³~. Talking Heads in “this must be the place” 💀 Uruapan del Progr.eso, Michoacán.

 

It’s true, BLACK FRIDAY started on Halloween. Viva México y sus estúpidas “calaveritas”.

In Paris, France, it’s a Hazy Shade of “The Arab Spring” of December 2010³, but in the context of the Nepalese Generation Z of September 2025. Last time around, in 2010, I (Armando Segovia) was receiving my talents and skills visa from the French Consulate situated on Santa Monica Boulevard in West L.A., por aquellos días el poeta de la revista proceso, Javier Sicilia, todavía contaba con la presencia de su hijo Juan Francisco quien como hoy se sabe—hizo enojar a unos prepotentes de lo que hoy se conoce como “el pueblo bueno” de la llamada “4ª Transformación“ de la familia López Obrador ; this time around in 2025 i find myself in France as an undocumented “étranger” in part because of bad decisions of trust on my part, but mostly because of Mexicans in France who played the role of “Molina²” through this journey which continues to develops as i fingerbang with virtual keystrokes the lines of this most non-consequential blog.

Sin comentarios.

³~. The Arab Spring (in the opinion of several interviewees whom I asked to express their feelings about Mexican manifestations in Paris between 2011-2015) detonated the anger of a collective of  Mexican associations who, to put it in French terms, were butt-hurt on account of the cancellation (Feb. 6, 2011) of The Year of Mexico in France by the Mexican government. Sources close to Barbara Carol de Obeso told me (Armando Segovia) under the promise of anonymity that the nascent manifestations of Mexicans at The Trocadéro in March of 2011 who protested against the Mexican government because of LOS FEMINICIDIOS de Ciudad Juárez, was just a guise because “Los Amigos de México en Francia” would look stupid if they manifested instead, for all of the hard work that they (the aforementioned “amigos de México”) had put in their festivals, galleries, and TACO stands for the duration of what was supposed to be a bi-national celebration that would give those motherfuckers the French credibility that they (the “friends of Mexico”)  like to show-off in their cosmopolitan elite circles in Ecatepec, or Coyoacán… por decir.

Toward the middle of the novel, the reader finds out that Molina is actually a spy planted in Valentín’s cell to befriend him and try to extract information about his organization.

²~. Amigo “Francisco”… cualquier parecido with this cut–and–paste straight out of Wikipedia is because it happens to be your mirror image, alas I could not succinctly put all of the different “Molina’s” who continue to tag along me in order to get their “provisions” from higher-ups in the food-chain of influence in both Mexico and France.