Bad Experiences Make Good Movies

Being on the Papers or I Know that Guy!

I am very happy today! As every morning, I've read "La Contra" de la Vanguardia, a very sui generis interview at the back of that well known newspaper from Barcelona. And look, what a surprise! I personally know this guy! He helped my when I was writing my Ms. thesis, and we worked in the same project while he was pursuing his PhD and I had just started mine. Last time I met him was in Tarragona last September. He is a great guy!
I am very happy today!

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"Llaves y tarjetas de crédito acabarán pronto en el museo"

VÍCTOR-M. AMELA - 28/10/2009

Tengo 42 años. Nací en Barcelona y vivo en Tarragona. Soy profesor de Ingeniería Informática en la Universitat Rovira i Virgili, especialista en biometría. Estoy casado y tengo dos hijos, de 6 y 8 años. Soy catalanista. Soy ateo. Eres único en huella dactilar y palmar, iris, retina...

Soy único?
Único. Y es algo que puede medirse: eso es la biometría.
Midamos, pues.
Vea sus huellas dactilares: no las hay iguales en el planeta.
¿Seguro?
La probabilidad de que otro ser humano tenga estas mismas huellas dactilares es de 10-18 (0,0000000000000000001%).
Casi igual a cero, vamos.
Si la población humana es hoy de 6.000 millones de personas, ¡deberíamos multiplicarla por cien para dar con otras huellas digitales iguales! Pero como la Tierra no puede sostener a más de 12.000 millones de personas..., esté tranquilo: es único en ese rasgo.
¿En qué otros rasgos soy único?
En el iris. En la retina. En la red venosa palmar. En la geometría de la mano o de la oreja. En las huellas podales. En la fisionomía del rostro. En la antropometría. En el ADN, presente en sangre, semen, orina, sudor, lágrimas, piel, bulbos de cabellos...
Vamos por partes: iris...
En el aeropuerto de Amsterdam usan ya pasaportes por iris: una máquina te lee el iris, y pasas directo. ¡Más seguro que un policía!
¿No hay dos iris iguales?
No. Pero si remotamente un iris pudiera falsificarse, hay algo imposible de falsificar: la retina, con su compleja red vascular, distinta en cada persona e invisible a simple vista (está detrás de la pupila). Existen detectores para leerla, y se usan en algunos sitios.
¿Gracias a los ordenadores?
La informática y los ordenadores permiten encontrar a quién corresponde una huella dactilar entre millones de huellas de un banco de datos ¡en sólo dos segundos!
¿Se hace aquí?
Los Mossos d´Esquadra, en dos segundos, encuentran la huella más parecida a la que analizan entre las que tienen fichadas. Si quieren buscar entre las fichadas por los DNI - protegidas-,deben pedir permiso al juez.
¿Qué rasgo biométrico es más seguro?
La red vascular palmar - venitas de la palma de la mano-es única e irreproducible. Se usa ya para acceder a centros militares, centrales nucleares...
¿Y si un terrorista corta una de esas manos, y la usa para entrar?
Los lectores de iris, dedos o manos detectan temperatura y micropulsaciones para evitar esa trampa. Un órgano muerto no vale.
¿Se usa la biometría ya para accesos?
Yo accedo a mi ordenador personal o a mi móvil sin contraseñas, sólo con mi huella dactilar: es más seguro y práctico. ¡No necesito memorizar claves! Pronto todos los accesos serán así.
¿Cuándo?
Hoy cargamos en los bolsillos llaves de casa, del garaje, del coche, del armario, de la caja fuerte, tarjetas bancarias... ¡Nuestros nietos las verán sólo expuestas en museos!
¿Sí? ¿Y cómo entraremos en casa, cómo sacaremos dinero?
Con nuestro cuerpo. Tu cuerpo dirá quién eres. Dedo, ojo, cara... Todo eso puede medirse y leerse cibernéticamente. Los antiguos egipcios ya usaron rasgos físicos para identificar a obreros de las pirámides (un corte en una oreja, señales...) y evitar que uno cobrase dos veces: ¡prehistoria de biometría a ojo desnudo! Hoy, la inteligencia artificial permite hasta descifrar movimientos y comportamientos.
¿A qué se refiere?
Por el modo de teclear podemos saber quién ha tocado un ordenador. Otro ejemplo: si estás nervioso por algo, te mueves de cierta manera. Si cargas una mochila con bomba, también. En aeropuertos ya hay detectores de estas conductas motrices: activan alarmas para interceptar a esa persona sospechosa e investigarla.
Las máquinas acabarán sabiendo lo que pensamos...
Eso no puede medirse. Y ya se desechó aquella tesis frenológica del siglo XIX que postulaba que la forma de tu cráneo delataba si eras violento o criminal...
Me citaba antes la antropometría...
Nuestras proporciones corporales han determinado altura de mesas, sillas, cocinas, puertas, asientos de coche, tallas de ropa... Le Corbusier estableció una antropometría de uso para arquitectos que sigue vigente…, aunque algunas medidas han cambiado.
¿Cuáles?
Los holandeses son hoy las personas, en promedio, más altas del mundo. O sea, los que hoy más sufren en los asientos de los aviones, de dimensiones anticuadas... ¡Deberían rediseñarse! Los españoles somos hoy 14 centímetros más altos que hace un siglo. Los norteamericanos son los más obesos del mundo..., ¡seguidos de los españoles!
¿Las tallas de ropa y calzado responden a esos patrones corporales?
Sí, por eso varían por continentes. La catalogación antropométrica empezó en la Francia del siglo XIX, cuando su policía creó fichas consignando color de ojos, tipos de nariz (establecieron seis tipos), orejas...: se simplificaba la descripción de sospechosos.
Hasta llegar a los análisis de ADN...
El definitivo carnet de identidad de cada uno... si no hacemos clones de personas.
¿Se usará todo esto para tenernos fichados y controlados?
Para reforzar la seguridad de las personas... o para discriminarnos según la predisposición a tener patologías. Eso pasa con cualquier nueva tecnología: puede usarse bien o mal, y yo creo que esta la usaremos bien.
"Llaves y tarjetas de crédito acabarán pronto en el museo"
´Ets únic?´
Antes del 11-S del año 2001, los ingresos de las empresas dedicadas a la biometría eran de 400 millones de dólares anuales. Ocho años después, en este 2009, ascenderán a ¡5.000 millones de dólares! (entre software, hardware, mantenimiento...). Me lo explica Francesc Serratosa mientras paseamos entre los paneles de Ets únic?,didáctica exposición sobre biometría en la sede de la Obra Social Caixa Sabadell (etsunic.cat), que hoy se inaugura. Muestra de modo práctico y ameno la historia y últimos avances en el campo de la biometría - de la mano de los recursos de la ingeniería informática-,que cada día estará más presente en nuestra vida cotidiana..., confiemos en que para bien.

Darwin: 3, Jackass: 0

Yesterday it rained a lot, and, not to my surprise, this rain led to proof once more that Darwin was right and evolution, to some extent, still works. At least, ask to the three people that died yesterday, to my knowledge, near or around my little bubble of existence, due to their idiotic behavior.

One guy made me get home 40min late by trying to guess who was stronger, the man or the machine, but the locomotive won, again, and trains were diverted to a secondary railway while he was detached from the ground. The other two blocks followed the stereotype of a complete jackass: English, young, and drunk, though being English and drunk are most of the times synonyms.

It seems that they didn't pay attention to any evident signal, neither heavenly nor mundane, and had a bath in Salou at 2:00AM in a beach they didn't know at all, while the furious sea was hitting the coast. Toll: 2 dead. Every year, the same thing; the same kind of people, the very same places. They wanted to be the coolest and, yes, they are now!

Actions have reactions, and consequences. Probability and the law of large numbers are powerful, and can't be easily beaten, if not by intelligence, which those guys obviously lacked. Even in our Disneyland's Wonderful World, the difference between life and death can be just as narrow as the edge of a coin. I know it.

Today it rains again, let's see what happens!

Cats and Dogs, and a Raining Man

Today, it is raining cats and dogs, as usual in this city and time of the year. The still warm sea gets angry with the first cold northern winds and breaks into huge cumulonimbus that grows like mountains and pour violently their waters, stolen from the sea, into the uneven sides of the shore. And then, a myriad of torrents appear, going down millinery ramblas flowing into the sea, giving back the precious element that was maliciously stolen from him.

I was in Pg. de Gracia and had to go to work. No umbrella. I lost my umbrellas in Japan. The easy way was to take the Metro. I was at the gates, the last place where I saw her before she left. I crossed the gates and took the left side, the same one she had run along the last time, in a hurry to meet her friends and celebrate her last night in the city. Never was invited. Next station, Fontana. There, the bench where she used to wait for me, empty, soaked by the rain. No trace of her anymore. Not anymore.

Today it is raining, and so am I.

The Lesser of Two Weevils

...Sink, Burn, or take her a Prize!



Hold fast and let's fight!



La guerra i l'amar:
la sal de la terra.

Collioure or a Kingdom Among Clouds

Carcassone or No Country for Old Troubadours

Momijee or Autumn in France

E., the "So+Adj." Girl

She was boring to death, I thought, while eating sushi at a crappy place. In front of me, that cute beauty, with her oceanic eyes, staring at me. "What?", kept on saying, any time I looked at her right into her eyes. She was surprised I ordered a beer for lunch.

The conversation didn't go fluently at all. "Can she really speak English?", I was wondering. I tried the friendly role, asking about her life, what she was doing at college, where she had travel to, and why she was interested in Spain. Difficult and thick as tar. Was it me? Maybe she expected something different in her gaijin blind date.

I hold her hands, and she didn't refuse to be held. I invited her for a coffee after lunch, and she said "you're so Spanish!". Yeah, she is the "so + adj." girl. For her, everything is so fun, so nice, so much...so much I like her that I love her. Wrong!!!! Never tell the truth to a girl, especially to an immature one, playing the grown-up. The coffee was over, and "now, what?", I thought.

Boredom...."where do we go now?", I asked. As usual, hanging out with a Japanese girl is somehow tiring, no initiative is expected. Though she looked intelligent, she couldn't be an exception. "Cinema", she said. Cinema? I love cinema, but no interest to watch a movie at that moment with her. I convinced her to go to a karaoke, if I couldn't have a decent conversation with her, at least, I'd like to make out with her before leaving.

Maybe, she let me feel that way since she seemed so receptive to me, approaching my side unequivocally. I held her tight by her waist. Lovely body, lovely bottom, I was so arouse. She was so gorgeous, and so boring at the same time, there was not other option left. I felt her bottom, and she let me feel it. What a glorious jewel!

Once in the karaoke I tried my luck and I won; at least, that time, I won her completely. She was so thirsty and so wet that kept on moaning in a never-ending shake of her lovely body and soft skin on my lap. I could turn her on with a single finger and make her enjoy la petite mort, like a violinist playing a legato, at my desire. Even the way she rubbed herself against my leg was so childish and so horny, like herself, a dirty doll.

It was so good, but so boring. With her sweet mouth she could do many things, but talking an interesting conversation. After my second round, I decided that it would be enough for the day. Facing a long afternoon and evening of arid boredom, I made up a fast excuse, "I've got to go back home to finish some work", and left her, so exhausted and so drowsy. She was so beautiful and young, so gorgeous and tender, and so boring and uninteresting at the same time.

She was so much...but nothing at all, at the end.

Back in Time

I would like to travel back in time, to the moment when she still liked me, to the second that she still laugh with me, to the instant that she still stared at me with love. But I'm traveling with RENFE....and the only service on the menu is delay.

Salou, Playa de Europa

Today I went to Salou, the beach of Europe, as the old shabby slogan used to say. It is another place created to entertain drunk tourists. When I was a child, I used to play a game; trying to discover where a tourist came from by listening to his language. It was easier than nowadays, since most of them were just French, German, English or Dutch.
Now I can't recognize some of these languages, which I guess come from some lost former soviet republic, judging by the looks of the people that speak them. There are also those who live there but were born on the other side of the world. How did they find the way to this little corner by the sea?
My mother used to live here before getting married, working at a perfumery-photography shop that belongs to a chief of the local mafia. From her I've got the interest in other cultures and photography.
One of the most astonishing stories she's told me many times is the one about the way she got to study German. There was a Luftwaffe officer living near her place. He was a tall, blue-eyed, blond and extremely handsome middle-aged man, all year long tanned by the sun, the ideal Arian type from Riefenstahl's movies in a more vacational pose.

During the Spanish war he belonged to the Condor Legion and, among other places in Spain, had been bombing the coast near Tarragona. Strange enough, he fell in love with that place and years later, after fighing and losing the WWII, he eloped here with his lover, a heiress from the Von Faber-Castell family, leaving everything behind.

My young mother was mainly scared by some strange medals, crosses and pictures the old chap had, hanging on the walls of his apartment, but now they were just a jolly couple, most of the times completely drunk with schnapps, that spent their time exercising by the beach and lecturing German to girls for little money.

For me, that guy was a pure Romantische, a breave heart, leaving his country and his fortune, to live by the sea with his lover in a place where he had contributed to destroy.

The bluest Window on Earth

This is what I can see from my apartment's balcony in Coma-ruga:
no more words to add....since the Mediterranean odour can't be explained, but felt.

How I Look Like, How I Shouldn't Look Like

My beloved Ch. has told me the secret of my lack of attractive. I know I usually tend to look awful, never cared that much. But recently I've experienced some disappointments due to my appearance, and I want to fix it. My laptop is cool, my car is cool, my job is kind of cool, and my apartment's view too, but not my look....

I have periods, as the moon, but now, my moon is completely died down, and something must be done. First of all, losing some weight; a lot, in fact: back to Japanese food. Second, getting new clothes to hang out properly, despite they are still floating from Japan to Spain, and had nothing decent here. And finally, using again my contact lenses. It seems that my glasses cover my only good point, my eyes. "Use them to work, but not to hang out! They're ojichan-nic!!"

Les Quinze Nits or the Classic Tourist Trap

Plaça Reial is an infraworld, where the creatures of the Barcelona's nightlife swarm loose around looking for their next victim. It is never been an advisable place to stay: full of pickpockets, lunatics, junkies, scum.
What surprises me is the tourist behavior, like sheep following some randomly picked directions read in some overrated guide book. Restaurants around there are the shame of their profession, just a tourist trap for off guard travelers. Look at them! lining up like school boys waiting for the grub to be served! Amazing, isn't it? And they're having fun? At what time were they expecting to have dinner?
It happened once to me in the very same place, Les Quinze Nits (15 nights), a name that reflects the time one have to wait there or how expired is food. I don't wait in restaurants as a rule, if they can't attend me, I leave. Why should I? Are they special? Lousy food served by careless people that few months ago didn't even know the existence of something called "xato", "pa amb tomaquet", or "esqueixada de bacalla"? Besides, 1st rule when traveling abroad, NEVER GO TO A PLACE WHERE LOCALS WOULDN'T GO!!!!

Another sign that Barcelona is just an attraction park. Somebody should start a franchise of such parks around the world on the same premises, BarnaLand or the Ramblas Aventura, pickpockets included.

LBJF or the Let's Be Just Friends Line

Last time I kissed you, first I looked at your eyes, since i didnt want to bother you. Then I kissed you good-bye on your chick, and then, near the commissure of your sweet lips. I didn't see any bad look in your eyes, as I had seen days before. No "stop!!", no desdain, no contempt. First time I kissed you, I asked you "may I?", and you said "maybe". I did and you let me. Last time, I looked at your eyes, and I saw a welcoming glimpse, so I kissed you on your lips....and you kissed me back; yeah, you did! Then, you changend your mind; why? Not your type, you can do better, right? Yeah, maybe.

My dear friend E.M. will come to Barcelona...

My dear friend E.M. feels lonely. She is working as an OL in a soap factory near Fuse, in Osaka. Finally, after some years doing the same menial job at the office, she became kaisha-in, full employee in her company. Now, she has a stable job, she got her wished lifelong employment, but her life is empty, poor, she says, she needs love, some true love.

More than once, she has confessed to me that she doesn't like Japanese men, that she prefers to be with a gaijin, a foreign guy. She has had many acquaintances, many boyfriends, many lovers, many friends, but none has still fulfilled her gap. And she keeps looking for, without any direction, any goal, and immediate destination.

Her dad died and she was left lonely. Her sister suicided, and she became terribly lonesome. And now, she still is alone and sad, though her smile is like a rose, and every time I smell the fragrance from the soap she gave me as a present the last time we met, my mind is transported to our garden of roses, where I could drink from her mouth and enjoy with her some eternal moments.

Osaka is a ghastly place, a monster city that crumbles down into its own dissolution of rust, ugliness and bad taste. But Osaka people are among the nicer in Japan. She is a dear, a true dear, as candid and naive as a child. I want her to see the Mediterranean, and enjoy with the warm sun of Barcelona. I want her to get rid of her worries and have a look on a brighter side of life, at least, for a short time.

Now I know she will come to Barcelona, to pay a visit to the sea and to me. There is no paradise on Earth, nor any hell. The only thing that turns a hell into a paradise or vice-versa is how we imagine our lives in it. But sometimes, we are not able to transcend our own narrow view, and need some help from the outside. I do really hope Barcelona will take her out of her narrow little sad world, and I will be happy for her happiness.

Poema XX

"Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos."

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,
y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo."

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Canaletes or the Holy Water

If you drink water from Canaletes fountain, you will always be in love with Barcelona and no matter how far you go, you will always come back.

Mathematically, it means that the attaction to Canaletes fountain is proportional to the distance, which is the inverse of Newton's Universal Attraction Law. Maybe, that explains why there are so many people around that area!!

Barcelona, You, Bitch!!

Barcelona is a bastard, a cheap whore, a shabby circus for tourists, where clowns are themselves. Some people might think she is the coolest city in the world, but I don't see it at all, she's never been so, and she'll never be. But she is fooling you all.

I've slept with her, been used, and dumped! A disposable love. What's the point of getting drunk and smoked to the top? I've done it, for sure, with her, many times. No prejudices, no regret, but once you get up in an unknown place, a nameless street, with an unknown sweat body besides you, dirty, guilty, drilled by the worst hang-over in your life, dead brain and broken body, then you see the real being of your soul while looking at her: nothing at all, empty spectrum with the driest tongue. Was that so cool, eh? Emptiness, silence, dirt: Barcelona, who is she?

Barcelona is a whore that sells her body to the worst payer, drunkers, homeless, fools, ignorants, the pointless people that brainlessly flock to the city looking for something they lost in their homes long time ago, and hope to find here, freedom. Barcelona is selling herself to such people, giving little doses of such freedom, though a fake one, in the shape of fun, since this is what they are asking her to be.

What if another thing was required by them? Don't worry, Barcelona would provide it too. Barcelona is an open-legged whore, letting anybody to touch her inner hollows, her sex, her deepest, wettest and sweetest parts, almost for free. Just buy her a drink and a joint, and she will let you enjoy with her cunt. She is a bitch, she is a tramp. No commitment, no love, just plain interest, just lies.

Barcelona may fool you, but can't fool me, since I've seen her crying and being raped, dumped, drunk, drugged, vomited upon, pissed, crapped, stolen, bitten, destroyed and ripped off. I've seen her begging for mercy, for help, for water, for food, for love. And now, she can't fool me any more. Though I love her, I also hate her.

Barcelona is my mother and my wife, my sister and my lover, she is my whore, my bitch, and I bang her the whole night long, while she cums once and again, in an endless orgasm of craze and fun. But Barcelona is not mine anymore, Barcelona is not yours either. Barcelona is nobody's, since Barcelona is not even hers.

"Bésame Mucho" on the Train

My best friend R. sent me a song some days ago. He's a Mexican living in Japan, and from time to time he misses the heat of his land and women. I told him he is a romantic, living in the wrong place, after the wrong girl, but he keeps saying it is never the wrong place nor the wrong girl. At least, this is an old good song.

Today, on my way to work, a dude jumped on the the train and started playing the very same song, Besame Mucho, right in front of the BCN Airport, where so many loves appear or get lost.


Bésame, bésame mucho, como si fuera esta noche la última vez.
Bésame, bésame mucho, que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte despúes.

Quiero tenerte muy cerca, mirarme en tus ojos, verte junto a mí.
Piensa que tal vez mañana yo ya estaré lejos de ti, muy lejos de ti.

Mawkish, isn't it? Yeah, it is, unless it's true.