Under
boards
philosophize is a way as any to be afraid and do not drive more than cowards mock
LF Céline, Journey to the End pm
Friday, 1:00 a.m.
my years in high school students on weekends had a symbolic hard to compare any thing today. Unlike most of my contemporaries, the weekend had little to do with lack of control, alcohol, lift or something. Up to one fifth of high school had been only three times to dance, something that would change a few years later, where more than dance that seemed to go hunting in safari. Possibly the field delimited by markers I call "adolescence" extends from my eighteen to nineteen years, meantime in which I tried to live more or less clumsy as he had done in previous years of movies, lectures, Nintendo 64 and games of bowling. For those new times, the Southern Cross that guided my days, breathing and heartbeat was the weekend, the urge to be with a woman, the necessity of taking a picture and file in the Fort hood memories. However, all that made sense for the counterpoint to the time of study.
is for this very reason I was so strange to ride 582 and run into that all those people that my twenty years and I dare called assholes. So far this year, but for work I had to deliver the first week of February, I have not touched a single book on psychology. We could even say that over time, much of my activity was focused on a floating self-learning ability is to music, film, writing and materials such as Lost. But psychology ... absolutely nothing. It is this detail that I had not realized that was the night of Thursday and was officially started a new weekend ( note: for my weekends start on Friday with the same, starting at 00:00 hs. ).
The bus is a green can of sardines move as a utility knife It cuts the night. I think the words of Colonel Kurtz, a slug fatally slow progress on a knife edge . Something. Still hot and all the women cling to this fictional summer with the last offer their tiny garments. Almost all are about sixteen, eighteen, everyone knows everyone, everyone will get off at the same time, like rats fleeing a burning garbage dump. Surely a bowling cumbia center, I think as a sharp voice brunette yells at the driver who put a full. There are so many passengers that I have to keep standing, on the third step of the ladder, grabbed the railing, leaning against the windshield of the bus, that is like the eye of a giant squid inspecting the drowsy Montevideo on Thursday at one o'clock in the morning. Girls free. Sure. The bus is so crowded that bypasses many stops where there are people with outstretched arms. Oddly enjoy seeing how they wave their fists, imagining what obscenities out of their lips once the 582 does not stop them. Inside is a brothel that can only be maintained in orbit by the driver chabacán spirit, a type of goatee, with no more than thirty-five years. He laughs about things that the kids yell, libidinous swaps that give the station pendejas to change the situation unsustainable density of passengers, the prevailing turmoil. The express bus is a destination, almost seems to have been rented by the same kids. I come from reading Tropic of Cancer , I'm missing about fifteen facets and I'm so anxious to know what will happen at Fillmore that I get to read the book stopped, abstrayéndome of that anarchy tied by silk thread. Surprisingly I can read without any difficulty. Pages as I go along with the corner of my eye I see a chick a few twenties, watching with a mixture of tenderness and pity, as one sees a puppy is not yet adequate coordination for walking. Yes, the truth that the image of a guy reading Henry Torba Miller among all those hormones is draining something funny, if not snobbish or misplaced. It is not the concentration, but the light that ends up deterring me keep reading. It is at that moment that I look up and see the street under the bus moving beneath my feet. The feeling is strange, it feels like a lookout spotted trying to land standing on the mast and the immensity of the sea below his feet. The consistency of being in a bus disappears, and that seems to walk two meters flowery pavement, walking speed through the streets of Montevideo. The windshield giant has much to do in that sense, it seems that I was the person operating the vehicle, like a winged animal controlled by psychic powers. The bus goes on and coat the smelly Fripur, the desolate world full of empty houses hangars and Phoenix plan, the center opens with all its lights, and you always feel like a consolation. In the square of Entrevero the bus stops and starts the expected exodus. Find a way of not having to get out with them, hanging on the railing like a hot iron. As people down the stairs, brushing or simply shocking, I smell all kinds of smells: the ubiquitous tetra, dried saliva, perfumes, acids, sweets and citrus gel, smoke, make, beer, sweat. When you pass the last teenager reeling and wondering if I have a razor blade, I can see all scattered on the corner of the square where The Passive , which is like a beacon on between many bars and nightclubs closed. Of all those who were here, at least two pairs will be formed, I think, while listening to distant, almost underground, the bass line announces the cumbia. I accept that beyond all the German bands unpronounceable names who have passed through my ears, beyond the hours of codas festering distortion I've heard Sonic Youth, beyond the sensitivity lost and found archived on disk bottom of my drawer, I hear that line always low there is something elusive, almost primal stirring inside. A rumble, a heart beating and still buried beneath the boards to pace -tum-tum tutu . Of course, it is not specifically cumbia which creates the strange sensation, nor is the stamp itself that does activate the salivary glands of Pavlov's dog. No, is everything else, with only those bars come to my memory of the night, the previous bad wine shared with friends and garroneros, tail and tails on doors, the ready, set, go!, career to nowhere, almost like the erratic fate of Dodges driven by Neal Cassady, women waiting drunk and shouting some things that will mourn the next day, restless legs miniskirt in the cold, the glitter on the lips shared among friends in the bathroom and just before entering the clubs, the smell of perfume that have not diluted in sweat, that revision of the ground, and carefully inspect every detail like a stalker throwing sheaves in the fields of the area. Relive those days I get tired, as a stage went well at the time, but it would be exhausting and overwhelming at this point in the circumstances, but that automatically revive and lasts as long as the bass line, missing the round the corner to get back the walkman or simply be inaudible.
When the bus resumes motion, heard from the throat of a boy: "A round of applause for the driver, che " and the bus receives a standing ovation unusually sincere, while the bearded gives some honks of appreciation. For a moment all I can say I lost youth is gone, and I realize that's just a matter of being a little more canchero, be a little more like the big lock, who is leading the laughter shitting for something I can not decipher.
Then I realize that I'm against the windshield, when there is more than a couple sitting at the bottom bus, with all the empty seats at my disposal. The driver looks at me, I look, I can look back and say "Do not mind if I stay here the rest of the trip stopped?" Confidently and type me a wink, making his way by following happens Yaguarón under my feet, still laughing about something that I dare not ask.
is for this very reason I was so strange to ride 582 and run into that all those people that my twenty years and I dare called assholes. So far this year, but for work I had to deliver the first week of February, I have not touched a single book on psychology. We could even say that over time, much of my activity was focused on a floating self-learning ability is to music, film, writing and materials such as Lost. But psychology ... absolutely nothing. It is this detail that I had not realized that was the night of Thursday and was officially started a new weekend ( note: for my weekends start on Friday with the same, starting at 00:00 hs. ).
The bus is a green can of sardines move as a utility knife It cuts the night. I think the words of Colonel Kurtz, a slug fatally slow progress on a knife edge . Something. Still hot and all the women cling to this fictional summer with the last offer their tiny garments. Almost all are about sixteen, eighteen, everyone knows everyone, everyone will get off at the same time, like rats fleeing a burning garbage dump. Surely a bowling cumbia center, I think as a sharp voice brunette yells at the driver who put a full. There are so many passengers that I have to keep standing, on the third step of the ladder, grabbed the railing, leaning against the windshield of the bus, that is like the eye of a giant squid inspecting the drowsy Montevideo on Thursday at one o'clock in the morning. Girls free. Sure. The bus is so crowded that bypasses many stops where there are people with outstretched arms. Oddly enjoy seeing how they wave their fists, imagining what obscenities out of their lips once the 582 does not stop them. Inside is a brothel that can only be maintained in orbit by the driver chabacán spirit, a type of goatee, with no more than thirty-five years. He laughs about things that the kids yell, libidinous swaps that give the station pendejas to change the situation unsustainable density of passengers, the prevailing turmoil. The express bus is a destination, almost seems to have been rented by the same kids. I come from reading Tropic of Cancer , I'm missing about fifteen facets and I'm so anxious to know what will happen at Fillmore that I get to read the book stopped, abstrayéndome of that anarchy tied by silk thread. Surprisingly I can read without any difficulty. Pages as I go along with the corner of my eye I see a chick a few twenties, watching with a mixture of tenderness and pity, as one sees a puppy is not yet adequate coordination for walking. Yes, the truth that the image of a guy reading Henry Torba Miller among all those hormones is draining something funny, if not snobbish or misplaced. It is not the concentration, but the light that ends up deterring me keep reading. It is at that moment that I look up and see the street under the bus moving beneath my feet. The feeling is strange, it feels like a lookout spotted trying to land standing on the mast and the immensity of the sea below his feet. The consistency of being in a bus disappears, and that seems to walk two meters flowery pavement, walking speed through the streets of Montevideo. The windshield giant has much to do in that sense, it seems that I was the person operating the vehicle, like a winged animal controlled by psychic powers. The bus goes on and coat the smelly Fripur, the desolate world full of empty houses hangars and Phoenix plan, the center opens with all its lights, and you always feel like a consolation. In the square of Entrevero the bus stops and starts the expected exodus. Find a way of not having to get out with them, hanging on the railing like a hot iron. As people down the stairs, brushing or simply shocking, I smell all kinds of smells: the ubiquitous tetra, dried saliva, perfumes, acids, sweets and citrus gel, smoke, make, beer, sweat. When you pass the last teenager reeling and wondering if I have a razor blade, I can see all scattered on the corner of the square where The Passive , which is like a beacon on between many bars and nightclubs closed. Of all those who were here, at least two pairs will be formed, I think, while listening to distant, almost underground, the bass line announces the cumbia. I accept that beyond all the German bands unpronounceable names who have passed through my ears, beyond the hours of codas festering distortion I've heard Sonic Youth, beyond the sensitivity lost and found archived on disk bottom of my drawer, I hear that line always low there is something elusive, almost primal stirring inside. A rumble, a heart beating and still buried beneath the boards to pace -tum-tum tutu . Of course, it is not specifically cumbia which creates the strange sensation, nor is the stamp itself that does activate the salivary glands of Pavlov's dog. No, is everything else, with only those bars come to my memory of the night, the previous bad wine shared with friends and garroneros, tail and tails on doors, the ready, set, go!, career to nowhere, almost like the erratic fate of Dodges driven by Neal Cassady, women waiting drunk and shouting some things that will mourn the next day, restless legs miniskirt in the cold, the glitter on the lips shared among friends in the bathroom and just before entering the clubs, the smell of perfume that have not diluted in sweat, that revision of the ground, and carefully inspect every detail like a stalker throwing sheaves in the fields of the area. Relive those days I get tired, as a stage went well at the time, but it would be exhausting and overwhelming at this point in the circumstances, but that automatically revive and lasts as long as the bass line, missing the round the corner to get back the walkman or simply be inaudible.
When the bus resumes motion, heard from the throat of a boy: "A round of applause for the driver, che " and the bus receives a standing ovation unusually sincere, while the bearded gives some honks of appreciation. For a moment all I can say I lost youth is gone, and I realize that's just a matter of being a little more canchero, be a little more like the big lock, who is leading the laughter shitting for something I can not decipher.
Then I realize that I'm against the windshield, when there is more than a couple sitting at the bottom bus, with all the empty seats at my disposal. The driver looks at me, I look, I can look back and say "Do not mind if I stay here the rest of the trip stopped?" Confidently and type me a wink, making his way by following happens Yaguarón under my feet, still laughing about something that I dare not ask.
Friday, 13:00
Friday, one of the evening. I'm glad to realize that even though I have risen to one quarter, I'm coming on time to a psychologist. Arriving late to a psychoanalyst is a mess (I wanted to say that word), not only because you're losing twine in those minutes that you were seeing in the youtube videos of children being beaten by footballs , but because the session lower anchors in the analysis of transference why you were late and you say that your relationship with the therapeutic process . Not to mention the case you forget the session. Yet, fortunately, my psychoanalyst is a pretty relaxed and beyond to make couch is still a person and not a black box, or robot is disconnected as soon as I leave the office (even several times we were talking about the toe and amputee Iommi different configurations of King Crimson, and conducting a program of progressive music in the Sodre). The fact is that in recent sessions has cost me quite associate, falling in intellectualism that are more like material for this blog that the therapy itself. The last meeting had good progress with a dream about a teddy bear who happens to be a toddler costume. I subscribe to The Daily only on Tuesdays and Fridays (where there is more space for the cultural section), days to match the therapy, which almost always come with the newspaper under his arm. Just to see the charge on Tuesday on the couch I realized I had forgotten the last session. As soon I get the paper said, and I question the proprietor. In the top says "Friends are friends," and there is a picture Sanguinetti and Lacalle. He says that after the failed act and the holder may be asked whether I prefer to consider him a friend rather than a psychologist (my psicoanlalista is professor of faculty and more than once has come to make some friends, "said By the way, tried to get a secret of mine, but aside from being taken showed an impeccable professional silence.) I'm not sure what to say and ended up running away on a tangent, talking about umbrella, saying that is the element most often forget people. In fact, that is just opening the umbrella to a question that I find uncomfortable , and the session continues between some aspects of my relationship with the treatment, the difficulty to recover the memory and make connections with certain experiences of my childhood. Apparently, the thought and the overelaboration the same has become a violent patovica that allows any association that engages my past. In short, a rampant neurosis in some years I will leave as Woody Allen.
The session seemed to go anywhere and might not have been worth remembering, not for what happened when I was leaving the office. I give a hand to my psychologist, and then when the door is opening my says "Ah, you forget the daily round." Indeed, had brought The daily Friday and then to couple it with me, read it and laugh. To say goodbye and show it to shit with laughter so much that when I hear his laughter under rumbling down the stairs. Here
holder Friday's Daily:
Friday, one of the evening. I'm glad to realize that even though I have risen to one quarter, I'm coming on time to a psychologist. Arriving late to a psychoanalyst is a mess (I wanted to say that word), not only because you're losing twine in those minutes that you were seeing in the youtube videos of children being beaten by footballs , but because the session lower anchors in the analysis of transference why you were late and you say that your relationship with the therapeutic process . Not to mention the case you forget the session. Yet, fortunately, my psychoanalyst is a pretty relaxed and beyond to make couch is still a person and not a black box, or robot is disconnected as soon as I leave the office (even several times we were talking about the toe and amputee Iommi different configurations of King Crimson, and conducting a program of progressive music in the Sodre). The fact is that in recent sessions has cost me quite associate, falling in intellectualism that are more like material for this blog that the therapy itself. The last meeting had good progress with a dream about a teddy bear who happens to be a toddler costume. I subscribe to The Daily only on Tuesdays and Fridays (where there is more space for the cultural section), days to match the therapy, which almost always come with the newspaper under his arm. Just to see the charge on Tuesday on the couch I realized I had forgotten the last session. As soon I get the paper said, and I question the proprietor. In the top says "Friends are friends," and there is a picture Sanguinetti and Lacalle. He says that after the failed act and the holder may be asked whether I prefer to consider him a friend rather than a psychologist (my psicoanlalista is professor of faculty and more than once has come to make some friends, "said By the way, tried to get a secret of mine, but aside from being taken showed an impeccable professional silence.) I'm not sure what to say and ended up running away on a tangent, talking about umbrella, saying that is the element most often forget people. In fact, that is just opening the umbrella to a question that I find uncomfortable , and the session continues between some aspects of my relationship with the treatment, the difficulty to recover the memory and make connections with certain experiences of my childhood. Apparently, the thought and the overelaboration the same has become a violent patovica that allows any association that engages my past. In short, a rampant neurosis in some years I will leave as Woody Allen.
The session seemed to go anywhere and might not have been worth remembering, not for what happened when I was leaving the office. I give a hand to my psychologist, and then when the door is opening my says "Ah, you forget the daily round." Indeed, had brought The daily Friday and then to couple it with me, read it and laugh. To say goodbye and show it to shit with laughter so much that when I hear his laughter under rumbling down the stairs. Here
holder Friday's Daily:
Friday, 14:25 laughter I know this is a subterfuge for an anguish that has followed me a few days. However, the act failed to hold on to the session I can get flashing smiles that draws attention to many people who cross me. I'm entering the elevator when the goalkeeper and I hear the cries of a pubescent making trouble for an issue that I can not decipher. I leave the building and across the street there's a fat kid, no more than fourteen years, pushing a guy a little taller, skinny and with that distinctive face masturbatory we usually have nearly all men at that age. That picture reminds me of the fights that took place in the door of my high school, eventually resulting Lapido the alley, where police used to visit both, but for its proximity to the Embassy of Spain also paranoid that small portion turned cement not exactly an oasis of violence. For a moderately high school as the San Juan cheto (which did not reach the British oligarchy , the offspring of Teutonic Deutsche Schule, the astronomical fees La Scuola Italiana, or system powered by fingerprint canteen of Lycée Français, but If you can spare future rugby players and polo shirts bearing), when they mentioned that students were coming Suárez (a public high school) to put him weighing some companions came a splash comparable to siege of Troy by the Achaeans. Unlike most people, who considered those of Suárez people take up arms, ridiculous and that was rather on the basis that students tended to be larger for being repetitive, I sympathized with them, not because I fell particularly well, but to intimidate and occasionally hitting people who had I want to let him but my policy not to be beaten hard hit could be carried out. The issue was that beyond threats, hardly the thing was out of control, being generally all in some shock and obscenities, followed by the intervention of higher or peers. On very rare issues you could see blood, and never really had tragic results (Unlike Marists, more cheto demarcated high school and that bypasses a curse on Indian burial ground that has already claimed the lives of many students, including a particularly gruesome case connected to a lift which I shall not for fear of being accused of morbid).
But there were the two boys, fat to skinny and bitching as bordeaux getting pushed him and tried to thread a kick. Some of that was a cheta bangs on the verge of hysteria, screaming at the thin and fat hovering around like those birds that feed on skin parasites rhinos. I feel with the goalkeeper, takes out a cigarette and we watch that, waiting to emerge when the first piñazo. He offers me a puff, but I do not smoke. There really fear in the face of the thin, strange aspect compared to the determination of fat in other cases would be betting against him. I'm half excited about the whole thing, or at least what promises to be something that becomes something else on Friday, more than the day between Thursday and Saturday. No major or overlooked by the return, if they will be fighting till you drop. I think I will not intervene unless a third party to join the fight or anyone else will be hitting the ground. In the latter case, it would only lift the arm issue and declare winner. The idea of separate I also find exciting, come and use my size difference, throwing the odd phrase sobering threateningly for a moment and become a ruthless representative of the law. I think that, but then I see that the goalkeeper made me look and I realize that for five or ten minutes that are pressing ahead without doing anything. I wait a little longer, but there is no case, push, go from one side to another like boxers studied until the twelfth round. It is here that when the doorman told me "these are not going to give more," I get up and walk towards them. For a moment to separate and shut up asshole to me standing between them. I say, "Che, ten minutes that I'm here, to see if they fight at once, which I have with this rotten recontra boludez of pushing ". Remain silent, skinny looks at me and stares at the fat down, stirring with a tile foot. They stay a while in silence and a few seconds after the fat is accompanied by the mine, the thin cursing and yelling something about a jacket that was lost with the noise of the city to turn a corner. The thin man goes to the opposite side, head down and still shaking. Slowly return to the building and to open up the gate keeper will make a gesture of disappointment that corresponds with his hands in his pockets. In the elevator I think how one antisocráticamente Sometimes it good even unintentionally.
Saturday, 17:30
Note: the first three paragraphs may be heavily redundant for Uruguayans, but the possibility of Argentina and other readers, I felt compelled to expand.
I had asked my father to take me to the National Party-River. I had not had a game so unusual in the Uruguayan football. This is mainly due to having a buzz like that of a classic for a party that many words, unless it was between a large and a boy.
By history, it is difficult to find a team as irrelevant as River Plate, a team that darsenero calling, but to change its headquarters office to the field has little to do with the ports, a team that was in international competition ever remember and that no relevant title whatsoever. Awarded to the fact it could have been the birthplace of possibly very important players like Brown (the leading scorer and possibly football Peñarol Uruguay), as well as Carlos "El Pato" Aguilera and some other players who naturally reached its zenith of fame and play with other shirts. Even in terms of swollen, River Plate is an extremely trivial box, getting the little piece of the pie he could in the neighborhood with more clubs in Uruguay (El Prado, with more than three teams) and whose supporters are not characterized either by the ferocity of the Cerro the garqués those of Defensor Sporting , religion predominant in Sisley tank, the political affiliation of Progress the ancianitud of the English Central , the loyalty of Cerrito, or apparent ubiquity of Peñarol and Nacional.
However, the match was a real media phenomenon, just because River Plate was playing well and undoubtedly a little much bigger by the management Juan Ramon Carrasco technique, a rate more than ever convinced me as a coach (whether as a player, obviously), certainly knows how to sell. National
If he won, he took off the tip of a River, if River was up, he opened the way to the championship than ever before in its history. Once in the stadium, I could confirm: over forty thousand people, more public than in parts of the world cup. A few meters from the stage where it was installed, there was a small section dedicated to the public River. Everyone who ever got a red and white were there. They looked really happy, with a hope that not long ago veía en ninguna persona (y mucho menos en un uruguayo). Incluso cuando entró el equipo de Carrasco me pareció un tanto exagerado el recibimiento, con stock de bengalas y bombardas que parecían restos de armamento soviético defectuoso comprados a precio de saldo a un país de medio oriente.
La historia más o menos se sabe, en cuestión de media hora River, el cuadro chico pero hiper inflado de Carrasco iba ganando por tres goles a cero, y prácticamente el desempeño de Nacional daba lástima. La superioridad era violentamente evidente, y como hincha de Nacional estaba más aturdido que deprimido. Fue entre el segundo gol y el tercero que escuché a una persona puteaba cada decisión del árbitro con la persistence and violence of tourette . It was an old man with mustache, in hat and shirt River Atletico Madrid (with the name written Forlan back, and it shares the same colors darseneros). The guy was sitting and standing all the time, and the care with which he treated the rest of the fans indicated that it was at least an illustrious club. By the time River scored the third goal, the first thing I did was look at him. Mr jumped, hugged a man whose body fat the vertical winding back his shirt, sat down, shouted back. In his blue eyes had a flame that seemed to have been blocked for a long time, perhaps for a lifetime. One could think that this joy may end up killing him.
However, by the end of the first half was a goal of Chengue, rustic player whose score was more relevant than any of us would have thought. That goal was as if someone in the audience had stood up and shouted: Carrasco is naked!. At that time none knew, but it was the beginning of the end. In the meantime even approached a camera to interview the old man. I could not hear much of the interview, only saw the face of the old unabashedly happy, drawing his fingers to indicate numbers and dates they were witnessing an unconditional forecasts and monitoring the club.
The second half everything changed, like a piece of Yenga extracted by a drunk, the system, everything collapsed, the channels were closed, the law of gravity to devour the dead, the goalkeeper's hands were amputated and the passes were either way like a crazy weathervane. Relevant National equaled twenty minutes until then doughty River result. Beyond
be a fan of Nacional, seeing these people so happy at the beginning of the game, for a moment I thought how fun would see how the supremacy of the old team ended up destroying their hopes, like a primeval god completely dismantled a heathen. And certainly I had enjoyed, until the three to three turned my gaze to the old. Had stopped screaming, one from my distance I could see her throat choked while watching the court with the saddest eyes I've seen. Unlike the rest of the fans of River type was not angry, but just sad. He had removed his hat, what is between his legs, he bent and straightened the hood, I wanted to throw it into the ground, crush it with his foot, but there was some part of you that prevented it. Then came the goal of Romero, and I looked to the Lord. He said nothing, looked at the floor and some of his colleagues gave him pats of encouragement on the back. It was then that left to be fun. A part of me wanted to celebrate, but could not. He looked at the old time to time and a sadness bordering on guilt washed over me chest. I felt her anguish too present, it was uncomfortable. I even thought about that and I realized that in biblical matters, it would be just another person in the audience cheering the victory emboldened Goliath. It was almost a story without a happy ending, and I was there, celebrating with confetti.
For the fifth goal looked to the side and place the man had only an empty bank. I imagined her to return home, take off the shirt, leave the hat hanging on a rack and sit on the edge of the bed, saying nothing. Then are the three days, the wound of that loss still open, the fuck of his neighbors, one of the most important days of your life dragged through the mud. And then came the free throw in the sixth, and by then we were down the stairs of the stadium, between garcas, old football figures and businessmen who want to have something to talk about on Monday at the office.
I got in the car, still thinking of the old while listening to the radio's voice repeating words like Rivers feat , miracle, and party joy.
Note: the first three paragraphs may be heavily redundant for Uruguayans, but the possibility of Argentina and other readers, I felt compelled to expand.
I had asked my father to take me to the National Party-River. I had not had a game so unusual in the Uruguayan football. This is mainly due to having a buzz like that of a classic for a party that many words, unless it was between a large and a boy.
By history, it is difficult to find a team as irrelevant as River Plate, a team that darsenero calling, but to change its headquarters office to the field has little to do with the ports, a team that was in international competition ever remember and that no relevant title whatsoever. Awarded to the fact it could have been the birthplace of possibly very important players like Brown (the leading scorer and possibly football Peñarol Uruguay), as well as Carlos "El Pato" Aguilera and some other players who naturally reached its zenith of fame and play with other shirts. Even in terms of swollen, River Plate is an extremely trivial box, getting the little piece of the pie he could in the neighborhood with more clubs in Uruguay (El Prado, with more than three teams) and whose supporters are not characterized either by the ferocity of the Cerro the garqués those of Defensor Sporting , religion predominant in Sisley tank, the political affiliation of Progress the ancianitud of the English Central , the loyalty of Cerrito, or apparent ubiquity of Peñarol and Nacional.
However, the match was a real media phenomenon, just because River Plate was playing well and undoubtedly a little much bigger by the management Juan Ramon Carrasco technique, a rate more than ever convinced me as a coach (whether as a player, obviously), certainly knows how to sell. National
If he won, he took off the tip of a River, if River was up, he opened the way to the championship than ever before in its history. Once in the stadium, I could confirm: over forty thousand people, more public than in parts of the world cup. A few meters from the stage where it was installed, there was a small section dedicated to the public River. Everyone who ever got a red and white were there. They looked really happy, with a hope that not long ago veía en ninguna persona (y mucho menos en un uruguayo). Incluso cuando entró el equipo de Carrasco me pareció un tanto exagerado el recibimiento, con stock de bengalas y bombardas que parecían restos de armamento soviético defectuoso comprados a precio de saldo a un país de medio oriente.
La historia más o menos se sabe, en cuestión de media hora River, el cuadro chico pero hiper inflado de Carrasco iba ganando por tres goles a cero, y prácticamente el desempeño de Nacional daba lástima. La superioridad era violentamente evidente, y como hincha de Nacional estaba más aturdido que deprimido. Fue entre el segundo gol y el tercero que escuché a una persona puteaba cada decisión del árbitro con la persistence and violence of tourette . It was an old man with mustache, in hat and shirt River Atletico Madrid (with the name written Forlan back, and it shares the same colors darseneros). The guy was sitting and standing all the time, and the care with which he treated the rest of the fans indicated that it was at least an illustrious club. By the time River scored the third goal, the first thing I did was look at him. Mr jumped, hugged a man whose body fat the vertical winding back his shirt, sat down, shouted back. In his blue eyes had a flame that seemed to have been blocked for a long time, perhaps for a lifetime. One could think that this joy may end up killing him.
However, by the end of the first half was a goal of Chengue, rustic player whose score was more relevant than any of us would have thought. That goal was as if someone in the audience had stood up and shouted: Carrasco is naked!. At that time none knew, but it was the beginning of the end. In the meantime even approached a camera to interview the old man. I could not hear much of the interview, only saw the face of the old unabashedly happy, drawing his fingers to indicate numbers and dates they were witnessing an unconditional forecasts and monitoring the club.
The second half everything changed, like a piece of Yenga extracted by a drunk, the system, everything collapsed, the channels were closed, the law of gravity to devour the dead, the goalkeeper's hands were amputated and the passes were either way like a crazy weathervane. Relevant National equaled twenty minutes until then doughty River result. Beyond
be a fan of Nacional, seeing these people so happy at the beginning of the game, for a moment I thought how fun would see how the supremacy of the old team ended up destroying their hopes, like a primeval god completely dismantled a heathen. And certainly I had enjoyed, until the three to three turned my gaze to the old. Had stopped screaming, one from my distance I could see her throat choked while watching the court with the saddest eyes I've seen. Unlike the rest of the fans of River type was not angry, but just sad. He had removed his hat, what is between his legs, he bent and straightened the hood, I wanted to throw it into the ground, crush it with his foot, but there was some part of you that prevented it. Then came the goal of Romero, and I looked to the Lord. He said nothing, looked at the floor and some of his colleagues gave him pats of encouragement on the back. It was then that left to be fun. A part of me wanted to celebrate, but could not. He looked at the old time to time and a sadness bordering on guilt washed over me chest. I felt her anguish too present, it was uncomfortable. I even thought about that and I realized that in biblical matters, it would be just another person in the audience cheering the victory emboldened Goliath. It was almost a story without a happy ending, and I was there, celebrating with confetti.
For the fifth goal looked to the side and place the man had only an empty bank. I imagined her to return home, take off the shirt, leave the hat hanging on a rack and sit on the edge of the bed, saying nothing. Then are the three days, the wound of that loss still open, the fuck of his neighbors, one of the most important days of your life dragged through the mud. And then came the free throw in the sixth, and by then we were down the stairs of the stadium, between garcas, old football figures and businessmen who want to have something to talk about on Monday at the office.
I got in the car, still thinking of the old while listening to the radio's voice repeating words like Rivers feat , miracle, and party joy.
Sunday, 12:22
Two liters of beer, 100 Pipers and several glasses of sangria I had left as a rag doll on Sunday morning. Martin had met and went to the barbecue Mercado Modelo, where veteranazgo (seriously, all over forties) came on the same dynamics I get up and drinking a few years ago. I saw myself in the mirror of the cabinet in the bath and I found the face olives, purple makeup of dark circles and even a drag of wine tattooed on his lip. I was destroyed, but I decided to go to the fair Tristan Narvaja, which had not visited for two weeks. Beyond
fatigue there is hardly a place where I feel such a sense of location Tristan Narvaja Fair. With time and persistence got to know almost all sellers of local clubs and I have informants who keep me abreast of all the sprints. Is the flea, a guy who despite being an old ricotero can speak at length without put you as a Jehovah's Witness lyrics Solari (and I also serve as an intermediary to bring me the most varied of Buenos Aires). Is Ernesto, a veteran obsessed with the Beatles, Dylan and Calexico who used to have vinyl and Modern Dance, but now is going through a rough patch. Not far away there is a mustache that may use a muscular, regardless of being in the month of July, only to display dark and imposing a tattoo Black Sabbath (with only one b, a detail that has me obsessed but I am afraid to tell for fear of his reaction Viking). A few meters away, a new type discs will sell by 1500 Betrayal pesos (not yet realized that it is in Tristan Narvaja). In Cologne a hippie-punk patches and makes you pay offers in twenty or thirty dollars - as you prefer -. In front of faculty of Psychology sell you a type of Anime videos and if you make a sign to show you his collection of Hentai. For Paysandú most often sell anything, cash registers old, faded and gray hair doll, bicycle chains, automobile steering wheels, video without plug-Learn More, PEOPLE magazine's 96 'to be cut by hairdressers to forty dollars. In Minerva library is Erasmus, a person of such goodness that Mahatma Gandhi would see as a pedophile picky, and I have talked about the safety Lithuanian poetry can have a junkie talking about drugs. Rhizome sold in bookshops good film books, and attends a couple obsessed with Bauhaus and a subsequent project whose name I always forget. A weekly drop this library is usually a woman so sinister that would see Diamanda Galás as Noelia Field, and always question your eyes open, on the verge of getting out of their sockets, if you have a book in Portuguese. In the fall of Ernesto usually the same people, like junkies looking for information on new dealers: a Galician with the styling of David Lynch, a veteran with a handmade shirt Velvet Underground, the guitarist for a band that considers rockandrollera Brian Setzer the best guitarist of all time and is often purchased horrible rockabilly compilations. And among all, and everywhere, discs and records of Yes and Emerson Lake and Palmer.
I had encountered with vinyl From Her To Eternity Nick Cave. Out five hundred dollars (twenty five dollars), so I thought awhile. I asked Ricardo, another good seller of vinyl, if I could book and I said no, that this album was sold today. Under pressure I remembered the presence of an evil doppleganger has robbed me and several disks, all have told me that it was the same person, and between Birla vinyl is precisely the great Tender Prey - and ended up shelling out five hundred pesos (two hundred of them in coins together in a bag).
Two liters of beer, 100 Pipers and several glasses of sangria I had left as a rag doll on Sunday morning. Martin had met and went to the barbecue Mercado Modelo, where veteranazgo (seriously, all over forties) came on the same dynamics I get up and drinking a few years ago. I saw myself in the mirror of the cabinet in the bath and I found the face olives, purple makeup of dark circles and even a drag of wine tattooed on his lip. I was destroyed, but I decided to go to the fair Tristan Narvaja, which had not visited for two weeks. Beyond
fatigue there is hardly a place where I feel such a sense of location Tristan Narvaja Fair. With time and persistence got to know almost all sellers of local clubs and I have informants who keep me abreast of all the sprints. Is the flea, a guy who despite being an old ricotero can speak at length without put you as a Jehovah's Witness lyrics Solari (and I also serve as an intermediary to bring me the most varied of Buenos Aires). Is Ernesto, a veteran obsessed with the Beatles, Dylan and Calexico who used to have vinyl and Modern Dance, but now is going through a rough patch. Not far away there is a mustache that may use a muscular, regardless of being in the month of July, only to display dark and imposing a tattoo Black Sabbath (with only one b, a detail that has me obsessed but I am afraid to tell for fear of his reaction Viking). A few meters away, a new type discs will sell by 1500 Betrayal pesos (not yet realized that it is in Tristan Narvaja). In Cologne a hippie-punk patches and makes you pay offers in twenty or thirty dollars - as you prefer -. In front of faculty of Psychology sell you a type of Anime videos and if you make a sign to show you his collection of Hentai. For Paysandú most often sell anything, cash registers old, faded and gray hair doll, bicycle chains, automobile steering wheels, video without plug-Learn More, PEOPLE magazine's 96 'to be cut by hairdressers to forty dollars. In Minerva library is Erasmus, a person of such goodness that Mahatma Gandhi would see as a pedophile picky, and I have talked about the safety Lithuanian poetry can have a junkie talking about drugs. Rhizome sold in bookshops good film books, and attends a couple obsessed with Bauhaus and a subsequent project whose name I always forget. A weekly drop this library is usually a woman so sinister that would see Diamanda Galás as Noelia Field, and always question your eyes open, on the verge of getting out of their sockets, if you have a book in Portuguese. In the fall of Ernesto usually the same people, like junkies looking for information on new dealers: a Galician with the styling of David Lynch, a veteran with a handmade shirt Velvet Underground, the guitarist for a band that considers rockandrollera Brian Setzer the best guitarist of all time and is often purchased horrible rockabilly compilations. And among all, and everywhere, discs and records of Yes and Emerson Lake and Palmer.
I had encountered with vinyl From Her To Eternity Nick Cave. Out five hundred dollars (twenty five dollars), so I thought awhile. I asked Ricardo, another good seller of vinyl, if I could book and I said no, that this album was sold today. Under pressure I remembered the presence of an evil doppleganger has robbed me and several disks, all have told me that it was the same person, and between Birla vinyl is precisely the great Tender Prey - and ended up shelling out five hundred pesos (two hundred of them in coins together in a bag).
I like to see walk with the album under his arm, I think I would ever be captured in photography that way. A little to convince himself not to have wasted the money, I am writing to show Rhizome couple of my record of Nico Cueva. If you like both Bauhaus, it is possible to support me in the purchase. is on the way to the library to hear something that my blood runs cold. In a horrible place vinyl, listening to a disc that has stories of important moments of Uruguayan football. At the precise moment they step out there, I hear my father's name and the goal for Uruguay in the final of the Copa America 83 '. I think it's headed goal from Pato Aguilera, that after which temporarily lost consciousness. At the time of shouting for a goal, everyone who roamed the same path we sat in silence. In some ways the situation is reminiscent of that great scene Germany: Year Zero , where the child star tries to sell you vinyl Hitler's speeches about American soldiers. With total indifference puts the needle on the record and Hitler's voice echoes from different corners of the city, leaving some people helpless to hear, like a voice from beyond to bring back one of the darkest periods humanity. There might be just the opposite, brings us this Sunday and drags us to an era where at least in sports could be proud of something. We were all frozen, especially me, when hearing the name of my father, that almost proved to be a coded message aimed at me. It's amazing how the story of a goal can remove both. In those fifteen seconds, the sporting glory was present and spoke much more than football, moth-eaten in that environment, soot and banana filled with lint. When the story ends, lift the needle and appears Perhaps Perhaps bolero, catapulting back into the beautiful and depressing reality of Tristan Narvaja. I return to my home, walking slowly, looking in shop windows with Cave's face under his arm and wondering if it was another result, those three goals in River had meaning for the old as for me had this story goal.
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