by sciston

Forced Evolution

December 20, 2014 in Fiction by sciston


Woke up to blood and guts and not a clue where they came from. Got out of bed and walked barefoot to the kitchen, worried. Tried to drink water, but I was mouthless. Thumbless. I reached for my head and felt skin where hair had once been. No memories at all, just a number, 2085, engraved on my forearm.


By Yarelly Cristerna
Translated, from the Spanish, by Bryan Constantino


EvolucionForzada

 
Bryan Constantino graduated from UCSD with his degree in Mathematics this June. He lives in Barrio Logan and is working on his first Banda music composition.

Elsa Yarelly Quijas Cristerna, México, D.F. Born in 1979, sociologist by profession, writer by birth, border-dweller by geographical location and emotional placement.
 

by sciston

East District

December 20, 2014 in Fiction by sciston


In a month, I’ll start my undergraduate at Tijuana University, on the West District, past the other side of the huge wall that splits the city in two. Anyone living in my district who wishes to work, study, or even visit the West District, has to undergo an investigation to guarantee the safety of the westerners, because, according to the West District authorities, anything wrong starts East: crime, sickness, poverty…

The wall was erected 30 years ago, when social problems in my district started to explode. After the separation, the situation has only worsened.

On the other side, they boast being closer to the First World. Here, people die every day, and those who are born, can’t even think of a future. They don’t give a damn about this, they have forgotten we once were one.

They didn’t approve my permit. They say it’s because of my father’s crimes, but he never was my parent, I never even knew the man. It looks like I won’t be able to move. It looks like I’m here to stay.


By Christian Campos
Translated, from the Spanish, by Pepe Rojo


DistritoEste

 
Pepe Rojo (1968) has published five books and more than 200 texts (short stories, essays and articles dealing with fiction, media and contemporary culture). He cofounded Pellejo/Molleja (with Deyanira Torres and Bernardo Fernández), an indie publishing firm, and edited SUB (sub-genre literature), NUMERO X (media culture) and PULPO COMICS (mex-sf comics anthology) for them. He has produced several interactive stories for Alteraction, and published two collections of Minibúks (Mexican SF and Counter-versions) at UABC, as well as the graphic intervention “Philosophical Dictionary of Tijuana.” He is currently an MFA Candidate in Writing at UCSD.
 
Omar Campos:  Former student of UABC, never a writer as much as a reader. Born in a city in the south of Mexico, he has lived in Tijuana for about 18 years. High school teacher and guitar player in a band that cannot play.
 

by sciston

At Zacas + Business Card: Binational Commerce

December 20, 2014 in Fiction by sciston


At Zacas

A man arrives. What’s cracking, homie? What’s up? A joint? Ice? Weed? Crack? Ritalin? Low price, bar, economic. Clonezapam? Blackheads? Coke 100ml? In-the-pores! Pigfuck tissue, fingers, foetus, zygotes pickled in LSD! Happiness? A trip to the moon? 5D glasses? A little bit of everything and much more, come by my office, 9th street, floor 200.

As the man exits, you can see several like him, doing the streets.

 

Business card: Binational Commerce

Post Dr. Venustiano Peter Gomes-Chong Vetoretti
Doctorate in Facial Kinetics.
Studies in Commercial Sciences.
Studies in Global Tourism.
MFA in Drifting.
Experience in Piracy Production credited by The National Syndicate of Workers for a Free Tijuana.
CURP: 55547830
Satellite phone: 86213-777-89-664
Chip (left arm): Resonance with home phone and multiple contact at 664700*1
Address: Multiple


By Oliver Gasparri
Translated, from the Spanish, by Pepe Rojo and Bryan Constantino


Zacas

 
Pepe Rojo (1968) has published five books and more than 200 texts (short stories, essays and articles dealing with fiction, media and contemporary culture). He cofounded Pellejo/Molleja (with Deyanira Torres and Bernardo Fernández), an indie publishing firm, and edited SUB (sub-genre literature), NUMERO X (media culture) and PULPO COMICS (mex-sf comics anthology) for them. He has produced several interactive stories for Alteraction, and published two collections of Minibúks (Mexican SF and Counter-versions) at UABC, as well as the graphic intervention “Philosophical Dictionary of Tijuana.” He is currently an MFA Candidate in Writing at UCSD.
 
Bryan Constantino graduated from UCSD with his degree in Mathematics this June. He lives in Barrio Logan and is working on his first Banda music composition.
 
Oliver Gasparri is a communicator, schoolwise. Quotidian composer, mobile photographer and analyst of the social being. He has participated in several literary challenges trying to swindle form before content.
 

by sciston

Stupid Princess

December 20, 2014 in Fiction by sciston

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful but surprisingly stupid princess, Ira, who had absolutely no idea of what to say and when.

For example, when guests gathered at her mom and dad’s palace, stupid Ira would blurt out:
“Is it true you’re all thieves?”

“And who told you that, young lady?” — the guests would ask, affectionately.

“Mom and Dad,” stupid Ira would answer.

And immediately a war in the newspapers would erupt, relationships would be torn apart, old debts would be called in, and so on, but the kingdom is poor, its revenues small, and its army consists of only fifteen people, fourteen of whom are generals.

Judge for yourselves, — what would you do under such conditions?

The king and the queen would personally apologize to everyone for their stupid daughter, telling them Ira’s nanny dropped her when she was a child, something in that fashion.

To make a long story short, they stopped letting her meet the guests. They fed her in the kitchen from that point on.

But even there Ira would think of various questions and stupidly ask the queen-mother, for example:

“Is it true Dad has another Mom?”

“Who told you that?” — the queen would ask, affectionately.

And Ira would respond:
“Some lady at the tram stop.”

“And who, I wonder, took you to the tram stop?” — the mother-queen would ask, all the more affectionately.

“No one took me,” — stupid Ira would answer again. “Our cook went there and saw it.”

It goes without saying that the cook, after a long interrogation, was fired, and the dad, after a long interrogation, was forgiven as kings cannot divorce – otherwise, they would have to renounce the throne, and that’s another thing this king cannot do, with stupid Ira looming in the distance as his successor: Don’t abandon the people to Ira, the fourteen generals, and the one colonel!

And so they would no longer allow Ira even to enter the kitchen, and they moved the poor stupid girl into an empty lodge at the very end of the park, where Ira would receive her food via royal post, and everyone seemed to give a sigh of relief.

But now new issues emerged: Ira picked up a sick dog, a puppy of an unknown breed, and the royal kitchen ended up working to feed this creature!

They immediately took the dog away and brought it to a dump in a neighbouring country — what else could they do?

Ira completely refused to eat and would not let the royal post in for three days.

What to do? The senate debated the issue and decided to buy a miniature poodle for stupid Ira, and to let it be.

They spent a fortune on this thing, procured it, and brought it to Ira’s door.

But Ira continued her hunger-strike, and so they had to go abroad again and sent a delegation to look for Ira’s doggy at the foreign dump amid the rotten sausage and ragged pillows.

They presented to the stupid but capricious princess a choice of three dogs, which had been cleaned, dried, and perfumed.

Ira chose all three and would not let go of the poodle either, and from now on, breakfasts, lunches, and suppers would pass in a merry atmosphere: all of her intimates (dogs) would sit on the floor, with napkins tied around their necks, and eat from plates to their heart’s content, including stupid Ira; and if someone visited her, in particular, her mother and father, then they would also have to sit on the floor like the dogs, otherwise stupid Ira would not deign to speak with them, though at times important state matters would arise, for example, where should the successor to the throne be sent to school.

At the very first school, Ira told her teacher that he was a fool if he asks his pupils what makes one plus one: he should know that himself!

They left Ira alone, especially as the number of inhabitants in her lodge increased — five puppies had been born. Ira also found in the basement a fat female cat and was now anxious to see if there would be kittens.

By now, the parents had lost all their patience and decided to send their stupid daughter to a veterinary school, where Ira soon moved along with the dogs, the puppies, and her pot-bellied cat, which was carried there in a separate wicker trunk.

They left Ira there, at the veterinary school, and nothing was heard of her until she grew up and opened her own veterinary clinic.

Her mother and father, king and queen, were not young anymore. The time had come to think about a husband for their stupid daughter, but all the bachelors, near and far, princes, counts, even merchants, master sergeants, and sergeants, even vendors, window cleaners and butchers – had all heard about the stupidity of Princess Ira and no one wished to marry her: You’ll marry her and then at some point she’ll blurt something out about you that will make you feel awkward in front of the people.

On top of all that, gossip had it that at her clinic every owner of a sick animal could also be hospitalized, that is, he had the right to stay at the hospital along with his sickly pet. similarly to when they put a mother in the same ward as her ailing child to look after it to the fullest.

And so all sorts of charlatans, loafers, and crooks would invade/overrun Ira’s clinic, bringing with them any half-suffocated wood bug and lie down with it in a separate ward for a year.

Someone would come with a cockroach that was missing one feeler, someone, a little more seriously, with a frog that was suspected of having dropsy of the middle ear, and someone else — complaining about a field mouse: it doesn’t eat meat; it must be the plague!

And so, one fine day, Ira, out of breath, was receiving patients when she saw before her a limping donkey and its owner, the gloomy and wicked Piotr, who announced that the donkey’s name was Bachelor.

Piotr asked if he could have his donkey cured here within half an hour as he urgently needed the donkey to carry water.

Ira responded that it wasn’t possible and, quite the contrary, that it was urgent for the donkey to stay at the clinic.

“No,” — said the gloomy and wicked owner, stubbornly. “Then I’ll shoot it, skin it, and sell it, and from the meat I’ll prepare baloney and then sell that too. And from the tail I’ll make a bobble for a tubeteika, and the hooves and bones will go into an aspic! And I’ll make two golden coins for it!

That is what this gloomy and wicked Piotr announced.

Being stupid, after all, Ira suggested that if the honourable owner wished, she would buy Bachelor the donkey from him for two golden coins.

Wicked Piotr, on the contrary, would not agree and demanded from Ira two thousand golden coins for the donkey.

Then Ira left and returned with necklaces of precious stones.

She said they were worth much more than two thousand coins but there was now no time to sell them, so let the respectable Piotr go and sell these precious stones, and bring the change when he could since the animals don’t have much to eat.

Malicious Piotr didn’t take the stones and instead replied:

“How really stupid you are! I heard you’re stupid, but I didn’t believe it! I have your picture from a newspaper on the wall; I would look at it and think: it’s not true, a girl like that should have a very bright mind! And now I see that you really are as stupid as a goose! You believe everyone! And I paid only three kopecks for this limping donkey; it was already on its way to the knacker’s! Rogues are living here with their supposedly sick fleas and bedbugs, and you feed them all!

“And how much will an insect eat?” — objected stupid Ira, “a drop of honey, a breadcrumb! Is it that much? And how much will its owner eat? Especially as some of them have to carry the sick ones in their bosom and even feed them, for example the bedbugs and fleas. Not everyone would want to do it! They sacrifice themselves! And all this for a mere three meals a day! I do the laundry in the washing machine, do the dishes in the evening, clean the floor in the morning, prepare supper at night, and all according to a schedule. And the horses and hens just graze on their own.”

“See how dumb you are!” — shouted Piotr again, “everyone takes advantage of you! And when you become a queen? Any crook will marry you if he only makes up a fairy tale about his love for cockroaches, and you’ll believe him! No. I won’t accept it. I am hiring myself as a guard here, period.

And Piotr quickly put the clinic in order, discharged all the spiders, frogs, mice, cockroaches, and mosquitos, announcing that they are for all practical purposes — recovered.

As for the owners of these patients, one of them, who objected at being discharged, clutching his beloved bedbug to the chest, received a slap on the neck from Piotr; and others quickly understood everything and took off, visibly staggering, seemingly out of grief.

Some others were loudly singing mournful songs.

The princess was now living the easy life; she would now sleep at night, and during the day she would work only from morning til lunch, as all doctors do; moreover, Piotr came up with the clever idea to begin charging the owners for treating their animals; before long, the clinic grew richer, except for the fact that Ira went to the city and bought en masse from the burgermeister — stray dogs, both those wandering the streets and newborns lying by a fence — squandering all the money they earned.

All these beauties were brought to her the following day in a dog van, and for the whole week Ira and Piotr would clean, comb, and cure the new batch, and then set them all free to live in the park.

These dogs, even though they were strays, began very zealously to protect the territory, that is, they fully earned their bread, keeping the crafty townspeople from cutting wood in the park, picking flowers for sale, and digging out their favourite shrubs.

Of the permanent employees of the clinic, there now lived only dogs, mice-hunting cats, and the formerly limping donkey, Bachelor. The donkey got better and would now carry hay that Piotr cut for the needs of the antlered patients of the clinic.

It is no wonder, then, that when the aged king and queen came again to convince Ira to meet with eligible bachelors (after all, even among men, there are some fools who could be convinced with a portrait of pretty girl), Ira said:

“I already have a bachelor!”

“Where is he?” — asked the surprised parents.

“Come with me” — said the stupid princess, proudly, and led the king and the queen to the meadow, where Piotr was putting hay on Bachelor, the donkey.

“Here, let me introduce you. This is Bachelor,” said the beaming Ira and left.

And the deceived king and queen approached Piotr, made his acquaintance, explained that he was now a duke after the father and a marquis after the uncle, rejoiced and left the clinic particularly pleased, accompanied by a pack of wildly barking dogs.

And the contented king and queen decided to set the wedding date right for the very next morning, to avoid any postponement, just in case.

On that very evening, a tailor came to see Ira and brought her white clothes – a dress, hat and gloves, and at the same time shoes, veil, and a bouquet; and for Piotr he brought a white tuxedo and shirt, and a bow tie; stupid Ira was giggling all evening as she sat next to Piotr. She thought she had cunningly deceived her parents.

The following morning, Ira, still laughing herself to tears, led the donkey Bachelor to the burgermeister to get married; Piotr, in his new outfit, was walking next to his donkey, serious, as always.

But when they brought the book in and ordered them to sign it, Ira wrote her signature, but the donkey Bachelor wouldn’t, no matter how hard she tried to convince him.

Then Ira suggested that Piotr sign for Bachelor.

Piotr signed, everyone drank champagne — the guests from the goblets, and the donkey Bachelor from a small wooden bucket.

Then Princess Ira offered her bouquet to the donkey and the donkey had it as an appetizer; and Dad and Mom congratulated Ira and kissed both her and Piotr.

And then stupid Ira burst into a hearty laugh:

“But Mom, Dad, my husband is an ass!” “Kiss him!” And the unsurprised parents rejoiced:

“Like wife, like husband!”

And they left.

And the serious Piotr said to Ira:

“It’s so good, all in all, that you’re such a silly fool! You get bamboozled like a kid! And it’s good that it’s actually me who bamboozled you and not some crook; and I am your husband now, and not some rogue! And it has turned out so well, I’ve loved you for a long time now and I’ll not give you away to anyone!”

Stupid princess Ira was surprised:

“You’re my husband?” “But what about Bachelor?”

“Bachelor is Bachelor, the donkey is the donkey, and I am your husband.”

And Ira fairly quickly put up with the news, literally within a minute.

She said:
“I didn’t even dare to hope that you could love me, and so, out of sorrow, I decided to get married to your donkey.”

And so our story has come to its happy ending, as predicted.


By Lyudmila Petrushevskaya
Translated, from the Russian, by Izabela Zdun


 
Izabela Zdun is a doctoral candidate and a Russian language instructor at the Department of Languages, Literatures, and Cultures at McGill University. Her research interests encompass the intertwinement of oral tradition and literacy and the presence of folklore in contemporary Russian literature, specifically within the context of Lyudmila Petrushevskaya’s fairy tales. She is also a certified English/Polish translator.
 
Lyudmila Petrushevskaya (b. 1938) is a key figure in the literary scene of post-Soviet Russia — at first censored and repressed, now (inter-)nationally celebrated. She is the author of numerous short stories and plays, as well as fairy tales for children and adults. Additionally, Petrushevskaya performs with her cabaret, paints, and draws. Her writing style is often referred to as naturalistic and absurdist, depicting often cruel quotidian life. Her fairy tales, however, differ quite significantly from her prose and drama, providing, along with a good deal of humour, a sense of relief and hope.
 

by jjrojo

Flying (cold) saucer/Pollero offers new touristic service

May 9, 2014 in Fiction by jjrojo

FLYING (COLD) SAUCER
The ship landed in California.
They started the fire.
The incident at Roswell would not be forgotten.

 

POLLERO OFFERS NEW TOURISTIC SERVICE
Crossing the border is easier now than ever, but after the San Diego bombing, nobody feels
like working or shopping in a disaster zone, unless they are looking for collectibles or
materials to build themselves a new home. The border has moved up some miles
northward. San Ysidro, Chula Vista and San Diego are now huge fields of destruction. If
you want to, get a Hazmat suit, or maybe a Demnor, and I’ll guide you through the
wasteland. You’ll just have to wait until we get at least fifteen people, to make the risk
worthwhile.
*Pollero: Illegal migrants smuggler.

By Néstor Robles.
Translated, from the Spanish, by Bryan Constantino and Pepe Rojo.

Nestor
 Néstor Robles was born in Guadalajara (1985) but lurks the Tijuana streets since he has memory. He always wanted to be an astronaut but he is a writer, editor and librarian. Bachelor in Hispanic American Language and Literature (UABC), he has taught short story and microfiction worshops, and published a bunch of horror and science fiction stories in mexican literary magazines and anthologies. He directs and edits Monomitos Press (formerly El Lobo y el Cordero), an independent publisher dedicated to the speculative fiction. Blogger: nestorobles.blogspot.com / Twitter: @nrobles.

Bryan Constantino attends UCSD and will obtain his degree in Mathematics this June. He lives in Barrio Logan and is working on his first Banda music composition. >iii=o

Pepe Rojo has published five books and more than 200 texts (short stories, essays and articles dealing with fiction, media and contemporary culture). He cofounded Pellejo/Molleja (with Deyanira Torres and Bernardo Fernández), an indie publishing firm, and edited SUB (sub-genre literature), NUMERO X (media culture) and PULPO COMICS (mex-sf comics anthology) for them. He has produced several interactive stories for Alteraction, and published two collections of Minibúks (Mexican SF and Counter-versions) at UABC, as well as the graphic intervention “Philosophical Dictionary of Tijuana”.

 

 

by jjrojo

Electrofauna

May 9, 2014 in Fiction by jjrojo

The washer turns on by itself, shakes and sways side to side; the blender lashes, its circuits have become excited; the coffee maker growls at everyone, and won’t allow anyone to use it.
Overflowing instincts and self-reliance seem to indicate that in the future appliances will become our new animals.

By Jhonnatan Curiel.
Translated, from the Spanish, by Bryan Constantino.

Jhonnatan Curiel  (Tijuana, México, 1986) is a poet, writer and researcher of social studies. Has published seven poetry books in Mexico and was part of Colectivo Intransigente, an artistic collective who promoted poetic events during 2010 & 2012. Writes on his blog www.jhonnatancuriel.blogspot.com.
Bryan Constantino attends UCSD and will obtain his degree in Mathematics this June. He lives in Barrio Logan and is working on his first Banda music composition. >iii=o

 

 

by jjrojo

Scanner

May 9, 2014 in Fiction by jjrojo

Then, sir (in English), we pass through the last scan: a soul scan… Yes, you know that after
the ‘34 Civil War in Tijuana, we don’t allow any Mexican atheists, or a believer in any of those
indigenous religions scattered throughout Mexico, to get into our country. Catholics and Jews
are not a problem. The former, because their beliefs are like ours; the latter, well you
know… (blinks an eye). The Soul-S300 is a scientific feat. Now we can truly say science
and religion are merged into a common good: Homeland Security… (the translation fuses
into Spanish at this moment).

 

By Dragón Negro.
Translated, from the Spanish, by Pepe Rojo.
 Scanner
Dragón Negro  is a Hispanic Literature grad student from UABC, Tijuana..
Pepe Rojo has published five books and more than 200 texts (short stories, essays and articles dealing with fiction, media and contemporary culture). He cofounded Pellejo/Molleja (with Deyanira Torres and Bernardo Fernández), an indie publishing firm, and edited SUB (sub-genre literature), NUMERO X (media culture) and PULPO COMICS (mex-sf comics anthology) for them. He has produced several interactive stories for Alteraction, and published two collections of Minibúks (Mexican SF and Counter-versions) at UABC, as well as the graphic intervention “Philosophical Dictionary of Tijuana”.

 

 

by jjrojo

At Zacas 2046 (blog)

May 9, 2014 in Fiction by jjrojo

The funniest thing that happened to me today wasn’t even supposed to be funny but I have
to tell someone. A poor grrl with recently installed navelcoats felt so worked up —in
between the constant heat, the synaesthesia, pepto flavor, and the getting-pricked-by-
spiders-on-your-balls sensation— that she pushed her way through the fifth floor asking,
“Can anybody recognize me?”

By Carlos Matsuo.
Translated, from the Spanish, by Bryan Constantino.
 EnelZacas

Carlos Matsuo  (Mexico, 1988) studied communication in the Autonomous University of Baja California. In 2013 his political short film Violentao was part of the programming of the Morelia Film Festival. He recently presented his feature documentary Basura, about the mexican music revolution, at the Guadalajara Film Festival.
Bryan Constantino attends UCSD and will obtain his degree in Mathematics this June. He lives in Barrio Logan and is working on his first Banda music composition. >iii=o

 

 

by jjrojo

Chrononauticles

May 9, 2014 in Fiction by jjrojo

“I will die yesterday. I knew it the day after tomorrow,” he will tell me, waiting for me to be
surprised. After all, I will observe him, expressionless. “I will accidentally fall in the
Cretaceous Period where a dinosaur crushed my cranium right when I step out of the
machine,” he will continue saying. Then, in one long draft, he will finish the beer he pissed
last week. “I came to the last tomorrow, the one I no longer saw. I will never know what I
thought at the time of my death. Is it inevitable?” And I will nod, knowing that it will mean
nothing to him. “Anyway, yesterday everything will be worth shit, so best to get it over and
done with,” and having said that he will get up, climb to his machine and travel to
yesterday, where he will set off to the Cretaceous. As it will not be easy being a crononaut,
you will be able to find these anachronic stations where we, the travelers, can pit-stop for
some drinks and remember the future. We would go crazy otherwise.

By Bernardo Fernández, BEF.
Translated, from the Spanish, by Lilibeth Moreno.
 Crononáuticas

Bernardo Fernández, BEF,  aka Bef, is a writer, story teller and graphic designer. He was born in Ciudad de México in 1972. He has published the novels Tiempo de alacranes (Scorpion Times, 2005), Gel azul (Blue Gel, 2006), Ladrón de sueños (The Dream Thief, 2008), Ojos de lagarto (Snake Eyes, 2009), Hielo Negro (Black Ice, 2013) And Bajo la Máscara (Behind the Mask, 2014); the short-stories collections ¡¡Bzzzzzzt!! Ciudad interfase (¡¡Bzzzzzzt!! Interface City, 1998) and El llanto de los niños muertos (The Crying of the Dead Children, 2008); the children’s books Error de programación (Programming Error, 1997), Cuento de hadas para conejos (Fairy Tales for Rabbits, 2007), Groar and Soy el robot (I Am the Robot, 2010); and the graphic novels Pulpo cómics (Octopus Comics, 2004), Monorama (2007) and Monorama 2 (2009). He is one of the best young Mexican writers of our times and he has won several prizes, such as the national novel prize Otra Vuelta de Tuerca (Mexico), the prize Memorial Silverio Cañada for best first crime novel (Spain), Ignotus prize of the Spanish Association of Fantasy, Science Fiction and horror. .
Lilibeth Moreno is a fourth-year Literature/Writing student at UCSD. She has studied translation methods at the University of Barcelona and is currently writing her honors thesis, a work exploring Jacques Derrida’s under erasure method as applied to translations of contemporary Latin American poets such as Eduardo Milán, Flora Calderon, and José Eugenio Sánchez. Also, she likes grapefruit.

 

 

by jjrojo

Delicatessen/2050

May 9, 2014 in Fiction by jjrojo

DELICATESSEN

Come in! Get your pancreatic Fud juices! What can I get for you, güero? Enzymes,
bacteria? Cold cut meat, instant chorizo, Bimbo Vitamins, Jumbo ham?
Mmm, let me have the ones that fill you up quicker, I haven’t had a chance to eat, and it
will be a long time till I get another.

 

2050

I don’t like this eye thing, it’s just a fucking laser and open sesame, I need to pay, just look
in here, piss and fuckin’ look here. My father once told me that his grandpa told him that it
used to be little fuckin’ cards with numbers. I don’t want to work at Zona Río anymore.

By Oliver Gasparri.
Translated, from the Spanish, by Bryan Constantino.

2050

Oliver Gasparri  is a communicator, schoolwise. Quotidian composer, mobile photographer and analyst of the social being. He has participated in several literary challenges trying to swindle form before content.

Bryan Constantino attends UCSD and will obtain his degree in Mathematics this June. He lives in Barrio Logan and is working on his first Banda music composition. >iii=o