Where have I been

Originally posted in my other (now dead) blog 8/6/10

-Monday-

Okay, so I am minding my own business in my computer, about to read Soren Bowie’s column when there is a click sound coming from my hard drive, and the computer just fucking freezes. I wait TEN MINUTES. Still frozen. Yep, time to restart. Well, I’ll be damned, it says “Machine exception” and won’t open windows. Maybe in safe mode. No? Not even safe mode? Okay, let’s go to the repair guy. WHAT DO YOU MEAN ON VACATION? WHO GAVE HIM PERMI- okay, let’s cool down. There is another one closer to my house, actually. So by the afternoon I can have my baby back, it seems it is a virus. Just wipe C: leave D: alone, all my files get saved, we all end up ha- WAIT NO my fonts, and winamp skins and chat logs. Oh you can back them up too. So today, just later than expected. Fine, fine. Okay, tv, it is time for us to spend some time together, show me what you’ve got… WHAT? SAY WHA-? Another channel… OH MY GOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS? Hell, I guess it shall be this other channel no- OH COME ON (one hour later) I can feel my brain slowly drying up. I need some Asimov. Oh that is better. But wait, it is late, my baby is supposed to be ready any second. And there is the phone ringing, it must be it. Yes? Yes, the compu- oh. OH DAYM. Yeah, I can wait another day. Tomorrow afternoon, yes because the hard drive is being a little bitch. Sure, discipline the wench.
-Tuesday-
Not yet. Because it is a physical issue. So a new (and bigger) hard drive is to be installed, and the old one to be a slave. I can’t say I don’t like the arrangement. Yes I am crazy, thank you for asking. So, a couple of hours too? Oh, more like tonight. Sure, sure as long as it is read today. Hey, it’s getting late, I wonder what is going on. Longer than expected? Ah, I see. Tomorrow around noon. Okay.

-Wednesday-
No machine can recognize the old hard drive? Alright, one moment, I will just tear up here over the last year and a half worth of files that are getting lost. Meanwhile I can have my baby back with the new hard drive and HELLO WINDOWS 7 you are not such an asshole after all, it seems. The old drive will stay with repair guy, so he can salvage something. I need to go rant. Oh bless the skies there is internet for tha- WELL, SHIT. NO INTERTUBES. WHAT IS THIS FAGGOTRY!? Now the phone company is going to fix this problem or suffer a surprise massive enema full of pins, needles, razors and Tabasco sauce. Prerecorded tape, the problem is theirs. Fuck. Oh well, at least they are working on it. THEY BETTER BE.

-Thursday-

Still no intertubes? This is getting out of hand. No prerecorded tape today. But six minutes of ads. Whatever, just let me know what- Oh yes, hello. My modem? Yes it has only one light on, in red. DEAD? Oh glee. That’s just fan-fucking-tastic. What now? Replace it. So if you send the report RIGHT NOW I can go to a store and get a replacement for free. NOW WE ARE TALKING. When? TOMORROW. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? TOMORROW? It’s the fucking MORNING, you send it THROUGH THE MAGIC MACHINE. Oh MAYBE today after some hours. Yeah, no I have no idea what is it to wait for a couple of hours and ending up waiting for days, no. Is there anything faster? Oh sending the report to the tech guys. So they get the info right now and? Oh, they come to MY house with a new modem! Good, when do they arrive? AT LEAST AFTER 72 HOURS? THAT IS FASTER? Faster because they get the report faster. Yes, I meant HOW CAN I GET MY INTERBUTTS FASTER? I should go to the store and see if the report arrives in a couple of hours, if not, go tomorrow. Why, if you send the report RIGTH NOW and the stores ALL THE STORES IN THE CITY get it, they have to wait until tomorrow? You don’t know. You don’t make the rules. Of course you don’t, if you did you’d get paid without working. And if I did you would have been fed to the robo-velocirraptor-cops years ago. OF COURSE THE STORE CLOSES STUPIDLY EARLY! IT IS NOT LIKE THEY DO IMPORTANT STUFF, LIKE YOU KNOW, PROVIDE A SERVICE. So I have to come tomorrow EARLY. Hell, I am starting to plan on CAMPING OUT HERE so I can slap every single bitch that works in this place. Anyway, It’s been four days, almost, so I should go let people from the internet know I am fine. In the library. WELL IS THIS NORTH KOREA? So only government sites. Yeah, whatever. I’ll go to the café internet right over the- yeah, I should have seen it coming. It’s now a convenience store. No intertubes for rent, sorry. Well. Well, well, well. Universe, are you having fun fucking with me? I really hope you do while you can. Go on, laugh. One day, mark my words, universe, one day, I will take a microwave oven, stuff it with tin foil, steel cutlery, pencil leads and ninja stars and turn it on while I throw it to the core of the hardon collider. It will destroy you, universe. I know it will destroy me in the process but you know what? I am willing to go that distance to teach you a lesson because you are being a little bitch. You stupid bitch, get a sassy gay friend already and give me back my technology.

-Friday-

SO I EED A FRIGGING ID and I was not told, so I have to go back home, get the fucker and get back to the store. And wait until super fatso and mr mustache are done with their intertubes contract. But HEY Intertubes! This all happened because voltage variations have been “hectic” lately, which means apparently this city became FUCKING CALCUTA when nobody was watching. But I have a regulator now and internet and I can go back to pretend I don’t live in this stinky hellhole. Cheers!

I EFFIN HATE PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION

Originally posted in my other (now dead) blog 7/30/10

...and love it at the same time. First off, let's all wait for the can of sardines to be fully packed. All seats occupied PLUS around 10 people standing, holding on from those sweaty, greasy little attempts at anorexic stripper poles. Once full, the bus lazily starts rolling. This is a temporary excruciatingly slow speed, soon it is time for the driver to dare others, preferably cabs, to see who makes it first to the traffic light. Whenever a curve appears, the whole bus tilts to a side, making me feel it will fall on the side, windows crashing and blood spilling, the traffic laws be damned.

The chit chat inside is interesting at times, mostly gossip about people and places that the rest of the users don't know. The criminal pages of the newspaper too "Can you believe this? Where is this going to end?" how that news anchor that today appears to be so elegantly dressed started out speaking terribly, curling her back, seemingly trying to hide inside her jacket from the camera, like an awkward turtle. The same song keeps playing, the five minute long cumbia the driver just adores.

Half of the trip is very nice, a woman in her mid fourties hugs her bag next to me, her thigh just a couple of inches away from mine, both sharing a harmless, cozy warmth. Some people start coming down, the environment improves significantly, some seats are now free, except that huge box the girl reading a book has sitting next to her. A woman asks her to move the box, so she can sit. Book girl refuses, visibly offended. Right across, two people offer to squeeze themselves to the sides, so the woman can sit. Book girl doesn't find out, she is, again, paying close attention to her literature piece.

As the red light stops the traffic of our lane, a man asks permission to the driver to come up without paying. He soon starts reciting what must be an already memorized speech "Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, I am here not to intimidate, not to mug, not to harm, not to steal, I have done so in the past and payed my debt to society with five years and two months of prison, I now find myself unemployed, so I am not intimidating, I am not menacing, I am begging you please gift me a couple of coins so I can buy candy and sell it for a profit. I am clean now and only wish to make an honest living. God bless you, miss. Thank you, sir. If any of you have friends or family members who suffer from alcoholism or drug addiction, please aid them, as they will lead themselves to a dark hole, to crime, to despair, to prison or a dirty rehab house, which is hell on earth. For the love of god, help them. God bless you all" he comes down after collecting the coins right after the next traffic light.

Soon, the woman in her fourties exits the bus, and Fatso McIdon'tknowwhatpersonalspaceis sits next to me, pressing his adipose extremities against mine every time the bus takes a curve or accelerates, which is often. His temperature is getting on my nerves, as the sun decides to aid him, they both soon make me sweat. I press myself against the window to avoid any contact, in exchange finding the glass and metal a lot more hot. And a lot less disgusting to touch. Fortunately, the bus is half empty, and before I ask Fatso to let me stand so I can sit elsewhere, he leaves the bus and my life forever.

Speed bumps make the bosoms of all female passengers jump to the ceiling, or at least to try. Then there is a healthy sideways shake, it is almost a choreography, it is almost as if the bus wanted to make sure those are real flesh and fat lumps, nothing else.

The bus is nearly empty, a man comes in to be transported no more than two streets, must be terribly lazy, or get very tired very fast. Next to come down is a girl with a limp. One of her legs is thinner, shorter and curved in a way that makes most other passengers cringe. She takes a lot more time than others to climb down the steps, making some drivers behind start yelling and honking their horns. The driver, either used to this girl or simply more efficient at empathy than the drivers, soon invites them to stick a phallus up their rectums. I smile, the girl does too, limping away.

Finally I announce I am going to leave the bus to head home, of course, two streets before, of course, the driver stops two streets ahead. Thank god I am not there anymore.

You are a funny thing

Originally posted in my other (now dead) blog 7/2/10

Aren't you? Days of idyllic feelings of "just right, just good" brought by a couple of words, then three new words bring it all down, you see your solid castle as it is: a structure of cards easily destroyed. You try not to think it is and you tell yourself the cards are blocks of concrete and change your mood to cold indifference when you are very far from that. You know you turn to acid and will do some damage, and you don't care now. You know the name of your emotions and you fear to even think about them and you know that makes them jump higher. You tear up and scold yourself for your petty motives, the absolutely petty reasons it all comes from. You hate the uneasiness it brings, most of all. You fight it in ways you know are not going to help. You want to change your immediate past, you know you can't, you refuse to let go, you boast in your own negativity. You are hopeless, clueless, sad and you tell all this to yourself, you write it down for yourself, you call yourself "you" in an attempt to exorcise your feelings, and you know how useless it is. But you do it anyway, you funny little thing.

Culinary sexism

Originally posted in my other (now dead) blog 7/1/10

According to wikipedia, the burritos are called that way because their inventor had so many requests he had to buy a donkey to transport them (donkey means burro). Cute story, but there is another version around: when "gringos" ordered special tacos without ingredients that would pierce their intestines, local taco makers used beans, meat, cheese, some times vegetables or rice, and told each other "The food for those burritos (little donkeys, ignorant people) is ready"

***

"Gringa" is a dish composed of tortillas, "pastor" meat (or any other kind of chopped meat, lately) topped with cheese, salsa is given optionally and it is best enjoyed with beer. The story is this time confirmed, around the 60s two American students living in Mexico City due to budget issues had to often eat tacos at "el Fogoncito" and they asked for cheese in their tacos rather than salsa to preserve the integrity of their innards. Many locals started to order "what the gringas are having" and soon the concoction found its place on the menu, under the name of  "Gringa"

***

So why the benevolence of the latter and the ill intentions of the first taqueros? respect for the women and hatred for the men? No, racism for both, only in the second case, coated with sugar. Because undoubtedly the taqueros at El Fogoncito wanted to bang the gringas. Not the dish, I must say.

Things that make me cry

So moe...

Restoration automaker DeLorean Motor Company of Texas will start producing electric cars like that one starting 2013.

Things that make me cry

Just look at how happy he looks.

Rubble at the bottom of the shaft.

This happened a while back, and I now write it because it doesn't bother me that much anymore. I was sent one summer to another country, to my extended family; people who I barely knew, so naturally I had nothing to talk about with them and nothing to do with my afternoons, except roaming around the neighborhood. Not a bad place in general; some graffiti sprinkled here and there, medium houses, the occasional loud group of little kids, rarely any cars would drive by.

About the third or fourth day of my stay, I discovered an apartment building that had been abandoned during the last stage of construction. It looked awkward, surrounded by bent cyclone mesh, patched here and there with wood, dirty, splattered with ash colored stains. It made the rest of the street look bland, but also benign, by comparison. I couldn't help myself, I had to get inside. When I tried to climb the mesh, though, I got interrupted by a group of kids.

"I can see your panties!" said one giggling.

"I can see your pig face." (I've always been juvenile) My reply made his face turn serious.

A tall fat boy, chewing gum, told me the place was haunted, I shrugged and kept climbing. The other kids tried to intimidate me with stories of disappearances and ghosts. I made it to the other side of the mesh, then pig-face told me, seriously, that for reals, there was a little boy who got murdered and tossed into the cement mix, his tortured soul possessing the building. I turned around to walk toward the building, his voice caught a high pitch, almost desperate.

"He kills! I swear!"

I turned around to see them and smirked.

"Let's see."

I turned around again as the children stood in silence, and began exploring. It would have been a terrible place to live, the apartments and stairs being narrow and terribly lit. Some apartments had no doors or windows installed and had become deposits of rubbish and filth, with the occasional anemic plant desperately clinging to life. The only element that wasn't a compressed mass of grayness and despair was the elevator shaft. For some reason, the architect decided to make the elevator doors wider than the apartment doors, almost double. I climbed the stairs and found nothing of interest, but also no traces of other trespassers. No graffiti, for example, no food wrappers nor old bottles.

The fourth floor's elevator doors were missing, and I wanted to peek but I had no flash lights on me. I realized how dark it was already, so I climbed down the stairs. The children were gone, and I went back home.

The following day I packed myself a lunch, a canteen, a flashlight, batteries, my army knife and went to the building again. A block ahead, I saw one of the kids from the day prior, this time playing with two girls and a little runt whose gender I couldn't make (not that I wanted to, anyway). He merely took a glance as I approached the part of the mesh I climbed the day before. The girls stopped skipping their rope to look. They looked concerned, as all scared kids do, but I stopped noticing when I saw that the fence was bent lower than the other day. I felt like kicking it, for a moment, thinking "Are you calling me fat?". I shrugged it off and climbed, and went exploring. The tallest weed I've seen had been yanked, only a couple of inches of the stem left, roots partially showing, and some of the dirt and rubble had been moved... perhaps? Could have been an animal, could have been the wind.

I went up to the fourth floor, light in hand, to take a peek down the elevator shaft. There were no cables and no marks on the wall. I sighed in disappointment, but suddenly a little light shone at the bottom. I knelt down and pointed the light to the floor. There was rubble, and the little light was the reflection of some round metallic shape. I climbed down the stairs to the first floor and tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge. The door on the second floor, whoever, did open, and I took a closer look. I saw, buried in the rubble, an arm holding a wrench.