Picture a meeting in which Robert's Rules of Disorder are used and where people are weighed, measured and fitted like the noble births of the middle ages.
I'm looking forward to the ending ages.
I attend college to collect knowledge. In MGMT I learned that "any human resource problem can be resolved if you can kill the employee". Perhaps I am taking it out of context as the professor drew parallels between The Heist and strawberry pickers - for there are parallels - but it may just be that there is truth to it. It worked for the mob and it works for the cartels now.
In history I learned that a kind word gets you pretty far in life. Al Capone said that you can get even further with a kind word and a gun in hand.
In quantum computing I've learned that my professor's shirt isn't yellow. Or it is yellow. It's yellow as a conventionally accepted truth but it isn't yellow as an absolute truth. This implies a localized truth a la Heller's twisted worlds. It is here that I also learned the benefits that cigar smoking has had on science and the advancement of a non-existent field of computer science - quantum computing. Contradictory I know but nonetheless both completely true and absolutely false.
I collect stories and from these stories - as I am learning now in my statistics class - we can derive something greater. If my stories are my sample I'm deducing the population.
[5:16:38 PM] Jocelyn says: know one of those song and dances where two people with the assistance of alcohol tell eachother things and it's all bullshit?
Yes. Yes I do. They happen every day. We love exercising the control that just the right combination of words and sentences afford us. A thrill to be so carefully splinter the others mind and tantalize them with a carefully afforded shyness. A coy word - tease - and a smile to make her swoon.
But he means it...
Yes he does. Sometimes. Most of the time our low RAM capacity is focused on keeping it all straight and not letting the house of cards illusion fall apart. Even without the social lubrication it can be difficult.
I also collect coins, currencies and watches.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Toast
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The best man stands up, tails and all, with a half raised flute of cheap crystal and a butter knife in hand. Someone hands him a mic and the big band (one of three) grows quiet. It shrinks loudly.
The bride gives the groom a quick hug mostly because she loves him. She's also concerned. I can see in her eyes that she's concerned that the half-tucked dress shirt the best man is sporting and the flush of his cheeks indicates that this toast will be too interesting.
And. Scene.
A great Mexican poet named Guillermo Aguirre Fierro once wrote the Bohemians toast. A prose narrative dedicated to the one woman that drunkards can always come back to. The one that puts up with a drunk mans lack of shame, stench and pain. A woman who appreciates the grotesque out of pure love. He goes on to say that he does not toast those who provide warm bodies and willing lips. He does not toast those tartlets bought on street corners for a dime or two nor does he toast the women we've pursued and fallend madly in love with. In a heart-wrenching tone and with a quivering voice he extolls:
"yo brindo, por mi madre, bohemios." - a toast, to my mother, fellow bohemians...
Perhaps it is my fathers love for this piece of art that I have dedicated a short lifetime to giving toasts. It starts with a flute and ends, one always hopes, with a quiet and reflective calm.
You want to meet everyones expectation, quickly greet those expectations with a kiss and a handshake and then trip their expectations and then run past them.
I want to give a toast to make us laugh and cry. To reminisce with a forward looking stance. One that is just long enough to make a point but short enough to carry some weight. A toast is meant to be heard by dozens of intent listeners. Everyone hanging on to your every word. I hope to never give a toast in a room. By myself. My only company a bottle of Jack and my words.
A toast is a graduation speech. A toast is one of the last chances a grown man will ever ever get to stand on a pedestal. To preach his beliefs and impart a little bit of back-cover wisdom on a crowd.
I want a wedding toast.
---
We always knew Jack would end up like this - a ball and chain that he'd bedazzle just to confuse us. You see, Jack and I lived on the same hall freshmen year of college. His room and mine were direct opposites to our size. We were an unlikely pair - a northeastern conservative kid and a liberal Mexican. And we had a blast. We would play midnight football, pick each other up when we fell (due in large part to these annoying things called stairs) and go to the gym together. That's pretty much how he got huge. (Pause). Jack was my brother. And we rushed and pledged and he convinced me of the unthinkable every night. I hated pledge. And every night we would come back, he would sit with me and talk me through the unwinding psychological process that it was for me. That semester I met a girl who would end up serving Jack more than me. Because of her Jack me Patricia. I hoped at the time that my Cupid's arrows would work in just the right way. All of us being here today tells me that my aim was true and my arrows pure. ANd they grew close - Jack and Patricia. You look at them and you see stability. A rock. In an environment in which most of us, myself included, get easily downtrodden by the jabs of life, Jack and Patricia always found it easy to stand above it all. They are the dandelion flakes floating, ever so gently, above the rising sea of confusion (that's probably global warming reclaiming its territory). The Greeks used to say - may the gods keep the wolves in the hills and our women in our beds. Interesting how they never mentioned their friends. With that in mind I'd like to say, Patricia, you're an angel for taking someone like Jack - who's been the nicest and naughtiest boy in his prime. Jack. You got lucky man. You once told me that this was the only relationship worth cultivating. That the relationship you build with a significant other is the one that will stand the passage of space and time (I elaborate only to make you look good - NOTE TO SELF: wink at Jack). Like the constant gardener and as I raise my glass - Jack, my friend, brother, you just found a perfect flower.
The best man stands up, tails and all, with a half raised flute of cheap crystal and a butter knife in hand. Someone hands him a mic and the big band (one of three) grows quiet. It shrinks loudly.
The bride gives the groom a quick hug mostly because she loves him. She's also concerned. I can see in her eyes that she's concerned that the half-tucked dress shirt the best man is sporting and the flush of his cheeks indicates that this toast will be too interesting.
And. Scene.
A great Mexican poet named Guillermo Aguirre Fierro once wrote the Bohemians toast. A prose narrative dedicated to the one woman that drunkards can always come back to. The one that puts up with a drunk mans lack of shame, stench and pain. A woman who appreciates the grotesque out of pure love. He goes on to say that he does not toast those who provide warm bodies and willing lips. He does not toast those tartlets bought on street corners for a dime or two nor does he toast the women we've pursued and fallend madly in love with. In a heart-wrenching tone and with a quivering voice he extolls:
"yo brindo, por mi madre, bohemios." - a toast, to my mother, fellow bohemians...
Perhaps it is my fathers love for this piece of art that I have dedicated a short lifetime to giving toasts. It starts with a flute and ends, one always hopes, with a quiet and reflective calm.
You want to meet everyones expectation, quickly greet those expectations with a kiss and a handshake and then trip their expectations and then run past them.
I want to give a toast to make us laugh and cry. To reminisce with a forward looking stance. One that is just long enough to make a point but short enough to carry some weight. A toast is meant to be heard by dozens of intent listeners. Everyone hanging on to your every word. I hope to never give a toast in a room. By myself. My only company a bottle of Jack and my words.
A toast is a graduation speech. A toast is one of the last chances a grown man will ever ever get to stand on a pedestal. To preach his beliefs and impart a little bit of back-cover wisdom on a crowd.
I want a wedding toast.
---
We always knew Jack would end up like this - a ball and chain that he'd bedazzle just to confuse us. You see, Jack and I lived on the same hall freshmen year of college. His room and mine were direct opposites to our size. We were an unlikely pair - a northeastern conservative kid and a liberal Mexican. And we had a blast. We would play midnight football, pick each other up when we fell (due in large part to these annoying things called stairs) and go to the gym together. That's pretty much how he got huge. (Pause). Jack was my brother. And we rushed and pledged and he convinced me of the unthinkable every night. I hated pledge. And every night we would come back, he would sit with me and talk me through the unwinding psychological process that it was for me. That semester I met a girl who would end up serving Jack more than me. Because of her Jack me Patricia. I hoped at the time that my Cupid's arrows would work in just the right way. All of us being here today tells me that my aim was true and my arrows pure. ANd they grew close - Jack and Patricia. You look at them and you see stability. A rock. In an environment in which most of us, myself included, get easily downtrodden by the jabs of life, Jack and Patricia always found it easy to stand above it all. They are the dandelion flakes floating, ever so gently, above the rising sea of confusion (that's probably global warming reclaiming its territory). The Greeks used to say - may the gods keep the wolves in the hills and our women in our beds. Interesting how they never mentioned their friends. With that in mind I'd like to say, Patricia, you're an angel for taking someone like Jack - who's been the nicest and naughtiest boy in his prime. Jack. You got lucky man. You once told me that this was the only relationship worth cultivating. That the relationship you build with a significant other is the one that will stand the passage of space and time (I elaborate only to make you look good - NOTE TO SELF: wink at Jack). Like the constant gardener and as I raise my glass - Jack, my friend, brother, you just found a perfect flower.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Hernandez
I'd love to speak with the dead. Not the sixth sense way but more like Isabel Allende type way. Speak with the greats - Curie, Jackson, Kennedy, Confucius and Gandhi. I'd need a new lifetime, another lease on life to speak with the dead. Who said I wasn't a fan of irony.
We're in an age were the greats are still undiscovered. Given there is some academic excitement about Tukey and Siegel but they have not reached the status of greats. Brown (of the Dan persuasion) is not oft quoted for his literary achievements. His formulaic and tired prose is more reminiscent of a cheapened Fleming - a great on his own right. Perhaps the question would become if Rowling or Paulson will be the quoted luminaries of tomorrows research books.
The true objective right now is becoming one who is paraphrased. Who's ideas are completely twisted to fit the particular fad-induced theory. Anyone can become a footnote. It's easy. So much of the academic research today consists of hundred of footnotes, endnotes and paraphrased citation with a key interspersed original thought here and there. Eventually a new article becomes another one of the footnotes in the most symbiotically stable processes ever.
To create something new that predates normal thought. Harder than it seems. Writing up the bylaws to some conference named after the city - pick one, Doha, Kyoto, Bretton-Woods - is easy, however time-consuming. And by this standard Geneva is the big easy. Create an institution to establish greatness.
Think of Euro - a rivaling currency. If someone unites the arab world under a caliphate - an empire with the capital and man power to rival China or the U.S. Or consider the giant Petrobras in Brazil - a pseudo-guvernamental institution to build a company to rival BP or Exxon.
I want to be named Hernandez in posterity. For it were just Diego then I'd be a popstar and a full name is reminiscent of the obits. But a last name in reference to my 4 currency world markets or the rebirth of Mexico. It's Emerson's simplicity.
Hernandez.
We're in an age were the greats are still undiscovered. Given there is some academic excitement about Tukey and Siegel but they have not reached the status of greats. Brown (of the Dan persuasion) is not oft quoted for his literary achievements. His formulaic and tired prose is more reminiscent of a cheapened Fleming - a great on his own right. Perhaps the question would become if Rowling or Paulson will be the quoted luminaries of tomorrows research books.
The true objective right now is becoming one who is paraphrased. Who's ideas are completely twisted to fit the particular fad-induced theory. Anyone can become a footnote. It's easy. So much of the academic research today consists of hundred of footnotes, endnotes and paraphrased citation with a key interspersed original thought here and there. Eventually a new article becomes another one of the footnotes in the most symbiotically stable processes ever.
To create something new that predates normal thought. Harder than it seems. Writing up the bylaws to some conference named after the city - pick one, Doha, Kyoto, Bretton-Woods - is easy, however time-consuming. And by this standard Geneva is the big easy. Create an institution to establish greatness.
Think of Euro - a rivaling currency. If someone unites the arab world under a caliphate - an empire with the capital and man power to rival China or the U.S. Or consider the giant Petrobras in Brazil - a pseudo-guvernamental institution to build a company to rival BP or Exxon.
I want to be named Hernandez in posterity. For it were just Diego then I'd be a popstar and a full name is reminiscent of the obits. But a last name in reference to my 4 currency world markets or the rebirth of Mexico. It's Emerson's simplicity.
Hernandez.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Ricco Suave
I love uncomfortable situations. I'm awkward, get flustered on the phone and have the sense of humor of an anvil. Some people might say I'm a charmer.
I want to own a dog named Cat Stevens.
A guy is a charmer when he can hold quasi-intelligent conversation with someone who surpasses him in stature, presence or wit. This basically translates into any girl. Not only must we focus on the eyes but we have to resist every primal instinct we have. The urge to hold the girls face between our hands and give her a kiss. Une petite bise.
And most guys will have a set of stories they like to tell - much like the heartwarming first date story you tell about yourself as a naive young child. "So there I was, 5 years old, my first conscious moment on a plane and I looked out the window and saw the wings. I turned to my mom and with a frown on my face innocently asked when the plane would start flapping its wings". And hopefully youll have a wingman with you.
Being charming is easier when you have your buddy structure in place and Troop 423 of the Eagle Scouts of America makes a representation.
The underlying mantra is simple: she comes first (it's also a best selling book). Make her smile. Make her feel comfortable. Be funny and push the boundaries of the appropriate a la Hank Moody. Going big is high risk and high reward. I like to do what Sorkin wrote about: too big to fail. Given that might just be a genetic accident of faith by which I grew to be a foot taller than my national average AND both of my parents.
Throughout the charming experience the reminder is that the guy threads on dangerous waters. We can end up being the leader of a cargo cult in the islands of southeast Asia with a sequined love nun. We can be left with the awkward silence, lose momentum, say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time.
I don't believe in the game. I don't believe in negs, anchoring or pretending to be too cool for school.
I'm a nerd who loves math, science and business. I'm a 6-6 Mexican with a penchant for operatic singing and alt-rock music. I DO like walks on the beach. I like dates on April 25th because it's not too hot and it's not too hot. I enjoy Tarantino as much as an indie flick about a bright cleaning service (in general, I find that good movies have the word sunshine in them).
If you find a guy who's a "charmer" or a charming guy I can say this: we're not always full of it. There are times when we're being wholeheartedly honest. Because we love women and the effect they have on the electric impulses coursing through our synapses (what little we have left after years of evolutionary self-destruction). Believe in him.
He'll get in touch.
I want to own a dog named Cat Stevens.
A guy is a charmer when he can hold quasi-intelligent conversation with someone who surpasses him in stature, presence or wit. This basically translates into any girl. Not only must we focus on the eyes but we have to resist every primal instinct we have. The urge to hold the girls face between our hands and give her a kiss. Une petite bise.
And most guys will have a set of stories they like to tell - much like the heartwarming first date story you tell about yourself as a naive young child. "So there I was, 5 years old, my first conscious moment on a plane and I looked out the window and saw the wings. I turned to my mom and with a frown on my face innocently asked when the plane would start flapping its wings". And hopefully youll have a wingman with you.
Being charming is easier when you have your buddy structure in place and Troop 423 of the Eagle Scouts of America makes a representation.
The underlying mantra is simple: she comes first (it's also a best selling book). Make her smile. Make her feel comfortable. Be funny and push the boundaries of the appropriate a la Hank Moody. Going big is high risk and high reward. I like to do what Sorkin wrote about: too big to fail. Given that might just be a genetic accident of faith by which I grew to be a foot taller than my national average AND both of my parents.
Throughout the charming experience the reminder is that the guy threads on dangerous waters. We can end up being the leader of a cargo cult in the islands of southeast Asia with a sequined love nun. We can be left with the awkward silence, lose momentum, say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time.
I don't believe in the game. I don't believe in negs, anchoring or pretending to be too cool for school.
I'm a nerd who loves math, science and business. I'm a 6-6 Mexican with a penchant for operatic singing and alt-rock music. I DO like walks on the beach. I like dates on April 25th because it's not too hot and it's not too hot. I enjoy Tarantino as much as an indie flick about a bright cleaning service (in general, I find that good movies have the word sunshine in them).
If you find a guy who's a "charmer" or a charming guy I can say this: we're not always full of it. There are times when we're being wholeheartedly honest. Because we love women and the effect they have on the electric impulses coursing through our synapses (what little we have left after years of evolutionary self-destruction). Believe in him.
He'll get in touch.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The holy trinity
I've tried writing this many times now and due to the sensitivity and specificity of the space/time continuum it is now or never.
RUSH.
This is my favorite time of the year to be young, to be excited, to be happy, to be reckless, to be restless, to be where I am and who I am. The set is stage on this globe theater of ours for a level of revelry that would make Baccus cringe. The gods - with their hammers and winged helmets - have nothing on us when playing this game.
Asher Roth tried describing and mocking and idolizing everything that a college fraternity is supposed to be. Movies like Beta House, Animal House, Going Greek, Freshman Orientation (and a hundred others that will, unlike Animal House, never reach cult status and will never amount to anything better than a mediocre comedy playing on the same sex gags that a litany of other movies have used before them). Rush is different.
Appropriately named, it's a rush of blood to the head. A rush to the head of trepidation. It is a time when I get to teach, share war stories and show people why I am happy to be a part of what I am. For the endless source of support, stability and a state's best.
For it would be a shame if I avoided the intoxicating portion of rush. Meeting hundreds of fresh new faces as eager to get to know you as you are to get to know them, taking picture over food that appears magically and for free by a girl named Wendy. And while we may not provide the Puerto Rico trip to the deep end of the a pocket, we do offer a little more - or I like to think so.
Ill attempt the lane hand-of from time to time preying on a rush's mention of their local minor league baseball team to call over one of the guys and say, "Hey, Andrew meet Rushie Eager, HE LIKES BASEBALL! Sick, aight ill catch up with you guys in a bit". At best Andrew will do the best of my awkward transition and salvage what will other wise be the wreckage of an uncomfortable silence. At worst the rush will inquire about my odd and quirky character hoping to make a joke and the silence will be a post-mortem one.
I live for the smiles. I sound like a social worker talking about UNICEF but it's true. The smiles on people as I know they enjoy our house, our environment and our company.
Oh, wait, and then, there's pledge.
RUSH.
This is my favorite time of the year to be young, to be excited, to be happy, to be reckless, to be restless, to be where I am and who I am. The set is stage on this globe theater of ours for a level of revelry that would make Baccus cringe. The gods - with their hammers and winged helmets - have nothing on us when playing this game.
Asher Roth tried describing and mocking and idolizing everything that a college fraternity is supposed to be. Movies like Beta House, Animal House, Going Greek, Freshman Orientation (and a hundred others that will, unlike Animal House, never reach cult status and will never amount to anything better than a mediocre comedy playing on the same sex gags that a litany of other movies have used before them). Rush is different.
Appropriately named, it's a rush of blood to the head. A rush to the head of trepidation. It is a time when I get to teach, share war stories and show people why I am happy to be a part of what I am. For the endless source of support, stability and a state's best.
For it would be a shame if I avoided the intoxicating portion of rush. Meeting hundreds of fresh new faces as eager to get to know you as you are to get to know them, taking picture over food that appears magically and for free by a girl named Wendy. And while we may not provide the Puerto Rico trip to the deep end of the a pocket, we do offer a little more - or I like to think so.
Ill attempt the lane hand-of from time to time preying on a rush's mention of their local minor league baseball team to call over one of the guys and say, "Hey, Andrew meet Rushie Eager, HE LIKES BASEBALL! Sick, aight ill catch up with you guys in a bit". At best Andrew will do the best of my awkward transition and salvage what will other wise be the wreckage of an uncomfortable silence. At worst the rush will inquire about my odd and quirky character hoping to make a joke and the silence will be a post-mortem one.
I live for the smiles. I sound like a social worker talking about UNICEF but it's true. The smiles on people as I know they enjoy our house, our environment and our company.
Oh, wait, and then, there's pledge.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Fifth Profession
The family sat around a circular table. The restaurant was housed in one of the old turn-of-the-century houses that populate downtown Guadalajara. The houses, characterized by sumptuous gardens, elongated floor-to-ceiling windows, high ceilings and sweeping staircases are reminiscent of French and Spanish architecture. The exterior design looks like a defensible castle of the proper stature for a Baron, maybe a Viscount but certainly not an Earl.
The family comes here often, they have a regular table.
The place is full. The muted clang of silverware on Spanish China join the symphony of sounds in the restaurant - a bossa nova version Guns'N'Roses, hushed conversations and politicians laughing. And the restaurant, much like the city is built on politicians.
How to spot a politician: Brooks Brothers suit, cuff links and laughter. The top button on their shirt is undone.
The family son checks the safety, returns a meaningful look at his father and smiles at his cousin's joke.
1, 2, 3 bodyguards inside. Discrete gray polyester blend suits slightly wide at the shoulders to avoid showing the tell-tale gun-holster. Same, standard issue haircut popular among them. They probably call themselves close-protection officers and pride themselves in noticing small and irrelevant details. 10 steps to the door, principal is 20 steps away. Some of them might even read 10 peso cop novels and picture themselves valiantly loading the principal into a bullet-proof car as they return cover fire.
The men outside have an obvious military stance - something no amount of tailoring can detail away.
At least two of them have no military training. One of them has ordered soup. The other has a pillar in his line of sight to his charge. They're probably disposable John Does picked up from the wrong side of the tracks. The promise of a pay check, a suit and a gun go a long way in this country.
Eveyrone in the family knows what this is about. They no longer wonder at the private security pick-up truck outside labeled "Seguridad Privada" obviously weighed down by armored metal. All family members are wearing hunting ear plugs and continue on with their lunch of Vizcaine salmon. The capers are particularly good this year.
A quick trip to the bathroom reveals 2 more men outside.
Would you like a bottle of wine sir? Yes, says the father, '97 Gran Coronas.
This is the height of this city's society - carefully protected by "trained" men. The innocent couple in the far left corner of the restaurant has a moment of understanding. They grasp the situation they are in and understand where the city money goes. She smiles at their predicament. He brought her here to celebrate his promotion - he is now head of human resources for the state police.
Drinks come to the table, courtesy of the owner who knows the family. They patriarchs play golf together Saturday mornings. Ellios the Spaniard they call him. He retains an air of Spanish aristocracy that 50 years of Mexican bureaucracy have failed to expunge. He has the Spanish and Mexican flag hang side by side in the center of the room. He understands who the Saint Peters of his culinary church are and does the round. A cursory pat on the bank, a snap at the waiter to bring more wine, kiss on the cheek for the wife or mistress and a sincere thanks.
Some countries are built on the foundation of revolutionary ideas or guns. This was a country built on the bellies of politicians.
The family pays the check, waits for the sons go ahead and leaves.
Just another day in Paradise.
The family comes here often, they have a regular table.
The place is full. The muted clang of silverware on Spanish China join the symphony of sounds in the restaurant - a bossa nova version Guns'N'Roses, hushed conversations and politicians laughing. And the restaurant, much like the city is built on politicians.
How to spot a politician: Brooks Brothers suit, cuff links and laughter. The top button on their shirt is undone.
The family son checks the safety, returns a meaningful look at his father and smiles at his cousin's joke.
1, 2, 3 bodyguards inside. Discrete gray polyester blend suits slightly wide at the shoulders to avoid showing the tell-tale gun-holster. Same, standard issue haircut popular among them. They probably call themselves close-protection officers and pride themselves in noticing small and irrelevant details. 10 steps to the door, principal is 20 steps away. Some of them might even read 10 peso cop novels and picture themselves valiantly loading the principal into a bullet-proof car as they return cover fire.
The men outside have an obvious military stance - something no amount of tailoring can detail away.
At least two of them have no military training. One of them has ordered soup. The other has a pillar in his line of sight to his charge. They're probably disposable John Does picked up from the wrong side of the tracks. The promise of a pay check, a suit and a gun go a long way in this country.
Eveyrone in the family knows what this is about. They no longer wonder at the private security pick-up truck outside labeled "Seguridad Privada" obviously weighed down by armored metal. All family members are wearing hunting ear plugs and continue on with their lunch of Vizcaine salmon. The capers are particularly good this year.
A quick trip to the bathroom reveals 2 more men outside.
Would you like a bottle of wine sir? Yes, says the father, '97 Gran Coronas.
This is the height of this city's society - carefully protected by "trained" men. The innocent couple in the far left corner of the restaurant has a moment of understanding. They grasp the situation they are in and understand where the city money goes. She smiles at their predicament. He brought her here to celebrate his promotion - he is now head of human resources for the state police.
Drinks come to the table, courtesy of the owner who knows the family. They patriarchs play golf together Saturday mornings. Ellios the Spaniard they call him. He retains an air of Spanish aristocracy that 50 years of Mexican bureaucracy have failed to expunge. He has the Spanish and Mexican flag hang side by side in the center of the room. He understands who the Saint Peters of his culinary church are and does the round. A cursory pat on the bank, a snap at the waiter to bring more wine, kiss on the cheek for the wife or mistress and a sincere thanks.
Some countries are built on the foundation of revolutionary ideas or guns. This was a country built on the bellies of politicians.
The family pays the check, waits for the sons go ahead and leaves.
Just another day in Paradise.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Hanging out in sweats by the pool - an entry on Mexico
It's good to know that my country is changing. A dynamic place is far less static than electricity anyway.
Talking about the horrible things happening is stuff for the news networks. Talking about the great things happening in my country is stuff for the politicians through public service announcement.
How else would the people know how good their country is doing?
It's the attitude that Mexico is the mob and the mob is fickle. True on the mob's part, unfortunately we have drug cartel's. Sicily never made it big in MX.
As I've said before Mexico is a catholic country. Business is conducted through the godparent system - not Puzo, again, Sicily, not big - where your best friend and business partners will invariably be your kids' godparents. The term is compadre. We're a country with high aspirations and we're in a hurry to prove it to the world by building high apartment buildings. Who needs office space?
The truth is - not that everything before has been a lie because it wasn't - but I love my country. I love the hidden gems that can be found in 100 foot waterfalls in the middle of a forest or a jungle. I love the valleys filled with small towns where all the houses are painted in two colors: burgundy and white. I love the pine forest and the avocado orchards that cover whole states.
I love the warmth on the coldest day of winter. I love the fact that we have flea markets that run through 4 miles of city and in which you can buy everything from Costco brand wine to lobster to an oxygen tank. I love the fact that the second largest indoor market in Latin America is in my city and that it is named, in english, Market Liberty.
Where was I going with this?
Perhaps it was that people are people wherever you go. Human beings, I find, are simple in nature, no matter how tangled they try to get the web to be. But there's something about my people. An ebullient warmth or maybe its just giddiness of personality. I'm afraid that's changing but I hope to fix that. Or write a book to save my country and hopefully the world.
Call it: Ambicion Mexicana.
Talking about the horrible things happening is stuff for the news networks. Talking about the great things happening in my country is stuff for the politicians through public service announcement.
How else would the people know how good their country is doing?
It's the attitude that Mexico is the mob and the mob is fickle. True on the mob's part, unfortunately we have drug cartel's. Sicily never made it big in MX.
As I've said before Mexico is a catholic country. Business is conducted through the godparent system - not Puzo, again, Sicily, not big - where your best friend and business partners will invariably be your kids' godparents. The term is compadre. We're a country with high aspirations and we're in a hurry to prove it to the world by building high apartment buildings. Who needs office space?
The truth is - not that everything before has been a lie because it wasn't - but I love my country. I love the hidden gems that can be found in 100 foot waterfalls in the middle of a forest or a jungle. I love the valleys filled with small towns where all the houses are painted in two colors: burgundy and white. I love the pine forest and the avocado orchards that cover whole states.
I love the warmth on the coldest day of winter. I love the fact that we have flea markets that run through 4 miles of city and in which you can buy everything from Costco brand wine to lobster to an oxygen tank. I love the fact that the second largest indoor market in Latin America is in my city and that it is named, in english, Market Liberty.
Where was I going with this?
Perhaps it was that people are people wherever you go. Human beings, I find, are simple in nature, no matter how tangled they try to get the web to be. But there's something about my people. An ebullient warmth or maybe its just giddiness of personality. I'm afraid that's changing but I hope to fix that. Or write a book to save my country and hopefully the world.
Call it: Ambicion Mexicana.
Like the real slime shady once said...
I'm back on the airwaves (internet breakers).
The tourism industry was once the next big thing - and then bad stuff happened, we destroyed natural reserves, flights got expensive, awkward and generally hellish. I enjoy being felt up by a butch-looking security guard dreaming about Henry's (that's Henry VIII) passion for extra toes.
Now man has built islands, giant sail-buildings, privately financed rockets and crystal stemware.
There is one form of tourism that is cheap, reliable and a wild ride. It doesn't require you to prep a picnic basket or bring helmets for the bike ride (happy) montage. I'm talking about looking within.
You don't need to look for Oedipal complexes, worry about having married your brother's wife (again with the Henry thing), or preoccupy yourself with the possible craving for fava beans (Clarice).
I did this myself. And came to several, if wildly unconnected and inconsequential conclusions so allow me yet another moment of self-indulgence.
-I physically hate black jelly beans. I like drawing a line connecting a scatterplot's data points. I write about what I know. I know very little so I write a lot. I drag on singly interesting points into interesting conversations. I have memories, both terrible and great that I wish never to forget. I question the silly things like the phrase "Down the rabbit hole". I inform people that the mad-hatter was mad because of the mercury in the hats' lining. I listen to songs obsessively. I can have the mind of a hipster and a pop-culture snob and a geek of the fourth dimension. Se habla espanhol.
Perhaps its that being home gives me a perspective that I sometimes lose. I like being grounded once in a while - taking the plane - or the ship as Romeo used to say - off of auto-pilot and braving the runway on my own.
It's an interview with the id? ego? superego?
The tourism industry was once the next big thing - and then bad stuff happened, we destroyed natural reserves, flights got expensive, awkward and generally hellish. I enjoy being felt up by a butch-looking security guard dreaming about Henry's (that's Henry VIII) passion for extra toes.
Now man has built islands, giant sail-buildings, privately financed rockets and crystal stemware.
There is one form of tourism that is cheap, reliable and a wild ride. It doesn't require you to prep a picnic basket or bring helmets for the bike ride (happy) montage. I'm talking about looking within.
You don't need to look for Oedipal complexes, worry about having married your brother's wife (again with the Henry thing), or preoccupy yourself with the possible craving for fava beans (Clarice).
I did this myself. And came to several, if wildly unconnected and inconsequential conclusions so allow me yet another moment of self-indulgence.
-I physically hate black jelly beans. I like drawing a line connecting a scatterplot's data points. I write about what I know. I know very little so I write a lot. I drag on singly interesting points into interesting conversations. I have memories, both terrible and great that I wish never to forget. I question the silly things like the phrase "Down the rabbit hole". I inform people that the mad-hatter was mad because of the mercury in the hats' lining. I listen to songs obsessively. I can have the mind of a hipster and a pop-culture snob and a geek of the fourth dimension. Se habla espanhol.
Perhaps its that being home gives me a perspective that I sometimes lose. I like being grounded once in a while - taking the plane - or the ship as Romeo used to say - off of auto-pilot and braving the runway on my own.
It's an interview with the id? ego? superego?
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Universe in a Pistachio Shell
I'm no physicist but I understand the basic idea behind Schrodingers cat and the relativity of time (both sci-fi and the real world's).
Now before I go on I suppose it would be expected that I write about 2010. About New Year hype and celebration. The year just started and we'll have 364 days to discuss the mysterious and inevitable crawl of time.
There is a principle that interests me regarding the relativity of time that requires no light-speed space ships or trance-inducing machines. There is no concern regarding me losing bone density in space or worrying about the one toilet breaking down. That's a true NASA catastrophe: the only bathroom up there and it breaks down you can't really try to sneak in to the local McDonald's.
The farther we get away from civilized society time gains a peculiarly slow drawl. You've experienced it when you go to the beach or out in the country? You might read, hike, swim, eat lunch, wonder about dinner and text with all your friends fearing you'll be left out because you're "out in the boonies" and all before 4pm.
Time in the city is never enough. The Upton's asphalt jungle eats away at time and space leaving me with a feeling that the 24 hour day is reduced to something more like 16 or 18 hours (numbers arbitrarily chosen after careful analysis).
So the goal this year is to simulate the forest inside the city. Not a park - a cheap substitute - but the environment.
And I have 11 other resolutions.
Now before I go on I suppose it would be expected that I write about 2010. About New Year hype and celebration. The year just started and we'll have 364 days to discuss the mysterious and inevitable crawl of time.
There is a principle that interests me regarding the relativity of time that requires no light-speed space ships or trance-inducing machines. There is no concern regarding me losing bone density in space or worrying about the one toilet breaking down. That's a true NASA catastrophe: the only bathroom up there and it breaks down you can't really try to sneak in to the local McDonald's.
The farther we get away from civilized society time gains a peculiarly slow drawl. You've experienced it when you go to the beach or out in the country? You might read, hike, swim, eat lunch, wonder about dinner and text with all your friends fearing you'll be left out because you're "out in the boonies" and all before 4pm.
Time in the city is never enough. The Upton's asphalt jungle eats away at time and space leaving me with a feeling that the 24 hour day is reduced to something more like 16 or 18 hours (numbers arbitrarily chosen after careful analysis).
So the goal this year is to simulate the forest inside the city. Not a park - a cheap substitute - but the environment.
And I have 11 other resolutions.
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