BCN WEEK | Barcelona's Alternative Newsweekly
Listings: Where to go
Vol 1, No 95 | March 17, 2011


Era jueves de Carnaval, ibas con un bigote y te llamábamos el capitán. Eres italiana de Nápoles y tu abrigo escondía mucha belleza que se correspondía con tu cerebro. Ojalá te acuerdes y volvamos a coincidir.

Seeking a guy who seriously does like long walks on the beach. Summer is coming up and I’m sick of not having my Barcelona fantasies realized. I won’t bore you with chatter, but I may not want to make out either. Still, you never know, so don’t let this be a turn-off.

Leo a Messi y sólo bebo café Valdes. Mi casa se parece a un twitter de Montserrat Tura. ¿Quieres conocerme?

Buscamos personas que gusten de hacer el amor escuchando I want you. Preguntar en los lavabos del centro comercial Glorias. Os esperamos.

Sé que no llegiràs aquest missatge, pero mira, cambrera de l’Amelie…et veig i em fas embogir pels teus moviments i el somriure que t’omple el rostre. Mira sota el rebut, Així ens podrem conèixer.

Me tiro pedos y juego a scrabble. Atrévete.

Si vols aigua ben fresca a la font has d’anar. A la del gat fem cruising cada dimecres al migdia. T’apuntes?

I followed you out of Big Bang last Friday night and gave you a big smackeroo. Then you gave me a big smack. I’d love a little more of your rough and tumble ways.

What is the perfect antidote to a rotten night on the town? A beautiful brunch the next day. You cheered me up big-time at Marmalade - I was the drunk in the corner with the rugby shirt. I’ll not be in Barcelona much longer, so here’s the email if you’d care to keep in touch:

Stella! Stellaaaaaaaaaaa! Yes, you’re mine. I’m sorry.

You had three whiskeys at the counter of that bar on Bisbe Laguarda, then turned to your friend with the nicest profile I’ve ever seen. Can I get it on camera again? Can I put a name to your face? I was the guy in the red sweater who you caught staring.

Did you really slam the door in my face without giving me a chance to explain what I was doing there? It’s been a long time. Have a heart. All I need is 20 minutes to say some of the things you asked me to so many times.

Clara Rodriguez! You’re in Barcelona! I fucking saw you last week at Verdi but didn’t want to, you know, shout in the middle of a movie. When it was over you had disappeared. I’m here for the next 9 months - drop me an email. Wiley

by Lady Ondina Osborne

As they say in most countries that know a culinary thing or two, you can’t beat a good curry. Diversity mixed up in a bowl and poured over your staple of choice: mm-hmm. If only it were always so easy. As it is, dropping new ingredients into a mix tends to inspire the growth of molds like Josep Anglada, and those molds often multiply. Don’t shove your problems to the back of the fridge. Unless you want to spoil the whole pot, those moldy bits need to be moved to the trash.

It’s time to revisit the Pixies. Pull up a chair to a window that faces sunny skies, have a little hashish pie, and listen to “Caribou”. What are they talking about? What are they fucking talking about? Years later, it’s good to know that these Athenians of America still sound as weird as they always did, and that, truly, some things never change. If you’re having trouble getting inspired, find an old reminder of rebellion and drive on to excesses of your own.

You’ve been dicking around with your career for long enough; it’s time to ask the experts what’s what and get a real move on. There’s no shame in admitting that you don’t know everything yet, and it’s not going to take away from your wild and crazy individualism. Moreover, if you don’t pony up to the mentor bar soon, all the good ones are gonna end up with kids 10 years your junior. Think of taking advice like a lesson in fist-fucking: something that anybody could use and nobody wants to ask for.

While American NPR may be a soothing lozenge for any Yankee driven out of the country by terrible government and questionable citizen voting preferences, even Kojo Nnamdi can’t save that sinking ship. Enjoy the smooth patter and the pertinent questions and the informed opinion, but remember that there are holes elsewhere in the bucket that need to be filled.

If the end always signifies a new beginning, why is it so hard to give certain things up? It’s a riddle made only more puzzling when we know we don’t even care about the thing we’re setting adrift, yet still can’t let go. The physicists would talk about inertia, pop psychologists would talk about “approach avoidance”, but in the end it means the same thing: we are lazy, lazy fuckers. Are you still honing in on a beautiful vision in your head instead of focusing on realities? Drop it and work the fat off that ass.

Have you noticed that, given the average human lifespan, we’re only hot-potato good-looking for about a third of it, or maybe half if we’re lucky/childless/don’t work? I mention this not to wax on about inner beauty but to point out how goddamn effective the fashion/media youth conspiracy has been. I mean, should we even give a shit about moisturizer if we’re going to be ugly for most of our lives? You’re about to have an epiphany on a similar grand scale, and it will lead you up and out of your hole. Don’t forget the suncream.

People who read several periodicals on a regular basis tend to pride themselves on it. Being in the know is cool, yes, but what does it really mean? It’s hard not to become cynical when you realize that yesterday’s tsunami is today’s dog shit receptacle. Still, as you know well, the drive to record life’s tragedies is compulsive. Soon you’ll find a way to marry your love of current events with the wisdom of fables.

If you’ve ever had food poisoning, you’ll know it’s an all-consuming illness that, like a bad trip, feels as though it may never end. When you have six ER doctors standing over you trying to guess how to improve your condition, it feels like the experts won’t ever discover the truth. Sometimes it does happen. And sometimes, it’s best to turn off the noise and listen to what your gut says. Either way, it’s all ending up on the cold linoleum floor.

Do you ever feel like people don’t want you to succeed? Well, you’re not just being paranoid: they don’t. Not always, of course, but yes, some people are loath to slap you on the back and wish you well. And why? Perhaps there’s a little streak of self-pity in too many of your complaints, and others only see how good you’ve got it. You’ve got to talk about your real problems, not go on about tonterias. The cheering section will get behind you, but it’s got an acute ear for the truth.

While some people greatly enjoy looking back on their adolescent likes and dislikes, I generally find it depressing. Could my taste have been that bad? Why did I keep photographic evidence? Is there any chance that anyone else has seen this? People often say that you can learn from your mistakes, but sometimes it’s better to just bury them down deep, next to the gerbils in the backyard. You’ve been running around showing people some weird shit, and if you haven’t noticed, they’re not into it.

Once upon a time there was a princess that got her world rocked by a prince. The story has to end there because after the world-rocking generally comes the farting and the demands for food and sex, and that’s not the stuff of little girls’ dreams. Which side of this equation do you find yourself on? Prince or Princess? Or perhaps you’re a hermaphroditic combination of the two, passing gas in your own tower chambers. Rapunzel, keep the hair.

The other day I had to wonder whether I’d moved into the red-light district: three separate apartments in the building across the way were casting crimson onto the patio. Then, a couple of minutes later, I realized that I was looking at two of the pisos through a red glass window, and the other guy was probably just rocking a lava lamp. I felt dumb, but saw that I had learned an important lesson: don’t ‘shroom on a Monday. It only leads to trouble.


Week Alternative Media SL @ 2007 all rights reserved | contact: | Links