regular e-mails circulating that define our generation as a generation of survivors. And they argue that counting all three hours of digestion, a family of six people traveling in a R-12 without a seat belt or child seats and all that stuff. Ojearlos ground just in case I find something new and always give me the feeling of being incomplete because they never refer to the music suffer. And if anything can be proud of our generation is to be musical survivors. Not attack the music of the eighties because that is a personal crusade, but I reminded all calorreo that we had to suffer with Chicane, The Chungking and Los Calis. I remember the explosion of the rumba, first with Rumba 3, Bordon 4, 5 and bitches like, then to Los Manolos. Later came the salsa, the million editions of the Caribbean Mix and everything that bore the label of "Latino" was to open the veins. I do not know how many editions there were the Mix Max. And world music. And the phenomenon. And the Gregorian calendar. And in a big city you can choose to frequent gambling dens and the music they want to hear (although from time to time played make some allowance). But in the DRYLAND had jack, queen and king. Well, better said, jack and horse. And if you wanted to have a social life and be with their friends had to compromise and communicate with millstones and swallow all the music sounded. And, seen over time, perhaps the characters are forged and it was not easy to keep a lively conversation and try to be clever as it sounded in the background "The Yellow Tractor" or "snail soup." Requires an enormous capacity for abstraction and swallows a king size. We have not experienced a war or have gone hungry over some gray and some other wrinkles that beat us the pulse.
And I have not talked about the worst. Because the worst that I experienced in all my years of nightlife was when Seville became fashionable. It was beyond my strength. I wanted to die. See full DRYLAND Cuenca people into ecstasy and start doing the monkey when it was sounded a little embarrassed. T. I remember an illustrious friend of ours who, after marrying, almost left because we felt talk about immature, which is levitated with Seville, but then we came all sweaty theorize the differences between the Sevillanas Los Fulanito compared to those of The Somebody's niece, who required a special technique available only to the elect as him. As if we cared. Referred the other day Jaramiel Hobbes and his theory that all men are equal in mental faculties. I'm was not like those dancing Sevillanas. It is true that I was there, that I was, I endured, I endured the embarrassment. It is true that once danced the "Macarena." But never danced flamenco dancers, and my mental faculties are not the same as those that liquefies dancing in full DRYLAND Cuenca.
Although that just might be because I was a drag. A stigma. Every time I have to deal with something or someone, every time I have a brown work, every time there is something that I do and I do not want, whenever there comes a time that I have to stop procrastinating or whenever, running, playing series begin to hum - look at her face to face is the first . And if it works, do not know if it makes me laugh, do not know if it will play down all or because it gives me a lot of grime if you keep singing, but it works. And sometimes even makes me want to give thanks for the Seville. But no. Yes no.
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