Iceberglandia

In our last chapter, I had just boarded a bus en route to Reynosa, a city on the US border, from where I was expected to break land speed records in order to make it in time to catch my flight.
I was counting on it being a very early sunday morning, so the crossing of the border would be relatively calm.
What I wasn’t counting on, however, was the fact that either the city of McAllen, the State of Texas or the whole country had this tax-free weekend thing, where you’d be able to buy lots of shit, well, tax-free.
So, even despite making an emergency wake up call to my bro in Reynosa, I wound up entering the USA at around 7 AM. A good 20 minutes before my flight left. Fuck, they’d already begun boarding, I’d assume.
We got to the airport at 7.10, and I ran inside only to be informed that I was no longer allowed to board my flight, but not to worry, there was another one leaving at 9.30.

When I booked my flight, originally, the idea was to make the most of the time I’d be away. That’s the reason I left very early on friday (no, it wasn’t so I could spend two hours in a shitty airport while my baggage arrived), and the reason I booked this particular flight on sunday was because it placed me in Toronto at around 2 PM, and it gave me a nice chance to catch a couple of winks before going to work sunday night. So, upon asking at what time I’d be landing in Toronto, and when they informed me it would be around 6 PM, I was pissed. Not at them, it wasn’t the airline’s fault I was late. Just pissed.

Yay! now, just as I’d done a week before, I now had the chance to wander around McAllen’s airport for two hours!
And wander around, I did. I went to get a cup of coffee, and looked at the different displays on the walls. Did you know that there’s a cell phone factory in McAllen? Wow! Did you know there’s a display from the museum on the wall? No, nothing historically significant, despite being the border… but they did fire rockets into Reynosa! Except, not in an act of war, but to send, get this: Rocketmail! Oh, and one of the rockets hit a mexican cantina. I tell ya, you learn something new every day!

So, I’m sitting there doing my damndest not to fall asleep, wandering in and out of the duty free store, when suddenly it’s boarding time. So, off I go.

Now, bear in mind my flight has been rescheduled, so my 737 is long gone. I get to board another one of those shitty firecrackers, and this time I don’t even get a window seat! And the best part of it all is that I am now seated next to a morbidly obese young fellow, whose complete left side is rubbing against my right side. Yuck.

Good thing it’s only an hour-long flight. We arrive at Bush Int’l in Houston, Terminal B69, and I rush out of the plane to go to… *checks ticket*… B63. It figures. Now that I have all the time in the world, My gates are only 5 apart. Now, there’s 5 matters I need to tend to, while at the airport. The most urgent one becomes calling my sister in Canada, who’d be picking me up at 2.30, just to let her know I’d be flying in a little late. That, of course, turns into a whole adventure. See, for some reason it was “Nobody answer your Phone Day” in Canada, and whatever little I had left on my phone cards was spent on answering machine messages. Then I tried calling my sister in Mexico so she could call my sister in Canada, but by then I had insufficient funds on my cards. So, off to buy a phone card I go, and nobody sells them except for a machine all the way across the terminal. 10 dollars later, I was able to call my sister. Matter number two was to exchange the 300 pesos I had left over. Stupid me decided to do that at the airport, and pay the price I did, for I walked out with 20 canadian. Matter number 3 was getting something in my stomach. I went to Wendy’s (I wanted to try that Baconator thing – meh), and in a moment of not thinking straight, I super-sized my order just so I could get a plastic cup to bring home. Of course, matter number four was walking out of the airport to have a cigarette, and upon walking back in and going through the checkpoint, you have to dispose of all liquids, so goodbye giant plastic cup. Matter number five was to acquire a fridge magnet, which I did. Two, actually. A stupid looking one that says houston and in each letter has a representation of attractions in that city, and the texas flag.

I still had over 45 minutes before boarding, so I decided to wander around some more. I almost got run over, twice, by those little cars they drive around helping out old people, obese people and disabled people. And a lazy dude.
I could swear, to this day, that I caught a glimpse of a “celebrity” while walking around the airport. She was by herself, and she didn’t seem to be noticed by anyone but myself, but it just might have been porn star Gauge. After a while of thinking about it, I opted not to approach her. It probably wasn’t even her, just a lookalike, so asking her about doing anal while standing on her hands could have become an issue wherein Airport Security could be called for assistance. So, on I went. I arrived at my terminal, and recalled, with bitterness, that same terminal and the incidents which led to my fateful journey of Christmas 2006. A few minutes later, I was on the plane.

There’s an expression in Mexico which is used to describe somebody who has eaten quite a lot, and/or is stuffed and can’t handle the thought of more food. Since I had had nothing to eat on my previous flights, and had opted for the large order of fries and Dr. Pepper with my Baconator, you could say I had eaten like a bald-headed orphan. Which is just as well, because they didn’t bring out any food on this leg of the flight. Of course, I’m kidding. Now that I was full, they decided to offer a choice of ham or turkey sandwich (I went for the turkey – a part of my brain insists it’s always christmas), a mini-bag of baby carrot sticks with mayo, and a mini Twix bar. Of course, saving it for later would have made all the sense in the world, so I ate it all. Then I tried to sleep.
In order to feel how I felt during this flight, I suggest you do the following: Sleep less than 4 hours a night for a week. Then, visit your local Wendy’s and order what I had. Then, eat what I described I was given on the plane. Then, try to sleep sitting down with your head leaning against a hard surface. And to top it all off, find a south african dude and a stewardess with a squeaky voice to hold a loud conversation beside you.
Being that I possess no class, or am becoming hard of hearing, when the boarding process began they asked for rows 10-19. Me,being the idiot I can be at times, decided it was the perfect opportunity to go on board and take my row 4 seat. I got 4A, on the single row, the idiot south african got 4B, and in 4C, a very beautiful and extremely well-endowed black chick. I mention her, not because of her physique, but because upon landing in Toronto, she produced a passport from Ghana. I have never met anyone from Ghana before, and it would have been interesting to take the place of the old fart who didn’t let me sleep.
Anyhoo, I think I managed to doze off a couple of times, but I recall waking up and seeing a distinct pattern where the clouds suddenly ended. A quick glance at my watch, and I confirmed we were surely across the Great Lakes. Then, something bizarre. We flew over what appeared to be two diferent cities that were together, and I understood this to be Kitchener and Waterloo. A few instants afterwards, I confirmed such knowledge, as we flew right over Guelph. Mind you, at this time the plane was descending, so I could get a better view of the city than what stupid Google Earth can offer. I saw my fucking house, for crying out loud! I saw my workplace, along with its sister plant at the northern extreme of the city, and before I knew it, we were overflying Toronto. And I mean, really overflying. We flew right past YYZ (Pearson Int’l Airport), and I started to freak. Hey, dumbass pilot, you better land down there, that’s where they’re picking me up!
We flew right across Toronto, over another little airport, and then turned back. Turns out, the pilot just wanted everybody to get a beautiful view of Toronto. Too damn bad their regulations don’t let me take pictures, because, let me tell you, it looked fascinating.

We finally landed, got off the plane in the same 50’s style as I boarded from the same airport, and went through more customs shit than it takes to get into the US.

Here I was, thinking I was being sneaky, bringing in a pack of Marlboros from MExico, when it turns out you can bring up to 200 cigarettes. They should make this information more available!

Well, at least my suitcases arrived with me this time…

Anyway, fortunately my sister and her husband had gotten my message, and were there to pick me up and bring me to my humble abode. I arrived at 7.30-ish, slept for two hours, and went to work. Business as usual.

THE END.

P.S.
Sorry for the lack of pictures, I know, I suck.

P.P.S.
I stand corrected. The merry bunch of musicians played until the chorus of The Trooper, not just the opening riff as I originally stated.

The Iceberg.

Many moons ago, I had a conversation with a friend in which we pointed out (while we were living in a different city) that Ciudad Victoria was an evil place which cast a spell upon its citizens wherein anybody who left was bound to return.
Said friend now lives there, and judging by the frequency of my trips down there, I’m starting to feel concerned.

Of course, the nature of my trips has nothing to do with the city itself, I do not visit Ciudad Victoria for its lovely scenery (gray bricks, stray dogs and dead or decaying foliage), its mistifying history (you’d be surprised that it is actually a state capital), and much less its booming economy (unless you’re connected, you’d be lucky to find a job that pays 500 pesos a week – roughly 50 USD). Also, contrary to what my fellow Canadahstanis believe, it is not a beach resort and I do not go there to get a sun tan and do tequila shots.

I go there because I have a history there. Like I mentioned before, somewhere, I spent half my life living there, and in the course of 17 years you are bound to meet people. Yes, even if you’re like me. Imagine that!

Not only do I still have some family there, but also friends, and, well, in the case of this particular trip, ghosts from the past that surface every now and then to haunt me.

And, there is, of course, the greatest reason I have to go down there.

Upon arriving, I took it upon myself to organize what would, a couple of hours later, be known as “The Great BBQ Fiasco of August 2007″. See, I went and bought everything that would be required to make a kick-ass BBQ, or more accurately, everything I wanted to eat. All the necessary ingredients to have a banquet at my sister’s place. I bought meat (of course), flour tortillas, corn tortillas, two kinds of cheese, everything for a guacamole, everything for two salsas, and, just to offset the imminent heart attacks, enough veggies to make a salad. My sister assured me she had enough coal for the BBQ, but it turned out she didn’t, so we had to make do with whatever there was, Luckily it was enough to melt the quesadillas, cook the meat and get half-way through the cambray onions. In the meantime, I whipped up the greatest bowl of guacamole the world has ever seen. I even opted not to add garlic, because of the kids, when I was informed of the following: Of all the attendees, I was the only one who wasn’t disgusted by avocado. Oh well, more for me.
By the time the meat was ready, the kids were in bed (except for Valkyria, who wanted to be with her dad), so here I was, with enough food to feed an army (well, maybe a platoon, tops), and I was the only one eating. So much for calling myself a great cook.

The next night, saturday, was a friend’s birthday party. Only, it wasn’t exactly a party. See, some of the attendees consider themselves to be accomplished musicians, so there was a band playing. If by band you can describe four (or five, randomly) people playing 10 seconds of Metallica’s “Seek And Destroy”, followed by the intro to the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up”, followed by the opening riff of Iron Maiden’s “The Trooper”, followed by… oh, you get the idea. Even the singer (El Amin) was sick of that shit.
Anyway, as per our previous arrangement, I tried to contact JM, but never got through. He was at some family reunion, so he couldn’t make it.
I couldn’t help but feel unwelcome at said party, not because of anything in particular, but mostly the general attitude towards me. Not a bad attitude, mind you, but not what I expected after quite a few months. It was just as if we had seen each other the night before, and the night before that. Oh well.
After a while, buddy Lerma shows up. Everyone else leaves (including the party host) to chase some other party, but Ivan (party host) assures us there’s beer left, just close up before we leave. Oh well, who needs a party when there’s beer and a good conversation.
After a couple of beers each, we went to grab a bite at “Paco’s Greasy Diner”. Now, let me tell you about this place, if you will.
Picture the only eatery in town that is open at 4.30 in the morning. You walk in, and everybody who is eating there is either drunk or a prostitute (or both). The mesh fence is so covered in grime, you can carbon-trace it to the mid-80’s. The cooks and the waiters are drenched in sweat from the heat and the rush, and the food is so oily, you immediately get heartburn. But hey, when you’re hungry, you’re hungry, right?

Sunday night found yours truly within the company of another couple of friends who also weren’t too amused by my visit. Well, one of them was, but since he started school the next morning and returned to work from vacation, he wasn’t exactly in ‘party mode’. And the other guy, well, he spent the two hours I was there complaining about a headache and not doing anything about it. He’s not exactly Captain Enthusiasm anyway.

By mid-week, I had taken care of the matter that required my attention (at least what I could at the time), had enjoyed the company of my daughter and my sister’s kids, had seen pretty much everyone I had set out to see, and still felt like I had a lot of time left.
But by thursday, I started to panic because time was running out. I wanted to do everything, but couldn’t. Either my friends didn’t answer their fucking phones, or when they did they deemed 11:00 too late to go out. So I went to watch Live Free or Die Hard, by myself.

Oh, wednesday was supposed to be a special celebration with Mariny, but we ended up fighting over nothing (as usual) and I stayed home.

Friday was the night I had to say goodbye to my daughter, so I was really, really down. As usual, on friday everybody called me. As it was my last night in the fair city, I couldn’t be everywhere, so I cooked up a plan with Isaac, the first one to call me. Hey, first come, first serve!
What resulted of said plan was, we ended up at his place with two guys I didn’t know, his girlfriend, some other girl and Mariny. Because of the way we were seated, I hardly had a chance to talk to Isaac or his girlfriend, and because everybody else was engaging in the discovery of bluetooth technology for cellular phones, I ended up talking only with Mariny.

You know how, when you’re on vacation, you want to do a lot of things and leave everything for the last minute? Or is it just me? Anyway, Saturday was my last day, and I hadn’t gone shopping. I had intended to go to three places to buy groceries, candy, and a Mexico soccer shirt. Soccer shirts were nowhere to be found, so I proceeded to do my groceries. You can find a lot of mexican stuff here in Canada, but there are a lot of things I have to import. Now, onto the candy store, where I couldn’t find 3/4 of what I was looking for (of course, upon returning to Canada, I found out a lot of these products had been recalled for containing lead – and I prefer to get my lead from bullets and pencils, thank you). But at least I got a box of mazapanes (some dried up peanut paste thingies) and like 40 packs of “Limoncho” which is lemon-flavored salt (hey, it goes great with beer!).

I went to buy my bus ticket for the border, and was dismayed that the only bus that would get me there in time (not 4 hours early) was already full, so I had to risk it and buy a ticket for 2 AM. It’s a 4 hour bus ride, plus the crossing of the border, plus arriving to the airport an hour before my flight, which left at 7.20, so I had a rabbit’s chance in eagle country of making it, but who in their right mind would want to sit around a Reynosa bus station for 4 hours? Not me, I tells ya.

From there, it was time to go a-packin’. After what happened on my last return trip, I picked up a new strategy for packing, since I wasn’t carrying around too much. Pack the small suitcase, place it in the large suitcase, and fill up the large suitcase. That way, when the idiots at the airport start salivating at the sight of your overweight baggage upon check-in, simply open up large suitcase, pull out smaller suitcase, and voila! 2 perfectly legal pieces of baggage, under 50 pounds each! Man, I’m such a fucking genius!

And with that, goodbyes, good riddances and godspeeds were had, followed by a short nap and a ride to the bus station.

DID THE ICEBERG MAKE IT IN TIME TO THE AIRPORT? DID THE ICEBERG ARRIVE HOME AT THE PLANNED TIME, IN ORDER TO SLEEP BEFORE WORK? STAY TUNED, CHAPTER 3 WILL FOLLOW SHORTLY!

The Iceberg.

Introduction
Although not exactly a vacation, per se, I recently found myself traveling to the city I lived in for half of my life. See, there were matters that required my immediate attention, and while they were not fully resolved, huge steps were taken towards putting that part of my life to sleep for good. Fucking lawyers.
Anyway, in order for me to tend to these unpleasantries, I had to book a week off work, jump on an airplane and haul my ass down Mexico way. And, while there, I did do my best to get the most out of my trip. There were good things, bad things, and weird things, all of which I hope to remember so I can narrate them here.
I have divided this story into 3 chapters: Arriving, Being There, and Returning. The first and last chapters detail my trips to and from Mexico, or more exactly the first and last days of my trip. The second one summarizes the goings-on while there. And without further ado, here’s Chapter I.

Chapter 1: ARRIVING
An avid reader of Fark.com, I always find myself going through the forums on whatever “news” item happens to grab my attention. On one occasion, I was reading a thread about how a mother and her child were thrown off a plane because the kid was throwing a tantrum (not literally thrown off, mind you, perhaps a better phrase would be “kicked out” – or not. Anyway, you know what I mean).
In said thread, one of the other posters made the observation that traveling by plane used to mean something. That people (airline folk and passengers alike) used to respect the fact that they were flying, but now airplanes were merely buses with wings. And he couldn’t have been more correct. Or at least I hadn’t paid that much attention until this trip.

I had made a reservation through the internet for a trip that started on August 10th and returned August 19th. But, since I don’t possess a credit card (more of a personal choice than the inability to convince companies I can be trusted with money), I had to rely on my sister to acquire said ticket. A couple of things changed, among them my departure time, which required me to get out of work a little early on friday. A mere $760 CDN later, I was in possession of an eTicket. I’d be flying from Toronto to McAllen, Texas, crossing the border into Mexico and taking a four-hour bus ride to my hometown.
I called the airline (big mistake – I should have called the airport) and asked, being an international flight which ended in the USA, how early before my flight I should show up. Their reply? 2 to 3 hours, preferably.
After making arrangements, my brother in law drove me to the airport in the middle of the night. He picked me up at 2.30 AM, and we hoped to be there by 4, since my flight was at 6.05.
With no traffic whatsoever, we made it to the airport by 3.15. We said our goodbyes, and I stood outside smoking a cigarette (trying, or so I thought, to build a nicotine supply long enough to get me to Texas). At about 3.25 I walked into the airport and saw a line by the Continental booths, and decided to take my place. Hell, I could still check my bags in, and go back for a couple more cigarettes, right?
It turned out, the people in front of me were all part of a large group of people who I’d estimate were either moving out of Canada for good or were on their way to Darfur to end the famine. There were maybe 8 people, a family more likely than not (I observed this when the smaller ones started calling the oldest one “mom”, and each of them were pushing a cart with no less than 4 full sized boxes, and a couple suitcases.
Next in line, myself, and after me a couple arrived. The girl was fairly pretty, looked hispanic and spoke in perfect spanish, although I wasn’t able to put a finger on her accent. The guy spoke spanish to her with an english accent, was white and kinda looked like a 20-something Lars Ulrich. Behind them, more people started to arrive, including some numbskull who must have been brazilian, because he never found it in his heart to shut the fuck up about the fact that the plane we were about to board, an Embraer whatever, was proudly made in Brazil.
Somewhere after 5.00 AM, finally the Continental people showed up and began issuing boarding passes. When I got to the lady, she gave me my boarding pass and labeled my suitcase. She told me to follow a blue line painted on the floor to US Customs (what is this, kindergarden?). Upon my inquiry as to if I could sneak outside fo one last cigarette, she said once the baggage was labeled I couldn’t. It would have been nice of them to tell people that, don’t ya think? Anyway, I followed my line and arrived at US Customs.
Which brings me to rule number one, when travelling by plane.

RULE NUMBER ONE: Always smoke as much as you can before even entering the airport.

Mind you, my plane left at 6.05. The lines for US Customs were eternal, even at that time in the morning. And the gringos set up shop until 5.45, which left me 20 minutes to go through customs, run to my terminal, and board my shitty Embraer firecracker.
Well, turns out american customs agents sure are efficient, for no more than 10 minutes later they were asking about the nature of my trip, my final destination and wishing me a good day. Next step: run like hell to the terminal, which, as always, is the farthest one they can find. Lucky for me, I encountered a coffee place on my way, and purchased a much-needed large double double. I arrived at the terminal in time, and when boarding was announced, I was the second or third one to get in the plane.
Which brings me to the following observation. If Toronto’s Pearson International is one of the most expensive airports to fly from, why the fuck can’t I get a tunnel access into my plane? They brought us out into the tarmac, and made us climb stairs, just like in the fucking 50’s. Since we were outdoors, I wondered if to inquire if I was allowed to grab a quick smoke, but with the fuel truck still filling up the plane I decided it would not have gone over well. Oh, the plight of us smokers.

I was excited about getting a window seat, because in theory it wasn’t going to be a cloudy day, and boy do I love twisting my neck for 3 hours at a time looking at the ground below. I was hungry, and was really looking forward to the snack. Finally, we took off.
The view of the Toronto skyline and the sun rising was overwhelming. I just wish the stupid flight attendant hadn’t made me put my camera away.
A while later, they announced they’d be serving beverages, and I settled for tomato juice. I was shocked when the flight attendant left the can right on my table thingie and moved away. You know how cheap airlines are, they usually give you the smallest cup available. I even left the can there for a few minutes, waiting to see if she’d realize she had forgotten it, but after a short while I said “fuck it” and poured myself another cup. Oh, and that was it. No turkey or ham sandwich, no baby peeled carrots with a pack of mayonnaise, no Twix mini bar, nothing. God forbid they feed their passengers!

It was hard to enjoy the view out the window, because for the duration of the whole trip there was this haze everywhere. Not exactly clouds, just a haze that made it difficult to distunguish fuck all. Still, while up there, after they announced that portable electronic devices were now permitted, I took a couple of pics. The one I like the most is this one, in which I was reminded of Springfield:

Finally, a while later, we landed in Houston, TX, and I had 30 minutes to get from terminal C789,543, where I arrived, to terminal B16,000,000, from where I’d be departing. I made it in time, having to sacrifice a quick stop at some eatery or other. Fuck, I would have settled for McDonald’s, that’s how hungry I was.

The plane ride to McAllen was a smooth one, and 50 minutes later (at 10.15 AM, local time) we were on the ground. I figured once I grabbed my baggage I’d grab a taxi into Mexico, pray for a 11.00 bus and be home by 3.00 in the afternoon. Which brings me to rule number two for air travel:

RULE NUMBER TWO: Never make plans for the rest of your trip.

Before going to Baggage Claim to, um, claim my baggage, I decided that while the operators brought everything into the airport I had enough time to go outside for a smoke. And what a good smoke it was, let me tell you. Anyway, I went back and was unpleasantly surprised at the fact that by the time the conveyor stopped moving, my bag was nowhere to be seen. ‘Tis was not the first time this had happened to me, and the previous time turned out to be a nightmare, so I braced myself and went into the little office. Upon placing my complaint, I was informed that another plane was arriving at 11.30, and it was likely that my bag would be on that flight. Well, imagine that! so, while I waited I decided to grab something to eat. I entered the little eatery they have down there, and grabbed a burger. At 11.30, the flight arrived and I returned to Baggage Claim. Again, nothing. So, back into the little office I went, all fired up and ready to cause a storm. Upon asking for my information for the second time in one hour, they said there was a message in their system regarding my suitcase: It was on a plane that would arrive at 12.30. So, fuck me, I had to stay there for another 60 minutes. Finally, my bag arrived and it was time to leave the self-proclaimed “best country in the world”. 50 US dollars later (fuckers), I was in Reynosa’s beautiful and luxurious bus station. Note my subtle use of sarcasm there. Every other bus line told me the next bus for my village left until 2.30 PM, but then I found Transpais, who gladly sold me a 1.30 ticket. Under normal circumstances, that would have placed me home at 5.30 in the afternoon, only 2.5 hours later than my original ETA, but when it comes to my fucking existence, things just refuse to be normal. Of course, there are three categories of bus travel in Mexico. Direct service, Semi-Direct service, and regular service. Direct, as its name implies, makes no stops. Semi-Direct makes a couple stops along the way, but nothing out of the ordinary. Regular, on the other hand, stops wherever it wants. Funny thing is they all cost the same. So, lady luck bitch-slapped me once again and placed me on the shittiest Regular bus in history. I swear, the goddamned thing stopped twice every kilometer. Finally, at 6.45 PM, I stepped foot in Ciudad Victoria.

Oh, I forgot to tell you. Aside from the nature of my trip down there, I was fascinated by the fact that I’d get to see my daughter. But, since her mother and her family are under the impression that my daughter is better off without me, I had to travel undercover just so I could surprise them into not hiding her.

So, when I got off the bus, I hadn’t spoken to anyone. Naturally, nobody went to pick me up. So, I took a cab to my sister’s house, where my daughter was more likely to be. If I told you my sister wasn’t home and I had to drag my suitcase all the way up a steep hill just so I could buy a phone card to call her, would you believe me? Because that’s what happened. When I finally spoke to her, she told me she was with the kids at the pool, and “why don’t I go over there”. So, sure enough, I dragged my shit for another couple of kilometers, but finally made it.

Once I saw my daughter run out of the pool and hug me, though, once I got to pick her up and tell her how much I loved her, I knew the whole trip, and whatever happened afterwards, was going to be worth it.

The Iceberg.

It’s been interesting, my life has, for the last couple of weeks. Of course, when I say “interesting”, I don’t mean to imply that you would find it interesting in the sense of a BBC documentary, but more of a “may you live in interesting times”. Here’s a couple of nuggets.

AT HOME
Suddenly, my smoke detector has gone touchy-feely on me, and I can’t cook anything without having it starting to beep like crazy. Of course, the genius that decided to install it next to the kitchen would be the target of my wrath, under normal circumstances, but more than wrathful I am doubtful as to why it suddenly started acting that way. For 2 months I could have detonated smoke grenades right under it, and it wouldn’t beep. Now I add oil to a fucking frying pan, and the thing goes insane.

The last time I managed to sleep for more than five hours without waking up for some inane reason was probably on the Canada Day weekend, and only because there were copious amounts of whiskey involved. I even turned to those SleepEZ pills last week, to see if that would help, and got the scare of my life. Those who know me are aware that I’m not much of a pill popper (I don’t even take my heart medication regularly), but desperate times… Anyhoo, I took one on tuesday, at noon. I woke up wednesday, at 1.30 PM, or so I thought. It was still fucking tuesday. And it keeps getting worse. Monday I managed to sleep a total of 2 hours, and yesterday I think I made it through 6, not without waking up a total of 167 times. Some, because of the phone, some because, well…

I made myself something to eat early yesterday morning. Due to the fact that the smoke detector declared itself my sworn enemy, I kinda ate it undercooked. And now I have diarrhea. Yay!

AT WORK
There’s a couple of things bothering me. First, getting shit (while being one of the hardest workers in my department, and the only one to give a fuck about certain things) for engaging in an inevitable situation at times, even though everybody else does it. And those who don’t get “caught” do so by taking extended periods of “doing fuck all”.

Being what they describe in the rather offensive term “the lowest item on the totem pole”. Not based on merit, not on performance, not on willingness… all they care about is seniority. As long as people get away with the bare minimum for not getting fired, and as long as there’s a newer guy in there, people are set for life.

The janitor – Nothing personal against him, but when he cleans the floors, he drives the fucking zamboni all over, soaking the whole floor, leaving us, the forklift drivers, incapacitated to do our jobs for a couple of minutes. Then we have to drive all around the plant to get where we need to go, thus engaging in inevitable situations, and getting shit.

PERSONAL LIFE
Well, yesterday was my dad’s birthday, so Happy B-Day!! I wish I could have joined the celebrations, but since my family lives during the day and sleeps at night, and I live during the night and toss and turn in bed all day, it was kind of impossible. But I’ll make it up to him.

Many other people celebrate their birthdays this week, so happy birthday to all.

This past weekend I had the experience of visiting one of the places I grew up in. It was the first time in 20-odd years I had been in Oakville, Ontario, and let me tell you… it still kicks ass!

The relationship I have with my ex-wife is limited to this: (her idea, not mine). Every time I send her 100 dollars, she lets me call my daughter for five minutes and sends me an e-mail days later to complain that I never give her enough money. Repeat every couple of weeks, and you have her idea of great parenting. However, 2 weeks ago I sent her money, and never got the green light to call my daughter. Oh, because it has to be on her terms. Sometimes it’s hard to convince myself that once, I actually volunteered to spend the rest of my life with the cunt.

MEDIA
I, for one, am delighted that the Spice Girls are reuniting. That’ll give me a chance to rekindle my love for Mel C*

(*That was an inside joke between myself and my buddy JM. As if I needed to clarify).

I am rather intrigued by the main riff on Behemoth’s song “Conquer All”. Is it just me, or is it strikingly similar to Anthrax’s “Be All, End All”? Considering both songs have the word all in the title, I’d say it’s kind of like a tribute. But what do I know?

Anyway, I’ll wrap this up so you can go on living your lives. Take care, and stay heavy!!

The Iceberg.

I never talk about my job here (well, except for once, last year, ehen I was still a temp). First of all, because I don’t want to say the wrong thing (or the right thing, which could be misinterpreted- and believe me, I know quite a bit about misinterpretations!) and get my ass fired. Second, what happens there, stays there. Figuratively speaking, I leave my work-related thoughts in my locker before I leave.

But in light of recent events (it seems the higher-ups have the wrong opinion of my performance, which is solely judged by a couple of instances – in which I was doing nothing wrong, per se, simply being in the unavoidable position wherein I was not in compliance with their japanese business models), I’ll let you, my readers, in on how The Iceberg earns his meals. I’d say ”a typical day at work”, but typical, it was not. It was an overtime shift, only one line was operating, and I was the only material handler there. But I’ll go ahead and describe my 8 hours.

I’ll post a short paragraph after each block, just to describe a typical day. And then, a brief listing of what I did yesterday.

11.30 PM – 2.00 AM – Picking up the slack from afternoon shift
Many a time, the afternoon shift is overwhelmed with work. So much, in fact, that they run out of time and end up leaving quite an interesting workload for us creatures of the night. I’m not complaining, I understand, and that extra work keeps me from getting bored. I’m just stating the facts. Me n’ Joe try to get everything from afternoon shift done before first break. Of course, along with doing our regular stuff. Here’s what I did last night.

• Finished unloading a truck with C7 parts, did paperwork, labeled.
• Moved a C175 part from line to MD Assembly
• Moved 3 skids of finished parts from C7 line to MD assembly
• Moved a stack of skids from skid area into HD Assembly
• Moved 2 C32 skids from line to MRB
• Stacked up skids from C11 Op 80, twice
• Moved 4 skids from C7 to QA
• Moved 1 skid of C15 dunnage from storage to HD staging area
• Collected skids off floor, moved them to HD staging area
• Unloaded truck with C32 parts, did paperwork, labeled
• Made room for received C7 load to be placed on line
• Moved the following from QA to their respective operations: 7 C11 skids, 2 C15 skids, 5 C32 skids, 1 C7 skid.

First Break
Had my lunch, coffee and a smoke.

2.10 – 4.00 – Chip Bin Frenzy!!
As part of my job, I have to dump chip bins in a recycling area. And there are, at times, a lot. This period, between breaks, is when I try to get them all done. Along with my regular work. Anyway, last night, I:

• Put C7 load on line
• Moved 2 skids from C7 to QA
• Moved a stack of skids into HD Assembly
• Moved skid of finished product from HD Assembly line
• Moved stack of skids into staging area
• Moved 4 skids from QA to C7 line
• Moved 1 skid of finished parts from C7 line to MD assembly
• Dumped 11 chip bins from C7 line
• Dumped 9 chip bins from C15B line

Second Break
Sadly, my plans for a 20 minute break in the air-conditioned office were interrupted by a truck driver who just so happened to pull in at 4.28. Technically, I shouldn’t even have bothered to unload the truck, but contrary to the general consensus, I do care about my job.

4.30 – 7.30 – Captain Planet and prepping the day shift
As my shift meets its dusk, I take it upon myself (since nobody else bothers to) to ensure all recycling materials are disposed of in their proper places (plastic bins, vci paper, cardboard, metal strapping, etc), and why not, give the day shift a head start by clearing QA, “feeding” the lines with castings, picking up metal and wooden skids and storing them in their respective areas, moving things to MRB… Anyway, last night I:

• Unloaded said C9 truck, did paperwork, labeled
• Made room for C9 load
• Stored C9 skids on line
• Made room for C32 load
• Stored C32 skids on line
• Moved 2 stacks of skids from storage to HD staging area
• Moved 1 skid of finished parts from C7 line to MD assembly
• Moved I skid of C15 dunnage from storage to HD staging area
• Moved 3 stacks of C11 dunnage from storage to HD staging area
• Moved 5 skids from QA to C7 line
• Stacked skids from C11 Op 80
• Stacked up metal skids from floor, put them on C7 Op 90 area
• Dumped 7 chip bins from C15A line
• Dumped 2 chip bins from C32 line
• Stacked two piles of wooden skids, organized and put inside truck
• Changed propane tank on forklift (lucky me, I ran out 2 minutes before the shift ended)

At 7.30-ish, I did what few others ever do: I parked my forklift in its designated area, and got ready to punch out. As soon as I punched out, at 7.40, I got out of there so fast, bats getting out of hell were saying “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!!”. Don’t blame me, it is, after all, a long weekend.

The Iceberg.