Iceberglandia

My fascination with advertising and graphic design in general dates back to who knows when. Nowadays, pretty much everyone and their mother fancies themselves a graphic designer, myself included. But installing Photoshop and editing your Facebook pictures or adding “funny” text to a picture of a cat does not make you a good graphic designer.
And when it comes to the world of advertising, well, you have two options. Create stuff that anybody could do (almost everybody), or be a creative genius. Here are some examples of creative advertising I managed to find on the web.

My personal favorites in this particular gallery, judging on creativity alone, are the Koleston billboard, the Folgers manhole cover (although I doubt the smell helps), the Mr. Clean one and the dental insurance one.

Oh! And this is only Part One. There’ll be more coming.

The Iceberg.

Going through a recently-discovered batch of “really” old files, I stumbled upon one in particular. It was eye-opening, to say the least.

It’s dated Monday, November 5th, 2001, in case you can’t read the little image here.

If anything, I guess it explains why I was reluctant to celebrate three years of WordPress not going out of business. The whole concept of “Iceberglandia” has existed since, at least, then. Or even before.

What’s even weirder is the text itself, which to an extent still reflects my writing. Look:

Day one. I’m going to start this site off by describing myself a little. I am, or at least I think I am, in one word, intense. That means, among other things, that when I love, I love. When I hate, I hate. When I eat, I eat (that explains the huge gut you’ll be seeing in my pictures). When I drink, I drink. When I shit, well, you get the point. I’m not your average guy. This is actually version 109 of this site. The other 108 were done in the same fashion, but in Spanish. Then I thought, the only people who read this already speak english, so why not do it in a language where I can come in contact with other people? So, here it is. Another one in the already long and boring list of “personal” sites. I hear they call them E/N sites now. But anyway, let’s ramble on with the introductions. So, I’m a fat metal fan living in a tiny hellhole just south of the Texas border. Ciudad Victoria, Tamaulipas, Mexico. I’m married, but in case I have at least one female fan, if you stalk me long enough, I’m yours. See, I’m also funny. But hey, so are 70’s clothes, and people still wear them, so I just might get lucky. I have a daughter, she’s one year old and she’s a great kid. So far, at least. Let’s see how well she does with me as a father. Anyway, let’s continue. I like, among other things, metal music (LOUD), soccer, baseball, hockey, fast food, slow food, anything edible, alcohol, tobacco, beautiful women (no porn, I hate seeing what I’d rather be doing), cars, movies, TV, designing, complaining, the internet and my MP3 collection. I hate stupid people, dealing with stupid people, putting up with crap, waking up, getting hit by stupid furniture, and trying to get my computer to work properly. In a nutshell, that’s me. As time does it’s thing, you’ll get to know me a bit better. Hopefully, so will I. Now, a little bit about this site.
It all started when my wife was expecting my daughter, and I started sending a bunch of e-mails to the people I knew, including friends, relatives, in-laws, etc. Then, the right side of my brain took over and I decided to create a site “instead” of sending mails. The mails never ceased to be sent, though. Then, after my daughter was born, I had nothing to inform anyone anymore, and my number of “constant readers” (as Stephen King calls us) started to decrease. So, I started to do something different. I started to rant about everything, until everyone who read my crap was sick and tired of me, and it started to show. The site took another twist when, instead of just ranting about everything, I started to talk just about anything. Well, in almost a year, I had 40 hits. over 3/4 of those were me, clicking into my site. Not very good numbers, I know. So I started to reconsider having a website. After all, what I had to say, no one gave a shit about, and starting to make a “Yankees Website”, or a “Heavy Metal Site” was about as unappealing and unfulfilling as posting pictures of my ass. After all, what can I say about the Yankees that you don’t know already, if you’re a Yankees fan? And, if you’re not a Yankees fan, you wouldn’t be visiting my site, right? So, I was just about to call it quits, when I said to myself, “Myself, why don’t you just go on with what you want to do, and stop caring if your “friends” visit your website?” At the same time, I came across a couple of websites that seemed to be exactly what I had always wanted to do. You’ll soon find out who I’m talking about. Besides, my mind has always been outside of this craphole I live in, and way up north, so starting to write in English was a natural move for me.
OK, well, this has taken on forever, so I’ll stop for now. I hope if someone reads this, they’ll be interested enough to keep coming back. More to come tomorrow.
Oh, and I’ll be including pictures and links in my posts. And, before I start getting into trouble, thanks to BigDarkCloud for the inspiration, and to a certain extent, for the layout. I’m not copying, it’s just what I’ve always wanted to do. You rule.

Let’s comment on this.

“The Iceberglandia Times”? Yeah, that made me laugh too. Yet at the time I went so far as to create a logo using one of those deutsch gothic fonts real newspapers use.

I’m still “intense”, whatever I meant by that. The “fat gut” I was referencing is now gone, blessed be, but I still indulge in the loving and the hating and the eating and the drinking and yes, the shitting.

The numbers “108″ and “109″ are an exaggeration, obviously, but a clear indication that the whole “Iceberglandia” concept dates back to maybe the Cretacean Period.

Funny I thought at the time that only english-speaking people were interested in my shit, since nowadays my spanish blog gets at least twice the hits this one gets. Often, three times the hits.

“E/N sites”? That’s 2001-speak, right there. I guess the word “blog” hadn’t entered the lexicon.

I’m not married anymore, but the idea remains: If you stalk me long enough, I’m yours. (This would pertain only to female stalkers, of course)

My daughter’s 8, going on 9 now. And since 2003, things could have been better worded as “let’s see how well she does without me as a father”. I had no idea at the time I’d lose her.

I still like the same shit, hate the same things, and sometimes still get hit by furniture. The “pinky toe on the foot of the table” thing never gets old.

BigDarkCloud was a “E/N site” I used to visit a lot back in the day. I still follow the guy, athough he’s now going under the blog “RobotMustDestroy”. It’s one of my everyday visits I’ve talked about when discussing my morning routine. The other ones might have been SomethingAwful, WeAin’tCool ( I still follow Jacky as well, on findingi.com) and a bunch of others. I-Mockery, X-Entertainment, RetroCrush, CockEyed.com and the long departed whatever-dude.com, seanbaby.com, and poprocksandcoke.com.
Those were some of my early influences. There, I said it.

While I expressed on my spanish blog how things change, it’s surprising to have to say here that I haven’t changed that much. Well, I have, but this text I wrote 8 years ago just kicked me in the head.

It would be cheap of me to phrase that “the more things change the more they stay the same” thing. Instead, I’ll limit myself to 3 letters and a question mark.

WTF?

The Iceberg

Yesterday I bought a new coffee maker, since the other one died on me last weekend. I was just too lazy to get it out of the box. “Ah”, I said as I scratched my nether regions in a display of laziness. “I’ll set it up tomorrow”. Big mistake.

This morning I awoke, smiling. Yes, really. When I remembered I now had a coffee machine, I smiled. I managed to crawl out of bed, take a piss, and as I stared at the Black & Decker box on my kitchen counter, I thought I’d be sipping on some fresh-brewed coffee in no time.
Nope. My brain was still half asleep, my eyes were still rolling back into my head. I had a hard enough time pulling the cardboard flap in order to open the box. Inside, plastic. Lots and lots of plastic. Plastic bags, plastic holders, plastic tape… even the  ”plug into the wall” thingie had a plastic protector.
I finally managed to set the damn thing on the counter, rid of all its plastic shell. “Now, let’s look at the manual”, the part of me that was awake thought. I know how to operate these things, I just wanted to find out if I had to remove any plastic from within the machine.
Apparently not.

Then, of all things, the carafe had a stupid piece of paper that read, in three different languages, this: Wash me with sudsy warm water before using me”. Two things crossed my mind. First, “Great, the one thing I want to do even more than drink coffee, since I just woke up, is to WASH FUCKING DISHES”. And second, this is an appliance that (hopefully) adults will use. Why is an inanimate object referring to itself in the first person? I mean, if I had bought a “Tickle Me Elmo” I’d understand, but sheesh!

Finally, I put some water in, “brewed” it as per the instructions, and then proceeded to actually make myself my joe.

Quite tasty, it was. Being a new machine, it had no artificial flavorings (as in buildup from the tap water I use). And there was peace in the land, for The Iceberg was happy with his purchase.

The Iceberg

Isn’t it sad when news reports regarding your changing from a black man to a white woman are met with gossip; when your dangling of your child from a balcony are met with disgust and reproach; when your admittance to sleeping with little children is met with revolt and complete despisal; yet your death is met with both “meh” attitudes and jokes?

Yes, Michael Jackson, the so-called King of Pop died a few hours ago. Yes, people die every day, and the fascination with celebrity deaths is a morbid tendency in human beings, for whatever reason.
But “Wacko Jacko”, as the tabloids called him, was no ordinary celebrity. Farrah Fawcett? Sure, she was a hottie that appeared on a TV show in the 70’s. David Carradine? Yeah, he kicked ass and was Bill. Ed McMahon? Well, he used to shill Cash4Gold… Michael Jackson was, for all intents and purposes, somewhat of an über-celebrity.

My relationship with the guy doesn’t amount to much – I rocked out to the Thriller album back in the early 80’s, enjoyed his part in “We Are The World”, kinda dug “Bad”, and liked his early 90’s song ‘Black and White’. That was it. Oh, and once I bought his HIStory Cd. I can’t remember who I lent it to, but I never saw it again.
His tabloid appearances didn’t do much for me. Nor did the rest of his professional career. To be honest, I didn’t even think his Thriller video was that much of a big deal. I cared very little that he could afford an amusement park in his home, or that he had a pet chimpanzee. In fact, I hated that of all people, he had the moniker of “The King Of Pop”.

Of course, how many people had collaborations with Sir Paul McCartney, Eddie Van Halen and Slash, among others? How many people have had their songs covered by (yes, they might not be the greatest in the world, but the covers were decent – or if not decent, at least well known) Alien Ant Farm, Chris Cornell and the Bloodhound Gang? 

It was quite disturbing, in one of those weird coincidences, that while many songs from all over the place pop into my head for no apparent reason, the last week or so “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” has appeared in my mind, both the chorus and the final “mama-se mama-sa mama-cusa”, on separate occasions.

In any case, I was talking to my buddy JM on Messenger, probably about such adult subjects as Top Cat or Gleek, the pet monkey of the Wonder Twins, when he interrupted me with a HOLY SHIT! MICHAEL JACKSON IS DEAD!
Naturally, I immediately went over to Fark. If it was true, it would surely be there by now. And yes, under the guise of a ‘clever’ headline, there was a link to TMZ.
“Well”, I said to myself, “TMZ is not a trustwothy news source”. I immediately logged on to every fucking news site I could imagine – MSNBC, CNN, Fox News, AP, Reuters… about 10 minutes later, MSNBC had confirmed the news. Half an hour later, CNN and FOX still said MJ was in a coma. When I returned from a cigarette, pretty much everybody had been updated: Michael Jackson had indeed died.

During this time, I posted on Facebook. First that TMZ and MSNBC had confirmed. Then, CNN, Fox and AP. Finally Reuters. at the same time, others were making jokes. Stupid ones, at that. And everybody else had comments and “likes”. Except the guy who was reporting “live”, which leads me to think one of two things: either it is a clear indication that I should kill my Facebook account altogether, or that people are just too stupid for actual news and would rather “like” or comment on the jokes.

In any case, this isn’t about me, but about Michael Jackson. The guy died, abruptly, and nobody flinched. People were more distressed when he said he’d move to Bahrain.
In fact, nobody has even mentioned his string of concerts that were supposed to take place in London between July 2009 and March 2010. Everybody was too busy commenting that “his nose fell off!”. Morons.

Even though he wasn’t my idol by any stretch, when I do my shift on monday I’ll only wear my right glove. Just out of respect for the guy. My gloves are black, not white, but hey, “It don’t matter if you’re black or white”.

The Iceberg

Well, Well, Well…

Guess which telecommunications giant pissed me off again, today.

After much thought, I decided to keep my word to the rude indian asshole who called the other day – the one I told I’d pay on thursday, I just didn’t know how much – which demanded absolutes from me. I crunched numbers and decided I could afford both my rent and my Bell, leaving Rogers – and a couple of nutritious meals – to who knows when.

As it is, this morning there was a thunderstorm. Not as severe as my Weather Channel app claimed, since half an hour later the sun was shining and I embarked on a trip to the bank. But yet, thunder rolled, to an extent.

I’m at the bank, and I “joke” to the chinese lady who told me she could help me that I want to get rid of this bill, because I’m sick and tired of these people annoying me every day. I walk out of the bank, my wallet feeling much lighter (half my vacation pay was disposed of there – the other half had gone towards paying my sister).
I had originally considered splitting whatever I had half-and-half between Rogers and Bell, but in the end I said “fuck it, might as well get one service paid in full, and thus reconnected”.

Also, my coffee machine had recently died on me, so it was time to replace it. I went this whole week without caffeine, and believe me, it sucked. And, while I was there, why not go to the supermarket and buy some groceries? Nobody would believe me, but I only walked out with shit from the produce section. Not even myself.

I get home, and the first thing I do is grab the phone. It’s not enough to make your payments, you have to notify the fuckers too. By notifying them, you have a 50%-50% chance of them reconnecting your service in the next 24 hours. And here I was, thinking computers automated everything. Fuckers.

Well, I click the “talk” button on my phone, and am greeted with silence. “Well, gee”, I said to myself. “This is odd”. I checked the cables, and the connections, everything was fine. Even my modem worked, as much as loading a Bell splash page reminding me I had not yet made a payment (if only you knew, you cocksuckers!). It was the phone line. Something had gone ‘tits up’.
I went to my upstairs neighbor. Maybe lightning had struck some terminal or something. Nope. He said he did have service. He offered his phone to me, in case I wanted to report it. I, being the idiot I am, declined his offer, exclaiming that surely I could report my phone problem, and while I was at it, my payment, to Bell.ca, their stupid website. The internet, and all that.

It was at this point that my buddy JM reported to me that Michael Jackson had died. I spent the next half-hour hitting F5 on all the news pages I could think of, until it was confirmed by MSNBC, CNN, Fox News, AP and Reuters. Funny how one makes a big deal out of celebrities dying. Plus, Farrah Fawcett had died earlier in the day.

After the “Breaking News”, I logged on to Bell’s god-awful website. Clicked on “Support”, and went to the “no dial tone” link. Do you think it offered solutions? Troubleshooting, at best, was limited to “check to see if our phone is on”. After that, BUY OUR INSURANCE! Fuckers. They surprise even ME every day.
So, I did what any rational human being would do. I went upstairs and asked my neighbor/landlord: “Um, can I borrow your phone after all? Their shitty website offers no assistance whatsoever”. As if this was “Breaking News” as well.

I dial 6-1-1, Bell’s idea of a hotline. And oh my god. I hate automated services. But at least Rogers’ “Melanie” offers the option to either talk like an idiot to a machine, or “press 1″. These clowns? No, they just stumbled upon the technology and thought the world would be mystified. So I’m 50 fucking feet from other human beings, only divided BY THE FUCKING CEILING, vocalizing ideas to this stupid machine. And of course, much to my fucking delight, it can’t even understand concepts like “YES”. It replies three times with “I’m sorry, I didn’t get that…” and proceeds to repeat the four fucking options.
Lucky for me there weere no babies or puppies around, because I would have kicked them, in anger. Finally, this fucking thing gets my message, and decides to tell me “this call may be recorded or monitored for quality purposes”. And after that, a busy signal.
And here’s your fucking dork, listening to a busy signal for over a minute – and then, nothing. The call was ended.

Ha! I went through the same thing not once, but twice. That’s how commited I am to both contacting Bell and being an idiot.

After the second time, I said “fuck it”. I’ll just report my payment, then, since I’ve got my neighbor’s phone and everything. I dial the number that appears on their splash screen, 1-866-439-7874. Hey, I want to know what’s going on! And, report my payment, since it was quite the sacrifice for me.
And you know what? I’m greeted by a fucking recording saying their hours of operation are from…. I don’t know, I just hung up. The only reason I didn’t smash the fucking phone into the wall was because, well, it wasn’t mine. Had it been my phone – which, remember, I couldn’t use), there’d be a phone-shaped hole connecting my apartment to the next-door neighbor’s.

I went back and returned the phone. Yet, stubborn like a mule, I thought Bell.ca, the website, would somehow help me out.

“Of course!”, I remembered. Once I sign up to “My Bell”, that will come in handy!
The half an hour it took to retrieve my username, my password, and even the email account I had signed up with almost broke my synapses. Finally, through the “change your password” thingie, I was able to log on. This, having to change – yet again – my password.
I searched for ages for the “notify Bell of a payment” option. Finally, I just looked it up on the “search” field.

“Log on to Bell.ca, and look for this on the upper right hand corner”, the instructions read. Of course, half an hour later I found out the “notify” thing was on the upper LEFT hand corner. Even their website designers are lacking in mental abilities.

I finally click on the button, and I see this.

No explanation, no nothing. of course, I can’t call 1-800-477-9205, because I DON’T HAVE A FUCKING PHONE and I’m not one to be pestering the neighbor all day.

I swear to god, as soon as I can, I’m cancelling this shit for good.

The Iceberg

Oh, the title is much more than a Paramore reference. It’s 3 posts in one! and I’d like to crush all three! Get it? Hee hee.

I was, finally on Tuesday, reading the newspaper I bought on the weekend. The Toronto Sun, it’s called. And as many of its tabloid shaped contemporaries, it’s a piece of shit. Mind you, I’m not trying to attack the newspaper itself, or the integrity of its writers, it’s just – well, there’s a reason I put off reading it until yesterday (as of this posting).
It has maybe 5 or 6 pages dealing with actual news – headlines, business, the works. The rest of it is drama from crime victims in Toronto, around 40 or so pages of sports, 10 or so of entertainment, and of course, the SUNshine Girl.
Except for the lack of nudity and in most instances the attractiveness, picture the Page 3 section of that British paper – might be the Daily Mail, can’t remember.
In this instance, the infamous SUNshine girl looked like a cross between Blackie Lawless from WASP and Tila Tequila. Not unattractive, per se, but not exactly something you should model in the backpages of a newspaper (and I use the term lightly).

I started thinking about males’ instant reaction to seeing the Sun. Immediately we (yes, me included) flip to the back of the paper to see the day’s girl. In fact, I’ve seen places where they sell the paper, and instead of showing the front page, they show the SUNshine Girl.
Of course, if my brain had left it at that, there would be no post today.

People have crushes on the weirdest people. I don’t just mean crushes on ugly people (celebrities or not). Just, plain odd choices. You have to believe that at any given Motley Crue concert, there must be at least one girl hoping to get backstage so she can fuck Mick Mars. Likewise, there must be some guy who has a huge crush on whatsherface from Britain’s Got Talent. You know the one, Susan Boyle, I think.

Me? I’m weird myself. There are a few of these celebrity people I wouldn’t touch with a twenty-foot pole (and I’m discussing females here). Not because they’re monsters or anything, but they just don’t work out in my fantasies. Take mexican singer/repeater-of-roles (I refuse to call her an actress), Thalía. Back in the day 90% of straight guys in Mexico would fawn over her. I don’t know if it’s her personality, or just her lack of, well, fuck, I don’t know. I just get the shivers when the idea of her and myself… like right now.

I’ve always looked for the girls in the background. Ever since I was a kid. I remember having a crush for a while for the “Just the Fax, Ma’am… Just The Fax” girl on the Die Hard II movie. There’s a sentence I don’t think may people say everyday. There was a commercial (also in Mexico) for some evaporated milk that showed a young girl (about my age at the time – yes, I was young once too, you know?) drinking the product. There was no innuendo because of the milk, in case you were wondering.
There’s a girl, I can’t even think of her name, who also started doing commercials. I think she’s some kind of actress now. At one point (I kid you not) I kind of had a thing for Janeane Garofalo. There’s the whole Queen Latifah thing I don’t want to discuss right now. She’s not attractive, per se, but she conducts herself way sexier than your “celebutantes”. And then there’s Leah Remini. Too bad she’s a scientologist. And of course, nerd goddess, Olivia Munn.
And it’s always the girls in the background. The ones they show on camera attending soccer games in Mexico, the ones I see at dollar store registers, the “extras” in some TV shows (except Scrubs. Sarah Chalke is my wife, and she doesn’t even know it yet).

Most of the ones famous for being “hot”, the Nicole Kidmans, the Madonnas, the Megan Foxes… meh. Can’t say I’ve had better, but I’ve certainly seen better.
Of course, if the day ever comes when all of a sudden Elisha Cuthbert, Scarlett Johansson or Jessica Alba are pounding on my door, I’m not going to hide behind the couch and pretend I’m not home.

Oh, and speaking of the newspaper I was reading… They include a section where they discuss all the events on fucking reality shows, for crying out loud. “dancing with the stars”, my ass. I’d have a reality show called “dying with the stars”, place a stupid fan of some annoying celebrity with said celebrity in a gas chamber in which death would occur within the hour. Imagine that! The last hour of a celebrity, and his/her fan, doing whatever they please for one hour before the toxic gases kill them.
Or “Who’s the World’s Most Worthless Celebrity!”, in which Paris Hilton, Tila Tequila, Dane Cook, Kevin Federline, Nicole Ritchie, Clay Aiken, and a cast of others shoot themselves to death with carpet staplers, nailguns and whatever power tools they can get their hands on – the last survivor wins a quick death by guillotine. Or drowning in a vat of my urine. I haven’t decided that yet. 

Just to finish this double-themed post (kind of a review of a shitty paper and a discussion on crushes), let me quote a personal ad I found in said paper:

LOST: Small Tote bag. Thursday June 11th, between 1pm and 9 pm. Pearson Airport Terminal A. possibly near Air Canada gate, Molsen restaurant, or Duty free shop. contains, camera, withengraved name, cellphone, cash, jewelry bag, with moonstone ring, silver art nouveau brooch, other jewelry with high sentimental value. REWARD. Call Nancy XXX-XXX-XXXX

First of all, who hangs out at the airport for 8 hours? Second, who keeps all of their valuables (money, phone, camera and jewelry)in a bag they’re just going to leave about at the restaurant or Duty Free shop? Third, The terminals in Lester B. Pearson International Airport are 1,2 and 3, not represented by letters. Fourth, one would just HAVE to assume Air Canada has more than one “gate”. And last but not least, assuming this is somehow real, good luck getting your bag back, Nancy.
When at airports, I hold on to a bag containing a shitty, old, broken laptop for dear life. I’m even paranoid when I have to let it go so it can go through the X-Ray thingie.
Shit, people are dumb. And you just don’t believe me.

The Iceberg

Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday, Iceberglandia,
Happy Birthday to you!

3 years of this shit. There are only a handful of things I’ve done for three years. Hey, even my marriage (through no fault of my own) didn’t last this long.
But is it really a cause for celebration? I’ve though about this since the day I posted about my 200th post. What is there really to celebrate? That WordPress hasn’t gone out of business or canceled my account? I’ve been blogging for longer than three years. Hell, if I recall correctly, my first post here (on June 23rd, 2006) was “Let’s see if this blog has more functionality than the other one”.
In any case, any reason’s a good one to celebrate something, no?

So it’s been three years. In those three years I’ve talked about Bell Canada; my stupid commutes to work; my corrosive opinions on fucking wrestling events, of all things; my ordinary life and a few things that surround it. And well, to be completely honest, at times it’s been cathartic, at times I’m just trying to show off how “cool” I am (poorly, at that), and yes, there’s been the odd post here and there where I wasn’t, um, legally accountable. The ones where the next morning I punish myself. “What was I thinking?”.
There are, of course, a million ideas I have forgotten about, have had for a couple of years, and/or am still working on.

I love blogging. I might not be as good as many others, and I’m not a “topical” guy. I ramble about whatever my mind’s set on at that particular moment. On the few subjects I do feel the need to feel topical about, such as music or the village I currently reside in, what’s to stop me from creating another blog?
I love expressing myself. I love writing. As most of you will probably have figured out, I’m no genius at it. The ideas that cross my mind are usually more hilarious or more pissed off than whatever can be conveyed through my keyboard. Don’t blame my brain, blame my fucking fingers.
One thing you might have noticed – I hardly ever edit. In fact, other than coming up with an idea while at work and writing it down on some piece of paper I can “steal” from the office, I don’t plan these things out. The typos, the obscure references nobody gets, the dumb ideas – it’s all in real time. And why? Because that’s how I love it, dammit. Sure, I could proof-read every fucking thing I write and very possibly come up with much better stuff. But by doing that, why not hire an editor and take away the “personal” element of things?

As it stands, in my “drafts” folder – the folder where things I ended up not publishing appear, you’d be able to find a few items. One, a review I drunkenly wrote on yes, you guessed it, a WWE event. Another, an post about “pica”, the mental disorder that makes us eat things that aren’t food. And a couple of personal ones I regret even typing. If you’re wondering just how bad those were, remember I decided to narrate the events following the consumption of a case of beer over those ones, mmmkay? I think one of them was going to be titled “who would miss me if I commited suicide?”. Nothing I want my family members or close friends to read. Worry not, I’m not killing myself. I was just pondering on the subject.

Then there’s the whole concept of readership. It’s not that we want to gain popularity or become celebrities. We do it out of love. Sure, I could submit every stupid thing I do on Reddit, Digg, Fark and all of the other aggregators – but that’s not the idea. It’s not “celebdom” I’m looking for (which is a good thing, because judging by what I do it’s hardly possible). It’s more like searching for the approval of your peers – like when a chef finally finishes “chef school” and prepares a banquet for his family and friends. You want them to express their enjoyment – and few do – you’re not doing it to be the next “Iron Chef”.
Of course, my blog stats are pathetic. 5 visits per day, average? After three years? I’ve seriously thought about killing this whole concept altogether. But then there’s the little angel, popping up over my other shoulder. “Don’t do it for them, do it for yourself!” the little fucker says.
I love the two or three people who constantly check this thing out. Especially the ones who comment on my idiocy, either through the “comments” link at the end of every entry, such as my good buddy JM and Kelly from Montreal, who I don’t know personally but would love the opportunity to, or my girlfriend, or my friend Gloria from the LA area, who says she reads constantly. I get a rush from that – or, often embarrassment. You guys are the greatest.
Then there’s the odd guy (or gal) who pops in – basically through the “read a random blog” function on WordPress, or by searching the term “oh the Huge Manatee” on Google. Yes, I’m on to you.
Then there’s the (and I can only hope it’s a) spambot who, of all posts, decides to comment “I don’t agree” when I discuss my feelings toward my long-gone mother.

Since everybody who creates material for others to see – be it music, painting or a fucking blog – seeks that validation, I’ve given thoughts to going “public”. Not “selling out” and expecting the whole world to find a fascination with, say, my dealings with Facebook. Just getting more “out there”. I emailed my family and friends back in Mexico, inviting them to visit my spanish-language blog. I’ve yet to do that with this one, because, well, I don’t have that many english-speaking acquaintances. But last week I thought of something. Call me the God of viral marketing. First, I checked if it was or wasn’t illegal, and found out I wouldn’t go to jail for it. Then I hand-wrote my blog address on every piece of paper money I had on me. So, um, it’s out there, most of it is. If I had thought up the concept before paying my sister what I owed her, there’d be twice the money circulating with the URL to this blog.
You’ve got to think about it. Money changes hands so fast – you pay your phone bill at the bank with it. It gets thrown into a vault. Some chump takes a 20 out of the ATM. It goes to Subway, or the Gap, or the Esso station. from there it changes hands again, and somehow that same bill ends up in Winnipeg, or St. John’s, or in a fucking Money Exchange kiosk in the airport of fucking Nouakchott, Mauritania. With my fucking URL on it. How cool is that, and why have I never, EVER seen money with advertising on it? Talk about the mother of all ad campaigns! Fuck, if Pepsi or the NFL or the fucking US ARMY ever do that, I want half, ok?

And, as we draw to a close – it is 3 AM here in my neck of the woods – I’ve not only thought about how to get more readers. I’ve thought about how to develop more interesting material. And I’ve thought up a couple of reasonably good ideas.
One of them is kind of impossible as of now, but once the economy improves, I plan on buying myself a triple combo of entertainment every week – and reviewing it for your (dis)pleasure. A Book, a CD and a DVD. As an aside, if this blog ever grows into something better, I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of asking you fuckers to mail me books, DVDs and CDs you’d want me to review. Hey, God knows you love throwing your money away anyways. Starbucks? Really?
Another idea, although an unfair one – but hey, all is fair in love and war – and I love this blog – galleries. Yes, I already spend ridiculous amounts of time downloading images off the internet. Why not FUCKING USE THEM FOR SOMETHING? Plus, an image is worth a thousand words, so in any case, you’d end up with 20,000 words in less than a minute. You speed-readers, you.
Yet another one is focusing on subjects I personally love, such as stand up comedy, my personal fascination with human stupidity, and yes, the occasional list. Not stand up reviews, per se, but general opinions on such an underappreciated art.

It’s been great. 3 years. Wow. I didn’t think even I’d last this long. And if you’re a “lurker”, fucking drop a comment every now and again. I do my best to reply to all of them.

As parting words, I’d like to ask everybody that’s not doing it yet to WRITE A BLOG! Or update it frequently, at the very least. For fuck’s sake, my cousin hasn’t updated his blog sinde February. And JM’s blog has become something of a fucking monthly issue, just like Vogue or Hit Parader or MAD Magazine, or whatever the hipsters are reading these days. Dudes, you’re greater writers than me, it doesn’t matter that you’re busy. Just pop out every now and then and discuss your last bowel movement, for all I care. All we need are the five minutes of our day that’ll make us think life is worth living, after all. And if, IF, I’ve ever had that effect on anyone, my work is done.

Thank you, and here’s to at least another 3 years. From the backstage, the wood shed, the place where such a spectacle is created…

The Iceberg

I tried sending this to Bell.Ca, but obviously they don’t want human interaction. Your money is perfectly good enough for them, and fuck you and your opinions.

In any case, here’s what I wrote when their stupid website didn’t let me write my whole text:

I didn’t know additional comments were “required”… just an email I’d like to get a response to. Is there a way I can get through to an actual human being, or how can I express myself?

 I hit “submit” and was prompted a second time to hit “submit”. After that, it said a CSR would get in touch with me in 2-4 business days. Oh joy! I can’t wait for Jamaal or Devinder calling me any minute between Tuesday and Thursday!
That’s business for you, in the 21st century.

Here’s my original mail.

Hi Bell!

(If this is received by some low-ranking employee, please forward it to your supervisor, and have him/her forward it as high as it needs to go in order to get answers).

This e-mail might be posted on my blog, for quality purposes. Just as my calls to you are recorded for the same reasons.

I’ve been a customer of yours for over 3 years, now. In that time, I’ve given you over 5 thousand of my hard-earned dollars. It’s been worth it, as it pertains to the service. Sure, there’s the odd glitch in the matrix – I’ve had to replace my modem once, and I’ve been accused of having technical difficulties within my wiring, despite your technicnian phoning me from downtown Guelph to say he found the problem.
My main concern is with your CSR’s, and your credit department.

Yes, I’ve been at fault at times. I’ve fallen behind on my bills, due to several reasons. I’m not saying I’m perfect. But it seems that we are in a bit of a pickle, as of lately.

Being that you belong to an industry that has an everyday need to have employees come in and “do their thing”, you might not be aware of this: 2009 has been a hell of a ride for most people, due to economic difficulties. Some of us, in fact, have been laid off, or in my particular case have been reduced to a two-day work week. It’s not like we’re all wallowing in a pool of hundred dollar bills, laughing at the fact that we’re not paying you.
As it stands, I think I owe you a total of 4 hundred and odd dollars.

I am aware of this, and I don’t need daily phone calls reminding me of the fact. The bill I have on my fridge door (with a nifty fridge magnet my sister brought me from Missouri) is reminder enough.
Although if you consider me retarded enough that I need a daily reminder, you could at the very least have people who speak understandable english call me. I understand Indian call centers are all the rage right now, but there must be at least 100,000 Indian people who can speak english and are in need of a job. Be adventurous! Add an additional question to your employee screening test: Can he/she speak english? Your customers will appreciate this.

Now, factor this as well.

I use your company for my home phone, and my high speed internet. However, Bell didn’t offer the iPhone, so I had to go with Rogers. Rogers, as well as yourselves, is thirsty for my money. Hey, put yourself in my shoes, one has to prioritize, no? When it comes to food or iPhone, or rent or High Speed internet, one does what one has to.

The difference is that I had an interesting chat with Rogers the other day. I didn’t really need the 20% discount on my bill, I would have gladly paid what I owed them, but they decided to throw that in, so I guess I can’t complain. They offered me the option to pay my dues before July 26th. They understood the current situation. What do you guys do?

I kind of got into a fight with one of your employees from across the globe. He demanded I pay immediately with a credit card. When I explained it is a personal decision of mine not to carry with such documents, he insisted I give him an exact amount and an exact date of payment. As I explained to him that “dude, I don’t know exactly how much I can pay, I still have to figure out my food and rent”, his mood went from surprised to enraged. He all but insulted me, and ended up hanging up on me. I’m not offended, but it’s hardly a professional demeanor.

As it stands, I’m waiting to see if next week’s paycheck will be enough to cover my rent. I am worried about my internet connection – don’t for a second think I don’t miss it – but courtesy of the different approaches Bell Canada and Rogers have had, I’d be more inclined to not just give Rogers my priority, but in the near future cancel my home phone and internet account, and make the switch to Rogers.

I’m not asking for freebies, I’m not hoping to have someone waive my debt. All I ask for is to not be treated as a criminal who’s running away from you.
I’d call in myself, but in all truthfulness, it becomes quite the pain to repeat my personal information over and over again, to people who will forward me to someone else, because they can’t even find my file on their computers. And yes, this has happened a couple of times.

I’ll pay you as soon as I can. Don’t think for a second that I don’t miss my internet. Hell, since you’re charging monthly for it anyway, why not just reconnect my service? Like I said, I’m not hiding. As soon as I have the money, I’ll run to the bank and pay you.

Oh, another thing. I believe I signed up for the “unlimited” broadband internet. Why did you mail me a pamphlet saying I’d have to pay for every extra Gb over 60?

I guess you won’t take this mail seriously unless I reveal all of my personal information, as per every person I talk to on your lines. Make do with my internet number: XXXXXXXXXX.

(my name).

Funny, I ommitted the piece of mail I got this week. It clearly states, as if I hadn’t found out on my own, that IMPORTANT NOTICE – YOUR ONE BILL ACCOUNT HAS BEEN SUSPENDED. No shit, and here I was blowing into the wall, to see if that would reconnect me. I love their claim that they’ve made several attempts to contact me. Leaving a pre-recorded message, ONCE, does not constitute “several attempts”. Then they invite me to contact credit AND COLLECTIONS (they actually underline “and collections”) to coordinate payment arrangements. And to top it all off, the hilarious bit cones at the end. “Sincerely, One Bill Credit Services”.

Bunch of lowlives.

Sincerely,

The Iceberg.

As usual, I had a weird dream last night. Why can’t I just dream of threesomes?

Anyway… A bunch of coworkers (who weren’t actual, real-life coworkers) and myself lived in an apartment. Some government agency entered and wanted to seize everything in the apartment. One of said coworkers lived on the balcony. When the agents asked him for his possessions, he said “I have none”.
And it was true, all he had was the clothes he was wearing. In my dream logic, it was something I had never actually noticed before.
Then I woke up. And I started thinking.

Can it be possible to go through life without owning anything? I’m not talking about homeless people or primitive cultures. I mean, can it really be possible to go through a “normal” life without actually owning anything? I became obsessed with the concept.

Even the homeless have a sense of humour. Where's yours?

Not that I, personally, would want to live in this situation, but is it possible? In these materialistic times, it seems improbable, and I guess there are a few items that would be absolutely necessary in civilization – like at least a couple of pieces of documentation, and since we’re discussing “normal” life, a debit card at the least, since you’d be earning money from our job. I mean, it’s one thing to be cheap, or frugal even, but it’s a whole different animal to not actually own anything.

I just GIS'd "Average Joe", for my example.

Let’s say Average Joe “garage sales” the shit out of everything he has, and gives away or disposes of whatever he couldn’t sell. He keeps only the clothes he’s wearing, and the contents of his wallet. He’ll eat at Subway, or Frugal McDougal’s, or wherever he pleases – money won’t be an issue, since he’s still working and has his debit card. He just won’t have a need for supermarkets anymore, since he doesn’t have cupboards, or a fridge – He moved out of his apartment. He now sleeps wherever he finds a warm spot.
He washes his clothes every day, since they’re the only ones he has. When they wear out completely, he can replace them. He can pass the time just walking about the town, talking to strangers, since well, he got rid of his TV and his iPod and all his sources of entertainment. He can keep up on current events just by talking to people. He’ll show up to work every day, do his normal shift, and leave – nobody would even have to know where he came from, where he’s going or how he’s getting there.
He’ll read books at the library. He won’t spend – or feel tempted to – on entertainment. He’ll only buy lunch and dinner, coffee, and the occasional clothes replacement. Fuck, if nothing else, imagine all the money he’ll be saving.

In the end, I think it is possible to live a normal life without actually owning anything. There might be some issues I haven’t thought of yet, but there has to be a way around everything.

The hardest part, however, would be disposing of what you already own – especially those things that hold a practical or sentimental value. And I guess nobody, myself included, wants to do that. We love our internet, and our pictures of our children and our MP3 collections and our Microwave Popcorn and our electricity and our toilets and our book collections and our souvenirs and our fashionable wardrobes and just keeping up with the Joneses just a bit too much. But in the end, I believe it is possible to not own anything. Hell, I’ve been close, twice. Yet, I keep buying more shit.

The Iceberg.

PS
The guy in my dream resembled a coworker I had in Mexico, whom we used to nickname “Morocco Mole”. I mentioned “Frugal McDougal’s” because I had a good time there on my birthday two years ago. Feel free to insert your favorite eatery.

After much pondering, I decided to include this post in this blog, as opposed to my music blog where it would much better fit in. After all, it’s not an album review – plus, the overall subject is far beyond the scope of “just” the music, but instead it focuses on a subject not exclusively related to music – influence.

There are several generalizations I’ve heard (or read) regarding the people that listen to metal. The druggie references, while mostly true (although not in my case), are not what I want to discuss.
It has been said that there are studies that show that people who listen to heavy metal in high school are more intelligent than the rest of their peers. Tempted as I may be to include a Britney Spears joke here, I’ll spare us.

Now, I’m not in high school anymore, and haven’t been for quite the batch of years. Still, I do fathom myself as of above-average intelligence (I’m not calling myself a genius, I’m just saying it’s nice to be above the norm, which quite frankly, is set very low, nowadays). Plus, I love metal, and have done so for many, many years. So the subject is still pertinent to myself.

While rock n’ roll is based on musical influences set by a variety of elements, it can be assumed that the blues play a great part in said influence. I’m not a music scholar (as the more astute in the lot will have found out thus far), but there’s no denying that whatever the Bon Jovis and the Aerosmiths and the AC/DC’s and yes, the Metallicas of the world have to offer is based or could be traced to the musical expressions of freed slaves from the 17th century.

Metal, on the other hand, is said to have had a huge influence from classical music.

Yes, I’m aware of what I implied earlier. Yes, Metallica and AC/DC can be called metal, the fluid dynamics of music are like that. Let me get more to the point. I repeat, a master of music I am not. I know no difference between a chord and a progression. My only evidence is empirical.

NOTE: I’m only using one example, it’s not like I just found out.

Close your eyes. No wait. Press play on the following clip, and THEN close your eyes. It’s a beautiful piece of classical music, the third movement from Antonio Vivaldi’s “Summer”, from “The Four Seasons”.
Picture, for just a minute, that the violin is an electric guitar, and the rest of the orchestra is the rhthm section in a typical metal band – rhythm guitar, bass and drums. Ready?

Beautiful as the music itself is, did you not get the impression that there are several “riffs” that could, if using other instruments, be labeled as metal?
I’m not the biggest Children Of Bodom fan (a metal band from Finland), although I do like them a lot. Especially since they’re (contrary to what their music style may indicate) quite light-hearted. Look up their cover of Britney Spears’ “Oops I Did It Again”.
But in some guitar instruction video, they prove my point. With the use of two guitars – note, still, the lack of a rhythm section – they create metal out of the same music. It is also important to notice how they create so many orchestral sounds out of only two guitars.

Sure, classical music from the 18th century didn’t include “cookie-monster” vocals, but unless you’re a perfect idiot, you can see the influence is right there.

Makes me wonder why my grandfather hated my music, yet loved his classical music. Well, I never actually played european metal for him, but just listening to Top 40 radio (hey, I was 13!) would send him into fits.

Next time you get pissed off because somebody is playing metal, picture the same music in violins, piano and wind instruments. I promise you’ll remember this post.

The Iceberg