Rants and comments on lifestyle, virtuality, software engineering and other worthy issues
I always knew that one of the best ways to increase success was to lower expectations.
Yes. I am being cynical. This is what the guys at Despair, Inc. excel at. Their range of Demotivators® is absolutely awesome. A warning before you go: you really need to love corrosive humour to enjoy Despair.
Enjoy.
I hardly believe my own words, but I’m on Facebook. A few weeks ago an old friend who I hadn’t seen for ages sent me an email inviting me to join Facebook, and I did. Since then, a few friends, old and new, have “found” me there, and I have found some too.
Time waste? Addictive? Alluring?
Isabel and I are just back after eight days in the Cider Valley, Asturias. Wonderful area. So close to our own Galicia and so much better preserved. Oh well.
There we rented a small cosy cottage with wooden roof and creaky floors in the middle of a 12,000 sq.m. private apple orchard. So peaceful and quiet. I would wake up before her, tiptoe out of bed, avoid the creaky floorboards, bump my head against the inevitable roof beam, and go down into the porch to listen to the morning birds until Isabel called from bed and gorgeous breakfast followed. All peace and rest.
Until Rufus made his appearance.
Rufus
Rufus was the stupidest dog I’ve ever met. He would just turn up at our place, bark at us like crazy for a few minutes, and then run away, still grumbling and barking, to disappear amongst the bushes at the edge of the property. Maybe it was the neighbour’s dog. After our first encounter, Isabel said he reminded her of somebody she had met some time ago and named him Rufus after this person, because he would be grumpy and loud and just friggin’ stressed out. I must point out that Isabel is extremely good with dogs. Every time we go some place where there are dogs she ends up being their best pal. Dogs just love her. But Rufus wouldn’t. She cooed and wooed but Rufus wouldn’t stop barking. The second time Rufus made a stellar appearance Isabel even tried to bribe him with a lamb chop. A lamb chop, yeah, I know! Freshly barbecued and all. But Rufus wouldn’t bulge. Such a silly dog. I would have let her nibble my ears for a lamb chop.
So we dubbed him “the dog that cannot be bribed”.
A few days passed and one night we were cuddling by the porch, listening to the night birds (do you know what a scops-owl is?) when we heard a soft, lilting cry round the corner of the house. After a few seconds a pair of elegant yellow eyes revealed themselves, and a fluffy black head outlined against the darkness of the night. She was the blackest, cutest and hottest cat that I have ever seen. She was shy at first, but after a few biscuits and my unquestionable talent with felines, she was ours. She would rub and rub and rub against my arm and leg. Not so much against Isabel’s, maybe because she’s not that much of a cat person as I am, maybe because she smelled of Rufus, or maybe just because the gorgeous she-cat could feel my male pheromones. 
Isabel named her Elvira, a Visigothic name, since we had been visiting some Visigothic monuments that day. Unfortunately, we didn’t take any pics of Elvira, so you’ll have to trust me on this one.
It was late and Isabel and I went to bed. Elvira stayed out of the house, meowing loudly.
Next day, or the day after, I can’t remember, Rufus showed up again. Strangely enough, he wasn’t barking. Isabel run into the kitchen and got hold of some food scraps from lunch. Quick as a fox (even quicker), she poised a juicy lamb chop in front of Rufus’ unkempt snout and, to our surprise, he deftly grabbed it and retreated a few metres to eat it.
Rufus being bribed
The dog that could not be bribed had been bribed!
More on the August paralysis. El País, today, full-page ad. An oncological hospital in Madrid advertises its services using the tagline:
We work at normal pace in summer
This is not a small note at the bottom of the page. Rather, this sentence is in large type, at the top of the page, acting as what we could call a marketing differentiator, i.e. a fact or property that makes this product (the hospital) unique from its competitors and hopefully attractive to the potential clients.
Isn’t this sad? This is not a video shop, for Pete’s sake. It’s an oncological hospital! And they use a full-page on the Sunday El País (imagine the cost!) to make the proud statement that they work at normal pace in summer.
This country just sucks.
In Spain we suffer from August paralysis. Since almost everybody takes their annual leave as a block in August, public services, businesses and stores are at half capacity if not less. The result is paralysis. No services, poor attention, closed shops.
Most businesses and government agencies go as far as encouraging as many of their employees as possible to take all their annual leave in August, with total disregard for those customers who may want to be served during that month.
A few days ago we wanted to do some refurbishment at my new work place. The answer from our regular provider was “the person in charge is on leave and won’t be back for 20 days”. Yes, we could move to a different provider, but (a) it is a pain and (b) most would be in a similar situation. Last week I phoned a local government agency to inquire about the parking zone system; the guy whose echo resounded in the empty room across the phone wasn’t able to answer my questions because “the woman in charge of that is on vacation”, and she won’t be back for three weeks! Try getting a plumber in August. Ha!
Wouldn’t it be better, maybe, to scatter annual leave time over the year, and have people take turns so there’s always somebody at work who can deal with customers calling?
What do you think? Is it me, or is this just a stupid way of doing things?
Silly thing to say, but this blog is evidently in stand-by mode. I haven’t posted a line for a long time.
Why? Well. I quit my disastrous job in Bilbao and moved back to Santiago. I have a new job now, as a researcher with CSIC, the Spanish National Research Council. I am changing my area of research, changing my routine and changing my future (I hope!).
The last 12 months have been glorious. Our lives have improved amazingly, and we are again as happy as we used to be years ago. This is in sheer contrast with the previous 12 months, which were yuk.
Oh well. Such is life, as Ned Kelly used to say.
I don’t think I will post here often. But I might take it up again once I start at my new job (in a few weeks) and tell you about new stuff. If I do, please come back and read. If I don’t, well… many thanks for reading me all these years.
Oh dear. I am so sore.
After 15 years without doing any serious workout, I have started playing basketball again. I love it, it’s so much fun. It is amazing how, despite my poor shape and the years without practicing, the basic movements that I learned two decades ago are still there, like embedded into my cells.
I hope I survive.
I have talked about disclosure of identity in Second Life here and here. You know, some people decide to keep details of their real life hidden from others when interacting inside Second Life. Some people, for example, choose not to tell where they are from, of what their gender is, or their age.
I respect those people who choose not to disclose. In fact, I hide many of my real life details from others. However, and after some time living with this, I have come to the conclusion that non-disclosure has a paradoxical consequence. It works like this.
First of all, let us assume that you withhold some basic details about your real life. By “basic details” I mean something that most people would observe and talk about in real life, such as your nationality, gender, age or place of residence. You refuse to disclose that information, and when asked about it, you don’t answer.
The primary consequence of such a behaviour is that people, in absence of information, will make assumptions. In other words, people will create an image of what they believe is the right answer to their unanswered question, possibly drawing from what they can observe in you. For example, if somebody refuses to disclose their age but speak like a teenager, most people will end up assuming that he/she is a teenager. Similarly, if somebody refuses to disclose their real life gender but presents a female avatar, most people will assume he/she is a female.
There’s a woman in her fifties walking right past me for the second time. She is wearing black pants, a flowery blouse, trendy thick glasses and funky short hair.
There’s a young asian man lying sprawled on a white leather couch, rolling himself over every few minutes, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world.
There’s a family composed of a big silent woman, a man wearing sandals with almost no hair who has used at least four different languages on his mobile phone in the last half an hour, and three little girls, all of them blond, dressed in pure white and wearing hair bands.
There’s a man in a suit looking bossy, slowly walking in straight lines from one place to the next, sometimes hesitating.
There’s two men in their twenties sitting together and chatting. A taxi pulls over and they stand up. As they walk away one holds the hand of the other. This gives him a glare and shakes his hand free.
There’s a covered black piano and a gurgling fountain. A basketball player. A woman with a kitten.
A few days ago mom came over for dinner. We cooked some clams and she brought some food from their garden, including some Japanese plums, you know, those plump, yellow, juicy globes that explode in your mouth with the full taste of summer.
Today Isabel and I bought some fresh flowers. The house has been uninhabited for a few years and there are unpleasant odours still hiding in odd corners, so we wanted something fresh but subtly pungent. Isabel chose some lilies.
We returned home at dusk. Isabel walked into the kitchen carrying the bunch of lilies in the bend of her arm and I followed her. As I walked past the fruit bowl, I idly grabbed a plum and brought it to my mouth. In that precise instant, Isabel faced me, and her rotating movement sent a waft of lily scent straight into my face as I bit into the fruit. I guess Isabel saw something in my face, because she asked “what?”.
The case is, that plum tasted like lilies.
