We’ll call her… Gabrielle. Gabrielle is smart, slender, tall-ish, and totally off her rocker. Just my type. (I met her through match.com — incidentally, I was the one who contacted her). We’re having a fairly nice date, when I ask her:

— “So, what do you do in your spare time?”
— “Lots of sports! I also practice professional weightlifting and capoeira”

Upon hearing this, I nearly spilled my beer all over her lovely “I *heart* ME” shirt.

Holy shit! I’m dating Batman!!”

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I find something incredibly arousing in dating a woman who could kill me seven different ways with her bare hands (and screw Darwin! He wasn’t going out with queen of the Amazons here!).

The night goes on, and I’m really getting the impression that this girl likes me. She’s sending all kinds of signals, and I’m picking up on them like I have the Arecibo telescope mounted on the top of my head (ok, on my penis).

After a few beers, I take her home (which is on the other side of the city). When we get there, she asks me:

— “Do you want to meet Sonya?”

Sonya is a humongous boxer bitch she shares her house with. They sleep together, too (talking about dogs in English is awkward).

Sonya jumped into my arms as soon as she opened the door. Somehow, dogs always trust me more than people. That may be due to the fact that dogs have a tendency to be stupider than most people.

So you know the story. I played with her, she slobbered on my arm, lied down on her back so I could scratch her belly… jumped excitedly, tried to hump my back (I think she has a bit of an identity problem), and generally was all over me. All the while I’m thinking about doing the same things to her owner (yes, the back humping too… No, don’t ask).

The scenario was playing great for me, except for one minor detail:

I am Sergio’s colossally inflamed Bladder…”

That’s right. I was about to shed a tear from strain. That’s usually the point when my internal organs raise their voice and let their opinions be heard.

BLADDER: I’m dying here! DYING, I TELL YOU!!!

No problem, right? I’m at her place, right? And so I asked her:

— “Say, could you let me come inside for a spell, to use your bathroom?”

All my years of experience with dysfunctional relationships and unhealthy spousal mistrust did not prepare me for her answer:

— “I don’t think I’m ready for you to get to know my place yet”

BRAIN: Huh?
BLADDER: LET ME AT HER!!! I KEEL YOU BITCH! I KEEL YOU DEAD!!! DEAD I SAY!!!
BRAIN: *takes a look at biceps on the woman, calculates distance between her and door, decides against that particular course of action*

And then she smiled apologetically and held me close. You know the way. One of those hugs where your whole body comes in contact with the other person’s, and you can feel her touch all over. Those who know me may have anticipated that this is where it all goes to hell…

PENIS: Heeeelllooo, everyone!
BRAIN: Oxygen! Oxyy…
PENIS: Wow! Did you look at those LEGS?
BLADDER: Nice of you to drop by to the party. Where the hell have you been? I’m DYING here!
PENIS: Wow! Did you look at those LEGS?
BLADDER: Will you consider my feelings for once, asshole??
ASSHOLE: Hey! Leave me out of this! I don’t plan to be involved in this at all.
PENIS: They’re like… LONG! and STRONG! Wow… legs…
BLADDER: Shut up! SHUT UP! The both of you! I swear to god, if I go down, I’m taking you both with me!!
PENIS: And the boobs! They’re not really big, but boy, they’re perky! Niiice boobs…
BLADDER: That does it! I’m going nuclear! REMEMBER KEH-SAHN!!!!

That’s when my brain kicked in for just enough time to decide on an alternate course of action.

— “So, thanksalot ihadagreattime illcallyoulaterokbye!”

I gave her a quick peck on the lips and hightailed it to my car with superhuman speed.

Having absolutely no idea where I was, I just drove down the first big street I found. Eventually I made it downtown, where my bladder informed me that unless I found the prospect of peeing through a catheter for the rest of my life particularly appealing, I should stop.

BRAIN: Do you know what happens to the guys they pick up peeing on the street? Do you? They end up spending the night in jail with a cellmate named Bubba! That’s what happens!
BLADDER: Command post ready for launch! Commencing in 5!… 4!…

I brought the car to a staggering halt in the middle of a dark street and ran for the nearest tree, where I got down to business.

BLADDER: O-OOOHHHHHH… YESS…
PENIS: This is *so* not what I was looking forward to tonight…
BLADDER: YEAH, BABY!! LIKE THAT!! GIVE IT TO MEEEEE!!!
PENIS: Hey! Is this going to end anytime soon? I’ve got serious contemplation to do, you know?

At that precise moment, a truck that looked suspiciously of the Federales turned the corner on the block i was standing.

BRAIN: Shit!
ASSHOLE: Noo, I’m pretty sure I would have noticed, boss. Everything’s a-ok down here!
BRAIN: Shut up, asshole! Everyone else — Abort! Abort! Emergency retreat!
BLADDER: OH. YESS! YES! YES!
PENIS: Zipper alert! Zipper alert! THE ZIPPER IS UP! I REPEAT, THE ZIPPER IS UP! Disengage!!
BLADDER: OH MY GOD YESS!!! YES! Like that, bitch!!
PENIS: …
PENIS: fuck

The truck went past me and I saw it was just some guy with his family.

To recap: At the end of the night, I ran the risk of rupturing my bladder, anal rape by a guy named Bubba, back rape by a dog named Sonya, and peed myself a little.

Will I go out with this woman again?

PENIS: Hell yeah! I mean, did you look at those LEGS?

— sergio at 02:34 PM     Comments (16)

My cellphone rings at 11-something PM. On a Sunday. After spending all day as a vegetable, it surprises me to get a party/drunk/booty call at this hour, but it’s not unheard of.

New call from: Sofia
                                             Answer?”

Shit.

For a moment there I toyed with the idea of not answering. The “No” button looks so appealing sometimes, you know? (I have long been convinced that all of us should have a “LIKE HELL” button built in. It would make dissent antiseptic and much, much easier — This is one design flaw I’m sure I’ll take up to proper management when I rest underground).

*Click* - Yes.

— “Sofia… How… surprising”
— “Hi! Say, could you come outside for a minute?”
— “You’re outside??”
— “Yeah, I’m outside”

Oh, FUCK, oh, sweet fucking fuck! Now I’ve done it! She read my posts on the site, and she’s come to kill me! Kill me dead, I tell you!

— “Ok, I’ll be right there.”

I put on my coat, scribble a quick “Sofia did it. Search for proof on my computer” note, and head outside into the cold air.

When I see her, I’m suprised. To tell the truth, I half expected her to be carrying a bat (the hitting variety, not the sleeping upside-down kind). Instead, she’s wearing one of those spongy-looking jackets and carrying a Norah Jones CD.

I’ve always loved how a lot of her clothes make her look smaller than she is.

At first she’s apologetic, and tells me she even considered bringing candy to bribe me (too bad she didn’t, it would have worked). I ask for an explanation, but she doesn’t offer much except that she wanted to give me back the CD. I surprise myself by not pushing the issue further.

I surprise myself by not pushing the issue further.

And the thing is: If there is something more to this, I don’t want to know. And that’s a very recent realization. One of those states you’ve long entered but did not acknowledge until they are sitting naked in front of you, staring back at your face. Like AIDS. Or advanced leprosy.

We walk for a while. We talk about menial stuff. We both agree that routine is eating away at us. We both agree that we should do something about it. I thank her for the CD. I kiss her goodnight. I go for the cheek. I don’t know if the mouth is available, but I don’t want to find out.

I make it a point of not looking back while I walk back home.

Twenty minutes later, Norah Jones is still on Repeat.

I could almost go there…

                           Just to live in a dream”

Indeed.

— sergio at 01:56 PM     Comments (17)

I don’t watch much TV, but whenever I’m channel flipping and I run into CSI, I can’t turn my eyes away. It may just be me, but the idea of an alternate universe where forensical geeks are not only cool, good looking and carry guns, but can also get laid from time to time just blows my mind away.

Last night at 2 AM I was silently cursing David Caruso (is it just me or is he too stoned, too distant, too redheaded, too fucking much?) for making me stay up late to find out who had decided to spill token-famous-baseball-dude’s brains all over the living room carpet in an episode that seemed oddly reminiscent of a Clue session on acid (as I recall, it was either the cute-innocent-looking-daughter —with aproppriate “wtf?” value— or Colonel Mustard, with the candlestick).

Anyway, that’s when it hit me that CSI is missing a golden opportunity for serious criminal investigation possibilities by not having tackled the Rachelle Waterman case. As you may remember, this criminal mastermind not only convinced her two psycho ex boyfriends (Milton, from Office Space and the fat Michael Jackson from the Simpsons, apparently) of kidnapping and killing her mom, but also of having sex with her (ewwww).

And she kind of gave it away in her livejournal, too.

I can picture the CSI episode in my head. It would be titled “Shitty poetry rocks / I kill my mom / Speling is tuff / haiku has too few lines / LOL”. It would be from CSI:Vegas, because Caruso is too brain dead and Gary Sinise looks evil in whatever he does. Plus, Grissom rocks.

— “I want this done and done right, Catherine. We’ll spare no expenses to find the murderous murderer who murdered this woman”
— “You’re getting too involved in this Grissom! Too involved! I don’t care if you’re commanding officer, I’ll get you off the case if you don’t tell me why you’re SO INVOLVED!”
— “Yeah, well, I kind of killed my mother when I was a kid… so there.”

*Catherine clutches at her left breast and stares at the void whilst mumbling incoherently — Her painstakingly disheveled shirt shows just enough cleavage to up ratings in Illinois, not enough to lose viewers in Iowa*

— “I… I didn’t know, Grissom…”
— “Let’s just get this done, shall we Catherine?”

*Arbitrary amount of time passes. Cut to dweeb who lives in the precinct’s basement. He’s wearing a hideous hawaiian t-shirt and his hair looks like someone barfed on it*

— “What do you have for me, Greg?”
— “Well, Grissom, I hacked into your suspect’s computer by means of highly sophisticated genetic algorithm based, buzzword compliant techniques… “

*Is seen to type Rachelle’s livejournal URL on browser’s address bar*

— “… And I got her diary. She did it”
— “That’s great, Greg! How do you know?”
— “Well, you see this entry here, titled ‘I *SO* totally killed my m0m, LOLZ!!’?”
— “Yeah…”
— “That was the first clue.”

*Grissom beams with poorly disguised paternal pride*

— “Amazing detective work, Greg. We got her!”

Seriously, I can’t even begin to fathom why the guys over at CBS haven’t come knocking at my door yet.

— sergio at 02:17 PM     Comments (21)

Most reputable sources agree on the fact that adulthood is something you gradually grow into, like your older brother’s clothes, or… you know… a cock ring. I’ve always thought that notion is bullshit.

Adulthood snuck up on me and jumped from behind a dark corner screaming bloody murder and waving its arms around like that annoying aunt you always find at family reunions who keeps squeezing your cheeks for no good reason (and, as of late, has taken to squeezing your buttcheeks instead).

One day I was drinking my ass off, taking bets on whether my liver would actually burst with that 30th beer (it didn’t), and the very next day I was at my best friend’s wedding, listening as he vowed eternal love to his bride and facing the fact that I was growing up (come to think of it, that may have been the same day).

One wedding paved the way. One kid was followed by another, and suddenly everyone around me is married, has a mortgage and our usual drunk Fridays have been rescheduled to Saturday afternoons to accommodate the sleeping habits of blathering, raging bundles of joy (what the fuck is with that phrase, anyway?)

All the while, I’ve kept my usual pattern of getting involved in pointless, codependent relationships with mentally deranged women.

Slowly but surely, I’ve become the single guy, and everyone is starting to ask (some more loudly than others) if there’s something wrong with me. Or worse: They give me the look. If you’re a single person trapped in a group of married people you know what I’m talking about: Quadraplegics have got nothing on us! It’s like suddenly one developed a golf-ball sized raging boil of hardened pus in one’s face and as soon as people see you they start patting your shoulder and tell you condescendingly: “Don’t worry, dear, it will pass”.

So, this is a shout out to the couples from table 19 in Hilda’s wedding reception, pesky friends (you know who you are), and you too, mom —

I’m either:

• Gay.
• On drugs.
• Secretly a midget.
• A necrophiliac.
• Mentally fixated on my (or your) mother.
• All of the above (And yes, I am aware that that would make me a gay junkie secret midget with an oedipal complex who buggers dead people, and quite possibly the best party entertainment ever).

Take your pick, and stop trying to set me up, thankyouverymuch.

— sergio at 03:27 PM     Comments (30)

She messaged me again. To let me know that she was busy that weekend (surprise, surprise), and that a new Nick Cave album was out (she hates him, but she knows I light scented candles in the man’s honor).

I didn’t answer the message.

Monday. She calls (yes, an actual call this time). Wants to know why I didn’t answer the message (this is pretty much standard fare with her), and set up a day for us to meet, so she can give me the CD. I’m pretty much starting to hate Norah Jones by this point, but we agree on Wednesday.

Tuesday. She calls again, to say that she’ll be late but does not know by how much, so I gallantly tell her to pick me up at home instead of me going to pick her up. She agrees.

Cue Wednesday (i.e. today). An hour before I leave work, she calls yet again. She can’t make it.

— “you’ll see, what happens is…”

And with that, she launches into a gordian knot of an excuse which is so multilayered, so mind-numbingly complex, that it would make an excellent plot for a subnormal south american soap opera with dismally low production values. I don’t recall the specifics, but I believe a halibut, flying flowerpots and a loofah played key roles in it at one point or another.

Needless to say, I’m a bit peeved by now.

— “I see.”
— “So, I’m really really sorry, can we leave it for another day?”

We can fucking well leave it for another day. In fact, I think it’s even in the Bible somewhere… Has to do with air conditioning being installed in Hell…

And here is where I let down all the male readers who are expecting a swift and vigorous sendoff:

— “Yeah.”

You see, the thing is: guys like me… We don’t tell a girl to fuck off. It’s right up there with “fucking livestock” in the list of things you just don’t do. It’s how we’re raised, I guess.

Now, uploading the whole conversation to the interweb for the amusement of dozens of strangers the world over, that’s a whole other ballpark. I’m pretty sure motherly advice never covered that one.

I think at this point I must clarify that this was no sawed-off, puny “Yeah”. It was a true beast, made out of hate and ill will. It was a “Yeah” crafted in the very bottommost pit of hell out of knife sized chunks of umbrage and rancor. I fucking scared myself with that “Yeah”. As much as one can project such elaborate layers of meaning through one’s voice, it kind of went through with the desired intent, too:

— “Umm, you’re not angry, are you?”

Whatever gave you that crazy idea?

— “No.”
— “Oh, you’re angry, I can tell”

Someone give the girl a prize! Sherlock-fucking-Holmes was never this keen!

— “Mmhh”
— “Please, don’t get angry, tell me you’re not angry”
— “I. Am. Not. Angry.” — ‘Cause, you know… I’ve always found that talking like William Shatner really gets the point across.
— “Umm… ok… so, can we leave it for another day?”
— “Yeah.” — You remember that “Yeah” up there? This one is his older brother. The mean one.
— “Are you available tomorrow?”
— “No.”
— “Umm… ooo-k… I’ll call you, then.”
— “Yeah.”
— “Uh… Bye.”
— “Bye.”

*click*

I don’t think she’ll call again.

— sergio at 10:20 PM     Comments (31)

*BEEP* New SMS message for you from: Sofía

Background note: The latest ex, who finished a 3-year relationship right before starting another one with me, and later dumped me in order to be alone and feel miserable, which —oddly enough— turned out to be true, and not just an excuse. Hung out with her for a while afterwards, then lost contact when she started being “too busy”.

How are you?”

clicky → “Call this number”

connecting…

Her: Hello?
Me: Hey! How are you?

So you finally made first contact! I knew you would!

— Fine!, and you?
— Great!

Kind of wondering how much more it would take you, woman! How long has it been? A month? Two?

— My friends told me they saw you at the Halloween party on Friday.
— Oh, yeah, I talked to them for a while.
— How was it?

I ended up smoking apple-flavored tobacco from a bong at 5am and dancing tango with long-legged 16-year old Danish girl while entertaining highly illegal thoughts about her…

— Oh, you know, it was fine… same old same.
— What did you dress like?
— I went as “The crow”. You know me, I like simple things…

I was drop-dead GORGEOUS, woman! You should have seen it! You’d have been all over me! Totally!

— Cheap, huh?

fuckfuckfuck

— Yeah… I just dressed black and painted lines on my face.
— I thought so.
— So, what have you been up to?
— Oh, I’m taking English lessons. Did I tell you about the english lessons?
— Yeah, I kind of remember that.

Hope that means you still don’t follow my blog, ‘cause you know, I just got this sweet idea for an entry…

— So, anyway, I still have your CD, you know?
— Ohh, yeah… the CD…

That’s right! Play it cool, man! You’re Clint in “Few more dollars”, Sean Connery in “Diamonds are forever”. You’re oozing nonchalance out of every pore! Except for the fact that you have no idea what the hell she’s talking about…

— Yeah, it’s still at my house.
— What CD was that?

Johnny Cash? Leonard Cohen? Suzanne Vega? Rigo Tovar’s “Keep Dancing my rythm” with Rigo Tovar and the Grey’s?

— Norah Jones
— Oh, that CD…

Oh, man! Then who the hell has Rigo? Rigo is loooove!

— Yeah, so, we should get together so I can give it back to you

*Confident, aloof grin* (think Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke”) — note to self: tape video of self performing confident, aloof grin and send to Sofía so she fully appreciates moment.

— I see, so, when should we get together?
— I’ve been very busy. I’ll call you, ok?

Huh? Whatthefuck was that? Are you brushing me off? You don’t get to brush me off, woman! You began this goddamned conversation!

— Yeah, you do that… See you.
— Yeah, see you!

*click*

Fuckfuckfuck! Did she just brush me off? How the hell did that happen?

What do you think? Will she call?

— sergio at 01:06 AM     Comments (37)

As she arches her back, inhaling irregularly, beckoning you to pop the buttons of her blouse, you realize it’s been far too long since you last did this.

You remember with the clarity that only smell and touch memory can have. Her skin, peachy and soft. Hot at the touch. How it trembled slightly when you would run your fingernails across her back, tracing elaborate patterns that only you remember but they were oh, so clear.

She’s kissing your neck and running her hand across your thigh. You don’t like that, but you don’t tell her. You play with her hair some more, grab her by the waist and make her straddle you.

You remember that day you two spent outdoors, probing, tasting, exploring. How you mapped each of her erogenous zones with millimetric precision. How you then spent months working out the different orders in which you could attack them. How she clawed your back and bit you that one time (which was not an altogether unpleasant sensation, you discovered).

She is hugging you and nibbling silently on your ear. You barely know her name. You barely care. You just hold her gingerly and start tracing patterns on her back with your fingernails.

You go back to that last time you were together. She lit up a cigarette, looked you in the eye. You shied away. You both knew it was over.

And now you’re here, with this other woman. This person you don’t really care about. And her hair color is wrong, her skin tastes too… different, and you’re just going through the motions. You’re caressing her bottom while you softly blow on the base of her back, and suddenly you realize she’s looking at you with a curious and mildly unsatisfied glance. “That’s not doing it for me, honey”

And then, just like that, it hits you like a brick to the head:

You’re not over her yet.

You roll over, curse silently and light up a cigarette. Shit.

— sergio at 02:07 PM     Comments (16)

Like most relationships, ours started off great. We both did our part, we both gave a little and we both felt fullfilled and satisfied.

Except that’s not entirely true.

On hindsight, I have to admit that I was the one doing all the taking. She just gave. Never asked for much in return, actually. I guess that’s why this outcome doesn’t come off as much of a surprise to me.

I don’t mean to brag, or be downright pornographic about this, but back then it used to take only the slightest push to get her juices flowing. It would seem that only a look was enough, and bam!, she’s there!

Then she started losing weight. Fast.

I think the sharing did it. This may be the wrong time to voice my regrets, but maybe —just maybe— I shouldn’t have given her so freely, so… candidly, to my coworkers.

Predictably, she got ever thinner, and less sensitive. I think —and I’m not proud of this— that it was then when the name calling started. I have to admit now that, even though it accomplished nothing at all, it made me feel better, I was so mad.

Today, I have finally used her up. She’s completely spent. I even tried jamming a fork’s tooth in there to see if I could get some, but it was a lost cause.

Because when it comes right down to it, it doesn’t matter how much you try to fool yourself, or squeeze it just a bit more. Sometimes you just have to face the fact that the motherfucking toothpaste is empty.

And I need to brush my teeth.

Damn.

— sergio at 04:43 PM     Comments (33)

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)

It’s official. I am a sellout. A stinking, no-good, money-grubbing, treacherous sellout.

And I have Google Ads.

How did this happen, Sergio, you ask? Who could possibly be behind this? Have you forgotten your principles? your moral upstanding? What about all your ranting and raving about Google’s evilosity? Are you really that shallow? Will you swallow your pride so easily once a little money is tantalizingly waved in your general direction?

There is no simple answer to those questions… No, wait… Ok. There is a simple answer to those questions: yes.

Yesterday I received an email from the Google Adsense folk telling me that they’re expanding now and can acommodate more content, and that they revised my application and had granted it, thus ending my status as one of the last true renegades of the internet — fighting the man with my subversive writing.

Fear not, for I will continue my rebellious crusade as one of the truly free voices of the internet. Only difference is that now I will do it from WiFi hot spots while sipping my latteccino and patting my golf clubs in anticipation to engaging in self-indulgent debauchery.

Fight the power!

— sergio at 10:38 AM     Comments (15)

¡Mochilas pa’ los cuadernos! — As I uttered the words to a friend this morning (after seeing the picture of a girl that works with his girlfriend), I started pondering their meaning. This is a widely known, rather interesting piece of slang.

For starters, the sentence is literally translated to “Backpacks fo’ the notebooks!” (like so, with the contraction). The phrase — in Cockney slang fashion — is a conversion from words that mean something altogether different but sound pretty much the same: “¡Móchate para los cuates!” would be the original. This actually needs another level of translation: “Móchate” — literally “cut yourself” — is slang for “share”. Specifically, share something which you already have, or which you have privileged access to (in this case, my friend’s girlfriend’s coworker). Then there’s the word “cuates”. This word is used to refer to non-identical twins (identical twins are “gemelos”). In this context, it means “buddies”, but nobody uses that word by itself anymore, except for this guy (incidentally, “cuaderno de doble raya” — double-lined notebook — means “really good buddy”).

So “¡Mochilas pa’ los cuadernos!” means “Share with the buddies!” (referring to oneself as “the buddies” in question).

The expression can be a stand-alone, but is usually accompanied by a slashing motion with the right hand that goes from the upper left shoulder to the right hip. This can also be used by itself (along with a whistling sound), but the more common utterance is what I just described. The phrase can be further convoluted by doing the hand motion and saying “ponte la del Puebla” (wear the Puebla’s [shirt]). Puebla, in this case, refers to the Soccer team of that town. The shirt in question sports a colored stripe that goes from the shoulder to the hip. Soccer being an important part of Mexican culture, this one’s likely to be understood by most people, although it’s not that common.

Isn’t language FUN? I love these kinds of things myself. Old cockney slang makes use of similar resources, and it also rhymes (“Fisherman’s daughter” — “water”). Aussies have their equivalents (“BBQ” — “Barbie”).

Slang makes a language feel alive and provides a sense of belonging. Foreigners always have the most problems learning it due to its temporariness (slang terms evolve really fast) and its cultural specific content. Slang comprises the funner parts of the language.

What are interesting, very cultural-specific pieces of slang in your country?

— sergio at 11:51 PM     Comments (22)

A friend of mine just lent me the Tron 20th anniversary Edition DVD. I’ve got to say it’s pretty damn impressive and I’ve had a great time watching that movie again. It takes me back a long time. Even before I hated Disney (the Mermaid fucking DIES in the original story, you assholes!!!). Anyway, I think most IT people out there can relate. Back in our childhood, there were a bunch of geeky movies that I think inspired us all. They were bad, yes, but we were kids and what could be more amazing and intellectually challenging than a robotic dog, a walnut-shaped relativity-defying spaceship with a lousy sense of humor, or a hacker that could very well destroy the world but saves it by making a computer solve riddles? I mean, those were the times!

…

Boy, did we have bad taste.

…

Tron wasn’t that crappy, though.

…

Tron was cool. Yeah.

— sergio at 01:47 AM     Comments (0)

This morning at work I was drinking coffee and enjoying it immensely, but then something came along that distracted me long enough for the coffee to get cold. When I turned my attention to the cup again, it still had some coffee in it. Cold coffee. You know that feeling of dread you get when you just know that the next sip won’t taste good at all, and yet you just want to go ahead and taste it one more time, thus ruining the whole experience of that particular cup of coffee? I felt that.

Black coffee should be strong. bitter and threaten your tongue with permanent damage. It should fume and when you get close to it, inspire respect. Throwing it on your lap should spell doom and second degree burns at the very least. Cold black coffee is none of these things. It is harmless, tastes like watery sand and doesn’t inspire respect. It is but a memory of what it once was. You know it won’t live up to your mental image of how it should taste in your mouth. You know it was great at some point, but that point has come and gone. Yet, you’re strangely tempted to give it one more try. I’ve felt this way about some relationships in the past.

I didn’t take another sip of that cup of coffee. I just dumped it and let it go. The taste in my mouth was much better than anything it could have offered me.

…

I think I’m learning.

— sergio at 09:51 PM     Comments (0)

Valentine’s day. Pffffftt! Right now, there are happy couples everywhere having nice dinners and eating flowers or whatever happy couples do this time of year. It’s out there. You can’t look around and not see a heart shaped chocolate box telling you what you should be doing to please that special someone and live happily ever after. Hell, if there was a sad, pathetic, maniacally-depressed-lonely-guys day, do you think we would go and rub it in your faces with ads and shotgun-shaped Vodka bottles??? No! the hell we would! we’d have the decency to stay home, hook on the computer and sulk in privacy… Which is mainly what we do today… Damn. Maybe this is our day. Got to celebrate. Where’s the beer?

Shit, that felt good. Well, good luck to all you guys who do have someone to exchange oddly shaped chocolate boxes with today. I guess I’ll pop a Smiths album in the stereo and get nicely drunk now. Bye.

— sergio at 08:34 PM     Comments (0)