minha vagabunda

sometimes if i drink with tata and the waitresses the next day i congratulate myself on speaking portuguese and i imagine how some day i'll be sitting on an ivory tower and people come up to me with their questions carefully prepared, and sometimes andy and i spend three hours unable to make a feasible design of the methanol unit, and i imagine where do i start if i'm cast out on the streets. first i'd go buy a spoon for thirty five cents so i'd always have something to eat with, a good metal spoon. i just now thought of how to continue the salome story, something about walking under a bridge and everywhere i look i expect to see a man selling regeton CD's, because i don't have any money to buy one. it is presque vu, and it torments me terribly, so much so that i console myself by saying to everyone how salome is so well-behaved, thinking back how maybe it is a more admirable goal to be well-behaved than to have the popular song i heard in the disco the night before. nothing sobers you up like hearing the engine whining or lurching because it's in the wrong gear, and you demand of the driver not to torture the car like this. out of politeness you convey this demand with an exaggerated and silent cringe.