Endworld Snapshots – Darla

“Yes, yes. Excellent silhouette, outstanding symmetry. Oh, and the skin tone is spot on.”

Darla knew she was good and almost smiled. But pride had never won a battle against guilt in this ever-lasting war of hers and she remained impassive instead.

“Regardless,” the old man said, not unexpectedly. “I still think we’re missing something, dear.”

She looked to the geezer standing next to her and sized him up, saw his chin resting on his right hand as if he were a scholar tasked with a monumental project: analyzing, measuring, critiquing. She felt icky and debased, as a woman and as a human being in general, knowing far too well what things boiled down to in every detailing session that she hosted.

“Perhaps if we…” he said, as his other arm darted towards the slider marked BREASTS on the operator’s deck. His shriveled skin brushed against Darla’s naked shoulder, but he paid the contact no heed. Never mind that hers was a striking figure, even at forty, with red, luscious locks, crisp azure eyes, and an alabaster skin that was scrupulously maintained. No, his lust was directed elsewhere and Darla could see it: a focused beam of compact, tangible heat waves piercing the viz screen in front of them.

“Hands off, Rowland,” she said, and slapped his arm away from the console. “You want more boobs? Here, I’ll give you more boobs.”

Sector always gave her grief about her rudeness with customers. Almost twice a week she would hear from some middle level exec or another about the latest client outrage:

‘She has no manners whatsoever.’

‘Spirited? I would think downright bitchy is more appropriate.’

‘For this amount of money one expects at least a modicum of courtesy. Yes, the work was impeccable. Still…’

She was far from giving a damn. They wanted the best Ganger designer out there? Fine, she was down. But hell if she was about to deal with more overhead than she already had to on a personal and moral level.

Now, she did not consider herself a feminist, not in the strict sense of the word, but she was familiar—and agreed up to some point—with the sayings of a few strong women of old. For example, each hour she spent in her studio reminded her of something Dame Rebecca West once stated:

‘I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a door mat or a prostitute.’

And that was exactly what filled her with a bitter, sickening anguish: with the skills she had so furiously labored to acquire, doing what she excelled at with unparalleled mastery, she was helping populate the world with door mats and whores. And there was no point in denying men as the culpable source of this unsavory trend. Men, and the economy, of course.

At least I still have Andrew.

She sighed and moved the slider to the right in a seemingly arbitrary jerk that was anything but: years of experience told her exactly where to stop, which often was in the boundaries of ‘too much’.

“There! Perfection!” Rowland screamed, giddy with excitement. He regarded her with a patronizing smile that made her cringe in her seat.

“You’re definitely the best, honey bunch.”

“Happy to help,” she replied sarcastically, the scorn, unveiled, taking up a predominant layer of her tone.

She tapped a few keys and a panel slid out from under the work desk.

“Now, sign there and be ready to pick it up on the specified date.”

The man did as instructed and headed towards the automated doors at Darla’s back.

“Sweetie?” he said, stopping just a few steps shy of the doorway.

She swiveled on her chair and faced Rowland, one eyebrow arched.

“Her,” he said, the stupid grin still plastered on his face.

“What?”

“Pick her up.” He turned around and left.

The swish of compressed air closing the doors lingered inside her head for a moment, a soft counterpoint to the anger building up in her bloodstream.

Her phone rang.

She answered immediately, not even looking at the identifier screen, just thankful for the distraction.

“Darla here,” she said after clicking the speaker button and placing the device on the desk.

“Hey, it’s me,” a male voice said groggily from the other end. “Meeting’s dragging on, only God knows for how long.”

A whirring sound, almost imperceptible to the untrained ear, caught her attention. Well-greased but unrefined cogs, mechanical wires pulling and stressing. C-polymer skin stretching, like rubber.

No.

“Are you still there, love?”

“Yes, sorry, I’m just bogged down by this request,” she lied. “Can’t seem to get the eyebrows right, go figure.”

“That’s because neither the eyebrows, nor the nails, nor the hair, will ever be right on those things.”

She listened for the tell-tale clicks and snaps of lower-end models. They were there, she was certain, followed by the rustle of cheap fabric.

“Anyway, don’t wait for me. I’ll make it up to you soon, I promise. Gotta go now.”

He hung up. She made no motion to retrieve the phone, but remained seated, in stasis, her eyes covered with an impenetrable icy barrier.

Another quote, this time by one Henry Kissinger, of all people, came to her later that day when she was resting on her bed, nursing a still chilly—despite being more than three quarters empty—bottle of Chardonnay:

‘Nobody will ever win the battle of the sexes. There’s just too much fraternizing with the enemy.’

I see what you did there, fella.

She also thought about what happened right after the call ended.

In those moments of true shock, she knew, any expectation of coherent thought is forlorn, replaced involuntarily with a passive receptiveness for the whacky.

But was it really whacky, though? Was there a hidden streak of submission in every woman, nestled in darkness, unacknowledged, heedless of how strong the woman in question makes herself up to be? Or perhaps it was just her, more feeble and sheltered than would be deducible by a tomboy attitude and a stout, fiery temper? The phrase that popped in her mind at that stressful moment offered no suitable answer to these questions. At least none that could quench the turmoil in her midst.

Oh, Andrew. I could have built you a better one.

Origins

The man tiptoes around the bed but his steps are not light enough atop the coarse carpet and she wakes.

Where are you going, she asks

Go back to sleep, he says.

The baby slumbers in the crib, dreaming of colored horses and shiny stars or so it would seem, judging by a smile that manages to set alight the man’s determination, if not his spirit. He kisses the boy on the forehead and heads for the door. He wants to kiss the woman too, but a hurting pride lies between them and he chooses not to.

Thrushes and robins also wake early, singing away with abandon their songs of work and industry. The dawn light, on the other hand, is just as groggy as the journeying man. This is not a deterrent; he will take care of things (it is expected of him).

There is no car to make his voyage easier so he walks, slowly, in timed strides that carry a rhythm not completely of his own, but one that belongs also to the ever-flowing stream of time and circumstance.

A few steps along the way, or perhaps many, the man digs deep into his pockets and produces ninety nine cents with which he buys a newspaper from a wizened old man that seems to have spent his entire life at the same wizened old magazine stand. Neither man thanks the other, and why would they?

One more batch of cents and the man’s reserves are emptied when he procures a cup of bitter coffee: bad, but he needs it. He opens the newspaper to the section where many look for chances but only a handful find them. Sips and scans, sips and scans.

The coffee is as good an investment as he expects it to be (unlike in days before this). He feels awake, not quite alive, and still the former is something few get to say at this wee hour of the morning. The newspaper, however, works for him just the way it does for many, which translates to not so much, and he feels deep the waste of time and credit. Life is unfair like that, he knows.

More steps and the man finds himself surrounded by pretty houses with pretty fences and pretty driveways. He feels one or two pangs of regret: he has been here before, if not here exactly, somewhere with the same virginal facades, the same high-end appliances; the same hopes for a future where a thousand becomes a million, where four years and peek-a-boo become twenty and a degree. But he is that man no more and regret takes him nowhere.

He forces himself to focus on that unmowed lawn that stands out among the well-trimmed others. He knocks not on the door of man or woman, he knocks on the door of a thing with feathers. And yet is a woman who answers, old and proud, weathered but not withered.

Can I mow your lawn, he asks.

Sorry, she replies.

This one has scorn tattooed on her face and the apology does not stick.

A few more houses down the road, or perhaps many, a young couple see themselves reflected on the supplicating man (he knows he is not really begging, but it is all the same to them).

Can I mow your lawn, he asks.

Well, why not, they answer.

These two have pity tattooed on their face.

The sun conspires with the clouds to remain apart for the day and so the man bakes under a full, scorching yoke. Inch by inch (square) the lawn is mowed until it matches the rest of the pretty houses with pretty fences and pretty driveways.

Fate (which equals luck as far as the man is concerned) will not let the sun and the clouds be the only ones conspiring and does some conspiring of its own: when work was all but done, the man accidentally breaks one of the garden flamingoes that adorned the now pretty lawn of the pretty house with pretty fence and pretty driveway. He doesn’t curse; he has done his share of cursing already.

I broke your decoration, he says.

Sorry, they reply.

Sorry is indeed tattooed on both their faces, but still they do not pay.

From suburb to factory, the man draws some more steps, or perhaps many. He feels the tug of hard labour in his bones and muscles, but he bores valiantly through the tunnel of expectancy, wishing.

Do you have work, he asks.

We’re full, they reply. And full they look for at least their bellies have food in them.

Night will soon fall on him, but there is one avenue yet to follow. He walks many steps, or perhaps a few, to a street where men like him (but so unlike him) sit in the curb with cardboard signs. There are pipe workers and wire workers and soap workers and brick and mortar workers. They all await the promised vehicle that will take them to a pretty house with a pretty fence and a pretty driveway.

Anything, the man asks.

No, the men reply, and no is sadly tattooed on their faces.

A park is the next destination; he has to rest his weary self. For a moment it seems that, after all, luck is not the same as fate and he finds a half-eaten sandwich on one of the benches. He nibbles at it gingerly, savoring each particle of wheat and cream and turkey as if it were a feast.

When he is done with the sandwich (or the sandwich done with him) he heads back. Not towards home, only to something just a tad like it.

Now, here comes a twist that has nothing to do with neither luck nor fate, for it is product of man’s free will.

Someone walks by our man. A man too, well-dressed, clean. The type of man that could live in a pretty house with a pretty fence and a pretty driveway. Our man sees him and—this happens in a flash—makes up his mind.

Can you spare a dollar, our man asks.

Sorry, the man replies.

Sorry is not tattooed in this man’s face, and our man does not care. What happens next might as well be left unsaid for there is blood and turpitude and not a pang or two, but a lot of regret.

Our man walks a few steps that feel like many, an ill-begotten load burdening him in his path.

A convenience store lies outside the motel and here the man stops, for there is right to be done with what from wrong came.

He buys a Coors Light Lime for him and his aches.

He buys a large bottle of root beer for the boy (he will be thrilled).

He buys two more sandwiches to go with the one he already ate and a gallon of milk to pretend there is still wellness in his family (or that there is a family at all).

The rest of the money he saves for tomorrow’s date with the wizened old man at the wizened old magazine stand and the same bitter, hopeless cup of mud.

The man walks up the stairs, to a room where he is expected. His steps are heavy. So is his soul.

A Lesson in Humility – Part 3

The fox spirit imbues Jian Jingsheng Jiuliang with life. Jian De meets Yifei Liu.

Busy as he was with his adoration for Spirit Drinker, Jian De could not avoid but to notice the ruckus Jinshu, the apprentice, made while fabricating blade and armor, and the ensuing commotion the army caused as it marched on towards the skirts of Tie Mao.

“I should be the one accompanying the army, not that weasel of an apprentice,” he thought, seething with envy, when Jinshu was accepted into the service of Xiong and the Shan Shi.

At the same time, the fox spirit, having passed the requisite five full moons, stole into Jian De’s habitation and seizing the absence of the sword master, located Spirit Drinker.

“True is your beauty, noble steel, but it’s regrettable the lapse in judgment it has caused,” the fox spirit said. “Become now your hidden self and help me set things straight.”

It then blew kindly on the sword, which took the shape of an equally beautiful, fair maiden.

“My name is Yifei Liu,” she said. “Long have I basked in that old man’s worship, but I’ve seen what you have seen. I will help you.”

“Thank you, essence,” the fox spirit acknowledged.

“There is a price, however,” Yifei added. “I am still Spirit Drinker and only one battle I can wage. This will be it.”

The fox spirit considered those words. A great weapon such as Jiang Jinsheng Juliang could be of great aid in the pursuit of The Way and the preservation of the Shang dinasty. But the harm it was causing now far exceeded its potential benefits. Besides, he thought, Jian De, once freed of his materialistic shackles, could be guided once again into the warm embrace of The Way and his craft.

“Agreed, then. The task is yours,” the fox spirit said and returned to his own plane.

As Jian De made his way back to his home, all dark and brooding because of his apprentice and the army he had joined, he happened into Yifei and was smitten on sight, all thoughts of Jinshu and Spirit Drinker forgone in an instant.

“Lucky are the eyes that set on such a pristine beauty,” Jian De said.

“Good morning, master Jian De. It is I who should be lucky for I am greeted by a man of such stature and importance,” she replied.

“Nothing of the sort,” Jian De said, bashful. “Say, what brings a lady like you to this piddling village?”

“Tis you, master, the object of my visit, for I am Yifei Liu, a simple woman with a simple request, one I cannot ignore even if I wanted to. I’ve been told you are the man to go to when it comes to the art of metal,” the woman said, leaning dangerously and enticingly closer to Jian De’s face.

“I am versed in the craft, yes, but I am retired, you see?” he replied, nervous. Fine beads of sweat adorned his forehead.

“Nonsense,” Yifei continued. “Your prowess with the steel is well known across the land. Now, will you refuse your services to a lady in need?”

“You are clever, for I could not. Very well, come, share some tea and tell me of this need of yours.”

They entered Jian De’s home, where he prepared two cups of steamy red tea. They both sat, facing each other, and discussed the matter while sipping the earthy, sweet brew.

“You see, a spirit came to me in a dream,” she begun, finding the fabrication funny in its irony. “He spoke of you and your feats, which are sorely needed in the East where King Zhou’s forces are gathering in order to strike a definitive blow on the insurgents,” she said.

Jian De knew what she was referring to and saw in this the perfect opportunity to exact revenge on Jinshu and what he thought of as treason on the part of the apprentice.

“Say no more and let us make haste, beautiful Yifei,” Jian De said, eager. “Guide me to this gathering place and allow me to help the Shang squash these pesky rebels like flies.

See how easily our shallow wants and needs sway our allegiances and make us stray from the path of The Way? If you want to know what happens to Jian De and his companion, read on.

A Lesson in Humility – Part 2

An army assembles. Jian De’s apprentice asks to join the Shan Shi.

Once the details were laid out, the Fox Spirit withdrew to its realm for five full moons to prepare for the oncoming execution of Heavenly Primogenitor’s plan. Meanwhile, Jian De returned to the town of Tie Mao with its prized posession, Spirit Drinker, and retreated into a routine of meaningless adoration.

In those times when political unrest had the fate of the Shang dynasty hanging by a thread, skirmishes sprouted throughout the land on a regular basis. Since Tie Mao held a spot of high strategic value due to its proximity to Mount Kunlun, and sported easy access to a large variety of natural resources; a special, dedicated force of defenders, the Shan Shi, was always on call to assist in the defense of both town and people and to lend a hand whenever the welfare of the Shang dynasty saw itself in peril. Shan Shi’s leader, Xiong Lieren, victor in a hundred battles and scarred only by a dozen or so shallow cuts, was lauded by many as the bravest soul in all of the outer regencies.

One day, Tie Mao’s regent, Huangjin Chengzai, invited Xiong to the Courtyard of Purple Peonies to discuss some disturbing news.

“His Majesty and the imperial court have summoned us, Xiong, to aid in the quenching of a rebellion in East Lu. Forces sympathetic to Queen Jiang and her father are planning to march onto the capital in an attempt to depose King Zhou,” the regent informed.

“I shall get my men ready, then,” Xiong replied.

“Do so, but first hear what I have to say,” Huangjin interjected. “For I will be placing an immense burden on your shoulders.”

“A rumor originating in the imperial court is spreading like wildfire,” he continued. “According to this rumor, King Zhou is showing of late signs of a conduct unbecoming a monarch, indulging in wine and concubines when he should be looking out for the wellness of His people.”

“I have heard such rumors. What do you make of them, regent?” Xiong asked.

“They are true, I am afraid,” he answered. “I have witnessed firsthand the neglect His Majesty has shown towards affairs of the state and His terribly arbitrary application of justice.”

“What would you have the Shan Shi do, then?” Xiong asked, acquiescent.

“Equip your men with the best metal the land can provide and procure the fastest horses. We aid the rebels in their just cause and hope for a worthy prevalence of the Shang,” the regent concluded.

“Consider it not a burden,” Xiong said. “We stand by what is noble; our bodies are only instruments of Heavens’ righteousness.”

And so Xiong bade the regent farewell and began preparations for the ride to the east.

Xiong selected two thousand horses from the best of breeds and the same number of the highest quality mounts, things of unrivaled beauty inlaid with pearl and ivory. He also hand-picked the most able from among his riders; men expert with either lance, sword, or bow and arrow.

Now, when it came to the matter of steel, Jian De was the one and only choice for supplying the best items in the region. He was, however, mostly preoccupied with something other than his craft at the moment.

When Xiong visited Jian De to place a substantial order for weapons and armor, Jian De would not be bothered with the task.

“My days as a metal worker are over. Take your requests somewhere else,” he said and went back to his quarters where Spirit Drinker awaited its daily dose of endearment.

Jian De’s apprentice, Jinshu Hao Yu, approached Xiong and elaborated on the situation.

“My master is afflicted with a mysterious obsession towards that sword of his,” he explained. “He won’t come anywhere near the forge and will not work on any new design, the origin of the request notwithstanding.”

“That is most unfortunate, for the fate of the Shang dynasty hangs now in the balance and the Shan Shi are to play an important part in its protection,” Xiong said.

“I am but a mere apprentice,” Jinshu said coyly. “However, I would be more than glad to help the Shan Shi and its cause with my meager skills.”

Xiong assessed the offer. All in all, he had nothing to lose, for even when Jinshu was short both in age and experience, an apprentice of Jian De was still bound to produce items of superior quality to those of the average blacksmith.

“Very well. I will send some of my men to assist you with the labor.” Xiong proposed, and set off to continue with the arrangements.

In just a couple of months, Tie Mao’s army was ready to march. Jinshu had produced superb armor and weapons with which the men were promptly outfitted, and the purest of horses had been lined up, ready to bear the weight of Xiong’s best riders.

As the throng of warriors was set to part off at the outskirts of town, Xiong saw a figure rushing to meet them. It was Jinshu.

“Lord Xiong,” Jinshu addressed the leader. “I have no purpose in remaining here if master Jian De insists on disregarding his obligations. Please, allow me to go with you and provide whatever assistance I may during the journey and battle to come.”

Xiong considered the apprentice’s petition in great detail.

Do you want to know what became of Jinshu and Xiong’s army? Read on.

A Lesson in Humility – Part 1

Of how sword maker Jian De presented the sword Jian Jingsheng Jiuliang on Mount Kunlun and asked to keep it for himself 

Four were the blades that crowned a life of craftsmanship for sword maker Jian De, son of Jian Lu; four weapons of so exquisite design and deadly edge that only one righteous wielder was allowed to use each of them for exactly one battle, after which they were to be returned to the Jade Emptiness Palace under the custody of Heavenly Primogenitor, the Grand Master of Chan Taoism. The four blades were:

Ji Yun Xun, Cloud Seeker, once wielded by Zhong Bao in a duel against Sun Lu.

Dao Yanshi Fenli, Rock Splitter, once wielded by Yun Xue in the beheading of the would-be assassin Li Wu at the Central Palace in Zhaoge.

Qiang Tiao Hu, Jumping Tiger, once wielded by Jing Zan in the battle of the Three Peaks against the hordes of Zhou Jiao.

Jian Jingsheng Jiuliang, Spirit Drinker, never wielded in physical battle.

As soon as the gleaming fourth blade left the forge, Jian De knew it was the finest of them all and quickly became his pride and joy. So enamored was Jian De of the sword that he took it with him wherever he went, bragging about it to everyone that happened to be in his way. When he was not out on errands, he would spend night and day observing its magnificent beauty.

When he finally came around to bring the sword, wrapped in the most delicate of silks, to the feet of the Eight Treasure and Cloud Radiance Throne on Mount Kunlun where the Grand Master would bestow his approval unto the steel and commit it to the servitude of The Way; he knew he could not possibly part with it without having his heart broken. He nevertheless knelt in front of the Throne, hoping that the Grand Master, in his great wisdom and kindness, would allow him to keep it.

“Master, I bring to you Jian Jingsheng Jiuliang,” Jian De said. “Among my creations its edge is the sharpest and its form the most beautiful.”

“News have come to my ears; tales told far and wide of a fantastic new sword born at the hands of Jian De,” the Grand Master said. “Now, make me wait no longer and allow me to see it.”

Jian De, still kneeling, unwrapped the sword and offered it with his arms extended in front of him.

The Grand Master unsheathed and perused the blade attentively, cradling it first on his open palms to examine weight and sharpness and then taking his time wielding it with both left and right hands in order to assess its potential as a weapon.

“The tales did not lie. I commend you, Jian De, for this is indeed a fine blade,” he said. “Please take it to the Hall of a Thousand Edges and ready it for Heaven’s investiture,” he instructed as he returned the weapon to its scabbard.

“If I may, Master,” Jian De interjected. “Being this the best item my hands have ever crafted, I dare ask for a simple favor.”

“Speak up, then,” the Master said reluctantly.

“I, your lowly apprentice, have always pursued achievement of The Way through my art and my daily comings and goings, and have never cared much for material possessions,“ Jian De said.

“However,” Jian De added, “I humbly request, Master, that you let the sword remain at my side for what little is left of my vulgar life. I am most sure that, without the sight of its beauty and without the feel of its presence next to me, my life of steel-working would have no further meaning.”

The Grand Master pondered this request carefully; it was not in the nature of those pursuing The Way to crave material belongings with such passion and heat.

“Very well,” the Master said at last, placing the sword back on Jian De’s hands. “Spirit Drinker is yours for as long as your life or the sword itself allow you to posses it.”

“I thank you immensely,” Jian De said, overjoyed. He put the sword once again in its silk wrappings, bowed one last time and took his leave.

The Grand Master knew then that Jian De had veered off from The Way; his affection for the sword a sick and untoward feeling. To remediate the situation, for it was proper for him to tend to the spiritual needs of his apprentices, he called a Fox Spirit to his side immediately following Jian De’s departure.

“Why have you summoned me, Heavenly Primogenitor?” the Fox Spirit asked curtly.

“One of my apprentices has showed an unhealthy affection towards a thing material, which will hinder him in his path to attain The Way,” the Grandmaster said. “I have a plan to make him see his mistake, but I will require your assistance.”

The Fox Spirit, always up for a dose of well-meant mischief, grinned widely.

“Tell me of this plan of yours, then, Heavenly Primogenitor.”

The Fox Spirit and the Grand Master conversed until well into the late hours of night, discussing the particulars of a very clever ruse.

If you want to know what happened next, you must read the next chapter.

Gaga’s music has substance… somewhere

Click to enlarge

A little bit of speculative fiction. In any case, I love the woman in this universe, no matter how solid or flimsy she may seem to some

Image credits: shapes4free.com, recursos2d.com, freevector.com and ME.

Why only YOU think Google+ will topple Facebook

And by YOU I mean YOU Internet marketers, B2B, B2C, and B2E experts, PR masters, and SM junkies in general who are raving about the stuff. Yes guys and gals, YOU are –mostly– alone in this one. Here’s my take on the why, using a cool example to draw parallels from.

The features

Consider these two sets of competing products: Sony’s PS3 (console) and PSP (handheld) vs. their Nintendo counterparts, the Wii and the DS. Despite being technically superior in many aspects that pertain to gaming, both of Sony’s devices were never neck to neck in the race against those from the big N. Hell, they were never even close. And why? Because Nintendo’s creations were actually groundbreaking; they represented innovation at its most exquisite level. And that, friends, draws customers in: 87.5M vs. 51.2M on home consoles and a staggering 147.5M vs. 68.5M on handhelds [Source: VGCharts Network]. You can call Nintendo’s strategy gimmicky, but the features it bestowed upon their products were unmatched for a long time. Even now, with the addition of motion control on Sony’s home console front, the dynamics introduced by the Wiimote and Wii Motion Plus controllers are legendary.

[Edit: thanks to Danny Brown for commenting upon something that was missing from this comparison --price. Nintendo's gadgets have always been priced way lower than Sony's. Still, if we consider price as a feature, Sony did fail at attracting buyers in THAT specific area, which, in such a competitive arena, can prove quite damaging.]

What we are dealing with this face-off (ha!) between Facebook and Google+ is what I like to call “Race of the Features.” Unlike the aforementioned example, where the hardware limits the ability to improve upon a shipped product, integrating –and enhancing– features from Facebook into Google+ and vice versa is a relatively easy task.

Besides that, we have an inescapable issue here: Google is not a groundbreaking platform; not by a long shot. So, even though there might be differentiation at some point or another –sharing, notifications and video in Google+ are, for example, very well thought out– the competing guy will always be quick to catch up. This could be a very drawn out case of the proverbial pissing contest.

YOU might like these shiny new/improved features because they suit YOUR purposes best. But on this race, Facebook can turn the tide at any moment.

The audience

When Nintendo’s Wii console came out, it drew in thousands of new players that were previously oblivious to electronic entertainment; it practically defined the term casual gaming. Housewives, top execs, teachers; they all jumped onto the bandwagon of Wii Sports and Wii Fit. Almost overnight, the Wii was in more households than the PS3 could ever expect to. And, although it has struggled with stains like shovelware (kiddie movie tie-in games, anyone?), most of these casual gamers just don’t care. What they have is good enough for them and, in the long run, only numbers matter. Lemme try to be funny here: My name is Legion, for Wii are many.

Facebook has the whole social media thing pretty much nailed down and has a subscriber base that ranks in the hundreds of millions. Now, I’m not saying it does everything right; we know better. But for the large percentage of users that don’t mind what it does wrong, Google+ offers no compelling reason to do the switch. There’s no real, overwhelming benefits for the brunt of these individuals.

Now, returning to the subject of YOU. YOU might want to trade the blue for the multi-colored because YOU are smart, because YOU are mindful of privacy, because YOU care about the value of networking, and because YOU simply adore engaging and sharing. I know I do. But, you know what? The moms and the teachers and the co-workers… not so much. For them, Facebook fills a more primal purpose: just being social. They will, I think, choose the Like over the +1; they will remain within Facebook’s ranks and files.

Brand strength

Let’s look at this real quick: Nintendo has a perpetual collection of aces down its sleeve with the oldest and most revered franchises in the gaming industry: the Marios and the Pokemons, the Metroids and the Kirbys, the Zeldas and the Smash Brothers; Nintendo owns exclusivity for all of them. These fellas –in any of their incarnations– have only been available for the big N’s devices and they move numbers without failure because people know and love them.

In the subject at hand, Google’s perceived strength is search. Yeah, Google Docs has its followers because it has proved to be a powerful tool with zero to little competition, and Chrome is slowly gaining ground as the prettiest kid on the block, but this doesn’t mean much in terms of profitability. Even Google’s first peripheral property, Gmail, has not yet attained the elusive No. 1 spot when compared to old, established brands like Yahoo! Mail and Hotmail (or Windows Live, whatever you wanna call it). The thing is, the G has had trouble gaining traction as a brand on fields other than search. Google+ is up against a giant that has a choke hold on the social media market, and removing it from the topmost place will prove to be a monumental task.

Now, back to YOU. YOU have only recently started using Facebook for professional reasons. YOU have been using Facebook as a marketing, engagement & networking medium for a relatively short time. YOU have had no chance of developing a strong bond with Facebook or have chosen not to, for maybe YOU move quickly with the times and the trends. But the mainstream does not. They love and then they settle, at least for a while, and marketers know that: it will be a long time before Google+ becomes fertile ground for ad revenue.

What does Google+ want to be?

If we look, for example, at Twitter’s inability to be profitable and assume it’s because there’s just not much buying power and message reach due to its numbers, we can extrapolate and visualize Google+’s short/medium term future IF they only want to be up in arms against Facebook. But go ahead and read this post by Jeff Nolan on how it could stack up against other players: G+: Twitter and Tumblr are Biggest Losers.

What I think is that, with some focus and direction, Google+ can be something other than what it’s trying to be right now: a Facebook killer. But for the time being, only YOU think it can be so.

In the end, it’s all speculation, right?

It’s a tourist trap! – Photo tour through a modern Mexican market

Over the course of my adult life I’ve come across people who are very knowledgeable about my country, some others that have at least an inkling of what goes on around these parts, and some that are just plain clueless about modern Mexico. Here are some of my favorite stories:

– A guy I met at a bar told me “Dude, are you from Mexico? I know this Mexican rock band! They’re from Brazil!”

– I live in Guadalajara; I state that plainly whenever it’s pertinent to the conversation. My Twitter friend, Paul Biedermann, asked me once: “So, Juan, how’s Guatemala these days?” There’s no bad blood between us due to that incident, but Paul has to put up with my constant ribbing every time we chat.

– Another Twitter friend, Sam Parrotto, posed this interesting question: “Do you have psychiatrists where you live?”

– One day I got the chance to discuss with Paula K. Porter, from Oklahoma (and yes, Twitter), the quintessential Mexican stereotype: a drunk native, garbed in a colorful sarape, resting by a tall cactus amidst a barren landscape, and with a bottle of some or other type of regional spirits by his side. I asked her if Okies lived in tepees.

To set the record straight: yes, we still do have sarapes, drunk people, cacti and Tequila. But in a different way. Gimme your hand; I’ll guide you.

The only cacti I'm close to nowadays are in the candied form. Also candied: pumpkin slices and sweet potatoes. If that ain't enough, you can also find coconut confections and jars of dulce de leche.

As in every other developing country, the line between the urban and the rural inexorably blurs with the passing of the ages. Trends meld, mindsets converge (or clash), and mysticism meets pragmatism in ways that confuse and exalt the senses at the same time. And there is no better way to experience this mix of the economies of old and new, than a stroll through a modern-era Mexican mercado (market).

The market as a life-giver

It all boils down to this: man’s gotta eat. And so does his family. Be the currency corn kernels or paper and metal, the basic principle of the trade system that our ancestors set up for us still holds true in the everyday comings and goings of both buyers and suppliers of produce, meats, and assorted goods. And the market remains an important hub for this kind of activity.

People eat ALL of this. I dare not guess the nature of the sacks in the background.

Tripe and feet, cleaned and ready for a savory Menudo soup.

Mutton soup!

None of the meat products above would taste the same without some of these babies.

At Mercado San Juan de Dios, the largest in my town, there’s always a large variety of ingredients that go either straight to people’s homes or to the kitchens of the hundreds of surrounding eateries.

For those not doing the cooking, on-site eating is always available. Pictured here, a stall of carnitas and chicharrones, two classic pork preparations.

Beware: for some of these foods you will need a stomach somewhat accustomed to spiciness and/or exotic flavors. Don’t shy away, but be cautious. Also look out for cleanliness; you never know.

The market as a sign of the times

Located a few steps away from the Historic Downtown, this market –a multi-storied behemoth spanning over 4000 square meters of space– is always teeming with visitors.

As the Mercado grew and expanded over the years –a sign of the also evolving city it sits on– and became a more recognizable landmark, the nature of marketable products also changed: the food stalls now share the land with export-ready wooden and leather items, toys, traditional sweets, regional clothing, and even a whole floor dedicated to counterfeit and pirated electronic items and media. Go, bootleg Wii games.

Shoes might be a first necessity item. Here in the Mercado they also become a quaint souvenir.

Items like these luchador masks respond to the craze and popularity that the sport currently enjoys among fans.

As I toured the place with a cousin (daughter of Mexican parents) and her boyfriend (American-Canadian), I described it as a Training Center for the Haggling Arts. That description is not that far from the truth: everything is negotiable; the vendors NEED the foreigners’ business and hence every given price is somewhat marked up to allow for some bartering room. A keen eye for quality and basic commerce skills become great assets for the shopper. In the end, a cheap sale is better than a no sale, and belive me, sellers won’t go as low as to negate a profit, so don’t be afraid to tongue your way into a good deal.

One word of advice: do buy items that you –or the people you are giving to– would appreciate. These guys will try to sell you ANYTHING, and even if you don’t need it, you might fall prey to the all-too-common tourist trap due to the charm of this thing or the cuteness of that thang.

Do you have a sweet tooth?

Toys... in an alternate world without Nintendo.

Tamarind sweet pots. To indulge or not to indulge...

All kinds of traditional arts and crafts can be found in the Mercado, like this papier-mache Lady Death.

If shopping left you drained, freshen up with a swig of sugar cane juice or coconut water.

You can find these markets –some big, some a bit more restrained– all over key cities in Mexico: Guanajuato, Mexico City, Veracruz, etc. Check your Fodor’s or Lonely Planet guide to get an idea of what to expect in each place.

The sarape, cactus, and Tequila thing

As in every other stereotype, there is always a fraction of ingrained truth. The trick is to know how to get an updated version of the model and then take away with you and enjoy the best bits and disregard –or be mindful of– the bad. Me thinks.

Come to the Mercado!

Beer bread recipe

Because drinking it is not the only fun you can have with a can or bottle of beer, here’s a recipe for beer bread. Baking it is a snap since it doesn’t call for yeast and the result is a wholesome, soft, yummy loaf with a crunchy crust on the outside.

About the beer: I’m pretty sure you can use whatever type of beer you fancy, but I can be wrong. I’ve used Guinness, Heineken and other local clear brews; they’ve all turned out great. For this instance I used a bottle of Dos Equis Ambar which is technically a lager but with the robust flavor and body of an amber ale. In the end, the only difference I noticed in this particular bake was a slight and quite satisfying rise in the bitterness of the bread compared to previous iterations (save the Guinness-infused one, of course; that one was sharp, but still delicious). I encourage you to try with different brews and share your experiences.

List of ingredients

• 12 oz. of your favorite beer
• 3 cups flour
• 4 tsp baking powder
• 3 tbsp sugar
• 1/2 tsp salt

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350˚ F. Sift dry ingredients in a large bowl.

2. Shake or quickly pour the beer into a container to create as much fizz as possible. Then slowly add the foamy beer to the flour mixture and combine well by hand. Do this until you obtain a sticky dough that does not separate easily.

3. Spoon the dough into a greased ovenproof dish or bread pan. Try to transfer as much dough as possible to the dish or pan in a single gob, since each additional spooning will tend to create layers on top of the bread and your loaf will most likely resemble a pale tumor. Don’t worry, it’ll still taste fantastic. Also, don’t shake or otherwise try to settle the dough once transferred. Just place it on a lower rack in the oven as-is.

4. Bake for 45-50 minutes. Remove and let it cool for 15-20 min before removing from the dish or pan. You can let it cool even further for a crunchier crust.

I served my wedge of bread with a slice of Gouda cheese and some sweet onion jam that I made while the bread was baking. You can find the recipe for the jam here.

Enjoy!

Dad – Not a garden variety hero

While waiting for dinner to be ready, I decided to whip out my camera and shoot a few things around the house; change the pace from the last few weeks where I have been struggling with a pesky case of depression. What I captured with the lens lifted my spirits high enough to compel me return to this ole neglected blog of mine and quickly jot something down. A start is a start, right?

The story is this: My father lost his right hand in a nasty car accident a few years ago. And while we all wailed and sobbed and overall put out a sorry show during the first weeks, the guy was a rock. Tear count from him: zero.

In six months time he made himself with a secondhand (no pun intended) automatic transmission SUV and took up driving once again. He is still seeing customers. He takes down orders with his left hand in ugly but understandable writing. He is still a nuisance while dining and shopping.

What dawned on me is this (don’t fight the lack of context, lesson is simple): My dad will always complain about my choices in life. We come from different worlds. But if he can overcome such a great loss with such an overwhelming success, anything I complain about seems petty in comparison. By keeping that in mind at all times, I think I have one more weapon to fight against my own demons. Besides Prozac, that is.

To you, Dad.