
Secondo affarista

1962Jessica
Pietro Masudino

1959La cento chilometri
The Plump Friend of Corsetti

1959Il raccomandato di ferro

1957Susanna tutta panna
Il commendatore Botta

1956Monte Carlo
Albert, the Portiere

1955Carosello del varietà

1955Quando tramonta il sole
L'impresario milanese

1954Scuola elementare
Adalberto Bonfanti

1954The Barefoot Contessa
Proprietor

1954Crossed Swords
Gennarelli

1953The Story of William Tell (short)
Gabrelle the Glove Maker

1952Don Juan's Night of Love
Behisar

1947Natale al campo 119
Alberto, il milanese

1946Partenza ore 7
Giorgio

1944In cerca di felicità
Massimo

1943La vita è bella
Il conte Alberto Morandi

1943Lascia cantare il cuore
Antonio Gaspari

1943Arcobaleno

1941La scuola dei timidi
Alberto Morandi

1941Una famiglia impossibile
Il cantante della radio

1930Sei tu l'amore
Mario

1928Street Angel
Policeman

Patria by Ventura Ruiz Aguilera

  I. Patria       Ventura Ruiz Aguilera 

Queriendo yo un dia
Saber qué es la Pátria,
Me dijo un anciano
Que mucho la amaba:

«La Patria se siente;
No tienen palabras
Que claro la expliquen
Las lenguas humanas.

»Allí, donde todas
Las cosas nos hablan
Con voz que hasta el fondo
Penetra del alma;

»Allí, donde empieza
La breve jornada
Que al hombre en el mundo
Los cielos señalan;

»Allí, donde el canto
Materno arrullaba
La cuna que el Ángel
Veló de la guarda;

»Allí, donde en tierra
Bendita y sagrada
De abuelos y padres
Los restos descansan;

»Allí, donde eleva
Su techo la casa
De nuestros mayores...
Allí está la Pátria.

II.

»El valle profundo,
La ruda montaña
Que vieron alegre
Correr nuestra infancia;

»Las viejas ruïnas
De tumbas y de aras
Que mantos hoy visten
De hiedra y de zarza;

»El árbol que frutos
Y sombra nos daba
Al són armonioso
Del ave y del aura;

»Recuerdos, amores,
Tristeza, esperanzas,
Que fuentes han sido
De gozos y lágrimas;

»La imágen del templo,
La roca y la playa
Que ni años ni ausencias
Del ánimo arrancan;

»La voz conocida,
La jóven que pasa,
La flor que has regado,
Y el campo que labras;

»Ya en dulce concierto,
Ya en notas aisladas,
Oirás que te dicen:
Aquí está la Pátria.

III.

»El suelo que pisas
Y ostenta las galas
Del arte y la industria
De toda tu raza,

»No es obra de un dia
Que el viento quebranta;
Labor es de siglos
De penas y hazañas.

»En él tuvo orígen
La fe que te inflama;
En él tus afectos
Más nobles se arraigan:

»En él han escrito
Arados y espadas,
Pinceles y plumas,
Buriles y hazañas,

»Anales sombríos,
Historias que encantan
Y en rasgos eternos
Tu pueblo retratan.

»Y tanto á su vida
La tuya se enlaza,
Cual se une en un árbol
Al tronco la rama.

»Por eso presente
O en zonas lejanas,
Doquiera contigo
Va siempre la Pátria.

IV.

»No importa que al hombre,
Su tierra sea ingrata,
Que el hambre la aflija,
Que pestes la invadan;

»Que viles verdugos
La postren esclava,
Rompiendo las leyes
Más justas y santas;

»Que noches eternas
Las brumas le traigan,
Y nunca los astros
Su luz deseada;

»Pregunta al proscrito,
Pregunta al que vaga
Por ella sin techo,
Sin paz y sin calma;

»Pregunta si pueden
Jamas olvidarla,

Si en sueño y vigilia
Por ella no claman!

»No existe, á sus ojos,
Más bella morada,
Ni en campo ni en cielo
Ninguna le iguala.

»Quizá unidos todos
Se digan mañana:
«Mi Dios es el tuyo,
Mi Pátria tu Pátria.»

A mi amigo Jorge Clark 

Happy Birthday Sonia Braga !!

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 2008

Manuel Puig and his Kiss of the Spider Woman

By Alejandra Espasande Bouza


Hector Babenco's The Kiss of the Spider Woman was recently released in Blue-ray and DVD for all to enjoy, hopefully this release will shed light upon the life of Manuel Puig (1932-1990) author of the novel that inspired the film.

The film The Kiss of the Spider Woman, based on the novel published by Manuel Puig in 1976, and adapted to the screen in 1985, revolves around the relationship of two prison inmates who share a cell in the sinister humidity of an undisclosed Latin-American country.
Valentin Arregui Paz, interpreted by the late Puerto Rican actor Raul Julia (1940-1994), is a leftist revolutionary obsessed with justice and the woman he loves. Luis Alberto Molina, played by American actor William Hurt, is a fragile homosexual who has been imprisoned for pederasty, and whose only desire is to reunite with his sick mother.
In spite of their striking differences, Molina has no problem in asserting his "feminine role" with confidence by considering himself a "normal woman," only capable of loving men. In contrast, Valentin struggles with an ideology that keeps him from accepting his devotion for an upper class woman. With time, Valentin opens up to Molina by allowing him to care for his wounds, and admitting his fear of revolutionary martyrdom by expressing his desire to have a “normal life.”
During the night, when the lights are turned-off, Molina makes use of his repertoire to recount old film plots. His visual memory, and his attention to detail make his narratives ever more palpable for a sick and bitter Valentin. From a thriller set in a Nazi occupied Germany, to the terror of a Zombie island, or the heat of a tropical night, Molina succeeds in drawing Valentin into his fantasy world. Every film tale, every anecdote, every word, slowly penetrates the remoteness of Valentin, who eventually succumbs to the workings of Molina, the "spider woman."
In one of the most defining moments, Molina sings a Mario Clavell bolero, titled My Letter, that summons what is going to became the core of the inmates relationship:

"Querido, vuelvo otra vez a conversar contigo. La noche trae un silencio que me invita a hablarte. Y pienso, si tu también estarás recordando, cariño...los sueños tristes de este amor extraño." Mi carta, Mario Clavel

"Dear, I come back, yet once again. The night brings an inviting silence for conversation. And I wonder... if you also remember the sad dreams of this strange love."
Unlike the collaboration of filmmaker Barbet Schroeder and author Fernando Vallejo in the literary adaptation of Our Lady of the Assassins, or the more recent collaboration of director Eloy de la Iglesia and author Eduardo Medicutti in The Bulgarian Lovers, there never existed a collaboration between The Kiss of the Spider Woman's director Hector Babenco and Manuel Puig.
Though the end result caused major distress upon the author, who never agreed with the changes of screenwriter Leonard Schrader, the film managed to gain an Oscar nomination for best adaptation. Another criticism of Puig fell upon the casting of William Hurt. The author did not agree with the choice, and never approved of the performance, which he considered shallow, but a performance that gained the actor an Oscar. In spite of Puig's disagreement, Hurt delivered a heart-wrenching final scene not to be forgotten in the history of contemporary cinema.

Excerpt of interview with Manuel Puig.
Could it be that there was too much of Puig in the character of Molina to let just anyone take a hold of it? Regarding the closeness of an author to a special character, French novelist Andre Guide, pioneer of "homosexual" literature, once expressed "How many buds we bear in us that will never blossom save in our books!" If Manuel Puig's passion for nostalgic boleros and classic cinema was the bud that sprang through Molina's persona, his political stand against dictatorial governments, cause of his exile, was also reflected in the persona of Valentin.
In an interview with Jorgelina Corbatta, following the 1979 Congress of Hispanic-American Writers in Medellin (Colombia), Puig was asked about the role the reader played in his literary work. His response was "Whenever I write, I'm always thinking of the reader. I write for somebody who has my own limitations. My reader has a certain difficulty with concentrating, which in my case comes from being a film viewer. That's why I don't request any special efforts in the act of reading."

For those interested in discovering the genius of this author here is a list of his novels:

The Corrido of Chalino Sanchez: by Alejandra Espasande Bouza

Today marks 23 years since the murder of Chalino Sanchez, a Mexican immigrant, turned L.A. icon, who composed and sang "corridos," a musical genre dominant in the rural areas that was looked down upon by Angelinos in a time when mariachi music was the preference. I was lucky to meet his widow Marisela last year. The tragedies this woman has surmounted make her one of the strongest persons I've ever met, and the opportunity to visit her house a great honor. Here is an article I wrote about why I consider Chalino's story, and that of his son Adan, important to Los Angeles history.http://latinola.com/story.php?story=10728 — with Chalino Sanchez (1960 - 1992), Chalino Sanchez, Chalino Sanchez el REY del Corrido,Chalino Sánchez Es El Rey and Adan Chalino Sanchez.

The Corrido of Chalino Sánchez:

Twenty years in the making, a concert in homage of the legendary singer and songwriter, May 18

By Alejandra Espasande Bouza
Published on LatinoLA: May 16, 2012

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The night of Tuesday, April 30, 2004, Angelenos were paralyzed in front of their TV sets with breaking news; aerial shots presented images of thousands of young men and women of Hispanic descent quickly assembling into the streets of Norwalk.

Due to the geographical location, and the racial profile of the crowd, the English-language TV Channels concluded that the event had to be some gang-related riot. In contrast, the Spanish-language channels reported something very different; the tumult was but the spontaneous expression of pain from part of the young Hispanic community toward the passing of a nineteen year old Mexican-American singer namedAdán Sánchez, whose body was being honored inside the "San Juan De Dios Church."

Eventually the English media took hold of the story as Joel Connable, reporter for KCAL-TV Ch. 9, explained that the presence of thousands was due to their desire to pay their last respects to a teen-idol. Connable went on to state that the deceased was the son of singerChalino Sánchez, who had been murdered in Sinaloa, a placed he described as known for the growth of marijuana and its drug cartels.

In previous months, the passing in California of President Ronald Reagan and actor Bob Hope had not caused such a stir. And thus the question: Who was this nineteen year old kid to cause this commotion? To understand what happened that night, it is imperative to understand the story of his father.

CHALINO SÁNCHEZ (1960-1992)

Rosalino Sánchez Félix was born in the state of Sinaloa on August 30 of 1960 from the union of Senorina Félix and Santos Sánchez; his first years were spent in the tranquility of the ranch Los Vasitos, in Culiacán, where he grew up in the company of seven brothers.

In 1965, Santos passed away leaving Senorina the sole head of the family. Four years later, Juanita, her only daughter, was allegedly raped by a neighbor from the area. The dishonor weighed on the family for some time, until 1975, when it is believed that Rosalino, the youngest brother, restored his sister's honor by killing her rapist. It is considered that this event was the reason that brought Rosalino to Los Angeles.

In the US Rosalino, who eventually went on to be called Chalino, began working in a series of jobs that ranged from the harvest of vegetables, the sale of cars, and the smuggling of illegal immigrants, a business he established with his brother Armando, who was later murdered in the "Hotel Rita" of Tijuana in 1984.

This tragedy inspires one of his earlier, if not the earliest, composition:

"En la ciudad de Tijuana, señores esto pasó,
murió un hombre de valor, un cobarde lo mató.
Sin darle tiempo de nada, siete balazos le dio.
Armando Sánchez tu nombre, pa siempre queda presente.
Tus amigos recordamos, que fuiste un hombre valiente."[/i]

Another corrido goes into more detail about the possible execution of a vengeance:

[i]"Al poco tiempo del crimen aquel cobarde cayó,
siendo una .45 la cual venganza cobró."

Also in 1984, Chalino married Marisela Vallejo, and had a son named Adán. During the following years his career as composer prospered with the patronage of a series of clients who wanted to be immortalized, or who wanted to immortalize those they loved, in the lyric of a corrido.

In his book "La Revolucion Mexicana a traves de los corridos populares," Armando de Maria y Campos stated that the corrido. composers of the revolutionary period were poets whose lyrics exalted "the agrarian, the miner, the worker, the sinarquist, the cristero or the communist." In contrast, in the Los Angeles of the 1980's, the corrido of Chalino reflected a more contemporary reality by narrating the triumphs and tragedies of the heroes and villains of the narco lifestyle.

In 1987, Chalino began to perform in front of audiences. Early videotape of his presentations show a charismatic performer that commanded the stage not through arrogance but a humble demeanor that contrasted with the heavy lyric of his songs. His ragged voice had a marked Sinaloan accent, and his on stage presence made him a true showman. He combined the typical macho-man Sinaloan hat and boots with the elegance of an opulent gold watches and rings.

The Spanish-language radio stations and record labels of the time looked down upon promoting the corrido genre which was considered lacking of commercial value; this circumstance brought about the establishment of independent record labels that included Chalino's "RR - Rosalino Records," Pedro Rivera's "Cintas Acuario," and Abel Orozco "Discos Linda."

In spite of the tumult of a life busy with recording sessions and performances at private parties and night clubs, Chalino had managed to solidify a stable life with Marisela and their now two children, Adán and Cynthia.

By 1990 his songs permeated the interest of young Mexican Americans who began paying attention to lyrics they found similar to those of rap music. Suddenly, those who once had been ashamed of the culture and music of their parents, even avoiding to speak Spanish, embraced the corrido and began wearing Sinaloan style hats and boots. This transformation was known as the "Chalinomania" and was cemented with the adoption of the quebraditadance style.

Chalino's career kept on ascending. He combined performances at the two major night clubs, El Parral and El Farallón, with bookings that took him to other US cities, and Mexico. In January of 1992, Chalino was hired to make a presentation at a club in Coachella; during his performance Eduardo Gallegos, a member of the audience, began shooting at the performer who also defended himself. Gallegos ended up with fifteen years of prison and Chalino, who was wounded, consolidated an image of fearlessness which went in hand with the character of his corrido.

Soon after this incident he was offered to make a presentation in his native Sinaloa for an estimated twenty thousand dollars. Though this had not been the first time he would perform in his native state, his wife asked him not to go, advice Chalino ignored.

A videotape recorded the night of May 15th in the "Salón Las Bugambilias" of Culiacán shows Chalino dressed in a grey suit with white hat and the company of five señoritas Tecate who walk him on stage where he starts to sing the theme that would immortalize him forever in the memory of his public; a composition by Mario Molina Montes titled "Las nieves de enero / The snows of January."

"Ha llegado el momento
chatita del alma de hablar sin mentiras
Espere mucho tiempo pa ver si cambiabas
Y tú ni me miras

Al principio dijiste que ya que vinieran
las nieves de Enero
Ir a ver a la virgen y luego casarnos
Seria lo primero

Ya se fueron las nieves de Enero y
Llegaron las flores de Mayo
ya lo vez me aguantado a lo macho y
mi amargo dolor me lo cayo

Ya se fueron las flores y llego el invierno
Y tú ni me miras
Es por eso te digo que llego el momento
De hablar sin mentiras

Al principio dijiste que ya que vinieran
las nieves de Enero
Ir a ver a la virgen y luego casarnos
Seria lo primero

No soporto ya mas tus mentiras
Esta espera se me esta destrozando
Al mirar que han pasado los años y
No pienso morirme esperando

Ya se fueron las nieves de Enero ya
Llegaron las flores de Mayo
ya lo vez me aguantado a lo macho y
mi amargo dolor me lo cayo."

As the audience sings-along, Chalino gives them a salute, and approaches some of his fans to listen to their requests; in the company of the group "Los amables del norte," under a mix of fog and lights, and the rhythm of his accordionist Nacho Hernández, Chalino exclaims:"Viva Sinaloa!"

The two words carried the emotion and pride of the immigrant that returns to his birthplace in triumph; but in Sinaloa aside from success, Chalino had cultivated enemies and it is believed that the large amount he was offered for his presentation was the hook for the execution of a revenge.

Following his departure from "Las Bugambilias," when on his way through the
Culiacán-Los Mochis roadway, his vehicle was intercepted by men dressed as Federales who took him, leaving behind one of his brothers and two women who accompanied them. Hours later, during the dawn of May 16, 1992, his mutilated body was found next to an irrigation channel with two bullets in the head.

The body of Chalino was buried next to the resting place of his father and brother in a pantheon close to Los Vasitos ranch in Culiacán. In the US, his widow Marisela Vallejo organized a requiem mass on his memory that took place on June 21 at the Iglesia Santa Martha in Huntington Park.

In Los Angeles the news of his murder spread like dynamite, and instantly Chalino turned into a legend. But contrary to the many legends of Mexican culture, the legend of Chalino was born in Los Angeles where his recordings gained him posthumous record sales.

Months later the torch of Chalino was passed on to his son, who at barely eight years old made his musical debut at El Farallón night club. Years later, in an interview produced by Sony Studios, Adán Sánchez stated: "I chose to follow my father's career because I don't like to leave things unfinished. I felt that my Dad left an open road; a career that was not concluded and I wanted to continue through that road."

Adan "Chalino" Sánchez went on to establish what became a solid career with a youthful repertory of romantic themes, some of which served to honor the memory of his father. It is no surprise that he gained the following of young Mexican Americans, but also the endearment of the parents and grandparents who had been fans of his father.

One of his most solicited songs was a composition by Antonio Aguilar titled "Que falta me hace mi padre / How much I need my father."

"Que falta me hace mi padre a cada paso que doy,
Ya mi Dios se lo llevo, cuan solita esta mi madre,
Recorrimos tantas veces, caminos y más caminos.
Éramos inseparables, casi como dos amigos,
Que falta me hace mi padre, ya no lo tengo conmigo.
Ay apa, como me sigues haciendo falta...
¡Y arriba Chalino Sanchez! oiga."

In 2002, Adán graduated from Paramount High School and began to fully focus on his career. In March of 2004, at only nineteen years, he became the first Mexican regional music artist to perform at the Kodak Theater in Hollywood.

In an interview conducted by journalist and Chalino expert Sam Quiñones, Adán stated, "A lot of people, young and old, come up to me and tell me, 'I liked your dad and I like you now.' I'm just doing my own thing, trying to follow him by doing my own thing. Making sure he'd be proud of me." A month later, on Saturday April 27 of 2004, during a tour in Sinaloa the car that transported Adán had a flat tire, and toppled, causing his instant death. This is the official version given by witnesses that were present inside the car during the accident, including a representative of the singer.

The news consternated the Mexican American community of Los Angeles; those who knew about his story and that of is father were perplexed at the tragedy of it all; those who didn't know him made a stop to understand why the city had come to a halt with the death of this young man.

For the second time Marisela Vallejo organized a funerary mass which took place on Tuesday, April 30. While the inside of the church was full to capacity thousands of fans began pouring into the vicinity. It was then that the media outlets began sending helicopters. The doors of the church were closed and the mass had to come to an early ending by request of the police which had trouble in managing the crowd.

Then the helicopter cameras captured the moment when a vehicle transported the body of Adán outside of the church; surrounded by thousands of fans, between cries and tears, the crowd began throwing flowers in their last goodbye.

The general outcry of such tragedy was mainly manifested through the blasting of their music all over the city. which could be heard emanating from the inside of passing cars, or the many kitchens of L.A. restaurants. It should not be forgotten that in a matter of days theCelaya bakery - with the help of neighbors - turned an exterior wall into a mural that served as a shrine with the painted image of Chalino and Adán.

And then the question, why did the passing of Adán cause such a convulsion?

If the murder of Chalino had been a painful blow to his audience, the emergence of his son in the music arena had become a consolation, and a symbol of the continuation of his legacy. His accidental death was just too unbearable. A double tragedy of Greek proportions. And then, there is the dynamic of the father and son relationship which linked together multi-generational audiences that found a common interest in their music and story. It is for this reason that their music legacy is preserved in the everyday life of a city that remembers them with pride and respect.