Yes. Hot or sit. I am going:
Since Fred told me that it was possible that Houellebecq himself was in Poetry Out Loud, I recontraemocioné and tweeted and Retweet and I could not imagine what it would see on stage at a guy who I admire so much but at the same time I feel so bad.
And time spent in blown and suddenly it was today and I was colándome to the forefront of forito of Casa del Lago, nerviosilla and chilly, to see the mmMmMmmMMMmmmmaestro.
But first, why not?, Was an act opener. Let's see. I was supposed to recite poetry about emos and depressed and unwilling to live music and Panda (which touch the Panda?). O pandits black metal. O Tohui (is he still alive?). But no. Put A FEW Chair.
parentheses. If you have not had the pleasure / disgust / depression to read Houellebecq, should know that he hates the chair. I mean, hates humanity in general, but the steels more than anyone. Or maybe i will go with black. Fortunately they were not chairo BLACK!
These steels were in total cliché. Coyoacaneros filthy, not ugly, those who in high school (from the UNAM or the Madrid or something) were the popular insurance and mistreated the Houellebecqs of your living room. Of those whose popularity and non-ugliness availed them nothing in real life posprepa, because now his twenty or treintipico forever remain in total, with fixed ideas and outdated and, of course, playing the drums. And that was basically what they did. Tumpacatapum with a transverse flute that sounded like chairichairi wooden flute Jorge Reyes, a singer who did "ouuuuu uuuooooo uuaaaa." And poetry, OH, poetry. Just when I said: All we need is these simpleton mention to the Huichol and the deer's eye, OF COURSE mentioned to the Huichol and the deer's eye. I figured I
to Houellebecq petrified, watching the scene with horror and demanded to take him back to his hotel, airport, Ireland ("or Spain?). But surely it were stored in a capsule of silence, because at the end of the chairipacotilla he took the stage as usual. UF.
Y chou, what would I say I can. Read amazing, very well the musical accompaniment of the Arreola brothers, heartbreaking poems. He suddenly wanted to dance, hehe, one hand in his pocket and more arrhythmic than me.
the end, after aplausononón, said in a tone all shy: Thanks. And let out a jijiji of nerves and emotion. I loved it so much. I was so moved. And
. We went and saw the gang and Guara Guara and well. And then Fred told us: Let's go after.
and forces that Falconi, Emilio and I arrived at after. We sat at the table together and talked and I saw his thin crown thin to Houellebecq, who had his back. And I took a single whiskey, ONE whiskey, and Fred told me, 'Come, I will present Michel. And I: No no no no no no no no wait till espérateeeeee. But it was too late, he had come loose with: Look, she's Plaque, a great blogger here, and she is superfansss yours and made you a stream of advertising y.
and shook his hand and looked into his eyes and looked into my eyes and smiled.
Yes, I know that normal people smile, even the weird dudes like Houellebecq. But, hey, if you've read his books know that the last thing I could imagine having it is a SMILE. UF.
I screwed up. There was prepared and an intelligent sentence. I wanted to die. And I did not know what to say, and as I had presented as fans, for fans let out phrases. "What we bear." And he asked me what my blog and told me to write down my address on a libretitia, jiji, and write it down (Salut Michel!). Oh, no no. Anyway. At one point of uncomfortable silence when I began to fear not having anything with which to free myself all night, but then a miracle appeared Xun. XUN! By that I love and a little more today. And I stood to greet him and ran.
AM A GAY.
I know. It was my chance to drink up three whiskeys in a row and lose the fear and let go to talk to in French (Because we speak English in a horrible and I did not understand anything.) It was my chance to talk to him normally and discover a little of one of my favorite authors, and not as a fan or a journalist, but as drinking buddies.
BUT I panicked.
And I returned to the table for everyone else. Then
Arreola told me what a fart, why I had Panics. And I explained that it was very difficult to be with someone I admire so much and behave normally, especially when the language is a barrier (in this case double). And I asked: Do you ever happened? He: Oh, no, never, spent years interviewing people, no, pa nothing.
And I thought: It is VERY different to interview someone. For example, Felipe more fans than me and he made a formidable interview (look it up tomorrow in El Universal!) But I'm sure he would not have been easier for him to be in the same table as Houellebecq, and less if not speak French (who does speak, osh, and odioooo odiooooo what the French teacher of the class I ran over four years). And I'm sure I would have done no wrong and who removes or even liked. Ps yes. If at any moment so cold I say: Look, talk to James Hetfield, ps noooo, it would be a fool, a complete stupid and would tremble and pure bullshit. But if I had an interview with him, it would be very different. We would do well, I like, I like. Or Nick Hornby. Or Woody Allen. Or do not know, eBoy . Etcetera.
Anyway. I ran the place, I said goodbye to Houellebecq, I smiled again. And I went to eat tacos al Califake, I learned to CaliFAIL.
*** Proof that Houellebecq has a heart is having a puppy:
If your life is like in his books, the dog will die prematurely from a painful disease, and he suffer and suffer. Today
