Hola Sitepoint! That’s right. In much the same way as that ulcer you get every time after gorging in those yummy chili tacos, I am publishy again. This time courtesy of Sitepoint (utmost thanks go out to Georgina and the rest of the editorial staff for a great job).

This piece, Tables vs. CSS - A match to the death is a case study on Table versus CSS based coding, trying to reproduce the same basic design to a “t”. This time around I dropped the “we” authorial slant for a less formal, more personal first person approach (I did this because Sitepoint’s submission rules state so, but ended up liking the freedom and personal-osity).

I hope this article serves as an interesting exploration of a highly subjective problem. I actually wrote it a month ago, but in view of recent commentary and the shitstorm that ensued, I think the timing for its publication couldn’t be better.

Update: This article has just won the “Article of the Month” award at Sitepoint. Thanks a lot people!

— sergio at 10:18 AM     Comments (8)   TrackBack (0)

Our roadtrip through Chiapas went on without much incident. At Jerusalem, a small (under 300 people small) village in the middle of the Lacandona jungle, we saw a river of an unnaturally clear shade of blue. We stopped there to bathe for a while (by that point, we had adopted a waterfall-and-river-only bathing policy — which didn’t help improve the smell inside the car at all).

At the river we got to see the ceremonial launch of a boat, and a bunch of kids said quite a few things in tzotzil (the regional dialect language) while they pointed and laughed heartily at us when we were in the river. Now, I don’t speak an iota of tzotzil, but to this day, I’m pretty much convinced that they were saying something along the lines of:

Look at dumb fatty white guy, bathing in crocodile-infested area!!”

I promptly got out of the water and scanned the surface for evil crocodile eyes (didn’t see any, but I know they were there, the sneaky bastards).

At the waterfalls of Lacanjá, I became painfully aware that it had indeed been a bad idea to eat the tamales we had forgotten at one of the car compartments for two days. Clenching my teeth, I started the way back with Gabo, but we were at least a few miles into the jungle and the camp site was still a long way when I decided I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Having some common sense, and aware of my almost complete lack of botanical knowledge, I wasn’t about to risk it using a leaf from the area, so I turned to Gabo and demanded he produce some paper. Any paper.

- I don’t have any.
- Give me your wallet.
- What?
- Your wallet. NOW!

At that point, I was willing to wipe my butt with a fifty. I rifled frantically through the contents of the wallet and found the official Permit the Secretary of Tourism had given us to visit the church at San Juan Chamula. The paper wasn’t nearly of the ideal texture, but it would do. Permit in hand, my face discomposed with pain, I sprinted it out of there as fast as I could until I found a tree suitably concealed from the view of the path.

What followed was a feeling of relief so unabashedly pure that the mere remembrance of it still brings tears to my eyes. When I finished I felt like rolling sideways and spooning with the tree, it was that good.

It took me quite a while to make it slowly back to the path. Gabo was waiting there, watching a creek flow.

- That was my memento from the trip, you know?
- Well, it’s not completely destroyed. You could go back and fetch it if you want.
- I don’t think I’ll do that.
- Your loss.

I looked up at the sky and smiled. Life was good.

— sergio at 11:28 PM     Comments (19)   TrackBack (0)

We will be famous someday, and you’ll stand in long lines to see us, and brag and rave to your terribly unhip buddies about how you knew us back when we were indie, before all the high profile deals and commercial shit hit the fan. You’ll recall with unabated gusto that our earlier work was much better —because that’s the thing to do— and deep inside you’ll grin to yourself in self-assuring satisfaction.

We are, of course, Guadalajara. One of the biggest Mexican cities. “The tapatian pearl” (a self-referencing reference, roughly meaning “Guadalajara, the pearl of the Guadalajara region”), distressingly named after another such city in Spain, which is not very much unlike being the Nickelback to Creed —what with both being a bit crap but renowned nonetheless— a fact which must always come out of some smartass’s mouth when discussing the geography of our fine citizens’ hometown…

But nevermind that.

We will be famous.

Come May 28, we will host the 3rd Summit of Latin America & the Caribbean-European Union, and you will read all about it in the newspaper and smile and say: “I knew these kids would go places, didn’t I tell you?”.

We will be famous, that is of no discussion. To ensure a smooth transition from the gray area of second-placity to the peak of famousness:

• We’re dumping nearly 30 million dollars to make superfluous fixes with substandard materials to several of our pothole-ridden roads —nevermind that our citizens have been requesting these actions for years. These are dignitaries we’re talking about, are they not?
• We’re leveling and completely rebuilding perfectly functional, if cracked, sidewalks. Because there will walk dignitaries.
• We’re employing eight construction companies with hundreds of workers and heavy machinery to plant rose bushes and embellish the fucking roadside, and giving ourselves little over a month to achieve this goal (knowing full well that most of the repairs are likely to fall apart to neglect and shoddy workmanship about three hours after the dignitaries have left).
• This means our citizens are putting up with horrendous traffic at all hours, roads are blocked all over the place and activity is disrupted in nearly every district.
• We’re calling this sham the Guadalajara Program for Urban Renewal and we’re not even trying to hide the fact that all this is just a last ditch effort at being presentable for the Dignitaries, who will no doubt be impressed by the smoothness of our streets, the utter whiteness of our lampposts and the immaculate grayness of our sidewalks. Perhaps they’ll even appreciate the brownness of our noses and the purity of our hypocrisy.

But nevermind that. We will be famous. And you will rave on about how you knew us way back. When we were indie.

— sergio at 09:05 PM     Comments (11)   TrackBack (0)