Rants and Articles.

Life update: In the months since I last wrote in this website, lots of things have happened. New projects have started and old projects have been dropped or completed. As far as my personal life is concerned, I’ve gone through many life-altering events, as I continue on trying to decide what the hell I’m doing (a question that remains unanswered to a prodigious degree).

In the personal level, the following is a fast recap:

• Met girl.
• Fell in love with girl.
• Moved in with girl.
• Things went awry.
• Moved out.
• Currently waiting for delivery of new place.

It’s difficult for me to write about this subject, and —given how much it meant to me— metaphorically relegate the whole period to what amounts to a footnote in my life (is that what we all are? footnotes in someone else’s cycle around a big ball of ignited gas?).

I will just say that she is, by all measures of the word, an amazing girl, and the relationship was fantastic while it lasted.

And so on…

Regarding South by Southwest and the (unofficially named) “Fuck Standards” panel:

It went famously”

Although there were some misgivings at the beginning, and we were genuinely worried we’d be pelted with decomposing vegetables, our message was not as far-fetched and offensive as the title suggested. The feedback was generally good (we made the SxSW honor roll, yay!), and all involved had a great time. Since other people have done a better job of summarizing the whole thing than I could, I’ll give you a few links to the lavishly detailed. the good, the bad, the general and the sexy.

I had an amazing time, and was incredibly glad to see old friends once more (even though Jeremy Keith did threaten to force choke me when he found out the subject for the panel). I will write a more detailed post on this later. For the time being, here’s a PDF of the presentation in case you want to peruse it:

Standards Deviation: Hacks and dirty tricks for the web (pdf)

— sergio at 03:14 AM  

There is something to be said about not writing:

it’s easy.”

That said, I wish there was a better explanation I could give than this one:

I’ve been busy.”

But I can’t.

And it’s the truth. Sort of.

When I moved to San Francisco I expected it would be harsh and cold, and that I’d have a very hard time getting around and getting to know people. And it was, both, and I did, both. For about twenty minutes. After that it’s been mostly smooth sailing. There have been ungodly amounts of work (if you’ve been watching the Slide website you might’ve noticed we have a slight tendency to completely redo it every week or so), lots and lots of fun and several new and great friendships.

In the middle of this all, I have neglected you. And that’s bad. You are not only people who come by and “sign the guestbook”. You are my friends and family. And it’s not right to be away from friends and family. And I’m sorry.

There. It’s done. Let us never talk about this anymore, ‘k?

Btw: San Francisco is full of crazy people. I think I’m starting to fit in.

In other news:

More on this later.

— sergio at 05:02 AM  

Write more.

— sergio at 02:12 AM  

We were somewhere around the Bellagio on the edge of the desert when the cliche began to take hold. I had slept fuck all for two weeks and found myself riding a sky high caffeine/alcohol buzz on the inside of a banana-yellow stretch Hummer limo. In front of me, DJ master Ken was kicking it to Kanye West under a glistening purplish light and guttural, screaming laughter emanated from points just outside my cozy tunnel-vision burrow. We’d been doing Vegas, Vegas style.

Tacky.

I thought the whole thing started out a little cheesy when a stretch limo picked our already half-drunk asses off at work, but once we were greeted by the exceedingly cute attendant as we boarded our private airplane, I realized it was just the beginning (if you want to see our best and brightest moments captured for posterity on tha intarweb, check out Max’s channel).

We saw Cirque du Soleil’s “O”, which reminded me a lot of this wonderful trip I went on this one time with all that stuff going on and… anyway. Trippy. After a bunch of us were refused entrance to the pre-show because we were late (buying drinks), we made a haphazard attempt to sneak in through the second floor entrance, which prompted an all-out persecution through the escalators, as the overzealous entrance lady made sure that we didn’t get through. This persecution has since entered Jared-lore (I believe it now includes an armed swat team and high speed helicopters doing flips).

The weirdest part of the show came when the main contortionist took center stage and proceeded to artistically bend and twist until —in a masterful display of physical coordination and aesthetic flourish— her butt was next to her face. At that precise moment, one particularly crude member of the audience said out loud:

Oh my god! She could fuck you and lick your balls at the same time!”

I swear. Some people, huh?

Basterds.

…

Ok, it was me! Can we move on?

— sergio at 03:32 PM  

When you walk into Slide’s office, the first thing that may strike you as odd is the lack of superfluous, redundant furnishings. Like walls.

The second thing that may strike you could be our innovative approach to hierarchical and well-defined decision making process (you may see us flailing around and yelling at each other in one of the meeting rooms). The third thing that will strike you (and probably knock you over) is either Uma or Darwin, our two huge in-house dogs, who are on the company payroll and spend all their spare time running between our desks and knocking expensive networking appliances over.

We may have to fire them. Their productivity has shot to hell since they got those new chewing toys…

The rhythm of work is, to say the least, breakneck. We’ve set ourselves on weekly releases and are updating our website and client with lots of new features every day. Although I’ve learned the hard way that our comfy couch, sleeping bags and shower are not there for show, I must say it’s been years since I’ve been so excited about working on something. Each week, I cannot wait for the new features to go live, and see what our users have to say, or the new ways they find to use the site (rudimentary borderline porn publishing and lovely lopsided photosets being amongst my favorites).

That’s not to say I haven’t been having fun outside work. Perhaps you heard about naked shrink-wrapped cellophane girl? Maybe you saw Laughing Squid’s gorgeous photoset of the party in which this happened? I was there. Mostly (I lost track of time and space at some point during the night). I spent most of the time talking to a really lovely girl about the inherent advantages of medical marihuana, and enjoying the free beer. At one point I got MJ’ed.

By the way, I’m moving in with her by the end of this month. We’re hoping to create a blogging ganglion of epic proportions and take over the world. If that fails, I’m sure we’ll at least achieve success in getting very, very drunk. (much beer is owed to Mr. Keith, my official housing agent and javascript guru, for pointing me in her general direction)

How have I been, you ask?

Great.

— sergio at 01:30 PM  

It would seem that every major event in my life has been punctuated by the presence of a woman. From the moment my head —amidst cries of agony and unbearable pain— came out of my mother’s womb, to the point where I left my native country to go live in the US (yesterday), I have had women egging me on, holding me back, making me happy, turning my life miserable or taking care of me.

Most of my relationships have consisted of a mix of the aforementioned, in unequal but always generous dosages.

Her name is Paola.

I met her after my relationship with Livier was over, at a point when the least I expected was to meet someone, with impeccable timing to find her treading water on the same metaphorical bog.

Out of necessity, I never got to fully explore the extent of my feelings towards Paola: The job offer (and subsequent possibility of moving to the US) presented themselves when I had been dating her for about two weeks.

A publicist cum-cinema student, she is pragmatic, strong, thoroughly independent and has the easiest, most musical laughter I’ve heard. Really smart, but not an intellectual. A cynic by trade and a hardened tequila drinker by upbringing, she used to flick my nose with her index finger when I made jokes about her. If I complained, she’d just dismiss me and say “oh, you’re such a baby”.

I loved her for that.

I don’t know how long I’ll be away. I am very excited about the possibilities and the changes that are presenting themselves before me, but the mere sight of the shirt that she gave me (“I *heart* carbs” food pyramid) reminds me of all the stuff I’m leaving behind. It is a weird thing when mirth collides with dysphoria. There isn’t much place left for actual feelings, so you just let yourself go, eventually reach the conclusion that the way to go is to get wasted, toast to her name, and concentrate on the matters at hand.

See you, Paola. It was amazing.

— sergio at 11:13 PM  

Have you ever felt your life is changing way faster than you can keep up? That everything you knew, all the little tidbits and assumptions that compose “your reality” do not hold true anymore? Have you then started your way to the huge box of antiacid you keep hidden in your closet (admit it) and suddenly realized that you’re not actually hung over?

Welcome to my world.

At one point in the past two weeks I accepted a job at San Francisco based slide.com. I’ll be working alongside Johnnie Manzari in this Max Levchin startup on the design and web development side of things. I’ll be blogging more about the product (which has a lot of potential) in the near future.

Needless to say, I’m very excited to be joining this venture. I have met all the guys involved in the company, and one couldn’t ask more of a development team. They are all very motivated, highly experienced individuals.

I’ll be moving to San Francisco shortly, and I could use some help finding a nice apartment near public transportation. I’m also one hell of a roommate (feel free to construe that as you like), so if you’re looking, do drop me a line.

— sergio at 02:35 AM  

Night fell, and all around us the woods started to come alive. As the temperature dropped below zero, our usual lack of planning took a poignant turn: We still had about a hundred beers, five wine bottles, two pitchers of vodka…

And three sleeping bags.

For ten people.

At first it was funny, in the way that an ulcer of the colon tends to be funny. We shared a few more drinks and laughed about the whole thing.

Then it was cold.

Then our teeth started to chatter, our hands to tremble and we began to have trouble articulating coherent sentences (ok, that was the alcohol). The first few to break formation made a mad dash for the car. It would normally fit 5 people, tops, but seven guys and girls managed to squeeze in. That left Lydia, Ramon and me. We stared at each other for a while, and then Lydia and me tentatively grabbed two sleeping bags and slowly backed away from Ramon’s resentful stare.

Lydia and me were not involved in any way, so we made an honest attempt at sleeping in our respective bags, but we were still freezing our asses off, so it was decided that we would use one of the bags as a blanket and huddle together inside the other one.

What? It was a matter of survival!

We spooned together inside the sleeping bag. You have to understand, there was nothing sexual to this situation. This was more akin to that scene in “Empire” where Luke cuts up his camel thing and sleeps in its entrails. Only, you know… with less entrails. And more boobs. Which brings us to…

- Sergio?
- Yeah?
- You’re grabbing my tit.
- Am I?
- Yeah.
- mmm… no, I’m pretty sure this is your belly.
- No, you’re grabbing my tit. Stop it.
- I’m not grabbing your tit. You’re drunk.
- I think I’m qualified to know where my tits are. And you’re grabbing my tit. — By this point I just wanted to sleep, so I did the only thing I could.
- THIS is your tit!
- Ohmygod!! You grabbed my tit! Hey everyone! He grabbed my tit! Sergio grabbed my tit!!

The rest of the guys, being piss drunk and freezing, were not in the mood for lenghty discussions, so they just shouted from the car.

- Sergio, did you grab her tit?
- Um… yeah… just did.
- Left one or right one?
- Right one.
- Good! Now grab the other one and play bounce or something, if that will shut up the both of you! We’re trying to sleep here, assholes!

We giggled non-stop for the rest of the night.

— sergio at 12:58 AM  

I just moved out on my own. Prior to this, I shared the parental home with the brothers and —sometimes— mother (she spends a lot of time in Chicago, with father).

To many foreign readers it may seem odd that I’m emancipating at 28 years of age, but you’d be making the mistake of judging mexican society according to extraneous sets of rules. Let’s just say that over here, emancipation is not encouraged. It is even considered a forceful insult in some cases. Most mothers’ mantra: You leave the house…

• To study abroad.
• To marry (a broad?).
• Dead.

Hence, it took a while to convince the female parental unit that it was about time for me to just go on my own, but she eventually understood my point of view, and we’re still on good terms.

I’ve been alone on my apt for more than a month now. This is my rough diary of the first few days:

Day 1: This is awesome! It’s freaking freaking great! It would be even greater if I wasn’t so knackered from moving all the furniture in! And I still have to reassemble my futon!

I’ll try not to sleep on the floor!

And fail!

Day 2: Bad news: There is no water pressure in the shower. This is about the worst thing that could happen. Evar.

Also, it seems water heater is not working. Pretending to be zen monk while dousing ass with ice cold water. Ice cold pressureless water.

Current Zen meditation Mantra: HOLYFUCKINGMOTHERFUCKERFUCK!!!

Day 3: Watched “Ghostbusters” and “The Lost Boys” back to back. Confirmed theory of cinema worthiness. Theory of cinema worthiness states that the 80’s gave us the best Hollywood ever had to offer. Plus, anything with Kiefer Sutherland rocks. Anything with Kiefer Sutherland and Corey Feldman rocks harder.

Started (*gasp*) buying food.

• Bought meat, but no cooking oil.
• Bought cheese, but no tortillas.
• Bought butter, but no bread.
• Ended up eating sausages and cheese. Uncooked.

Water heater turned on, then turned itself off. Bathed with cold water. Balls the size of pine nuts at current time.

Day 4: Discovered true advantage of living alone: Walking naked all over the place.

Day 5: Discovered living room floor-to-ceiling window provides clear visibility from the street.

Hoping that girl who was passing by won’t press charges.

Day 6: Water heater displaying vexing behavior, proving itself a formidable foe. This is shaping up to be a battle of epic proportions.

• Water heater: 2
• Tenant: 0

Day 7: Had enough. Asked landlady to fix water heater and put some pressure in shower. Shower pressure problem turned out to be a clogged showerhead.

Water heater turned out to be automatic (it is apparent that there have been several advances in water heater technology since I last dabbled in its arcane secrets).

As the demonstration went on, Landlady kept repeating “you see, ENGINEER, you just turn this knob here and the water heater goes on automatic mode, like so”, “well, ENGINEER, yes, it will turn on when you need the hot water. By itself. Yes.”, “ENGINEER, it’s not the water pressure, the showerhead is just a bit clogged up…”.

I think that woman hates me.

Spent 2 hours picking at showerhead with pin. Eyed water heater suspiciously for rest of evening.

— sergio at 12:07 PM  

Yesterday I turned 28. As I continue on well past the quarter century, there is one thing that consistently eludes me: writing.

I recently moved to my own place, broke up a relationship, went on to continue that relationship in a somewhat twisted fashion, helped move my schizophrenic aunt into an asylum, and generally had a weird couple of months. All through this, there have been innumerable things to write about, but I just haven’t had the stomach.

That’s about to change. Things are finally starting to settle down, and I’m seeing some kind of stability in the horizon, which at this point, is good enough.

About the birthday: It was very nice. I got insanely great presents from Angie, kitta (well, I *assume* it’s nice, since it’s still on the way… for all I know, it’s wallaroo droppings in a box) and the ex. I usually treat myself on my birthdays, and this time I decided on a worthy purpose:

I’ll eat half a cow”

If you’re ever in Guadalajara, make sure you stop by La Matera and order the 2-person plate of “Entraña”. It’s really nice on the stomach, and you only have to work a bit into it to realize that the whole “2 person” concept is flimsy suggestion, at best.

So I had my half a cow, gifts, a lot of calls, a few beers with friends, good conversation and half the day off.

It was good.

Didn’t get a blowjob, though.

Got to set sights on that one for next year.

— sergio at 01:13 AM  

“What if she reads it?”, he wonders, as he puts the finishing touches on his latest post.

He’s been silent for longer than usual. Once such a big part of his life, his website has now faded into background noise, mute witness to actual living. “Well, sometimes writing about life has to take a backseat to life itself, I guess” — he tells himself as he wonders once again.

What if she reads it?”

He doesn’t even know when it all went wrong. How it happened no longer seems relevant. Sometimes things… they don’t go the way you want them to. It happens. It hurts, but it happens. Sometimes, no matter what you try or say or do, it just doesn’t work out.

He contemplates her picture and thinks about her and wonders what she’s doing. He realizes he has no idea whatsoever (and does his lack of insight have anything to do with how things turned out?). He puts the picture down.

What if she reads it?”

She’ll know he’s still hung up on her. Not that it’s particularly new information, of course. It’s been just days. And they parted amicably, too. Supposedly. Too. And he wonders what happened. How it all got so fucked up so fast. And her answer echoes in his head. Again.

Maybe we’re just not meant for each other”

And he hurts. Because he knows maybe, just maybe, it’s true. He looks over the newest rentals. On the tabletop, Jackie Chan, The attack of the 8-legged freaks and Freddie vs. Jason sit casually next to a fresh six-pack and two cigarette boxes. And as he wonders, once again

what if she reads it?”

he mutters “fuck it” and presses “post”.

— sergio at 06:16 PM  

Chatting with kitta:

<sergio> i slept shit all yesterday
<kitta> that might be why your tired
<sergio> my legs are going numb
<sergio> but i can’t arse myself to move them
<sergio> they’re kind of hooked up to the back wheels of my chair
<sergio> a stinging pain is starting to shoot up my left calf
<sergio> and i think i’ve lost sensation in my right foot
<sergio> i really should get some coffee
<kitta> lmfao
<kitta> dude move your legs, go get coffee
<sergio> mmmm… this is what gangrene may feel like
<kitta> lol
<sergio> interestingly enough, after the horrible urgency to move prompted by the stretched tendons sets in… some kind of a nagging, sinking feeling takes over
<sergio> i’m selectively losing sensation in assorted parts of my legs
<sergio> i kind of thought they’d go all at once
<sergio> or in order
<sergio> starting with the foot… then the calf, then the knee
<sergio> but it’s not what happens
<sergio> i think it’s the chair’s edge.
<sergio> it’s sitting right there under my knees
<sergio> it’s kind of cutting circulation
<sergio> wow… now i kind of feel like they’re moving on their own
<sergio> but it’s just the muscle cramps
<kitta> sergio…
<sergio> yes?
<kitta> lol i think it’s time you move your legs and get a fucking cup of coffee
<sergio> ok… i guess i’ll try
<kitta> not too fast, or you’ll fall over
<sergio> mmm…. ankle’s sore
<sergio> feels like millions of tiny ants are walking over my legs
<sergio> resisting… urge… to scratch
<sergio> recovering feeling
<kitta> if you blog about this, i will beat you
<sergio> ooooo! more ants!
<sergio> ankle’s on fire!
<sergio> ankke’s on fire!
<sergio> gaaah!

I’d love to be able to say that this is an unusual morning conversation…

— sergio at 11:26 AM  

Richard Rutter has passed me the musical baton. This being the internet, I figure I should go along with it, or risk having my naughty bits chewed by a photocopier or one of those nasty fates that befall those who break these things. Ergo:

Total volume of music on my computer

4.3 Gb

The last CD I bought

Natalia Lafourcade y la forquetina’s “Natalia Lafourcade” (I know. I suck.) I have just been notified that my Bill Hicks order has arrived, though, so that’ll be the very next one (does that count as music?)

Song playing right now

Losing my Religion, by REM. On Virgin Radio through iTunes.

Five songs I listen to a lot, or that mean a lot to me:

1. “It’s not too beautiful” by The Beta Band
2. “The queen and the Soldier” by Suzanne Vega
3. “Everybody knows” by Leonard Cohen
4. “Depende” by Jarabe de Palo
5. “Into my arms” by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Five people to whom I’m passing the baton:

1. Kitta
2. hector
3. Taylor
4. Sosa
5. Liz

— sergio at 09:17 AM  

So, where the fuck is Sergio?

He’s in Love. Don’t know if you’ve heard of the place. Love, you see, is this nifty little spot by the side of the road. As soon as you enter, your IQ drops to negative numbers and your creative output goes to hell. A botox-like Julia Roberts grin is permanently etched on your face, and you… go… down.

They serve pretty good Steak casserole, too.

So that’s where I’ve been. I’ve found myself in the very weird situation of having to rediscover the angry me, lest I never write again. I have sort of found it, so that’s cool.

Bite me.

Having a Significant other has brought forth all sorts of unexpected benefits. For once, my credit card debt seems less like a mighty Leviathan rising from depths unknown to engulf all of reality, and more like a gentle two-headed troll, who’ll go away if you just keep still and don’t make any sudden movements. That is to say: There is actual hope now that I will eventually be able to pay it, instead of leaving it as my (very dastardly) gift to future generations of Villarreal.

This is mostly due to these kind of exchanges:

Phone: Riiiing! Riiiiing!!
Gf: Hello?
Me: Honey! I’ve been looking for you. I need you to do me a big favor…
Gf: Um… ok… What is it?
Me: I need you to convince me that spending over 600 dollars on a cellphone is a bad idea. (ed. note: yes, I do talk with hyperlinks in real life)
Gf: …
Gf: That’s a fucking horrible idea…
Me: But it’s got like, really super cool real camera innards! And this guy’s been, like, traveling the US snapping pictures with it! Wait until you see it!
Gf: Sergio?
Me: Yeah?
Gf: You’re not getting that phone.
Me: But it has bluetooth and IR and fucking wireless mojo kung fu TO THE MAX!! I’m pretty sure with a few shell scripts I can get it to mow the lawn or something…
[…]

This goes on for a while every other day.

— sergio at 02:14 PM  

I have a folder in my computer entirely dedicated to Stuff™. I say that in the loosest possible sense of the word. It’s chock full of weird internet videos, unfinished posts that never were, little notes to myself that I completely forgot about and whatnot. It’s my very own personal blackhole (first one to take a potshot at this gets banned).

Today I was rifling through it and found a few amusing things.

From a “is blogging journalism?” post that never saw the light:

There’s a trend that’s been ticking me off lately: Blog journalism. Blournalism, if you like. There is a quick and easy way to become a blournaler:

1. Start blog (duh)
2. Grab stick
3. Insert stick up one’s ass
4. Instant internet journalism!
5. Profit?

Seriously, is it just me, or are people taking this way too seriously? This is what I can’t take about most of the blogosphere: People tend to think that they’re bre

Random pictures:

• My impression of a facehugger from Aliens
• Starman shirt that was out of stock when I ordered it online (If someone can hook me up with a vintage of this, I’d be most grateful — I’m talking sexual favors here — ok, I’m not but still… grateful).
• Images from the infamous image puzzle we solved all together (nothing like multiple hours of community-wasted time)

And the pièce de résistance — I can’t even fathom where the hell this one came from. I don’t remember writing it, either:

How, oh, how can I write something funny? I asked the big blue bunny.

The bunny looked at me, scratched its head, patted patiently on the ground for a few seconds, and proceeded to take a dump.

That’s funny.

What is in your Stuff™ folder?

— sergio at 10:45 AM  

This story is not new. It is not earth-shattering or mind-blowing, except on a personal level (but that is, after all, the one that matters, is it not?). This story is not new, but it is wonderful, and it happens all the time. Everywhere.

It begins with you falling in love.

This is an important bit. Not because of this love in itself. This one will get fucked up beyond recognition. Best we not stand here and stare at the trainwreck. No, this bit is important because it proves that you’re capable of the feat.

Falling in love. Completely non-intuitive emotion if I’ve ever seen one. One moment you’re wondering what all those old farts with the fucking sonnets were all about. Next thing you know, you’re talking in haikus and delivering red roses by the truckload.

It will turn a man into an idiot, it will.

It is wonderful, too.

So it ends, and you get over it. And you start looking again. Looking. For it. For HER.

Now, you may think you are not a picky person. You may believe that finding that special someone who’ll make you happy is a snap. Just go down the street, turn left at the fruit market, enter the girlfriend shop and order one with everything, right?

I want a compulsive reader who’s a bit bossy and rather kinky, with a smile that’ll put the night sky out’ve a job and skin so sweet you’d spread it over pancakes… oh, yes, the one next to the celery. She’ll do just fine, thank you.”

Oh, you may think you’ll have to settle for a different eye color than you wanted (“you don’t have that in hazel, then? Well, how about a bluish hue?”). You may think that a few compromises will have to be made, a few qualifications left unmet, but that’s ok. It’ll be a snap.

Think again.

After the first failed relationship you pat yourself in the back, chug along and mutter encouragingly to yourself: “no worries, mate, it’s just us, getting back on the wagon, bound to break a few eggs along the way, no?”.

After the third failed relationship you start doubting, just a bit.

After the fifth one, you realize there’s something horribly wrong with this. Something’s amiss. You’re no longer on the lookout for the perfect girl, then. You’d be rather comfy with someone just similar to your dreamgirl.

After your seventh failed relationship tries to stab you, you jump to the conclusion that you’d do just fine with someone this side of the loony bin.

And after the eleventh, and twelfth, and thirteenth, you’re just about fed up with the whole thing. About to give up hope. This is where you decide that you’re better off alone, and start up the path of the sarcastic loner. After all, who knows? there might just be a writing career there, no? I hear Dostoievsky was fucking miserable…

And of course, this is when you meet her.

And she’s perfect. She’s everything you ever wanted, and she’s everything you ever needed, and all you never thought you would find. And it literally takes your breath away every time she walks into the room (which leads to a few uncomfortable situations until you write “remember to breathe” on the back of your hand).

And, for the sake of this story (which has happened, happens and will happen all the time, everywhere), let’s assume that you manage to convince this woman, this amazing human being that being with you is actually a good idea. Let’s assume that she’s enthused by it, even. Let’s assume you’re the happiest you’ve been in oh, what is it… forever?

And it’s great.

Of course, at one point this girl, well she drops by your website, and performs a vanity search on herself. And she finds nothing. Of course. This is the website you’ve been running through your past… what? three relationships? Without dropping so much as a hint about them in it, too. This is the website.

But she is THE girl.

And suddenly you realize that you don’t want to keep this quiet. You want to shout it to the world and holler at the stars. And you want to scream, and you want to let everyone know.

So you write a little story. Nothing fancy. Nothing new. And it happens all the time, everywhere.

Except it’s never happened to you.

Her name is Livier, and I’m falling in love with her.

— sergio at 04:39 PM  

Quick Update: I’m at SxSW, enjoying the hell out of myself, and hanging out with Andy Clarke, Andy Budd, Jeremy Keith, the Clagnut guy, Andrei Hierasimchuk, Paul Scrivens, D Keith Robinson, Jason Santa Maria, Jon Hicks, Jeffrey Zeldman, Dave Shea, Joe Clark et al (links to be added in the future, but you know who these guys are).

You would not believe how cool these people are, and the fun we’ve been having. I must be the only person who’s not actually connected all the time, so the website has been getting spam by the truckloads, but I will have a consistent connection soon and post a longer entry with the specifics.

Highlights: I won the Latin American Bloggie (thank you everyone!!) and was there to pick it up, which was great fun (Sal: Saw your comments on the projection screen with the IRC chat thing. Thanks!), and Zeldman used my site as an example in one of the best panels of the conference, which of course, I missed due to being hung over (story of my life: The best bits of it happen elsewhere).

Thanks and bear with me!

— sergio at 02:56 PM  

I met Carrie at the men’s room of “La Sixtina” on a particularly crowded Friday while passing burning hot pee next to a comatose drunk. She stomped into the place wearing a distraught expression and a bell-cut dress that was more notable for the parts it didn’t cover than for the ones it did.

— “Edgar! Edgar! Are you here?”

Without missing a beat, five very drunk guys turned round towards her, their dicks hanging out.

— “I’ve got Edgar right here, baby”
— “Con ese cuerpecito, puedes llamarme como quieras, mija!”
— “Yeah, that’s his name, and he’s in my pants!”

Since I was already leaving the loo, and she was in the way, I figured I might as well take her out of there to more hospitable environments. So I did.

— “What the fuck was that? You’re going to get gang-raped doing that, woman!”
— “I… I was looking for Edgar. He’s my cousin. He’s from Monterrey, and I’m afraid he’s, well, he’s a bit drunk, and I haven’t seen him for a long while”

I looked down. She had freakishly long legs, topped by a picture perfect butt.

I’m a sucker for legs.

— “How’s he look?”

After getting a cursory description of the guy, and with no intention of finding him at all, I went back into the bathroom, where I lit up a smoke and stared at the ceiling while she waited outside. When a suitably plausible amount of time had passed, I came out.

— “Nope. No Edgar. Sorry”
— “You sure?”
— “Completely. Checked everywhere. We should go round the place a bit, though. See if we find him”—I’m so smooth…

As luck would have it, we bumped into Edgar in a matter of minutes. He looked awfully underage and was trying to pick a fight with the bartender. Carrie took him by the arm and introduced me as “a friend”. Edgar went ballistic, started trash-talking about how they wouldn’t take his money and waved a few large bills around. I told him I’d fix him something to drink, nicked his money, grabbed a drink off a nearby table and gave it to him. He seemed quite pleased.

— “Carrie! How are you? Long time no see!
— “Oh, hi, Jerry! It’s been so long! This is…”
— “Sergio. And we’ve met”
— “Yeah, I know him, actually. We study together”

There goes my plausible deniability.

— “Yeah, we’re journalists. Will be, anyway. Future of the country and all that crap, right here, girl” — I had been drinking since noon, and the buzz had turned into a nice little ringing at the back of my head by that point. Like my own private orchestra of crickets.

The bartender kept eyeing Edgar suspiciously, and I feared we might get Security sicced on our asses at any moment, so I made a good case for a strategic retreat. Out we went. Carrie, her girl friend, Jerry, Edgar (drunk as fuck) and me (too).

While Carrie wasn’t looking Edgar tried to pick up a fight with the valet parking. I let the valet rough him up a little before stepping in and excusing “my friend”. The sawed-off little runt was already getting on my nerves big time, but Carrie’s legs were working their magic and the night was still young.

We hit two more nightclubs that night. In a moment of struggle, cousin Edgar inadvertently elbowed my head and made me lose a contact lense (this was before I had my eyes lasered). That earned the little fucker drink-spit and “involuntary” bumps into every-single-corner of the place each time I had to carry him around.

He honestly thought I was just being careless.

Eventually we took Carrie’s girl friend back to her place. We left Edgar at the club with some baby boomers we ran into who claimed to know him. Carrie was too plastered to care and I was actually hoping they’d anally rape him. Edgar had lost most motor functions and couldn’t articulate coherent speech, so he didn’t get any say in it.

When we got there, Jerry accompanied token girl friend to her door while Carrie and me locked ourselves in the car and went at it like neurotic monkeys on acid. The windows were completely fogged and she was straddling me —An amazon surrounded by a preternatural halo of light due to my impaired visual condition— when we heard earnest harrumping from outside the car. We rearranged our clothes, repositioned ourselves, checked for damages and let Jerry back into his car.

The next day Jerry would tell me to take care of Carrie, ‘cause she was a really nice girl, which promptly made me wonder about the ethics of banging Jerry’s high school sweetheart on the backseat of his car. Then he got a wistful look on his face and talked about how “he had been after her for years, but in the end, they were just friends”.

Right then I knew I was going to hell.

— Don’t worry, Jer. She’s uh… a fine girl… fine girl. I’ll make sure I take care of —Connie? Wendy? Jenny? Rhonda? Ashley?— uh… her.

When we went back to the bar, we found cousin Edgar sitting on the steps to the dance floor with a terrified look on his face. He’d been crying (Score!).

— “They gave me cocaine, cousin. They GAVE ME COCAINE!”

We stared at him quizzically, mutedly wondering if this was a good or a bad thing.

— “I have never snorted cocaine! I am a DRUG-ADDICT now!! Oh, my GOD, What am I gonna DO??”

I excused myself and went to the bathroom to laugh my ass off while Edgar bawled on the dance floor and Carrie sat by the side, staring at her cousin in disbelief, undoubtedly wondering what she’d tell his mother when she saw him like that. He was still yelling when I got back (“I was going to go to the University!! Now my life will go TO WASTE!!”).

It was day already when we went out of the club. Edgar was still deeply set into the worst paranoic trip I’ve ever witnessed (Frankly, I don’t think what they gave him was cocaine, at all). As we neared my place, I told him, matter-of-factly, that the addiction could be handled… with work.

As I got out of the car, I said “Don’t worry, mate. You’ll be alright”, then leaned closer and whispered into his ear “As long as you don’t fall asleep”. I slammed the door shut and saw his horrified face staring back at me as they sped off. I waved at him, smiling, and went into my apartment, cheerfully picturing Edgar in a talcum-powder/PCP induced caffeinated paranoid frenzy for the next two days…

— sergio at 03:33 PM  

Saturday brought in an odd mixture of innocent, light-hearted fun and alcoholic excess. It’s odd because the last time I was involved in innocent, light-hearted fun I was still wearing diapers, and the last time I got involved in alcoholic excess, I ended up wearing diapers.

The day’s progression went something like this:

• We get together to build kites. Day not particularly windy. Hope will improve. In daunting defiance of true purpose of the evening, we do not stock on beer.
• We make it to public park with kites. Still sober. Lack of wind makes kite flying an exercise in futility.
• After running around for three hours trying to bring kites to respectable altitude, unanimous decision to get completely wasted is reached.
• At Der Krug (fancy german beer place), we start stocking on lemons to make contraband dehydrated meat taste better. Someone gives us odd look as we keep eating bits of brown stuff F’s pulling out of his crotch area.
• Girl, very married, claims she has more hair on her nipples than I do on my chest (very likely, author is almost as hairy as baby’s testicle). “Hairy nipples!!” becomes party’s battle cry for rest of evening.
• I start hitting on very married girl. The futility of the idea notwithstanding, she provides amusing list of obscenities for future reference.
• Conversation shifts to penis size. Apparently, all men at table have taken a ruler to our schlong at one time or another. When discussing her guy’s man-stick, whistles of appreciation are emitted by the only Significant Other at table. I let out the fact that on its spare time, my penis terrorizes Tokyo.
• Japanese average penis size is considerably smaller than Mexican average. Upon stumbling on this vital piece of information, we all turn and give the oriental guy at next table a hearty Nelson (Ha-ha!) while pointing.
• K reads Tarot to rest of party at our table. Waiter looks in, shiftily. Goes away mumbling something. Author may be slightly drunk by this point, since he is utterly convinced reading confirms self’s massive penis size.
• Time to crash another party.
• Party has industrial amounts of beer. Self’s doom is spelled by this point.
• I recognize one of attendees as local comic-book store clerk. Try to choke him to death demanding Batman’s “Long halloween”, backordered months ago.
• Comic book guy is actually a very funny, insightful individual.
• Everyone at party turning oddly wise and interesting. Empathy reaching all-time high.
• I am FUNNIEST PERSON EVAHR.
• I start poll to find out how many guys smell their hands after scratching their balls. Uncomfortable silence ensues. I decide they are all filthy liars.
• Conversation topic turns to performing blowjobs on self. Author the only person honest enough to admit he would hit it like the end of times.
• Rest of evening spent discreetly trying to reach own penis.
• Multiple cases of beer stolen, way home is undertaken. Singing ensues.
• Pass out at own bed. Incredible show of self control noted.

Sunday was horrible.

— sergio at 04:12 PM  

We all have a potential for evil and mischief. I discovered early on that mine was not at all negligible. In fact, it might be said I could have turned out a pretty rotten brat, were it not for the second fact I discovered: That potential and disposition do not equal aptitude.

It might be fairly obvious by now that me and common sense… well, we don’t mix much (alas, stupidity is such a harsh mistress!).

I was about ten, and had gone out bike riding with my brother. I was riding behind him and staring at my front wheel’s rim, from which a rather large screw protruded to one side. It was then, in a perfect moment of acute lucidity, that I hatched my plan:

Wouldn’t it be AWESOME if I rammed the rim screw into my brother’s rear wheel spokes? I mean, WOULDN’T THAT BE AWESOME TO THE MAX??”

Oh, how joyous was my vision! The image of him flying through the air, crashing on the pavement, getting badly maimed… few broken bones, perhaps even the nose!. Oh, the laughs we would have!

So I went and did it.

Now, any Physics 101 student (or any person with half an ounce of brain, for that matter) can tell you exactly what happens when you lodge the front rim of a bike into another bike’s rear wheel spokes, which is the following:

1. As a result of the sudden jamming of the wheel, both bikes come to a dead stop.
2. Since the bike on the front brakes from the rear, it skids across the pavement in a controlled manner.
3. As the bike on the rear brakes with the front wheel, all its angular velocity is translated to the frame (which at this point is firmly pinned by the front wheel’s rim, providing an excellent axis for rotation)

Saying I was not a particularly clever Criminal Mastermind™ might just be the mother of all understatements.

As I flew across the air, I had just enough time to realize the error of my calculations.

As I crashed headfirst into the pavement, I repented a bit.

As I lay on the road bleeding profusely through my torn pants, I even attained a measure of wisdom.

As my brother came to a stop by lowering his feet to the road, thereby coming out of the incident completely unharmed, I concluded that I had attained the peak of my criminal career (and that it was not particularly bright).

And as my own bike came crashing over my badly maimed body, I decided that, just perhaps, evil was not for me.

Seriously, it’s a wonder I even made it through childhood.

— sergio at 12:26 AM  

“I‘m late” are two words that, in a wide variety of situations, are perfectly fine and acceptable. Your friend might be letting you know you’ll have to drink that beer alone at the bar… Your dentist might be letting you off the hook because he’s stuck in traffic… There are all kinds of moments when they may sound harmless, even comforting.

When D told them to me, it was in the worst possible context…

— “How much?”
— “One month”

Shit.

It’s a fine line we walk, most of the time, between now and what may very well become The Rest of Our Lives ©. That day, talking to D, I clearly felt the line vanish beneath my feet.

We decided to get a real lab test to make sure. In between the anorexia and the chronic depression, D was stuffing so many drugs down her throat that her urine would most likely have melted the pregnancy test.

The lab test took two weeks. In that time, I almost came to terms with the prospect of an unwanted pregnancy. I was still a good year and a half from graduation, but deeply in love with D. The next time we talked, she said, matteroffactly:

— “Don’t worry. About anything. In case… well, if it happens… my cousin knows a doctor. I’ll take care of it.”

When I heard her, all that went through my head was YOU’RE GONNA DO WHAT TO LITTLE TIMMY, BITCH??

Now, I don’t have a particularly strong position on this issue. I’ve always felt that I’m no one to judge any person’s situation, let alone dictate a course of action on any moral issue for someone. Anyone.

But this was my baby.

I won’t say that the idea of parenting didn’t terrify me. It did. I was not ready. At all. I’m still not ready. I don’t think I ever will be. Is anyone ever, really?

I won’t pretend that my reaction was the best possible either. I didn’t exactly shout “I’m here for you, baby, let us contract holy matrimony in the eyes of the Lord almightee!”, and so I kind of understand D’s reaction.

But the prospect of being a daddy did hold some kind of weird attraction towards me.

— “We should talk this over… There are other ways…”

Like, for instance, we could become parents, instead of you killing my son, wench!

— “I’ve thought it over. Don’t you worry about anything. I’ll handle it.”

I didn’t pursue the matter further, deciding to wait until the results came back instead (although, with a month and a half going on it, I already fancied myself a dad).

The day the results were ready we showed up at the lab and they handed us an envelope. On the way to the car, we decided we couldn’t wait any longer. This incredibly important bit of info lay there, in our hands, waiting to be discovered, taunting us, threatening to turn our world upside down. Our hands shaking, we tore off the envelope and took out the piece of paper. It said:

cHr tt. / RH uj —— 998 / 1000”

The feeling of pent up, stomach churning anticipation being instantly replaced by unabashed dumbfoundedness is not unlike eating a piece of raw fish with line and hook and scraping it up and down your throat (um, not that I’d know…).

We went back into the lab. I took the piece of paper and slammed it against the glass wall in front of the attendant.

— “What is this?”
— “Umm… negative”

Although I felt a huge, undeniable relief, I must confess I also felt a bit of a let down.

It turned out that, due to the anorexia, D had stopped menstruating altogether. She didn’t have her period for over a year.

I don’t know if she would have gone through with it or not. I do know that I always resented her for not even considering me part of that decision.

And somehow, I’d have liked to see what kind of person little Timmy might’ve turned out to be.

— sergio at 06:35 PM  

On the sixth day of christmas, my true love gave to meee…

• 6 John Wayne movies…
• 5 Clint Eastwood westerns…
• 4 Shirt underoos…
• 3 Star Wars DVD’s…
• 2 Sci-Fi books…
• 1 “swiss army” cologne…
• And a haardcover of the Little Prince!

I also gave myself a few nice threads from errorwear and elsewhere (a few less geeky ones). Good bounty this year.

How was yours?

— sergio at 12:46 PM  

I own a Cancer Protection insurance policy. No shit. It will give me a considerable sum of money in the event that I find myself ailed with any form of Cancer known to man. Any, that is, except those pesky ones that people actually get sick from.

I’m not kidding. The exemptions clause on my policy is not only bigger than the rest of the contract. It makes “War and Peace” look like the puny, trifling pamphlet that it really is. It mocks the Encyclopaedia Britannica with derisive superiority whilst sitting on its throne and sniffing coke off the tits of a ten-dollar hooker. This clause is spread across several pages because, were it all written down on the same piece of paper, it would undoubtedly create a gravity well, collapse into itself, become a new universe and eventually spawn a civilisation of purple flying monkeys who would develop space travel, invade Earth and sodomize all of humanity (which, although presenting the undeniably amusing prospect of bunghole rape-age of whatever lawyer came up with said document, would —in all likelihood— not be fun).

But now for the 1 million dollar question: Why do I own this insurance? — Indeed, why do I pay a monthly fee upwards of 10 american dollars for it?

If you don’t know the answer to that, dear reader, you are surely not a regular, so allow me to introduce myself: My name is Sergio, and I am an idiot.

The reason that I own this policy, is that, put in simple and elegant terms, I have the strong, determined volition of chocolate pudding. On acid.

The lecherous, ass-raping, mother-fucking motherfuckers over at ACE Insurance Company of North America (mexican branch) called me about a year ago to let me know that American Express had the forethought and good judgement of violating my customer agreement in order to provide them with all of my data for this incredibly nifty new medical insurance against Cancer and other stuff (I take it that the other stuff provides coverage against earth-faring aquatic sea monster attack in the event of Global Marine uprising led by Aquaman, Namor or some other self-appointed king of the Sea — on Sundays only). And they were practically GIVING IT AWAY!

There is a very good reason for the existence of customer information non-disclosure clauses. It is to protect blabbing, drooling idiots from themselves. It is a very worthy reason. Those of you who were anointed —whether by divine hand or genetic lottery— with the gift of Common Sense should, like Superman, use that mighty power for good. You should strive to use it in the help and defense of those of us who, alas, are not so fortunate! I am sorry to say that in this respect, YOU FAILED ME.

The conversation between the salesperson (henceforth known as the Hellspawn) and me went more or less like this:

HS: Mister Villarreal! I have here your credit card number, home address and other personal information. I just need your confirmation to fit you with our Cancer Insurance Policy.
SV: Umm… no, I don’t really…
HS: Need I remind you that I have your home address?
SV: But, really! I don’t…
HS: (in hellish guttural shriek that promises to rain death upon the living) OH, BUT YOU WILL BUY IT, BITCH! YOU WILL BUY IT AND YOU WILL LIKE IT!!!
SV: (in full battle cry mode — otherwise known as sounding like a 5 year old scared to death girl) Aaaanngghh!! Leave me alone! Yes! Yes I want it! just leave me aloooone!!
HS: That is all we needed. You will be receiving your policy… soon (insert hellish laughter here)

You should be ashamed of yourselves.

I recently waged a fierce, bloody and drawn out battle to get rid of this insurance policy. I am thirsty, wounded and mentally exhausted from it, and I’m still not sure if the dragon was slain. More on this later.

— sergio at 05:25 PM  

In women matters, I suffer from bad judgement. No, make that dangerous lack of acumen. Actually… it’s more like a hideous, consummate disregard for common sense.

I tend to hook up with deranged women. I’m not just being facetious here, either. Two of my ex girlfriends have done long stretches in mental care institutions (for reasons unrelated to my involvement with them — mostly). Another one turned out to have a brain tumor (ok, that one I had nothing to do with, and she’s ok now).

Anyway, the point is: When it comes to choosing a stable partner for romantic relationships, I suck. Badly. A random number generator hooked up to the census database could do a far better job than I have so far, and that’s without even removing the males from the data.

Which is why I joined an online dating service (yes, I have become one of those people).

In my inexhaustible wisdom, I decided that if I met women completely ouside my social circle, women whom I had had absolutely no dealings with prior to the act of asking them out, only good things could come out of it.

You may be aware by now of the fact that I am an idiot, but surprisingly enough, the results have been mixed, and so far I’ve only hit a few snags in the whole endeavour, which I will write about soon. For the time being, here is my profile (translated to English), as available in match.com:

General:

I am fun and functional. A historical, perhaps mythological figure. My boring days inspire epic poems in dead languages and whole tribes erect monuments in my honor.

I possess a multitude of national and international awards. I can rip phonebooks in half with my bare hands. When not busy achieving World Peace, I help children and small dogs.

My fortune is vast and unmeasurable. Bill Gates asks me for loans and the IMF issues bonds on my name.

I am on sale. Just for today.

Appearance:

I’m the mexican version of Quentin Tarantino.

Looking for:

I like women who are intelligent, independent and have a good sense of humor. Being creative and having an even number of limbs a plus.

— sergio at 06:55 PM  

There are a myriad mysteries in the universe that we may never uncover. “Why are we here?” “Is there a God?” “Who is the fat naked lady we awoke next to in that seedy motel last Saturday?” (What? Like it’s never happened to you). However, there is one particular mystery that has been driving me insane for a week now. The mere utterance of the words brings a dread to my soul the likes of which I have never experienced, such is the depth of the illness it’s spreading through my psyche:

Tree poking girl.

Here’s what happened: Lately, I’ve taken a liking to carrying out a daily evening stroll. Since I spend about 14 hours a day sitting in front of a monitor (first at work, then at home), this is the only way to keep myself from mummifying. Now, one week ago, as I walked, I saw a girl standing next to a tree by the road, poking it with a fallen branch. Just that. Poking it. She seemed quite entertained by it.

I stared at her and she stared at me and I walked by, and by the time I reached the next block I decided that I just had to know what the hell she was doing (you may be aware by now, that I am not obsessive or cling to things like a monomaniacal lamprey… at all). As you may have successfully guessed already, when I retraced my steps, she was nowhere to be seen.

I have been coming back to that spot every day since, and I have yet to run into Tree Poking Girl again. This thing is eating me inside with a passion. Now, when I came back, she was gone but the tree was still there, so it’s a safe bet that she was not trying to bring it down or make it disappear by any sort of magical or ethereal means (Or, if she was, she wasn’t doing a very good job of it).

In my endless search for enlightenment, I discussed this matter of utmost importance with Kitta (Unfathomable fountain of wisdom that she is) and she suggested that Tree Poking Girl was perhaps engaging in some weird form of tree raping, and that she had moved on to another tree by the time I came back. It is a theory that has a certain sense to it, I’ll be first to admit. It also presents horrifying implications:

If the branch she was using was from the tree itself, would that mean that she was performing some sick, twisted sort of sadomasochistic self flagellating/mutilating ritual on that tree? Was she part of some secret society that graduated from tree-hugging to tree-raping millennia ago? The world needs to know!

Any theories?

— sergio at 12:13 PM  

Uncle Nacho was a cabbie for more time than most people are alive. He had a booming voice and roaring laughter that was felt more than it was heard. He was already an old man when I was a kid, and he did not seem to age one day until the end. I last saw him one month ago, three days before he died.

Cancer may have gotten the best of him, but sadness never did. He outlived his wife and daughter, and at the end, he’d fall asleep with his eyes open, and could no longer close his mouth, but he was still making jokes and telling us off.

In front of my house there’s a long, unkempt patch of land at the ridge between the lanes. An old elm that grows there casts a solid shadow on a soft spot of grass. Every day when I’m going back to work after lunch, there’s a cabbie lying there. I never see him pull in, but he’s always there when I leave. He parks his cab illegally in the middle of the road, lies down under the tree and takes a fifteen minute nap.

I have never talked to him, but as far as I’m concerned, from three thirty five until ten to four in the afternoon, that cabbie is the happiest man alive.

I sometimes sit by the window and watch him there, napping, and I like to think that somewhere, uncle Nacho has found a solid shadow by a patch of grass, and is lying there, with a smile on his face. Somewhere.

— sergio at 09:18 PM  

My friend *** is in town. He’s around because there’s this big Catholic Convention going on. Not because he’s a chest thumper per se (which he’s far from), but because he’s pretty much part of it. He’s an ordained priest, you see?

Due to that last fact, my usual way of greeting him (MOTHERFUCKERR!!!) elicited a dark, reprobatory glance from my mother, who was present at the time. It’s like being ordained should cast this impenetrable aura of respectability around one, apparently. Like Superman, but with holiness. Spiritual kevlar, if you will.

This is all pretty significant to me, because —difficult as it may be to buy this, particularly in light of my most recent entries— “priest” ranks very high up there in the list of things I could have turned out to be. I won’t go deep into the reasons that drove me away from that, but rest assured, I’m thoroughly convinced I would have made a lousy priest.

I spent 7 years (from the age of twelve ‘til I was nineteen) being part of / working in / leading youth groups in church. Looking back on that now, I shudder to think that *anyone* might have been looking up at me for moral guidance.

I still see most of my friends from that period of my life. We all get drunk together Tuesdays and Fridays.

— sergio at 01:49 PM  

Through my life, there have been some bits and pieces of pop culture that have stuck with me. The ones that reflect way too much of the inner workings of my personal Wonderland, that give away too much. These pieces of writing (mostly) or film (on Sundays) have a way of putting me in uncomfortable situations where I have to look at myself and ask if what I’m doing is actually the right thing. If where I’m going is actually the right place. If I’m not just another sad, lonely bitter person in a world full of sad, lonely bitter persons (and if I am, can I get something out of it? — Is there enough of an aftermarket out there for endless, cynical ruminations about whatever the fuck happens to be going on in one’s life at any one point? and if there is, isn’t it already overtaken by Livejournal?).

The top five pop culture icons that move me deeply and make my day a bit crap, or nice, or even introspective, but usually make me question and ponder and kind of jerk off mentally are, in that order:

• Nick Hornby books. This one’s a biggy. Hornby’s protagonists are usually despicable human beings. They’re not meant for empathy and —perhaps— they are meant to make you feel a bit better about yourself because of the fact that they are not like you. Or at least that’s what I think. I don’t believe it is ok that I am so much like some of them, and I doesn’t make me feel better about shit all. It does help me get a few ounces of perspective into the whole deal. Hornby may very well have the whole post-shock-cultural-cynicism market cornered, though, which sucks, because there are so many of us that want a crack at it.
• “Preacher” by Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon. The whole series. Even the 4th volume which came out a bit crap what with the whole Dillon-not-drawing-any-of-it thing and all. Still, an incredible piece of work, and the cornerstone of my understanding of traditional Americana and the whole nationalistic pride thing (which in itself may paint a pretty fucked up picture of my relationship with the american dream, but then again I don’t think it’s that bad, really).
• Nick Cave. “Murder Ballads” and “The boatman’s call” in particular. The one reflecting my adolescent —and somewhat childish— fascination with all things murder-y or dead and the other painting something of a grim perspective of love and relationships that is all too accurate (and thankfully a bit more hopeful than most of his other stuff)
• “Diario de una anorexica” (“Diary of an anorexic woman”). Which isn’t so much a part of “popular” pop culture but features good ol’ me in about two thirds of the book, and chronicles the relationship that put me over the edge and pretty much the reason I’m writing this stuff right now. If it were tortured out of me, I would own up to the fact that I’m too chickenshit to put this all the way up there at number one, where I would really have to acknowledge it.
• “High Fidelity”, the movie, with John Cusack and Jack Black, which is a close offshoot of the Hornby book by the same name, and which, thankfully, paints a prettier picture of Rob, the store owner, that makes him a more likeable person, and kind of makes me think that not all is lost, and that clinical cynicism is at least better than clinical depression, so what the fuck, hey. We’re still here, huh?

    — File under “Things I maybe shouldn’t blog about”.

— sergio at 01:24 PM  

As much as I talk here about my gruesome habits or obsessive compulsive behavior, I rarely touch upon what is actually happening in my life at any one time, as I have no interest in turning this place into a “dear diary” kind of thing.

Howeveeer…

So many things have happened lately that it’s time for an update.

Firstly: New job — fucking awesome. I’ll be developing a number of websites for a corporate group that dates back as far as 1908, as well as working out rules of engagement for all web related company endeavours. This fills me with no small amount of glee. I constantly catch myself browsing web design related sites and thinking Mmmhh… I should stop wasting time and get to work…, only to realize that now this is my work!!!. Lovely, huh?

The work site is Apple only. Now, on first notice, you may peg me as a Mac hater of sorts, but I assure you that is a common misconception. I actually love the little buggers ever since they slapped a lickable interface over Unix. Opening a terminal to type “ls” every once in a while has become one of my new rituals.

Regarding the ‘puter at work: Used to be a 450 Mhz G4 with 640 Mb Ram and an 80 Gb HD running Panther (Sekhmet). I don’t know if it was my PC karma, but it crapped out in a week. Apps crashed, kernel extensions bonkered and even Flash and Java went awol (On hindsight, it may have been an ill-fated decision to name her after a goddess of destruction). So she has been replaced by Hathor, a 733 Mhz G4 with the 21” Apple CRT (“turtle”). The package includes one of those nifty buttonless rodents Apple makes (I keep fighting the urge to take a bite from it).

Hathor is running beautifully, and has already been subjected to the addition of Quicksilver, Desktop Manager and, of course, Firefox. Unlike Sekhmet, this one has a video card that supports Quartz Extreme (that would be the flim flam velocinator). It feels like running through fields full of candy coated strippers, I shit you not.

At home, my lowly GeForce 2 has been replaced with a sleek ATI All In Wonder 9700 PRO. After a false start in which I almost burned my processor due to overheating (note to self: Always check how tight cabling is around the processor fan, and never ignore screeching sounds coming from the ‘puter), I find myself selling my soul to Far Cry, and enjoying every minute of it. Whereas in the Geforce it looked like regurgitated dogshit, now it looks like what can only be described as a visual handjob of the most prurient persuasion. I had already become pretty good at getting headshots on the 4 pixel tall squiggly lines that I figured out were soldiers, but now the little buggers are actually scary. I won’t discuss the trigens save to assure you that they are the stuff that fills my nightmares.

Other news: Read Neverwhere. Fucking loved it. Reading Stranger in a Strange Land. Grokking it. Doing major rehaul of room furniture and life habits. Thinking seriously about restarting work on the comic.

Oh… and we have free coffee at work. freecoffee freecoffee freecoffee freecoffee. Right now theworldisablur and I’m standinginthemiddleofitall. It’s beautiful.

And that’s about it.

— sergio at 12:50 PM  

Much as the baby sparrow leaves the nest to perform whatever sparrow-approved activities are the rage these days, I leave IBM to pursue different (if not bluer) horizons.

Come next Friday I’ll be leaving the premises to engage in the exciting job of webmasterdom and Internet Technologies Integration at an undisclosed location much nearer home. If this does not sound like an exciting job to you, try doing low level programming for almost two years.

In retrospect, I must say that it has been a somewhat exhausting, albeit very interesting run. I must confess I am fairly glad to be leaving now, since church towers and sniper rifles were increasingly catching my eye for the past two z/OS releases. Usually not a good sign.

During my stay here, I’ve experienced what it is like to develop software the way it’s meant to be done. Many may bash IBM and other software behemoths for being unproductive and lacking the dynamism of smaller companies, but having been privy to both methodologies, I can assure you that there are reasons why stuff is made this way in the proverbial cubicle farms. That’s not to say that the process of attaining CMM 5 (a process I had the fortune to be a part of) was any fun at all. Basically it means documenting everything (if you take a dump, you keep a record of how many squares of toilet paper you use).

Through this almost two years I have worked with incredibly talented people, and to you, my coworkers, whether you are here, on the US or on other IBM sites: I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. It’s been a blast.

— sergio at 04:51 PM  

— sergio at 09:34 AM  

I do not suffer from obsessive behavior. I do not suffer from obsessive behavior. I do not suffer from obsessive behavior. I do not suffer from obsessive behavior. I do not suffer from obsessive behavior.

I didn’t copy/paste that.

Ok. Now that’s out of the way: I do have a few quirks and oddities that sometimes bug me. Here’s a (neatly marked up in standards-compliant code) far from comprehensive list:

• When I’m driving I repeatedly reach for the handbrake and remove it, even though I know it is not engaged (This doesn’t look so weird now that I drive a standard with the handbrake next to the shift stick, but when I had a Dart-K I kept reaching under the dashboard repeatedly for no apparent reason, to the utter confusion of friends and family).
• When riding on the passenger seat of a car, I wiggle my pinky toe whenever we pass a lamppost.
• When I’m with friends at a bar, I surrepticiously remove the lighters from the table and return them to their exact same position later, after having detached the longish security stickers they have on one side.
• Sometimes I avoid stepping on the lines on the floor (I used to do this long before it became cool — Damn you, Jack Nicholson!).
• I absolutely, positively must always straighten the teeth of the forks I get at restaurants so that they’re all plumb and evenly spaced (Don’t look at me like that! someone’s got to safeguard the karmic balance of the universe, ok?).
• People who keep the protective plastic covers on their cellphone screens drive me berserk. That goes double for the ones that allow the little ear of the plastic to get wrinkly and worn out, and still refuse to remove them. I’m getting chills just writing this down. This also applies (on a somewhat lower level) to those who keep the bright red/yellow/blue demo stickers on their camera/laptop/VCR, and those who put plastic covers over their furniture. Whenever I see this kind of thing I get a sudden rush of blood to the head, start foaming at the mouth and try to gouge people’s eyes out (Just kidding. I don’t actually foam at the mouth)

So, that’s it for me. What about you? What are your little quirks/oddities? Share.

And remember: they’re not bugs. They’re features.

— sergio at 12:56 PM  

We made up holidays, Diana and I. Had a whole system set up to this effect, too. It worked something like this: If we thought it would be cool to make up a holiday, we would.

Next step was deciding where we’d go for the duration. It was a question that was largely determined by how far we could get in the alotted time (this didn’t always account for time spent on getting back). This philosophy led us to go through roughly one third of the country. It also meant that we fought, bickered and argued in one third of the country.

We had a lot of these holidays. There was “They say Puebla is nice this time of the year” week, “I know I screwed up, let’s go to Valle de Bravo and make up, my treat” weekend and “got us fake student ID’s, we have travel discount!” month, amongst others.

This particular story happened in the middle of “Yay! Michoacán!!” week, right before it turned into the “We don’t have enough money for the ticket back” pledge drive. We were having coffee in a really small town south of Michoacán. Our waiter —Omar— was very nice, and we kept inviting him to join us at the table. When his shift was over, he did.

— So, have you lived here all of your life? How is it?
— Oh, it’s nice, I guess. We don’t do much. We have a football¹ team, though. Play every month against the guys from the town you passed on the way here.
— Cool! Are you good?
— Well, sort of. We used to be better. Had a great goalkeeper. The guy would take a swift look at the ball, lunge for it and grab it real firm. Never missed a ball, he was that good. But this one time, he jumped for the ball and hit his hand against the post. Really hurt it, it was left dangling like this —At this, he made a limp pendulum-like motion with his hand— So, anyway, we took him to the hospital, but it was real bad… They had to cut it off.

We had been smiling up to that point, but then we hit a brick wall in the conversation. We were wide eyed, staring at Omar and each other in turn, unable to think of what to say next. Omar saved us the trouble:

— Now he plays center midfield.

To this day, I still laugh my ass off every time I remember.

_______
¹ Soccer

— sergio at 11:47 PM  

I woke up this morning in Ajijic, crashed on a sofa of a hotel room I barely recognized. The buzz in my head gave me a pretty accurate idea of how much I drank yesterday: about 5 metric tons (awesome wedding, Luis!). The other Luis got out of one of the rooms and grunted a hello. Pancho had woken up earlier and left for a swim. Pedro and his wife were still asleep in the other room. I dislodged a hairpin that had gotten stuck to my back (a remnant of a veritable army, which had valiantly held Erika’s hairdo upright the whole evening). There was a note affixed to the kitchen wall:

“Breakfast is in the fridge”

We opened the fridge door and — to no one’s surprise — found a six-pack and a lemon.

— sergio at 01:38 PM  

It’s hard to believe that the land that gave us McDonalds, Taco Bell and Dunkin Donuts could produce Barnes & Noble. Good ambience, well-lit, with great coffee and buttloads of books that you can sit down and read. It just doesn’t get any better than that (well, maybe if they were free).

As soon as I arrived in Chicago, I performed a quick raid on the nearest B&N. A bookstore blitzkrieg, if you will. I knew exactly what I was looking for, and went straight for it. There it sat, staring at me in beautiful cream colored 48pt Eplica, its cover lush with green duotones. Neil Gaiman’s American Gods was finally within my grasp. As an afterthought, I grabbed Heinlein’s Starship Troopers on my way to the register.

The Heinlein book lasted all of one day. It has very interesting socio political propositions, and is waaay deeper than the movie. At times it’s hard to believe the book dates back to 1959.

American Gods is a different story. I just finished it today, and it’s one of the most entertaining, finely crafted novels I’ve read in a long time. At times, Gaiman’s way with words rivals that of Camus, and you just know that behind every passing reference tossed casually by the characters, there are oodles of mythologic knowledge. Can’t recommend this one enough.

Later forays into B&N provided me with more Gaiman, Heinlein, a lot of Pratchett, some Vonnegut and other jewels. I’m happy now.

— sergio at 11:45 PM  

Chicago! Chicago! Chicago! If you say it over and over it kind of loses its meaning and starts to sound silly…

Anyway. As you may have noticed in recent posts, I’m ge