Este amor apasionado
Anda todo alborotado por volver.
Voy camino a la locura
Y aunque todo me tortura, se querer.
Nos dejamos hace tiempo
Pero me lleg el momento de perder.
Tu tenas mucha razon;
Le hago caso al corazon
Y me muero por volver.
Y volver volver volver
A tus brazos otra vez;
Llegar hasta donde estas;
Yo se perder, yo se perder;
Quiero volver, volver, volver.
—
This impassioned love
Goes on, compelling me to return;
I’m on the road to madness
And although everything tortures me,
I know how to love.
We parted ways some time ago
But the moment of loss arrived.
You had every reason;
I heed my heart
And I’m dying to return.
And to return, to return, to return
To your arms again
I will arrive where you are
I know how to lose, I can take it
I want to return, return, return.
He’s wearing a royal blue polo shirt, standard issue black slacks and generic black work shoes, the kind that masquerade as a dress shoe but are nothing more than a sneaker. He looks like a Blockbuster employee, minus the badge. He half-mutters, half-bellows like a street preacher, except he is constructing a dialogue with himself, as though practicing lines for a play by performing both parts.
“You will bow down to me! And you will bow down to the Almighty!” is said to no one in particular, followed by an almost-whisper, “Too much Samuel Jackson, motherf*cker.” As the train approaches the next station, he turns to the doors to get off, catching his reflection in the window: “Gerber baby, you’re my hero…I get it, motherf*cker, I get it.”
As the Metro Mutterer, he is the opposite of the Dog or Horse Whisperer. Instead of communicating with animals with therapeutic aims, the mutterer sounds off to random people with unsettling results.
After a darkly comedic and psychedelic meditation on censorship and race in late ’60s Brazil (see: Macunaima), we refuse to pay a $7 cover for the privilege of drinking in the closest watering hole, a pirate-themed bar. And forget about $10 for the light bulb-themed bar. The all ages-themed bar is free, but being surrounded by all that youth comes with a price. So how about a spotless bar blaring banda, a hand-drawn illustration of hot tamales (a cauldron of steam atop two burning sticks) and dried sting ray whose pointy bits are accessorized with miniature plastic cowboy boots? We split our sides thinking about the long-winded city councilman and his elaborately calligraphed proclamations presented to the film’s central star.
He gets out of a yellow cab. The sunlight is intense, even through sunglasses. She’s on the phone talking about her previous evening’s disaster. “I was embarrassed to be seen next to him. Like I was on a date with my cousin. He must have lied about his age.”
Large coffee, milk with no sugar. Roasted peas. Sleeping wife.
“I feel nauseous. I’m going to vomit. I’m just going to stand in the back.”
They sat around discussing kangaroos and the news that Tom Cruise was a bottom. Previously, between pirouettes, he related that story about phone sex with the sadistic top. “Your penis has been removed.” Said two times for emphasis. “Your penis has been removed. Silence. *click*
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