Having ended Europride, Madrid is apparently back to the usual Nicotine-and-ethanol lifestyle, it seems, and just tonight Jose and I went out with his friends for some of the Madrilean sense of fun.
Not too bad, because THIS TIME at least they had music on. Madonna. Honey, after two months smoking passively and listening to nothing but ppl getting drunk and speaking gibberish, you’ll consider any cadence the redeeming Music of the Spheres!
At the penumbrous bar, the centre of all attention was a bald fag, clearly almost fourty and wearing skinny clothes, untanned and shaving the whole body to look 20something, talking about how he went to all dozens of parties this weekend, and how everywhere looked like his birthday party because he knew everybody and everybody was delighted to see him.
At some point, the party’s host, who happens to be a quite nice guy, asked me and my boyfriend if I went to my brother-in-law’s wedding party last Saturday, and Jose told him that due to my father-in-law’s resistance to meet me, I went to the Pride parade instead. Then, Mr. Soul-of-the-party, who just treasures being everywhere all the time, butts into the first talk I’m able to engage the whole evening.
“Did you like the Parade? It’s a little like in Sambódromo, but with political vindication”.
Talking about Pride, I educated him.
“You should know that beyond Carnival, in São Paulo we have the hugest Pride parade in the world”. And to round up the effect, I added: “You should visit there one day”. As is typical with mindless party animals, he just had more of his coca-cola-with-alcohol, turned his head left and started another party-animal topic with some other native.
Sampa 1 x 0 Madrid.
On the way home, I told Jose this story, and he diagnosed my ‘susceptibility’, his current favourite word in things Awen, and went on to defend his co-local.
At the metro station, Inspiration moved me to write this blog entry. Being deprived of my writing devices, I decided I’d Irish-step to a bagpipe tune in my head instead. My boyfriend and the whole platform stared me with rebuking Madrilean eyes, even though it was helpless—I’m not in Sampa, but Sampa lives in me, it’s my Genetics. I carry the seed, and it is my Power and my right to sprout and blossom whenever the fuck I see fit. There’s nothing anybody can do to change it. Not anymore.
Blog entry dedicated to my very wise friend Catt. Thanks, Catt, for reminding me of the higher purpose, and that I’m here for a very noble reason!
Image: Sampa Pride Parade. The Rainbow flag at the Rainbow's End!
Not too bad, because THIS TIME at least they had music on. Madonna. Honey, after two months smoking passively and listening to nothing but ppl getting drunk and speaking gibberish, you’ll consider any cadence the redeeming Music of the Spheres!
At the penumbrous bar, the centre of all attention was a bald fag, clearly almost fourty and wearing skinny clothes, untanned and shaving the whole body to look 20something, talking about how he went to all dozens of parties this weekend, and how everywhere looked like his birthday party because he knew everybody and everybody was delighted to see him.
At some point, the party’s host, who happens to be a quite nice guy, asked me and my boyfriend if I went to my brother-in-law’s wedding party last Saturday, and Jose told him that due to my father-in-law’s resistance to meet me, I went to the Pride parade instead. Then, Mr. Soul-of-the-party, who just treasures being everywhere all the time, butts into the first talk I’m able to engage the whole evening.
“Did you like the Parade? It’s a little like in Sambódromo, but with political vindication”.
Talking about Pride, I educated him.
“You should know that beyond Carnival, in São Paulo we have the hugest Pride parade in the world”. And to round up the effect, I added: “You should visit there one day”. As is typical with mindless party animals, he just had more of his coca-cola-with-alcohol, turned his head left and started another party-animal topic with some other native.
Sampa 1 x 0 Madrid.
On the way home, I told Jose this story, and he diagnosed my ‘susceptibility’, his current favourite word in things Awen, and went on to defend his co-local.
At the metro station, Inspiration moved me to write this blog entry. Being deprived of my writing devices, I decided I’d Irish-step to a bagpipe tune in my head instead. My boyfriend and the whole platform stared me with rebuking Madrilean eyes, even though it was helpless—I’m not in Sampa, but Sampa lives in me, it’s my Genetics. I carry the seed, and it is my Power and my right to sprout and blossom whenever the fuck I see fit. There’s nothing anybody can do to change it. Not anymore.
Blog entry dedicated to my very wise friend Catt. Thanks, Catt, for reminding me of the higher purpose, and that I’m here for a very noble reason!
Image: Sampa Pride Parade. The Rainbow flag at the Rainbow's End!
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