“Dead to the ugly,
to every single one who is ugly”
Cumbia by Wilfredo Vargas
to every single one who is ugly”
Cumbia by Wilfredo Vargas
On the stage of Barcelona’s auditorium Albert Pla sings, cries, dances... but mainly he laughs. At his country, at the powerful, at himself, at the universe in general and God in particular. “Up his ass!” He yells (‘por el culo!’), the crowd cheers and chants with him “fuck his heaven, his angels, up his ass with his divine graaaaaaaaaace!” He once was the enfant terrible of Catalan music. Now in his early forties (or so he looks) he doesńt seem to be mellowing down the slightest bit. Still sharp, still acid.
In a weird way, he makes me think of the friend I met in Puerto Vallarta a couple of weeks ago. We drove together to Guadalajara, his conversation centred largely on plastic surgery: his own and his friends’. Nose jobs, enhanced pectorals, nicer ass, tighter abdominal area. We’re talking about guys. Lots of them. After a couple of hours of mental pictures it started to crawl upon me the feeling that I’m living in a wold where everyone is getting fitter, faster, better. I recalled the numerous adds for men’s plastic surgery, the stories in magazines about Chinese getting operations to be taller, or corporate ladder climbers getting throat interventions to have a deeper voice (deeper throat?) and thus be more successful. I started to get the feeling of being left behind. I looked at myself in the rear view mirror, questioning which part of my face or body desperately calls for an intervention. After those hours of conversation in the highway, it sounded so innocuous, so innocent, so trendy.
But in the back of my head I knew that while I totally approve surgery on everyone else, on myself I would see it as a sign of insecurity. A better nose would be the permanent reminder of a low self-esteem. But maybe its precisely the plantation of my head the part of me that requires surgery, that corner of my brain where I keep so many questionable taboos.
But there again, tonight in Barcelona’s auditorium, Albert Pla keeps on singing. With his skinny figure, his grotesquely large and crooked nose... and his sharp, sharp tongue. He reminds me that no doctor can’t lend wit to someone who was born without one, no plastic surgeon can give balls to a man that doesn’t have. Sorry, it can’t happen. So I laugh along with Albert Pla, I laugh at the world, at beauty, at imperfection... por el culo a ambas! (fuck them both!)
Barcelona, 19 January 2007
2 comentarios:
Comment re "Dead to the ugly"
In a world in which appearances count -- well then appearances count and that includes size of tits, the shape of asses, and the length of penises and many other characteristics. Other less tangible qualities mentioned in the last paragraph simply don't count in such a world. One cannot compensate for the limitations of short penis with a great wit regardless of how witty one may be. Or a man who likes a woman with certain physical characteristics will find little comfort in a woman who lacks such characteristics but has a great personality. And in a world where appearances prevail, I cannot see how one finds consolation in the irrelevant fact that surgery cannot alter one's wit.
Tocayo,
Me dio pesar no verte en tu última visita a Guanatos, pero ahora que tus temas se han vuelto medio gays, la verdad me da gusto haber perdido la oportunidad.
On the other hand, piensale igual te puedes operar la jetota y quedar cual Tom Cruise, quien sabe y hasta la cienciología te ande gustando ¿no?
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