Everything has its Dante Virgilio, Isabel and Fernando. The ride today, like any self-respecting history, born of causes and expires in consequences, nice people. Closed in January 2005 its doors to the legendary Sal de Gracia, strange club where no link could lose playing time glances. We talked, laughed and sometimes slept together. I confess, I had to find life after three o'clock. Closed bars and wandering like a lost soul. Such was the despair of my group that we go for half a year to Martins to deceive the goalkeeper and play bingo with bears and transvestites. What happened and get into Casa Fuster was impossible. Neither modern nor modernist. We found underground bars, temporary gates close, preventing always looking out Tuesday night work, family convicted as a strict timetable we saved in tight garages, too expensive for our poor pocket. Recently
find that the cold due to the square and any self-respecting Pakistani. His defection forced us to make a mental effort. José Luis, that being, the solution found by the gift of experience and determination which makes it the best writer agraphic of Spain, na na na. Guys, I know three bars in the Eixample, open until six. Empty streets with hidden cameras monitoring outbreaks. We leave the sex shop in Corsica. The obelisk of five golds is a phallic symbol monarchy. The Diagonal is usually boring because the straight line is an imposition, so should take it as a simple reference for orientation and getting lost in adjacent arteries. Loneliness water wet cleaning municipal service is a joke in bad taste. You spend hours in a bar and not know if the fluid element is rain or cleaning. Whatever. Discussed in Seneca on the exact location of the library Europe, fascist, illiterate pit fans electric razor. Bars business, riddled with graffiti that contributed to highlight the unreality of time, settled the question. José Luis insisted and brandishing found in the right place. Silent and proceed. Balmes rebates. Caballero, buy this American. 600 euros to 50%, almost as municipal fines. A distant noise warned clubs. The Master forced to ascend to Tuset, a former refuge for those who currently dominate the scene and proclaim that the seventies were the big push for the creation of Barcelona. If I sit on a golden sofa also say, in the meantime I'll settle for telling you how weary the slight slope and reach the target with great astonishment of the unknown.
is here. My idea of \u200b\u200bTuset Street is rather poor. José Luis I just wanted to take a joke and the bourgeois bar that bears his name. No way, babe. A long entrance hall beige and infinite, no man's land between gray serpentine box constructions, emphatic contrast of office and vice movement morning for the skyscraper and temporal eternity, and now understand its intricacies, with yellowish spots and background sound of David Lynch. The claustrophobia of the space of nothingness in the middle of everything is generated by small details like the brightness of the walls, clean and gold jets of the hygiene that hurts their sparkle. Furthermore, the shape of the enclosure is not stable, it is as if the architect had smoked a lot of thinking about irregularities capable of holding the universe in a heartbeat. Yes friends, what follows is true and I declare Alice in wonderland in hand. Absence of initial lineup. Headless mannequins display cases with wedding dresses with red passion. The music concerned. The central part is invaded by black and white photos of cars Paleolithic, beautiful prelude to a mammoth parking tucked in a corner. Access the tank car and wander between brands and cement numbered. What comes crashing ethyl our steps. We fired again into the passage, we sense an end, turn left, oteamos tacky shops and appears to us the Virgin of Proustian reminiscence. I always liked sports newspapers. When I was little devoured from cover to cover and always up to erotic ads. Sauna Yuma. Twenty years are watching. The paper took on a life of particles of a second. The most famous whorehouse in my childhood is nonsense tones Fellini red square and smell discordant twenties expressionist movie bermed into a blind spot that you can only escape by reversing, coitus interruptus Mercadona bound for landing on the Ode to the Motherland.
Illustration: Nil Bartolozzi
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