Julien Muñoz He will be one of the last criminals to make us smile. A healthy son, born of an old, robust and reckless ethic.
It was a glorious and criminal time. People smoked in gas stations, The slit in your skirt was playing on the radio, Jesus Gil was surrounded in jacuzzi of prostitutes he called “senoritas” and he bought a handful of Harley Davidsons for his cops so that they would be the coolest in Spain.
It was a sick, hilarious neon world.. Every god was a pyromaniac in his own way. We were that charming country with lax morals in which those who did not steal did so because they did not have access to it. It is time to acknowledge loudly that, until two days ago, our philosophy was pillage. To our great shame, we were much more than The Lazarille of Tormes what Don Quixote. We never wrote saints. It’s not our style.
Republican values have never penetrated here. Transparency has never been celebrated here.
It was everyone’s fault (a silent and comical collusion where the bad guys were the most charismatic kids on the peninsula), but some more than others.
Folklore has taken over us. For decades it seemed that if you weren’t obscene, if you weren’t showing off, if you weren’t a con artist, a thug and a fan of the sparks where dirty business gets done, You were just a loser, narrow-minded and nerdy..
Here you could be anything as long as you had grace.
By goddamn grace, we’ve forgiven everything.
To make an omelette, you have to break eggs, and long live Blanca Paloma and the Virgin of Rocío and the last fool. There is always a victim, so try not to be yourself.
La Pantoja and Julián Muñoz.
In this context, Julián Muñoz flourished, another sympathetic antihero, another fallen king of plunder. A guy who always bet big, no matter what he had in his hand. When I was a waiter, I did it too. A gambler’s face is something you can’t take away from him in life. In a bar, he met the first love of his life, who was blonde and pizpireta and who moved her cleavage and her eyelashes at the same time. She made baked macaroni and chorizo which were a delight to watch.. She was the most beautiful cook in Andalusia in the crazy companies they created.
And him?
Him, a privileged language. Piquito de oro, professional cantamañana, smoothie, historical correveidile. Another traveling circus with hair on his chest, fresh karaoke meat, insatiable and clumsy, as tradition dictates. Who will still play like him the keys of our old idiosyncrasy?
Julián Muñoz had no ideology. His ideology was pleasure and money, long afternoons under the Marbella sun, cubatas and love. He entered the PSOE but as someone who enters the Aftera little to do something.
Then he got hooked on Gil, the little poison in his shoe, who told you about the movie in three sentences: “I’m the greatest democrat in this country, even though it may not seem like it to you. They give me the reputation of being a dictator. At 9 o’clock I am a communist; at 10 o’clock, a socialist; and at 11 o’clock, on the right.. Because I play sports. The communist creates jobs. What does the communist want? For the workers to have money and give them free housing, as I give them. I don’t want to boast about anything. The people are not in favor. “The people are ungrateful.”
What can we say about them? They are shooting stars that remind us that the Spanish brand exists, as my friend says. Lion.
The verse writes itself, it always writes itself. If your best friend is Gil and your lover is PantojaLet’s say you’re not going to start knitting either. Do you share an interest? At that time, if you were part of the cream and went to Las Vegas and didn’t spend more than a million pesetas, you were “ugly.” The country’s misogyny accuses Isabel of having bewitched Julián. The typical thing, always our little point of magical realism against some sexual witch or femme fatale.
The rest is history. The passion, the horns, the miuras, the bad encounters that promise to make you rich, the garbage bags full of wads of bills, the excess, the sands of El Rocío, the happy little nights, the sad mornings, the feeling of impunity, the “teeth, teeth, that’s what bothers them”, the greed that breaks everything, a demolished house that used to be called Mi Gitana, a dismembered family, prisons, wickedness, sunglasses, showbiz, ruin and blood.
The most successful one ends up being defeated. He ends up gnawed and gray and on sick leave from prison, until he is caught dancing the sevillanas with a blonde friend who shared a cell with his first blonde, Mayte the one with the clear eyes, the wounded woman who destroyed a way of understanding Spain. If the goat pulls towards the mountain.
Not bad, after all. Muñoz left the neighborhood, as he himself said, “and after the life I’ve had, surrounded by all my family, I feel very loved.” We all deserve that, don’t we?
This reminds me of this poem Benedetti: “I’m fucked and radiant. Maybe more the former than the latter, and vice versa too.”
Julián Muñoz, how do you say that in English? An inexplicable character without his language and without his land. Pure Spain, from top to bottom. From Despeñaperros this is understood differentlyOn the border with France, no one understands the chaos and almost obsolete inaccuracy that it still represents.
We, today’s children, perhaps neither.
We changed. And thank God. The party lasted a long time.
