Que pasa

Flipping through the free copy of The New Paper at the office, I was surprised to spot a review of Juanes' Mi Sangre.

Not because it's a Spanish-language album, but because well, it was released in 2004. It's been around for quite a while, fellas. But yeah I suppose some distributor must have decided to bring it in, maybe there's some new interest in Spanish music.

All that said though, I love his music. I might not understand it all, but it's all good. Except La Camisa Negra, one of his hits. I don't like that song. It's kinda irritating.

So here's one I like
Nada Valgo Sin Tu Amor, which means I am nothing without your love. Like it? Go buy it, Borders seems to be stocking it, although I'm not sure of the price.

Also, please go read Richard Ford's Women With Men, a gorgeous book of three long short stories. I admit being drawn first to the picture on the cover, a grainy black-and-white of a couple in an embrace, beside what looks like a train. I wonder what the woman is thinking - sometimes the expresion on her face looks a mix of surprise, despair and yet othertimes, I think she just looks distracted. I'm not sure. Maybe they are lovers saying goodbye, or hello. He seems to be kissing her on the cheek. Maybe she doesn't know what to say. Maybe she's just so full of emotion she can't say anything.

I've never read anything else by Richard Ford before, although I suppose I should read his Pulitzer Prize-winning Independence Day sometime soon. I do like the way he captures relationships.

His first short, The Womanizer, is of a man, Martin Austin, who meets a woman while on a business trip to Paris. He persuades himself he might have a future with her, and can't get her out of his mind. He returns home, to Chicago, to his wife, who leaves him. He picks up and heads back to Paris where he tries to start life anew, and tries to make something with Josephine, the Parisian woman who enraptured him the first time, but now he realises she's a bit different from what he remembered.

My favourite passage:
Sitting at his tiny, round boulevard table, removed from the swarming passersby, Austin thought this street was full of people walking along dreaming of doing what he was actually doing, of picking up and leaving everything behind, coming here, sitting in cafes, walking the streets, possibly deciding to write a novel or paint watercolours, or just to start an air-conditioning business, like Hank Bullard. But there was a price to pay for that. And the price was that doing it didn't feel the least romantic.

This book really isn't for reading at home. It's a book that calls out to be read somewhere in the city. At a cafe. With a cup of coffee. And a slice of cake. Just don't spill anything onto that book. It's a keeper.

(However, that is not to say that the other two shorts are set in Paris. I'm onto the second one now and that is set in a small town, somewhere in the mid-west I believe. The only mention of a city is that 17yo Lawrence is headed to Seattle, where his mother lives.)

I am quite liking this London band called the Guillemots. Check out their myspace or you can download Made Up LoveSong #43 at Sixeyes