It was the hydration break, marked once again by everyone booing, with television commentators by and large ignoring the consistency and universality of the booing. The Argentinians were making themselves mate on the side of the pitch as Cesar Aira — fresh off a literary conference full of clones of himself — was talking to Pablo Aimar about how he considered Borges a blind sheriff in the neon constabulary of culture; that tango is presented as a fully autonomous puppet, as if we can’t see the ghost of the black hand still making Argentinians dance; that Richard Wright’s Native Son was filmed somewhere in La Albiceleste to give an honest American account of race; that ad men stood upon street corners smoking cigarettes they’d sold to the public and all looked up at the street signs, wondering what it would mean to sell those; that Villa Freud, with Lacanian analysts as abundant as a Starbucks or Kioscos, is filled up with all those who want to talk it through, talk it over, talk it around, talk it under, and where was the sheriff amongst this? Si Dios realmente es un grito en la calle, then what strange butler-like impudence can we ascribe to our gentle friend amongst the shelves? Cesar looked up and out at the pitch and took a moment to sit with the idea of green.