We live in a work-centric society.
So profoundly work-centric that, before asking how you are, people ask what you are.

And what you are always means the same thing:
— What do you do for a living?
— What did you study?
— What are you going to work as?

How you feel is irrelevant.
Which is why the question “How are you?” is almost always answered with a courteous lie:
“Very well, thank you.”

In this society, there are three great groups.

The first:
Those who have never worked six hours a day for a continuous month
because they were born exceedingly wealthy.
They are admired by some, envied by others,
and forgiven by everyone.

The second:
Those who have never worked six hours a day for a continuous month
because they were born desperately poor.
They are neither admired nor envied.
They are invisible…
or worse: inconvenient.

And the third group is us.
The rest of us.
Those who do work.
Those who hold the scenery upright.

As the eight-hour workday begins to fracture,
I shall use six hours a day as a reasonable average.
Six hours of life surrendered each day.
Six hours multiplied by months.
By years.
By decades.

And here emerges the central paradox of the work-centric society:
the two groups who do not work are permitted everything.
They may be brilliant geniuses
or profoundly mediocre.
They may think, speak, rant, create, fail.

But the group that does work…
is permitted almost nothing.

It is convenient — rather like pest control —
that this vast group think as little as possible.
And if it thinks, that it speaks little.
And if it speaks, that it does so quietly.

This is why football — or soccer — in much of the world,
the NBA, the NFL and the MLB in the United States,
rugby and cricket in countries once colonised by England,
function as the first restraint
against the most dangerous risk to power structures:
thinking…
and saying what one thinks.

If that proves insufficient, religion follows.
And if prayer fails,
we fill your home with alcohol
or your pockets with drugs.

Thus it becomes clear why speaking in platitudes is so well regarded,
and why refusing to do so is so poorly received.

As an antidote, this podcast exists.
Manual of the Lucid Misfit was designed to articulate the discomforts of ordinary life,
so that being the black sheep of the family
or of the neighbourhood
is not such a solitary experience.

Social gatherings — physical or virtual —
are the finest laboratory in which to verify all of this.
As long as we speak of the predictable, everything flows.
But let someone mention an uncomfortable subject,
and the gathering implodes,
while those who dared to speak
are symbolically crucified.

I am increasingly convinced that political allegiance
is chosen like a football club.
In childhood.
And never changed.

Gender can be changed.
Religion as well.
But the club… never.

In countries ruled by the round ball,
one’s club is a prenatal identity.

The football divide is as irreconcilable
as left and right,
as the Grammy winners of 2026,
anti-vaxxers,
climate-change deniers,
flat-earthers,
and those who listen to music other than our own.

And I am increasingly certain of something even more unsettling:
at any moment now, there will be an official presentation
of at least one superior non-human race.

I do not know whether it comes from beyond the planet
or from deep layers of time.
But it exists.
From pre-Adamic eras.

A race that has always accompanied human evolution
and has already designed a communication agenda
so that, when it appears,
it does not overly impress
either those who never worked six hours a day
or those of us who did.

The author offers more than 13,000 posts drawn from his personal history on his blog, freely accessible at http://pablomera.blogspot.com

And he invites listeners to write to him at tromp@hotmail.com.]

Football (soccer) remains one of the last true sanctuaries of meritocracy.

There, no narrative can save you. It does not matter whether the best team wins or loses, because if you are poor… you do not play. If you are unfit for purpose… you watch from the sidelines.

No solemnity can conceal a mistake, no title can excuse mediocrity. The body speaks. And it speaks plainly.

The same applies to other sports, regardless of the size or shape of the ball, but football is the king.

What happens in political power is altogether different. And not only there.

Society accepts authorities even when merit is absent, because power—once accumulated—ceases to be a tool and becomes an object of worship. It no longer matters whether actions are good, bad, or indifferent. Power itself becomes unquestionable.

Family. Work. Government.

The setting is irrelevant: it is always easier to adapt to harmful, unjust, or downright deranged rules than to pause and challenge them.

I am still struck— by that peculiar solemnity imposed in certain circles with a single purpose: to invalidate any question or to disguise the absence of merit.

That shameful excess of reverence. Almost choreographed. Particularly visible in some academic hierarchies and in certain religious groups that no longer venerate ideas, but themselves. A reverence bordering on the militarised.

Sixty-six years ago, in his brief and razor-sharp text “Borges and I,” Jorge Luis Borges quoted Spinoza: “Everything desires to persist in its own being; the stone eternally wishes to be stone, and the tiger, a tiger.”

Thus, the tepid become superficial. The self-interested, accommodating. And the cowardly, devoid of dignity.

That perfect cocktail creates the ideal climate for despots, ignoramuses, and manipulators to ascend to the status of authority.

My analogy today crosses cultures. Japan and Spain.

There is a condescension towards the other that wounds. It wounds as much as those Japanese or Spanish series in which a voice-over explains the plot as though the viewer were incapable of understanding it unaided.

That same condescension seeps into everyday life. When that character appears—black suit, round bowler hat— an anime-born stereotype demanding our attention and instructing us what to think and when to applaud.

But not all of us require a voice-over. Some of us still trust our ability to understand, to doubt, and—above all— not to adapt docilely to that which does not deserve respect.

And that is precisely what this manual is about.

You have just listened to the first episode of the third season of The Lucid Misfits Handbook by Pablo Mera— Pablo E. M. G. to the English-speaking world, and simply “Trompo” to those of us who knew him long before the name travelled.

Today, he introduces one of his newest analogies— almost delirious at first glance, yet ultimately revealing itself not to be so.

His podcasts travel the world and are available on all major platforms.

The author offers more than 13,000 posts drawn from his personal history on his blog, freely accessible at http://pablomera.blogspot.com

And he invites listeners to write to him at tromp@hotmail.com.]

How simple it would be, would it not, to remain blissfully unaware of things.

To carry on regardless. To flee into the safe havens of traditional escapisms. Yet alas, such a path is not mine to tread. I lack the capacity to turn a blind eye to what unfolds before me.

Neither do I claim to possess the ultimate truth in all that I think or say. But I am keenly aware of this: we are living through a bellicose moment in history, a time when two major wars rage simultaneously, alongside several lesser conflicts across Africa—wars scarcely mentioned, eclipsed by those deemed greater, louder, and more geopolitically “significant.”

For in both traditions, as taught in their more orthodox forms, pleasure and delight were not to be sought for their own sake. Sacrifice was the path. Pleasure was treated with suspicion. From this sprang the stoic culture that many today proudly embrace, declaring with a certain grim satisfaction: “I am stoic, I can withstand anything.” Yet sooner or later, the mind cracks.And yet, another way of approaching life does exist. I do not speak of naïve notions that “peace and love” are sufficient to mend all wounds.

Rather, I speak of a path distinct from stoicism and perpetual sacrifice. For to limp forward in constant self-pity, never pausing to savour one’s moments of freedom, is profoundly unhealthy. Epicureanism, by contrast, proposed quite the opposite: to seek refined pleasures, serenity of soul, the absence of pain, the exchange of ideas through peaceful dialogue.

A vision wholly opposed to our present, where life seems but an endless battle to be right, to proclaim one’s truth as absolute.…This relentless spirit finds expression in the rigidity of our daily reasoning. Matters must be settled swiftly, in the manner of a social media post—quick, shallow, digestible—because, it is said, there is “no time” to read anything longer.

And in reducing everything thus, one loses the very flavour of life itself. I see a culture that applauds simplism, while sneering at deep analysis. To pause, to think, is no longer in fashion.Here I must mention Fabián C. Barrio, a contemporary Spanish philosopher and writer whose videos on YouTube I find quite excellent.

He suggests that facile praise is often the weapon of the untrustworthy, a means to win our confidence, to manipulate, and ultimately to dispossess us of our own judgement.Of course, we are not all the same, no matter how insistently some argue for a “natural equality.”

We are not. As Dr. HC Ruth Rosental, the distinguished Argentine psychomotor therapist and director of C.E.I.A.C., reminds us in her award-winning book Bullying: “We are not all the same. We are all different.” Each individual is endowed with unique traits. There is no universal formula for sameness.

And finally, I cannot help but recall the so-called Dunning–Kruger effect: those who know least are most convinced that they know the most. That, I daresay, says everything. At such times one is tempted to invoke divine intervention. That well-worn Latin phrase—Deus ex machina—suddenly takes on real meaning. For if all is left in the hands of humankind, nothing, I fear, shall ever change.

☆The author is Pablo Mera, or Pablo E.M.G. to the English-speaking world—though a few old friends still call him “Trompo.” He adores Metallica and Oasis, he is still a rugger at heart, blood type A+, and his podcasts can be found across every platform.

Pablo published over 12,950 posts upon his blog: http://pablomera.blogspot.com.You may write to him at mailto:tromp@hotmail.com

I remember quite vividly attending the premiere of Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope back in 1977.It was screened in one of those grand old cinemas, the kind that seated two thousand souls, majestic halls that scarcely exist today. The queue stretched endlessly, with unfortunate stragglers left outside. One had to arrive early, line up with patience, and wait one’s turn to enter.So much has been lost, for nowadays the cinema has migrated into our very homes. Films and series are consumed at will—on demand, streaming, summoned at the mere press of a button. It was not so then. And truthfully, it was not so very long ago, merely a recent yesterday in the span of history.I recall Star Wars itself with crystalline clarity. The saga endures to this day, scattered across countless platforms, with younger generations convinced it is a creation of their own era. Yet it was a sophisticated mind indeed, back in ’77, that glimpsed the contours of the future, of technology, and dared to shape it upon the screen. A mind, perhaps like mine, still resonating with the profound shock of the 1969 Moon landing—when my generation bore witness to humanity’s first step upon that distant sphere. It was deeply moving for us all. And, not long after, equally moving was the premiere of Star Wars—as electrifying, in its own way, as the unveiling of Jaws, now re-released for a new audience.Returning to Star Wars: the companions of the humans were two peculiar figures. One, a golden humanoid named C-3PO, who spoke in a clipped, mechanical manner. The other, small and squat, like a bedside cabinet upon wheels—R2-D2, whose name to my ear rang rather like “Arthur.”Their speech was strange, indecipherable. Were they imagined in today’s terms, of course, they would converse flawlessly, for artificial intelligence would already dwell within their circuits. The creators of Star Wars could scarcely have foreseen the velocity at which our world would accelerate.And 1977 was, in truth, an astronomical year. In that very September, two probes were launched: Voyager 2 and, a mere fortnight later, Voyager 1. To my astonishment—and that of the scientific community—those probes remain active still, transmitting signals from realms so distant they defy description: one hundred and sixty-six times the span between Earth and the Sun. Imagine that distance, multiplied again and again—there you find them, in the interstellar dark.They travel at a staggering speed. If I were to sit at a football match beneath the night sky, and by some miracle they orbited the Earth, I should see them streak overhead twice during the ninety minutes, such is their swiftness. Sixty-one thousand kilometres an hour—while the Earth’s circumference is but forty thousand. A revolution and a half each hour!What astonishes me most is that this is technology of 1977—conceived in ’69, perhaps born in the fertile imagination of the ’60s. Technology that belongs to my generation.The author is Pablo Mera, or Pablo E.M.G. to the English-speaking world—though a few old friends still call him “Trompo.” He adores Metallica and Oasis, he is still a rugger at heart, blood type A+, and his podcasts can be found across every platform. Pablo published over 12,950 posts upon his blog: http://pablomera.blogspot.com.You may write to him at mailto:tromp@hotmail.com

We now inhabit a world in which the artificial has quietly supplanted the real.

Almost without noticing, we have relinquished the habit of physical presence: of sitting together at a table, of looking one another in the eye, of sustaining a conversation that lasts longer than four fleeting seconds. This is not a lamentation, but merely an observation of the age in which we are compelled to live.

And so, uncertainty grips me. How does one board this train that hurtles forward at bewildering speed? For if we fail to embark, we risk being cast adrift, excluded from the whole.

And should we decline to consume what is being consumed today, then we must invent a parallel universe —an existential VPN, if you will— a world within a world, simply to survive the one that rushes past and over us.

The bombardment of information is relentless. Meta-analyses gather together thousands of studies —an achievement inconceivable a century ago— bringing forth remarkable advances, yes, but also an unrelenting mental exhaustion. This avalanche drives us towards escapism: at times physical, but most often digital.

Thus emerge the four-second fragments of content, for even five seconds now seem intolerable. Messages, if too long, are left unread. Voice notes, if they exceed a minute, are consumed at double speed —their tones distorted into false voices, as contrived as avatars, as hollow as the artificial intelligence that mimics humanity without its flaws, without its hesitations, without the rough and stuttering truth of an authentic voice.

Artificiality seeps into everything. Faces filtered into unreality. Fashions that unite, yet in the same breath divide. Intelligence branded as “artificial” while the natural appears to fade.

And here am I, amidst it all, possessed of an intact memory, rich with recollections, brimming with gifts I long to bestow. Yet I find myself the victim of ageism. I have so much to offer, and yet, at times, I feel pushed aside, left trailing by the relentless velocity of the modern world.

This, then, is why this podcast exists. It is born of necessity. I shall speak plainly: I need to feel useful.

If but one person listens, if one soul takes these words and claims them as their own, and someday tells me so, it shall suffice.

It may be my children —from whom I have long been estranged, for reasons I still cannot grasp.

It may be someone I once harmed, unwittingly, and for whom I never found the moment to make amends. I carry that weight within me, and I ask the universe —God, or the force that propels me onwards— to grant me time. Time to prove, through deed rather than word, that I can repair what was once broken.

I am Pablo Mera —or Pablo E.M.G. to the English-speaking world— though some friends still call me “Trompo”. A rugger at heart, blood type A+, a devotee of Metallica and Oasis.

This is my space: The Manual of the Lucid Misfit. My words, as ever, are available on every platform.

Thank you for the gift of your time.

I have written more than 12,950 posts, all to be found at http://pablomera.blogspot.com.

And should you wish to write to me, here I am: mailto:tromp@hotmail.com.

"Why is the moon so lonely?"... Because she used to have a lover...His name was Kuekuatsheu and they lived in the Spirit World together...And every night, they would wander the skies together, but one of the othe spirits was jealous.

Trickster wanted the moon for himself, so he told Kuekuatsheu that the moon has asked for flowers. He told him to come to our world and pick her some wild roses, but Kuekuatsheu, taking the shape of a dog, didn't know that once you leave the Spirit World, you can never go back. And every night, he looks up in the sky and sees the moon and howls her name. But - he can never touch her again. "She added that Kuekuatsheu meant "the wolverine."

..to this day the beasts of the earth still cry to the moon baying out their sorrows to their love of whom is now intangible"

From an Innu Leyend

The Innu were one of the first North American peoples to encounter European explorers.

I have come to understand something recently—something deceptively simple, yet as searing as a naked truth: we all carry sorrowful stories. It matters little what fortune has smiled—or frowned—upon us; life always conceals a corner of shadows.

I am Pablo Mera, or Pablo E.M.G. to the English-speaking world—though a few old friends still call me “Trompo.” I adore Metallica and Oasis, I am a rugger at heart, blood type A+, and my podcasts can be found across every platform.

Darkness, I have discovered, is no fleeting spectre; it is a silent hound that follows us everywhere. We fancy, at times, that we have outrun it—but when we turn the corner, there it is, waiting faithfully. For, in truth, it belongs to us.

The digital realm—that mirage of endless connections—invites us to believe that an army of algorithms might offer refuge, conjure answers, dispense technological comfort to questions we cannot even articulate. And yet, loneliness remains—patient, unwavering, true to its nature.

Ignorance and loneliness… sisters in silence. Ignorance shields you so long as you remain unaware of what you do not know; loneliness, so long as you still have someone to whom you may whisper your reasons.

The cure, if such a thing exists, may be as unadorned as learning to sit at table with oneself. To converse with our own ideas, to wrestle with our feelings, even when they appear as adversaries.

Meanwhile, we seek our diversions: the forbidden—drink, narcotics, gambling; and the sanctified—sporting fanaticism, religious fervour, the bacchanalia of Black Friday, or even the labour that consumes us. All in the desperate hope of escaping the most daunting conversation of all: the one with ourselves.

For the unvarnished truth is this: until the cure arrives, the commonest sedative is simply not to think. Yet one cannot cease thinking whilst forever fleeing from oneself.

Perhaps the great lesson is this: to teach our children how to spend time in their own company, to endure that seemingly unbearable boredom and transform it into fertile ground. This is not a sentence of solitude, but an invitation to savour the art of one’s own presence. For if we should ever grow weary of ourselves, we imperil our very self-worth—and that is a price no one should be asked to pay.

I have published over 12,950 posts upon my blog: http://pablomera.blogspot.com.

You may write to me at mailto:tromp@hotmail.com.

Seventeen years ago, three years after I had ceased to share a roof with her and her siblings, my eldest daughter, Agustina, turned fifteen.

I was not there. I was not invited.

Just a few days ago, Valentina, my youngest daughter, was married.

I was not there either.

I was not invited either.

Between those two moments—the fifteenth birthday of one, and the wedding of the other—there stretched a desert: I was never part of any of the milestones in the lives of my four children. Not a single one.

I am Pablo Mera. Pablo E.M.G. for the English-speaking world. Some friends still call me “Trompo.” I love Metallica and Oasis; I was once a rugbier, I am A+ blood, and my podcasts are available on every platform.

I am not perfect—far from it. Yet I can stand tall and say this: I do not drink, I do not smoke, I do not take substances, and I have never been, nor will I ever be, an instrument of domestic violence. I believe myself to be a good man, a loving father, a faithful friend. And Vani, my wife of more than fifteen years, confirms it each day with her unwavering love.

So then… why?

Why was I shut out of my children’s lives?

My conclusion—painful, bitter, but inevitable—is this: it has everything to do with what it means to “be someone” in our society.

If you no longer possess the money to sustain the lifestyle you once had—even if you work with dignity—you are deemed a disaster.

If you have just enough but lack a conventional job, you are a kept man.

If you lack both money and a “proper” job, you are dismissed as idle.

And if life suddenly grants you a stroke of fortune through some unorthodox venture, you will surely be branded a swindler… or a drug trafficker.

I was called both.

The first time was in the 1990s, when an old rugby friend visited my home in Paraguay and could not believe the way I lived.

The second… the second shattered me, for it came from someone I had seen come into this world.

I was also branded a swindler. More than once.

But here lies the irony: for people to truly believe you are a trafficker or a fraudster, you must be wealthy. Extremely wealthy.

If you are not, you are simply a failure.

I am not infallible; I have never been close to it. Yet I have never harboured the will to harm another soul.

This I learnt the hard way:

Money, when abundant, buys forgiveness.

It forgives you for being a trafficker, for being a swindler, for being a bad father, a bad husband, a poor excuse of a man.

But the absence of money is never forgiven.

That temporary poverty turns into a permanent sentence.

Until—should you ever succeed again—they forgive you once more… only to call you a trafficker or a swindler all over again.

And yet, life is astonishing when it brings together two people scarred by the same wound, and shapes them into a couple brimming with love and joy in spite of it all.

This episode continues in spanish with Episode 6 of Season 2, voiced by my wife, Vanina Vergara . please visit https://bit.ly/4fmf5qM

It is, without doubt, the most precise description I have ever heard to this day.

I hope it may be of use to someone else.

◇ There are 12,950+ posts available at:

http://pablomera.blogspot.com

and I do read the letters mailto:tromp@hotmail.com

The Return of the Telegraph and the Simplified Society

Season 2 · Episode 1

I am Pablo Mera —or Pablo E.M.G. to the English-speaking world— though some friends still affectionately call me Trompo. At heart, I am a rugby man, blood type A+, and a fervent admirer of Metallica and Oasis. My podcasts, as ever, can be found on all major platforms.

We live in an era which, rather than expanding our horizons, seems increasingly intent on narrowing the life of the mind. A glance at the street suffices: most cars are white, grey, or black. Why? Because choosing colour, it seems, is now considered a burden. Politics follows the same anaemic script, reduced to a counterfeit dichotomy — left or right, male or female, wealthy or poor. Everything, it appears, must be rendered in black and white.

Communication, too, has regressed in curious ways. Though free video calls are readily available, most people default to text messages. We have, in effect, returned to a digital telegraph: curt lines flung across glowing screens. And should one dare to send a voice note —heaven forbid it be lengthy!— for the recipient will likely play it at double speed, as though even the human voice has been demoted to a mere administrative chore.

As for knowledge, the search is no longer among people. Today, any doubt is swiftly answered by some artificial intelligence model. Wisdom has been distilled into code; the teacher transfigured into an algorithm.

And what, one asks, endures? Hypocrisy. Not merely of the social or domestic variety, but the sentimental as well. Disguise remains acceptable —indeed, celebrated. Many couples choose to harbour clandestine companions, as though secrecy were a legitimate release, a valve against routine, an antidote to the erosion of passion.

Thus society legitimises the behaviour of those who proclaim “I love you” only beyond closed doors. Families, in the name of stability, transform betrayal into a Pyrrhic victory: an escape, cleverly painted over, dressed as politically correct, all within the framework of the necessary monogamy which still props up the ideal of the traditional family.

◇ Over 12,950 posts are available at http://pablomera.blogspot.com

I also read letters sent to tromp@hotmail.com