Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta English. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta English. Mostrar todas las entradas

viernes, enero 05, 2018

¿Cuántos ángeles pueden bailar en la punta de un alfiler?

Hace años se me preguntó cuántos ángeles podían bailar en la punta de un alfiler.
Se dice que la eternidad comenzará cuando una montaña se erosione completamente, luego de un ala de ángel pase por ella cada 600 años.
Esto significa que las alas de ángel tienen poder de erosión (si bien muy limitado). Por lo tanto, es justo decir que si pones muchos de ellos en la punta de un alfiler, habrá alguna erosión, sin importar cuál sea su tamaño, especialmente si están bailando.
Algunos ángeles son representado tocando trompetas, por lo que considero que, cuando menos, tienen cierta sensibilidad musical. Claro, pueden ser más bien músicos que escuchas o bailarines. Pero se supone que tienen gracia. Los seres con gracia bailan.
Lo que más me sorprende es la posibilidad de escoger la punta de un alfiler como salón de baile. He pensado en ello mientras pongo puntas de alfiler bajo el fuego de mi encendedor y me pregunto si he achicharrado a algunos ángeles. 

Otra pregunta era sobre el sexo de los ángeles.
Las ansias lujuriosas de poder provocaron la primera rebelión angélica (con Luzbel como líder). Tal vez por ello Dios pensó que era conveniente cortar de tajo con la lujuria angelical.
Una cosa es cierta. Los querubines no tienen genitales (a menos de que estén escondidos detrás de sus cabezas).


La pregunta original (y la respuesta) era en inglés. Ahí les va la versión:
Years ago, I was asked just how many smegging angels can dance on the head of a pin?
It is said that eternity will begin when a mountain completely erodes after have one angel wing beat it every 600 years.
This means angel wings do have eroding power (albeit very limited). So it is fair to say that if you put many of them in the head of a pin, some erosion is to be made, regardless of their actual size, especially if they're dancing.
Some angels are known for playing trumpets, so I think they, at the very least, have some sort of musical sensibility. Of course, they may rather be players and listeners than dancers. But they're supposed to have grace. Gracious beings do dance.
What strikes me the most is the possibility of choosing the head of a pin as a ballroom. I've wondered about it while putting pinheads under the fire of a lighter. I've wondered if there have been charred angels in the punctures I've made.

Another question was about the sex of the angels. I can handle that.
Lust for power prompted the initial angelic rebellion (Lucifer, their leader).
Well, perhaps God thought it would be better to stop angelical lust altogether.

One thing seems certain: cherubs have no genitalia (unless it's hidden in the back of their heads).






jueves, septiembre 22, 2016

Tres strikes

Hace aproximadamente un año mi amigo Jorge Biólogo Hernández, me envió estos tres strikes. Creo que es la temporada adecuada, llega el otoño, para publicarlos.



Walt Whitman (un cosmos, un hijo de Manhattan)

"In our sun-down perambulations, of late, through the outer parts of Brooklyn, we have observed several parties of youngsters playing base, a certain game of ball...Let us go forth awhile, and get better air in our lungs. Let us leave our close rooms... the game of ball is glorious"

(En nuestras recientes deambulaciones del atardecer, por las afueras de Brooklyn, hemos observado diversos grupos de jóvenes jugando beis, un cierto tipo de pelota... Continuemos por un rato, y tomemos mejor aire en nuestros pulmones. Dejemos nuestros cuartos cerrados... el juego de pelota es glorioso)



Paul Auster (en la novela Sunset Park)

"En el segundo domingo de noviembre de 2008, acostado en la cama con Pilar, hojeando la Enciclopedia del Beisbol en busca de nombres raros y divertidos. Ella comprendía el espíritu dickensionano que encierran las dos mil quinientas páginas de la edición de1985, que compró por dos dólares en una librería de segunda mano. Esta mañana va buscando a los lanzadores, porque son lo primero que siempre lo atrae y no tarda dar con su primer hallazgo, Boots Poffernberger. Pili frunce el rostro en un esfuerzo por no reírse ,después de explosivas carcajadas, cuando se calma le quita el libro de las manos, acusándolo de haberlo inventado. Como todo verdadero fanático del rey de los deportes, él afirma: Eso nunca lo haría.
Y ahí está, en medio de la página 1977 : Cletus Elwood "Boots" Poffernberguer, nacido en 1915, en Williamsport, Maryland, era un picher derecho que jugó con los Tigres (1937 y1938) y una temporada con los Dodgers de Brooklyn en 1939.
Continúa leyendo nombres de lanzadores totalmente desconocidos, Whammy Douglas, Cy Slapnicka, Noodles Hahn, Wickey McAvoy, Windy MacCall y Billy McCool. Al oir este último nombre, Pili gruñe de placer..."

("Sin duda Sunset Park es una gran novela, pero para quien sabe busca y gusta del béisbol encontrara sin duda un particular placer", acota el Biólogo).


George Carlin (del libro Brain Droppings) 

El Beisbol es diferente a cualquier otro deporte; muy diferente.
Por ejemplo, en muchos deportes se anota con puntos o goles; en el beisbol anotas con carreras.
En muchos deportes la pelota, o el objeto del deporte, es puesta en juego por la ofensiva del equipo; en el beisbol la defensiva del equipo pone en juego la bola, y solo la defensiva tiene permitido tocar la pelota. No solo eso, en el beisbol si un jugador de la ofensiva toca la pelota intencionalmente, es puesto fuera; y en algunas ocasiones aunque no se haga intencionalmente, es out..
Además: En el football, basquetbol, soccer, voleibol, y en todos los deportes que se juegan con una pelota, tú anotas con ella, y sin pelota no se puede anotar. En el rey de los deportes la bola impide que marques en el score.

Beisbol vs. futbol (americano)
 
El beisbol es un juego pastoral del Siglo XIX
El americano es una batalla tecnológica del Siglo XX.

El beisbol se juega en un diamante, en un parque. En el parque de beisbol.
El football se juega en un emparrillado, en un estadio, algunas veces llamado Soldier Field o War Memorial Stadium.

El beis empieza en primavera, la estación de la nueva vida.
El americano comienza en el otoño, cuando todo está muriendo.

En el futbol americano usas un casco.
En el baseball, una gorra.

El americano tiene que ver con los downs, ¿en que Down estamos?
En el beis se habla de ups. Who's up? Are you up? I'm not up, he's up!

En el football cuando cometes una falta recibes un castigo.
En el beisbol no hay castigo; se marcan los errores y se contabilizan.

En el americano el especialista viene a patear.
En el beis el especialista viene a relevar a algún compañero.

El football es pegar, golpear por la espalda, jalonear, detener, cometer fouts personales, golpear tardíamente, y hacer rudezas innecesarias.
En el beisbol existe el sacrificio que puede hacer avanzar a un compañero en las bases.

El americano se juega en cualquier clase de clima: lluvia, nieve, niebla…  no puedes ver el juego, no se sabe que está pasando en el campo con neblina, no puedes reconocer los uniformes, menos aún leer sus nombres, no puedes saber tampoco en que yarda se encuentra el balón.
En el beisbol si está lloviendo nadie sale a jugar.  No puedes ir al campo, está lloviendo.

En la séptima entrada el aficionado del béisbol se permite el estiramiento y canta de pie “take me out to the ball came”
El football tiene sus dos minutos de tensión finales.

El beisbol no tiene límite de tiempo: “nunca sabemos cuándo va a terminar”.
El football está regido por el tiempo y en ese momento termina “aun cuando existe la muerte súbita”.

En el beisbol durante el juego, en las gradas, hay un sentimiento de picnic.  Emociones que suben y bajan pero nunca dejan de ser importantes.
En el americano durante el juego en las gradas, tú estás seguro de que al menos durante veintisiete tiempos fuera te sentirás culpable de hablar de la vida o del futuro de la humanidad.

Y finalmente quiero aclarar que los objetivos de estos dos deportes son completamente diferentes:
En el football el objetivo para el quarterback, siempre tiene como misión que su ataque aéreo, penetre la defensa, que sus receptores estén listos para recibir los obuses, incluso a veces usan una escopeta como formación.   Con sus cortas balas y sus largas bombas, hace marchar sus tropas en el territorio enemigo, balanceando su fuerza aérea o sus tropas de ataque terrestre, haciendo orificios en la pared de la defensa de la línea del enemigo. 

El beisbol es otra cosa: En el béisbol el objetivo es llegar a casa ¡y llegar a salvo!; “yo espero, y estaré a salvo en home”.


miércoles, febrero 18, 2009

Lutero Rapero

A veces lo aburrido da pie a lo divertido. La lectura de Genealogía de los Estilos Económicos, un libro acerca de la influencia de las religiones en la economía - tema interesante pero libro escrito con un horrendo estilo académico mitteleuropeo-, me llevó a buscar diferencias entre el luteranismo y otras doctrinas protestantes desarrolladas en el Siglo XVI. Y me topé con esta joya, elaborada por estudiantes de historia de la Universidad de Yale. Lutero rapero.



'95 Theses' Rap

If you havin' Church problems then don't blame God, son...
I got ninety-five theses but the Pope ain't one.

VERSE 1

Listen up, all my people, it's a story for the telling
'bout the sin and injustice and corruption I been smelling:
I met that homie Tetzel, then I started rebelling
Once I seen the fat Indulgences that he been selling.
Now the Cath'lics of the world straight up disgracin' me
Just because I waved my finger at the papacy.
My people got riled up over this Reformation...
That's when Leo threatened me with Excommunication.
I warned y'all that Rome best agree to the terms.
If not, then you can eat my Diet of Worms!
You think you done something spectacular?
I wrote the Bible in the vernacular!
A heretic! [What?] Someone throw me a bone.
You forgot salvation comes through faith alone.
I'm on a mission from God. You think I do this for fun?
I got ninety-five theses but the Pope ain't one.
Save me!

CHORUS

Ninety-five theses but the Pope ain't one.
If you havin' Church problems then don't blame God, son...
I got ninety-five theses but the Pope ain't one.

VERSE 2

One Five One Seven... that's when it first went down.
Then the real test was when it started spreading around.
Sixty days to recant what I said? Father, please!
You've had, what? Goin' on fifteen centuries?
"Oh snap, he's messin' with the holy communion."
But I ain't never dissed your precious hypostatic union!
"One place at one time." Well, thank you Zwingli.
Yeah, way to disregard that whole "I'm God" thingy!
Getting' all up in my rosary... you little punk.
Your momma shoulda told you not to mess with no monk.
What you bumpin' me for? Suddenly you sore.
Keep that up, you'll have yourself another Peasant War.
You blame common folk for the smack they talkin'...
You ain't even taught them proper Christian doctrine.
With my hat, my Bible, and my sexy little nun,
I got ninety-five theses but the Pope ain't one.
Save me!

CHORUS

VERSE 3

When I wrote the ninety-five, haters straight up assailed 'em.
Now they only care whether or not I nailed 'em or mailed 'em.
They got psychoanalytic. Now everyone's a critic,
And getting on my case just because I'm anti-Semitic.
I've come back from obscurity to teach y'all a lesson,
Cuz someone here still ain't read their Augsburg Confession.
I said Catholicism brings a life of excess,
And we all remember what went down with Philip of Hesse!
But you forgot about me and my demonstration?
Like you can just create your own denomination?
"We don't like this part, so we'll just add a little twist."
Now we Anglican, Amish, and even Calvinist.
I gave you the power, you gone and abused it.
I gave you God's truth, you just confused it.
Don't you never underestimate the s*** that I done...
I got 95 theses but the Pope ain't one.
Save me!

CHORUS

Shout out to Johann Gutenberg... I see you baby.


Traducción/traición libre:

El rap de las 95 tesis

Si tienes problemas con la Iglesia, no culpes a Dios, hijo..
Tengo 95 tesis pero el Papa nel

VERSO 1

Escucha, pueblo mío, la historia que voy contando
del pecado y la injusticia y la corrupción que he estado olfateando.
Conocí al carnal Tetzel y me rebelé
cuando vi las indulgencias que se puso a vender.
Ora los católicos del mundo me traen bien amolado
nomás porque le puse el dedo al papado.
Mi raza se agitó con la reformación...
y Leo me amenazó con la excomunión.
Les advertí que Roma tenía que ceder.
¡Y si no que comiera mi Dieta de Worms!
¿Piensas que has hecho algo espectacular?
¡Yo escribí la Biblia en lengua vernácula!
¡Un hereje! [¿Qué?] Alguien que me tire un hueso.
Olvidan que la Salvación es por la fe, sólo por eso.
Estoy en misión divina. ¿Creen que es por joder?
Tengo 95 tesis, pero el Papa nel.
¡Sálvenme!

CORO

95 tesis pero el Papa nel.
Si tienes problemas con la Iglesia no culpes a Dios, hijo...
tengo 95 tesis pero el Papa nel.

VERSO 2

Uno Cinco Uno Siete... fue cuando empezó.
La verdadera prueba fue cuando se difundió.
¿Sesenta día para retractarme? ¡Padre, no chingue!
Llevan con eso siglos; más de quince.
"Hey miren, está jugando con la sagrada comunión."
¡Pero si nunca he denunciado la trinitaria unión!
"Una cosa a la vez" Ah, gracias Zuinglio.
¡Sí, qué manera de ignorar el rollo de "Soy Dios"!
Me tienes hasta el rosario, patancito ojete.
Tu mamá debió decirte que no te metas con los monjes.
¿Por qué me empujas si luego a tí te duele?
Sigue así, tendrás otra guerra campesina.
Acusas al populacho por las zonzeras que claman...
ni siquiera les enseñaste buena doctrina cristiana.
Con mi sombrero, mi Biblia y mi monjita sexy,
tengo 95 tesis, pero el Papa nel.
¡Sálvenme!

CORO

VERSO 3

Cuando escribí las 95, las críticos las asediaron.
Ahora sólo les importa si las clavé o las mandé por correo.
Se volvieron sicoanalíticos, ahora todos son críticos,
y se van sobre mí sólo porque soy antisemita.
He regresado de la oscuridad a enseñarles una lección,
porque alguien por ahí aún no lee la Confesión de Augsburgo.
Dije que el catolicismo trae una vida de excesos...
¡Y todos recordamos lo que hizo Felipe de Hesse!
¿Se olvidaron de mí y de mi demostración?
¿Cómo que se puede nomás así crear tu propia denominación?
"No nos gusta esta parte, le cambiamos una pizca."
Y ya sale el anglicano, el Amish o el calvinista.
Les dí el poder y abusaron de él.
Les dí verdad de Dios, y se hicieron bolas.
Nunca subestimen lo que logré hacer...
Tengo 95 tesis pero el Papa nel.
¡Sálvenme!

CORO

Grito a Johann Gutenberg... I see you baby.

---

Johann Tetzel era un dominico que vendía indulgencias en Alemania; la Dieta de Worms fue una reunión en la que intentó que Lutero se retractara de sus tesis, pero no lo hizo ("Eat your Diet of Worms" es un buen juego de palabras: tráguense su Dieta de Worms o su dieta de gusanos); Ulrico Zuinglio fundó la iglesia (protestante) suiza, tuvo con Lutero una discusión teológica -conocida como Disputa de Marburgo- en la que no llegaron a acuerdos; las Confesiones de Augsburgo son el texto básico del luteranismo; Felipe de Hesse fue un campeón político de la reforma luterana (y era bígamo, por eso se le ve en el video con dos mujeres).

miércoles, junio 29, 2005

Wet Dreams, an impossible film script

Este es el esqueleto de mi guión para una película que Hollywood nunca filmará (casting incluido): es una comedia romántica psicológico-musical, intitulada Wet Dreams:

Barbra Streisand is a multi-talented, great-legged, NY-Jewish psychoanalist. Bruce Willis is her patient. He has a recurring nightmare: while he’s trying to make love with the Morgan Fairchild of “Falcon Crest”, Michael Moore appears filming them with his camera and saying something about “bowling with the bitch’s head”, suddenly Arnold Swarzenegger appears, in futuristic gear and armed to his teeth, and arrests him “for the future murder of Jordan Roberts”.

Streisand asks Willis, with a song about “the inner child’s dreams” to recall his boyhood. An image appears: his father (Charlton Heston) was carrying a gun with his left hand and a bible with his right hand and beat his mother (Susan Sarandon) all the time. Sarandon gave the other cheek, and Heston slapped her all the same. Another image: little boy Willis catches Mom Sarandon going to bed with Martin Sheen, while Dad Heston is away selling appliances (this part is, But Of Course, set on the fifties) and imagines –only imagines- Heston’s bloody revenge. Willis stands up from the couch, covered with tears, and embraces Streisand. She sings “Freud tears”. They both realize they’re in love.

But there’s a problem. Streisand is married to Tim Robbins, a veteran relief pitcher for the Mets. The day she’s about to tell him about her affair with Willis, Robbins is stabbed with a hunter’s knife by crazed Yankee fan Ted Nugent. Streisand accompanies Robbins in the ambulance, singing “Don’t bleed so much for me”. The ambulance driver, Willis, realizes that tragedy has set him apart from Streisand. At the e.r. door they embrace for the last time.
Sean Penn is in charge of the e.r. facility (we could change that for George Clooney, would be more fun), and does everything to save Robbins’ life. When he succeeds, Barbra starts singing another song. In that moment, a desperate Charlie Daniels appears and –with country music background- shoots both Penn/Clooney and Streisand to death.

The camera rolls back, and we see Michael Moore filming all the stuff.

El remedio a todos los males Posted by Hello

viernes, marzo 18, 2005

Nana, Su Vida (versión en inglés)

Nana Rodríguez was born in Cárdenas, Cuba, on March 20, 1923. The daughter of a railroad worker and union organizer and a very young housewife. The family moved to Havana, to an apartment on Infanta street. From the balcony of the Infanta apartment Nana saw, at age 9, a massacre against protesters.

She went to Law School at the University of Havana, and graduated with honors in 1945. She was outgoing, fun, and had many boyfriends. Once she was strolling with her girlfriends in a convertible, when one of them saw a good looking tourist and cried: "Americano, throw me a kiss". Nana rose from her seat and cried: "Americano, throw me a fart".

Nana was also active in student politics. She was a member of the direction of FEU, the University Student Federation, at the times the president of FEU was a sophomore, Fidel Castro (member, like Nana, of the Orthodox Revolutionary Party). Some times the activists met at Nana´s house, and her mother used to take away the guns the boys carried.

After graduation, Nana worked as an appointed defendant for criminal cases at the city of Camagüey, on Eastern Cuba. She lived at a boarding house. One day in 1947, her boarding house mates said a new boarder had arrived, a very handsome gentleman. A salesman. That night, when she saw the man, she exclaimed, loudly: "Is this the guy you were talking about? I don't find him that handsome!". The new boarder moved behind her seat, touched her shoulders, and said: "You are going to marry me". Nana answered: "Never".

Only three weeks later Nana and Abelardo married, though the religious wedding was suspended, since one of Abelardo's previous wives made herself present at the church. It was proven, afterwards, that both former Abelardo's weddings were only civil, and he was divorced. But by then, the couple was not interested on a religious marriage anymore. Abelardo was also a union organizer and the political situation in Cuba had gotten grim, so - a couple of years later- they decided to move to Mexico, where some of Abelardo's siblings lived.

In Mexico, Nana´s husband thrived as a salesman, first, and as a sales manager, later. She got into the business of furnished apartments (she rented them empty, furnished and decorated them, and rented them at a bigger price). On the fifties, Nana was still politically active. As a member of the Directorio 26 de Julio, she hid propaganda and dinamite at her house, which were to be used by Castro and his rebels, who sailed from Mexico to wage war against the tyrant Batista. She met Ché Guevara at a party and declared, later, that he had the deepest eyes.

Nana had two sons: an economist turned journalist and a pilot, which gave her six grandchildren. When the Cuban Revolution triumphed, she traveled to Cuba, with the older son, who was 5 then, and was offered "a high ranking job". She declined, because Abelardo -perhaps in a lucky strike of machismo- considered that Cuba was "too hot for living".

While her life in Mexico was getting better, things got worse in Cuba. Several of her classmates were executed, others fled; others yet, rose temporaly to high ranking jobs, only to be purgued later. As stories of terror developed, she lost her faith on the Revolution and loathed Castro.

But still, the Cuban Revolution had a delicious sweet reserved for Nana. One day in 1968 she received a call from a Cuban couple who wanted to rent an apartment. When she arrived, she felt she knew the man from somewhere. He begged for a discount. As a political refugee he was left penniless. Then his wife said something, calling him by his name. Then everything fell on Nana's head. So she replied: "I have given discounts to many Cuban refugees, but I wont give you one, Pablo N. When I was your girlfriend, you said you left me because I was not one of your social class. You said you wanted to marry a girl from your own class. I see you did. Now get out!". Pablo could only mumble Nana's maiden name, lower his head and leave. Revenge is a dish that tastes best when cold. Nana felt she was floating on air as she walked her way back home.

Nana was the soul of her neighborhood, for she always made many friends. She helped many of them with her solidarity, her relatively liberal counsel, and some swift actions bording on the heroic. She had sugar in her hips and made an amazing dancing couple with Abelardo. She talked all the time, often playing wittily with language. She was a loving mother. She had a great body and was openly proud of her legs and butt. She was vain and liked to spend, never saving for a rainy day. She liked to say dirty words. She smoked a lot, drank a lot of coffee and enjoyed a shot of tequila every now and then. She liked restaurants and disliked cooking. She liked sugar and disliked beet. She liked the oldtime revolutionaries but furiously hated her old pal Castro with all her soul. She read the newspaper every day, as a morning prayer. She read few books. She was manipulative yet easy to manipulate. She loved to go out ("I have dog's paws"). She never learned how to swim. Her favorite saying was: "May you have a lot of fun and spend only a little".

Nana's religion was the religion of the Cuban masses. A mixture of Catholicism and Santería, the religion brought to the Americas by the African slaves. She was a devout of Changó/St. Barbara, the god/goddess of sex, war, dance, thunder and the color red. Every 4th of December she cleansed her family, neighbors and friends, while dancing to the music. Both her children are dedicated to Changó.

Her furnished apartment business thrived in the 70s and until the late 80s. During those years, she was also active teaching crafts and helping low class women build their own businesses. Those were also the years -she was in her fifties and early sixties- when she traveled the most: to Europe, to Egypt, to South America. From the late 80s on, her business went on a downward slope. Still she managed, in the late 90s, the expensive task of getting her sister, and her sister's family, out of Cuba.

On May 2003, after 80 years of a full life, Nana suffered a cerebral stroke which had her between life and death for more than a month. She recovered almost fully -the doctors were particularly impressed by her capacity to regain speech- and lived a quality life until early March 2005, when another stroke impaired her again. Her second agony was mercifully quick. She died on March 14th.

At her wake, besides her family and friends of her children, you could see the whole neighborhood, old apartment leasers and several anonymous humble women who had been helped by her decades ago, and considered her their godmother. Her ashes are now with Abelardo's. And guarding them, the statue of Changó/St. Barbara.

I don't know what lies after death. If there is nothing, there is at least peace. If there is something else, then -as my wife said- my mother is in the Heaven of the Talkatives.

viernes, enero 14, 2005

The Stench

Este un cuento que escribí en inglés, hace dos años. El reto era hablar de alguien que era joven en los años 30. Pensé en mi ex-suegro, entonces muy enfermo, y en mis hijos cuidándolo.


The Stench


“Granpa, here's your glass of water."
"Who asked for water?"
"You did."
"OK. The water fountains were beautiful".
"Where?"
"They actually worked back then".
"What water fountains? Sit up granpa."
"Why should I sit up?"
"To drink your water"
"They worked back then. And the soldiers were marching into the palace".
"I don't follow".
"You never follow, kid. The soldiers followed their captain".
"Come on, drink"
"The inauguration of the Bellas Artes Palace, I was there"
"I know, you've told us, granps".
"Never told you, but I do remember"
"You said you were a student back then".
"I was. But I didn't say that. I had a scholarship, you know?"
"Given by President Cardenas, you've told us".
"Where's my water?"
"You just drank it."
"Not true. Bring me a glass of water, please. I'm thirsty."
"Ok. I'll fetch one, you've had three in a row. But first, you tell me the story again".
"What story?"
"About the inauguration of the Palace"
"What Palace?"
"Bellas Artes. You were there, weren't you?
"Sure. They gave tickets to all the students with scholarships. The National Philarmonic played that day. I was eager to go. It was a great piece of architecture, a proof that a new age was dawning. The murals weren't there. back then, you know. They painted them in the forties".
"Siqueiros, Orozco and O'Gorman"
"Who are those?"
"The muralists."
"Oh yes. They painted the murals in the forties. They were not there the first time. They were painting other stuff. Meanwhile the soldiers were marching"
"They marched".
"They marched right to their places. Smoking mariguana into the hall. Such a stench".
"Couldn't do that now, eh?"
"No. They wouldn't get free tickets, now".
"I mean they couldn't smoke pot in the Palace, now".
"They were smoking mariguana and marching into their places. Soldiers. What do they know about classical music. Hardly anyone at that time was interested and the government had to fill the seats. It was the inauguration, you know".
"They also gave you the tickets".
"Yes, but I was a poor student from the desert, with a scholarship, a loner who liked music. And the soldiers liked to smoke mariguana in the new palace. Such a stench."
"And the fountains in the park were all working, right?"
"The fountains were working, the music was playing, they filled the hall with soldiers, I remember. Such a stench. That's how the revolution was. Music for the masses. But they cared about mariguana. Such a stench. I'm thirsty. You haven't given me water. The whole day and you haven't given me water, kid".
"I have, granpa."
"What do you have?"
"Given you water"
"Then bring me some. I mean, those soldiers. Such a stench".
"Time to change your diaper, gramps. Please lie down."