Love letter.

I fucking LOVE Fernando Raguero. Love him. If I had an alter ego, my alter ego would do sexy battle with Fernando Raguero in titanium mech suits that shoot lemon jelly, while listening to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass’ greatest hits, as played on ukuleles by Bonobos.

If my cynicism had a shape, it would be an enormous boner, escaping though a hole in a distressed pair of totally-not-ironic acid-washed jeans, and fucking rights those jeans would be tight-rolled at the bottom. And that enormous boner would be pointed directly at Fernando Raguero.

If my opinions were like assholes, everybody would have one. But the only asshole that mattered would be Fernando Raguero.

I’m not totally sure what that means.

But goddamn, can Fernando Raguero ever put words on paper.

And then read them in monotone.

If my sense of humor had a corporeal form, that form would remain as close to Fernando Raguero as it possibly could at all times without incurring a restraining order. It would keep detailed notes, and take photographs. It would publish a tell-all expose AND a book of madlibs based on its findings.

If my actual corporeal from was in Vancouver, I would buy it a corsage and a bottle of wine, and take it out to see Fernando Raguero’s show at Havana, and then we would have killer sex afterwards in the back seat of a Datsun. A brown Datsun. Uninsured but parked on the street anyway, zero fucks given.

I don’t know if you’ll feel the same way about Fernando Raguero as I do. I tend to be surly and difficult to please when it comes to slam poetry. I tend to be surly and difficult to please in general. But the show only costs $5, and gives you an excuse to start drinking early on a Friday.

Go see him at the Havana Theatre, 2:30pm – Friday, April 12. Go.

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