Friday, December 18, 2015

ART Walk Re-Blog. It's that time of year ............

Art has always played a significant role in the cultural and spiritual life of most of us who appreciate it. It can be a conduit for the mind to a more elevated plane – a plane of aesthetic buoyancy where the spirit is free to roam amongst the fairies and elves of Arcadia or it can be an ideal excuse to walk through the doors of galleries and studios to gawp nosily at the architecture and drink wine and munch on canapés to set you up for the evening before taking in the restaurants of Plaza Machado.

Here in Mazatlán we have something called The Saturday Morning Art Sprint and we sent the MazReal art correspondent Fielding Under-Kerstine or ‘FuKer to his friends’ and his pair of running shoes out to describe the art therein the tour.

After a sprint from the MazReal offices 10 kilometers away he first entered a gallery on Calle Fandango, drank half a dozen glasses of cheap plonk and ate some limp cheese where there was only one exhibit on that day by a US artist in the empty minimalist studio of 4 white walls, entitled “Fridge” by the artist, Genaro Electrico which consisted of a white cupboard-sized hollow space plugged into the mains, whose purpose it appeared to be keep things cool. 

On opening the door as he was invited to do, he found racks of ordinary comestibles such as butter, milk, cheese and eggs. This piece seemed to be saying “Are things cool enough?” Once your mind fixes on that, a whole host of fascinating questions pop up: What is the meaning of cool? What things do we want to keep cool? What would a hen think if you suggested cooling its eggs? So many questions that we have to make up our own answers and conclude that this is the most perplexing question: 

“Cool me down or shake me up daddy-o?” 

An art lover muses over 'Fridge' by American expat artist Genaro Electrico

He turned his back on the molded Bauhaus-styled, chilly and recessive stark piece and with his head reeling with the impact of what he had just ‘experienced’ or the effects of the shitty wine found his way onto the street and sprinted off to the next studio on his list where just off Calle 42 de Huevos y Mayo an ‘installation’ was suggested. 

‘Calle 42’ by artist Zero Aarnio known as ‘Mad’ Arnie. Our man sauntered in and helped himself to some more crap wine and soggy cheese biscuits and stale nuts. The installation was roughly the size of a ground floor of an average Zona Historica casa and was ironically named Calle 42 de Huevos y Mayo numero 19, which ‘Mad’ had inscribed on the front door.

‘FuKer’ was invited to walk through four spaces of gradually diminishing size till he found himself in an outside open area where the main attraction was a square hole with rounded corners painted sky blue filled with water surrounded by ‘loungers’

The piece shrieked bourgeois corporate, heartless yet bold minimal innovatism. He noted there was a sumptuous minimalist interplay between various abstract forms and surfaces and reflections. He immediately thought Gligorov without the dead body.

After Gligorov minimalist study 'Pool' by Aarnio. Part of the installation 'Calle 19'. The famous MazReal critic tests the water. 

Back inside, the first room boldly contained large sculptures reminiscent of furniture, except they did not look in the least bit comfortable. Pieces you would never remotely think of sitting in. Strangely incongruous in this Mexican setting. ‘East Coast Italianate’ he mused. This room gives the viewer immediate thoughts of geometry. This is a space by inhabiting we are giving shape and form to. The layers of meaning more apparent when you step through the doors, interrupting the tyranny of emptiness.


Installation 'Calle 19' by Zero 'Mad' Aarnio intrigues our man into speechlessness. 

The next room featured a large sculpture the size of a bed and through that a smaller room featuring sculptures of white porcelain invoking neo-dada. Duchamp would certainly approve especially the collusion of properties – white, silver, polished, wetness. He approached a mirrored surface fixed to the wall where he was invited to look inside and see the outside. What is within is without. It forced you to look inside yourself and see the outer person in reverse. 

“Totally gonesville amigo.” he blurted.

Our shag smoking critic takes a breather in the neo-dada installation of Calle 19. 

His mind reeling from the possibilities 'FuKer' stepped outside and never made it to the next one as the malecón and its bars so close beckoned him. He drunkenly passed on his way to the Puerto Viejo cantina a colorful shop with colorful prints of local scenes that sell to passing tourists and cruise ship passengers - tourist memorabilia. He pressed his drunken nose against the window and then staggered inside, his sensitive artistic sensibilities shattered by what he saw and he shouted in an art critic drunken rant taking it out on this poor somewhat taken aback person.

“I’m surrounded by work that is utterly banal and vulgar, like a toilet mounted in concrete resembling nothing that could exist outside of Lovecraftian fiction.”

The proprietor strode over slapped him hard and shouted back, 

“You fucking Philistine. True art is incomprehensible and these sell.”

Suddenly ‘he got it’, it was art, fine art no less and art that sells. He was surrounded by it. In this little colorful shop full of pretty colorful prints, he had seen the light. Those 4 words – True Art Is Incomprehensible.

Much later the MazReal staff had to be called to the Puerto Viejo cantina and cock-fighting joint to restrain a drunken man shouting his most pretentious art critic sayings at the top of his lungs and banging his glass and head on the table - 


We tazered the madman and dragged him out feet first still shouting and hollering. 


We clubbed him senseless to shut his pretentious art critic claptrap. But somehow we knew he was right.

Monday, June 29, 2015

The Transformation of Mazatlán into Mazopolis


Artists impression of Mazopolis The City Of The Future

"Reneée K Folkenflikdik reporting for MazReal Prods Daily here in the Sinaloa War Room and Breakfast bar in downtown Mazopolis....Stupendous things are about to happen and as I look around I can see 12, no 13, or is it 21, paunchy men drinking coffee, giggling like giddy schoolboys throwing paper aeroplanes around the room and having fun with Whoopee cushions and plastic dog turds. Yes, I am amongst this city's top echelon, the palpable presence of go-getters, movers and shakers, heavy hitters, men of influence, rich bastards and local politicians whose actions in this very meeting will change our lives, YES CHANGE OUR LIVES. FOR THE BETTER and FOR EVER.
Hang on, something is about to happen. Yes, Mayor General Grand Vizier Feltoon has just walked in zipping up his fly and the room has gone quiet in anticipation. Anticipation as to whether he has washed his hands. You can only hear a fly buzz and the toilet being flushed. Again. By his toilet-flushing minion. El Mayor is slowly, deliberately casting his metallic gaze around the room. The silence is deafening. He holds his hands up. YES YES YES. We can now confirm he has washed his hands and a collective sigh of relief rotates around the table.

The great man himself has just sat down. Wait, did he just fart thunderously. Yes. No, he sat on a Whoopee cushion and the room has erupted into uproarious laughter. Belly laughter like a pack of hyenas celebrating a bloody kill.

Calm is restored with one hawked glance from his steely eye as I sidle now over to the Major General Mayor and Great Elephant N'Dlovu. Here, let me just shove this microphone down your throat..."

"He shuffles his papers and we all lean as one towards him, his animal magnetism drawing us closer, closer...He is like a bull lion who smells a lioness on heat, his nostrils flare and he begins.."

"Mazatlán or New Mazopolis as I decree it will be now called, The Pearl or is it The Jewel or The something-or-other of the Pacific is to become  The City Of The Future."

"Whoops and cheers erupt like a Vesuvius eruption."

"Cars will fly through the smoggy air, skateboarders will have hover boards, our thumbs will be gigantic, our eyes enormous, our skin green and Superman will be on hand to take care of those naughty people who want to protest about wages and conditions. But do not worry, we will not pay them, we have to make cuts, deeeeeep cuts. Our shareholders demand it. Instead to save dough we will ship in Bangladeshi slave workers afresh from building the Soccer World Cup stadium in Qatar and all those refugees that the Europeans are throwing back in the sea. Yes they will build our city with low paid slave-wages and then, YES, we will throw them all back in the sea when they finish."  

Superman keeping an eye on things over The New City Of Mazopolis.

"I cannot believe it, the rich bastards are dancing on the table, tearing up paper and kissing each other. The Great Wazoo of Waziristan is now screaming maniacally and eating his tie."

"Private monies will soon be pouring in to construct space age constructions that will put all the other great Asian cities of the world and Uranus to shame. Tourists will flock into Mazopolis, our new city of the future and all the profits from the MacDonalds, KFC, Dunkin' Donuts, Taco Bell and the rest of those tasty food outlets and all the other other tourist delights planned will be ploughed back out again into the accounts of the private shareholders and politician's pockets and none, I say again NONE will go to improve the roads, lighting, water and education of those nasty poor people that hold our great city together."

NoMaz for the richer expat

"We will create jobs, low paid jobs, jobs for cleaners, bed makers, lift opperators and toilet attendants. Great jobs, big jobs, little jobs. Jobs, JOBS JOBS I tells ye."

"Reneée K Folkenflikdik, ace war reporter and chief bottle wash from the MazReal Prod Daily, can I just ask a question Your Highnessness?"

"Go ahead my fine good looking young man (what are you doing after the show eh?)."

"Sir Mayor, down boy! What will this new city consist of besides junk food stalls and cheap tat stalls?

"Well, young fella-me-lad. Here's a list
of our splendid ideas. I am a bit knackered so I hand you over to one of sponsors whose name I have forgotten. Let's call him Senora Smith."

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Mazatlán Spring News

"Siúl i gcúl le haghaidh na Nollag."

Inspirational words indeed from our
guest editor, the great fun-loving, rubicund Oirish drunkard, ex-priest and incomprehensible poet Seamus O'Seamus who takes over MazReal Publications for this long-awaited spring edition of Mazatlán News. 

The irrepressible poet Shaman O'Hoiney takes a swig from a gallon of Murphys.

On My Moind…..

"The only happy poet is a dead poet, only then you cannot change. When I die I will probably come back as a paintbrush."

I found that inspirational quote by Sylvester Stallone stapled to the back of my head when I was thrown off the ship on arriving at the port of dis wun'erful city of Matatloon. It made me laugh because that is how I felt at the time when my head hit the concrete and scraped the tip off my nose. Followed a second later by my cardboard suitcase which split open
scattering it'd contents onto the oil stained surface of the harbour waters. There followed a second later the obscene seafaring bellowing of our delightfully salty potty-mouthed Captain Henry(One-eye)Morganstone. 

"Now stay off my boat you feckin' great gob of Irish gobshite. And don't feckin' come back!"

I didn't know what I had done to deserve this frothing foul-mouthed tirade. Thinking back, maybe it had something to do with his silky skinned cabin boy Ahmed giving me a bed bath once a day while tossing on the ocean wave. Life is full of surprises and the challenge is to head them off at the pass says Clint Eastwood. 

Compelled by curiosity and the fact the Guarda are after me for eating a pair of pants on the Sabbath, I waved bye-bye to the soggy Emerald Isle and headed for a new life wherever the wind and the boat took me and now here I sit penniless quayside whilst a scrapulous dog cocks its leg on my crumpled tweed suit pant leg. 

Questions like "Why me?" "Is Kanye West really the incarnation of a Frean?" "Where is the line between insanity and creativity?" 'Whaat the …….?" haunt me until my head explodes.

However taking this temporary position on the editorial staff of the last bastion of great journalistic expat web rags - MazReal - saved me from utter destitution by them paying me the going rate that gringos pay their Mexican slaves the grand sum of 10 pesos a month. Out of which they take 5 for expenses and Angélica Rivera takes another five to pay her 500 gardeners.

I-don't-know-where-or-what direction I am heading in but understand you are dealing with an Irishman who knocked off War and Piece on the Coney Island roller coaster, penetrating the abtruse Tolstoyian arcana with ease despite enough lurching to spill my bottle of Jameson's 12 year old. Understand also that I was one of the select few who spotted in the Tate Modern's exhibit - The VW Beetle - that precise interplay of nuance and shading that Odilon Redon could have achieved had he forsaken the use of pastels for a car press and laddies ponying up scalper's money for argle-bargle bereft of one up-tune or a single star bangled bimbo and my rapport for the seven lilies is solid. ?

"To be sure, to be sure.." as they say in Derry, you might be confused but isn't that what life is about.

Here to end this guest editorial is an excerpt from my latest poem - Beyond Ichorkipark 

Let us sail. Sail with
O'Malley's chin to Alexandria
while the Beamish Brothers
Hurry giggling to the tower, 
Proud of their gums.
O'Riley dreamed of it too, and
O'Higgins who had his suit
Stolen while still in it.
Civilisation is shaped like
A circle and O'Rouke's head like a 
Rejoice, rejoice.

etc etc.


Fat is The New Thin : A special report by Antoiynée Mozziman guest Swiss reviewer and Alpenhorn blowing champion.

These 'reviews' and 'observations' do not necessary reflect the views of the full-time editorial.In fact most often we distance ourselves entirely from them.

Being fat has become the norm in Mexico and Mazatlán restaurants are taking advantage of this new norm by increasing the size of portions. It has been reported that skinny people are being violently turned away from many fine establishments because they are just not value for the little money they spend just 'pecking' on appetisers.

"Thin people and wasp waistline women are banned from Mazatlán." screeched Mayor Jim Feltoon tearing his hair out. "Everyone must weigh over 200 kilos or be forcefully fed by water board."

Government public information poster showing the wasp waistline type of people banned from eating in restaurants

more food……………….

The proprietor of Ze Grenoille D'Or (Ze Golden Frog)on The Plaza - "Our diners demand bigger frogs."

Proprietor Genevive Bujold of  Quebecois Restaurant Ze Grenouille D'Or on Plaza Machado and her from the farm to the table frogs.

Chef Angelo Merkel of the German Beerstübbensheitze - Der Leather Lederhössen - on The Plaza "Our diners demand bigger sauerkrauts."

Chef Angelo and his From The Farm To The Table Cabbage

Jésus Christo from the famous wood-fired chicken rotisserie - The Spinning Pollo - opposite the central market -

"Our take-out chickens are not big enough anymore. Gordos and Gringos are demanding whole wood-fired elk." 

He continued with his head in his hands -

"Man am i tired-out hunting in the Sierras all day and up to my ears in guts and skin all night. These gringos need to diet man. Please someone open a lettuce bar."

Doreen Thunderblatt proprietor of The Blind Potato on the Plaza grinningly shows off her from the farm to the table Sinaloa Spud:

" Our clients demand fucking enormous potatoes."

A disturbing recent ad from the Mazatlán Meat Marketing Board suggesting a family of three should eat half a buffalo and play ping pong afterwards.

Kiddies are expected to join in the binge eating fad...

Fresh faced KeekyDee from Thunderpant Rapids gigglingly prepares to get stuck into her 'kids meal' at the El Italiano Risa (The Laughing Italian) on the Plaza. 

Proprietor Anthony (The Fish) Rotunno (currently serving 15 years in Sing Sing for illegal possession of Bensonhurst)was asked to comment on Skype whether his kids meals are to blame for kiddie obesity :

Anthony: Hello Rico?
Rico (the Reporter)Fanducci: Hello?
Anthony: Rico?
Rico: I can't hear you.
Anthony: Rico I can't hear you.
Rico:Is that you Anthony?
Anthony: Hello Rico?
Rico: Can you hear me?
Anthony: Hello?
Operator: Hang up and try again.
Rico: Fuckin' Skype.
Anthony: Did I hear you say fuck to me Rico. I'm gonna kill you when I get out. You hear me? You're dead meat. Your grandmother, uncle and the rest of your Nigerian extended family. Dead Meat!!!!
Rico: Hello. Anthony?

La Tram Restaurant on 'The Plaza'

Filthy McNasty, freelance under-the-covers photographer captured these two amazing images of a pig being allowed to enjoy his last sunset before being placed sizzling in front of a diner and a portion of steak, cooked blue, being carried out to a diner at La Tram on the Plaza. The meatiest joint in town.

In fact the chef d'meat is gesticulating to the waiter that the said diner now wants two  portions of the menu favourite - The Half Cow.

When asked to comment, Big Chef Scaramango of Chiapas said "Do you believe in God? And if so, what do you think he weighs?" So saying he took a long luxurious drag on his cigar and stabbed our reporter in the eye with a fork.

Chef Georgio and Johnny Depp look-a-like of The Flying Fish on The Sea Restaurant on The Malcon attempts to hatchet the menu monster fish favourite - Coalacanth a la Late Cretacious. 

'We have to go to extraordinary lengths to please the appetites of Snowbirds. Cretacious Coalacanths are this years fad. What will they demand next year Sperm Whales a la parilla, Venusian Koi, Seahorse on a stick?"

Alcalde Tzar Señor Feltoon had declared that only jolly people of this stature will be allowed to holiday here in sunny delightful Mazatlán. Border guards have been noted. So eat up folks or take your skinny frames elsewhere!

On a lighter note - More Food news and reviews:

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Who are the NOBs and who are the SHITEs?

There are two main groups or tribes living in the Southernlands - the NOBs [sic] and the SHITEs*. Both fleeing from persecution in their far-off lands.

A NOB is a collective name for a group of Northernland ethno-semi-religious mainly protestant Christian caucasians of European  origin whose ancestry reach far back into the mists of time. 

Inspired by the writings of ancient NOB blogs from those who had already fled, they called themselves NOBs (North of Border)and began to flee southwards in ever increasing numbers pushed out of their ancestral lands by their fear of the agents of persecution that blight the country of their birth namely the IRS, the high cost of living, prohibitively high rates for a hip replacement and the successive corporate run totalitarian regimes that want them to stay and spend their monthly $1500-$1800 outgoings in their own country not in some Godforsaken, flea-bitten catholic banana republic run by demented commies and their evil cronies.

In Northernlandia the fascist Thought Police have the power to arrest anyone sitting on the street doing nothing. These toddlers were never seen again. It is assumed they are now Soylent Green's high energy plankton served to KFC chickens.

NOBs are finding refuge in a land where the cost of living is cheap, where there are stable communities of their own peoples that they can loose themselves in and where they can pay their dozens of servants a minimum wage close to that of a 16th century peasant. 

By the end of the 20th century and into the 21th century, roughly 1,000,000 NOBs had fled the hostile cloudy lands to the north.

A NOB family celebrating their freedom from the North by raising their arms on Playa Olas Altas

more after the break………………..

Saturday, August 30, 2014

August Morning Skies over Mazatlán Sinaloa Mexico

MazReal isn't all about parodizing the lifestyle of expats here in Mazatlán.

Here instead another set of 'What the snowbirds are missing' type photography that only occur in the rainy season during the early hours of the morning between 5 and 6.30 am. The season where NOBs* have retreated back into their temperature comfort zones.

Girk McGirk out again in his pyjamas wandering up and down Olas Altas to get these spectacular shots 

more snaps after this………..

Down At The Embarcadero

MazReal kicked their ace photographer Gerk McGirk out of bed and send him down to the embarcadero to see how the other half lives.

This is what you may see on any given day in September if you dragged yourself out of bed at 5.30 am and went down to the embarcadero where the ferries go to Stone Island. We all know that old people always wake up early and all expats are old so it shouldn't be too difficult.

As a Gringo, you can also be assured, if your Spanish is good, you will understand that some of the fishermen and vendors will relay a few choice words in your direction that will get the others howling. Laugh along with them.

more colourful pics after break..

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