Yesterday I was watching “Quartet” directed by Bob Wilson. My friend Paulinha Cohen got two invitations and invited me. I think half the theater class in NYC was there. The other half should go the next day. She’s pretty, but I guess that should not be easy to live with it daily. And I think that one should avoid staying indoors in your company, right? At the entrance I met Ali. We shook hands and I told him: “Come to suffer.” Because the piece is exactly what I was expecting. Aesthetically beautiful. An actress virtuoso with other good actors. An actress (?) Hauntingly beautiful dancer (the cocktail I saw up close and is one of those women that is not good to stare a lot, you know?) And a beautiful lighting. That’s it. It was what I expected.

I was not surprised nor disappointed. Bizarre is find some people who said: “This part does not thrill me” or “This part does not touch me.” Wow. They wanted to get excited about Bob Wilson? It is not there, right? And if so songs to play on the cheap, just go to some orgy or hire a Thai massage, whatever. I met Ali again who told me: “We have a very large bag, you know, Bortolotto?” Ri agreeing with him, drank a glass of that unbearable wine and brought me back to square. He had a party at the home of Renatinha. I gathered some scoundrels, we bought a box of beers and went there.The Renatinha is a nice girl.
The girls who live with it too. The party was full. He was fucking beer, but once I arrived, I got to go. I looked and saw to Dominic he was thinking the same thing. I opened the door of the room and we went out. It’s just not my thing, that’s all. Later that night, I was thinking that some friends have to learn to cope better with the drink and the night. It is not easy for anyone. Never been to me, but I’m trying to learn. And I hope that friends do the same. For the good of us all. I have written the night does not forgive those who are not prepared for it. And we have to take care of the books we read and the movies we watch. I try to watch what I write, but write shamelessly. What I write and the Living is a “blood-written” how would the Pinduca.

But I’m no example to anyone and do not want to be. In the interview the boys did with the Pop Language Pablo Beato, he sends this I fully agree: “There are people who read fascinating things that happen out there and want to do well. It’s hard when you discover the impact of everything that you’redoing, studying, working, or whatever, is the same thing as putting one’s life away. It is very hard. And that would be one of the things I could say to people if they read what I wrote. But I do not want anyone to do what I did, to seek adventures of Che Guevara and Jack Kerouac. It is not inspiring me. I mean, in the past, many have tried, including those I mentioned. And it worked? I think not. The most that couldcollectively cause a fever was so stupid it hurts after it passes. This is one of the reasons pro fucked Kerouac died, it sure is. So I do not need to write all this stuff is already good enough for someone like me, or as a lot of people, maybe you read and decide to take a more enjoyable life. I do not want anyone following me in anything I did. I do not say anything I did was right. I just made and ready. “

I wrote something in the book “Bagana in the Rain” (Ed.Ciência Accident / 2003): “The night does not forgive those who are not prepared for it. Sometimes I think how much our heroes can hurt us if we are ill prepared. And how much are we responsible for the things we write. I once read somewhere that books can change people’s lives. Whenever I think about it when I write, though I believe sincerely that I do not have so much power, but how do I know what can pass through the mind of a belligerent boy to read what I write? Does he really not understand what I’m getting? I do not want to apologize for anything. Only slut while my vision of the world in which I live. And if I do not see world with the pure eyes of those who believe in him, not have to pay for it, and do not want some innocent reader will one day do that. The things I see make me very sad, sometimes angry, and I really want to go outdelivering blows to people in public telephone booths in concrete walls. But no one should do the same. There are certain books by authors who should come with a timely warning: “Keep out of reach of children. Material highly damaging to innocent youth that one day you can still get along. Then he said one of his famous quotes and sayings: “Nobody can do anything for guys like us. Someone can still do something for them.”

Here’s a funny thing that happened to me.  A friend told me: ” I have a friend who is gay. I used to leave him alone with my wife. I thought I had no problem, you know. So these days I found that after taking a drink, he always hits on my girl. Seriously. ” I replied: “Well, women are so good that even queers like them.” And the same goes for the women, right? Type: “Women are so good that even women like them.”

Yesterday I thought, I swear I thought to sleep early. I was sleepy. Seriously. I was drinking in Parlapatões. Hunting, Lu and Marcelo Paiva left. I was with the Eldo, the Thunder and the linguinha. Then he said to them: “I will give in one last friendly.” In fact, the plan was to just get there, and down to greet the boys home. Because you can never just do what we planned? I went there, got a shot of whiskey and sat in my corner table, alone. I like being there in so friendly.

One, perhaps the most beautiful was looking at me from afar. She knows me and ignores me. Other pass and greet me. The musicians of the house as well. I watch a guy totally drunk at the table next mistreating a girl in a loud tone. The other embrigado also tries to compromise: “Dude, you are being clumsy with it.” And he screams: “unfashionable? She can not talk to me. It is nothing.’ll Have to eat too much rice and beans to be able to talk to me. It is nothing.” He screamed and I thought the disappearance of Belchior in high-caliber weapons, warm temperatures and beautiful beaches.

When I realized the sun was already high and people still argue about zydeco at a bar that looks like a school yard with tables scattered red. You can see the cheerleaders going toward the court while the Malaco kill class and drink beer ignoring the guys so serious about school championship. We always stay in the back thinking of the disappearance of Belchior, bigger guns, hot weather and beaches assaulted with toxic waste and dead fish scattered on the sand. There is nothing beyond that. The morning will go away. It is noon and there is much to do but wait until I can get up here. There’s a place that looks like a bunker. I even like to call home. But in fact has almost nothing to do with it. With this stuff I sing the song “Tristessa.” And I get there, almost in the dark and try not to think about anything. Nothing.