guerreros de journalismo

yo soy el blogger la mas borracho. no tengo español. No hablo español. I loathe only the parts of me that speak of loathing. The bar/restaurant we went to had a colossal Lichtenstein hanging. People were smoking indoors. I felt the smoke damaging the Lichtenstein — I felt the damage in my hair, somehow. (This is a lie. I am courting you.) I continued with my horrible Spanish. Peru means turkey in Portuguese. I ate a Peru sandwich. It was fucking amazing, even though it could have been easily produced in los estados unidos. Where was the Lichtenstein produced? It depicted a couch and a carpet reflected in a wall-length mirror or window. It was phenomenal. There was aura just pouring out of the thing, onto the diners. More fucking aura than I’ve seen pouring out of a painting in a while. Art needs to be freed from museums, and set free in really expensive restaurants. It wasn’t that expensive. I paid R 22 for two nice beers and a phenomenal sandwich.

Here is an approximation in English of some things I might have shouted tonight, as heard by a fluent Spanish ear:

[Shouting, because of the loud bar]

WHAT IS YOU SAY WITH YOUR JOBBING?

HOW ARE THING YOU SAYING?

IT IS AN ANCIENT CUSTOM! THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY!

MCSWEENEY’S IS PRINTED A STORY WITH AN SUBJECTS OF  YOUR NOT IDEAS!

HA HA HA! I DON’T HAVE THIS AGAINS! I WELCOME! THESE BEER IS THE SAME!

ETC.

ETC!!