Iceberglandia

Yes, the title is the name of a Spice Girls album. So what?

The more observant of you might have come to the conclusion that, judging by the title, I’m gonna make something spicy.
And you would be half-correct. In fact, I’m making TWO spicy somethings.

Some might call them salsas, some might call them garnishes. I guess it all depends on what you use them as.

That was me, trying to make a happy face with some of my ingredients. Because I’m autistic like that. The first one we’re going to make is very easy. So easy, in fact, that it doesn’t even require pictures.

PICO DE GALLO
This is a quite popular thing, both in Mexico, and over here. But instead of doing a Herdez-style bland thing, I’m going to tell you how to do it properly.

You chop a tomato, an onion, and your desired amount of jalapeños (if you’re fortunate enough to find serrano peppers, good for you. I’m not fortunate, but jalapeños work just as well). My formula is equal amounts of these. In this case, I went with 5 jalapeños.
Then, you finely mince garlic, to taste. I’m afraid of vampires, so just to make sure I’m immune, I went with 4 cloves.
Then, you add salt and pepper, to taste. And you squeeze one or two limes on top of everything. If you want, you can add a splash of vinegar.
Feel free to add cilantro, as well. I don’t have any on hand, but I would have added it.
Stir, and behold.

You can use pico de gallo on almost everything. Some random ideas: add it to crushed avocado, and voila! you have guacamole! Add it to scrambled eggs, and you’d have “huevo a la mexicana”. Fuck, mix a can of tuna with some pico de gallo, put it between two slices of bread, and there’s a tuna sandwich like you’ve never had before. Try it with fish, on tacos, or even by itself.
And if you’re anything like me, when it’s finished, the juice left at the end makes a nice little treat.

HABANERO & ONION RELISH
This one is a little more complicated. But only a little. You take an onion, and your desired amount of habanero peppers. I went with 20, because I love the stuff.
Instead of chopping, this time we’re going to finely slice everything. I don’t think I need to tell you how to slice an onion, but the habaneros are a little bit tricky. Since they’re full of air, you have to slice the top off, and then press down. then you slice all the way down, and you slice your slices in half.
If you want, you can add very thin slices of carrot. That always helps. But as you can see, I pulled this post out of my ass and didn’t have many of the necessary ingredients.

Note: Immediately after you’re done with the peppers, wash your hands. Scrub them deeply for a while, with lots of soap. I don’t want you to forget you were handling habaneros, and suddenly running to the bathroom to take a pee. I’ve done that, and believe me, it’s not as fun as it seems.

So, you have everything sliced up. Now, we have to add some more stuff. Lots of liquid. Equal parts lime juice, and white vinegar. I squeezed 7 limes, and still came up short.
And, of course, lots of salt. I’m not talking about two pinches here. I’m talking a fistful, at least.
Mix, and that’s it!

You can enjoy this right away, but for better results, let it sit for a couple of days. You won’t believe the awesomeness.

This can go on top of anything you feel could use a little “punch”. Or a lot. It’s up to you.

The Iceberg

Soundgarden. So many memories. And as much as the general public commends them for Superunknown, my favourite album is Badmotorfinger. It’s heavier, grungier, and while perhaps less technical and/or less experimental, it came at the right time.
One of my favourite songs off the album, and of all of Soundgarden’s catalog is without a doubt “Outshined”.

Why am I mentioning all this? As I prepared the food I mentioned in my last article, I tuned in to The Buzz, one of my favorite internet radio stations. In the middle of playing newer fare and “classics” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Nine Inch Nails, suddenly “Outshined” came on. And it connected. The lyrics, I’ve always loved. But being an album from 1991, it doesn’t get a whole lot of airplay ’round here. Competition is too tough.
I rocked for a bit, while the song lasted, and then stopped my radio feed, opened WinAmp and played Badmotorfinger, from start to finish. I might, or might not, review it on my music blog, but for now, I wanted to concentrate on this song.

First, the lyrics:

I got up feeling so down
I got off being sold out
Ive kept the movie rolling
But the story’s getting old now

I just looked in the mirror
Things aren’t looking so good
Im looking california
And feeling minnesota

So now you know, who gets mystified
Show me the power child
Id like to say
That Im down on my knees today
It gives me the butterflies
Gives me away
Till Im up on my feet again
Im feeling outshined

Someone let the dogs out
Theyll show you where the truth is
The grass is always greener
Where the dogs are shitting

Im feeling that Im sober
Even though Im drinking
I cant get any lower
Still I feel Im sinking

So now you know who gets mystified
Show me the power child
Id like to say
That Im down on my knees today
It gives me the butterflies
Gives me away
Till Im up on my feet again
Im feeling outshined

Is that me, or what? The line “I’m looking California, and feeling Minnesota” became my status on Facebook. Nobody bothered to even “like” it, since it’s not a song by Rhianna, or what’s that other chick? Beyonce? But I don’t give a fuck.
There’s a lot of songs that one can find connections with. Myself, fuck, I’ve lost track of how many. But for now, This is my anthem.

And it’s not only the song. This is what Chris Cornell has to say about the song, according to Wikipedia:

I don’t know how everyone else feels…but I definitely go through periods of extreme self-confidence, feeling like I can do anything. Perhaps a fan will sense that, like in a performance, and the hero image creeps out. But then someone will say something, however insignificant, or I’ll get something in my head and, all of a sudden, I’m plummeting in the opposite direction, I’m a piece of shit, and I really can’t do anything about it. That’s where “Outshined” comes from, and why I’ll never consider myself a hero.

And that is exactly the way I feel, regarding certain subjects. And it’s not that I’m validating my existence through the words of some celebrity (who ended up covering Michael Jackson songs, even), but in one paragraph, he expressed what I’ve never been able to, in many of my “whinier” blog entries.

Anyway, here’s the video, if the ever-decaying YouTube allows me to post it:

The Iceberg

PS
I just noted the “dogs are shitting” verse was edited out for the video…

As I mentioned in my previous post regarding a visit to a certain fast food place, I was foodless at home. A quick run to the grocery store a while ago settled that, for now.
This is what I ate today. Twice as good, and half the price of a Double Whopper Value Meal.

Sometime between the moment I started getting hungry and the moment I entered the grocery store, I decided I wanted quesadillas. Not just a flour tortilla with cheese, mind you. Proper quesadillas, with some other filling. I tried to remember which ingredients I had at home, and what I had to buy. I walked out of the store with a bag of large flour tortillas, jalapeño peppers, and a can of sliced mushrooms for this, among other things.

So, let’s get started. Let’s meet the gang!

Margarine, salt, flour tortillas, half a pack of hot dogs (hey, I’m on a fucking budget, ok? feel free to use normal meat), mozarella cheese, a can of sliced mushrooms, a potato, a tomato, 3 jalapeño peppers and an onion. And garlic, but as always, somebody doesn’t make the picture.
If I were in Mexico, I’d be using Oaxaca cheese instead of Mozarella, but one does what one can with what one has.
Anyway, time to chop shit up.

I chopped everything I was going to fry, put it in containers, chopped the cheese and set it aside. I melted some margarine (sometimes I like to switch from oil to margarine, just for shits and giggles, but if you prefer oil, go ahead) and added my thingies.
While they cooked on high for aprox. 15 minutes, I wrestled with the “resealable” tortilla bag. I added the salt and some pepper, and stirred occasionally.

I was finally able to pull out two flour tortillas. I packed them with cheese and sent them on their way to the stove, courtesy of a “comal”.

“Iceberg!”, you say. “We’re not mexicans, what the fuck is a comal?”
A comal is a thin, usually round sheet of metal, not unlike the grill where you would usually make pancakes. Only much thinner, and transmits heat faster.

Then I added a scoop of filling to each of my quesadillas, cut them in half, and served.

And there we have it. My home-made salsa, some “El Yucateco” Habanero salsa, and of course, a brewski. Now THAT’s a meal. Tasty as hell, and really, really filling. As in, I’m on my way out for a walk.

And of course I have a shitload of filling left over. That’ll come in handy in a variety of things, whatever I decide to make. Scrambled eggs, a sandwich, or more quesadillas.

The Iceberg.

Have you ever walked up to the drive-thru at McDonalds and casually placed your order – while on foot? Of course not, that would be stupid. Of course, I was about to do that yesterday.
Had I not gotten a ride home from work, that is.

See, since monday I’ve been promising myself to go to McDonald’s (something I don’t do very often) to buy a large chocolate shake. My mouth has been watering every time I think of one, for some reason. And last night was the perfect opportunity.
There’s a McDonald’s close to my workplace, just not on my regular path. But my regular path is now full of shrubbery, and walking in yesterday felt like I was walking through the jungle. Not something I would want to do at night, and risk stumbling upon a skunk, or a raccoon. That meant I’d have to walk around, and yes, walk next to McDonalds.
Fortunately, of the few people there yesterday, two of them left at the same time I did, and I managed to get a ride home. No chocolate shake for me, yesterday. But that’s alright, since I had lunch at another fast food joint.

On my walk to work, I had to stop by the grocery store in order to buy a can of coffee, since I had run out on tuesday. Of course, I had no food prepared, due to a minor mishap with a pack of ground beef I left to defrost for a bit too long. So, I decided, I’d stop by the No Frills, pick up my coffee, and buy something to eat either at the store, or at one of the few restaurants on the way.
There’s a Subway, a Burger King, a Tim Horton’s, and as I mentioned, just off my regular path, a McDonald’s and a Harvey’s. Since I was running a little late, I wasn’t going to go off my path. So, Burger King it was.

I hadn’t eaten at BK since I took my daughter there once when she was like 3 or 4. She’s 9 next September, just for reference.

I looked at the menu, and nothing looked really appetizing. I’m not the biggest fast food fan. All I wanted, after all, was a burger and maybe a cup of coffee. But for the price of that, I could get a “value meal”. So, I went with a Double Whopper Value Meal.
I got to work and before changing into my work costume, I wolfed down the burger. To tell the truth, it wasn’t bad. I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t had to scarf it down like some dog, but it was tasty, indeed. I forgot about the fries until I left work, so I didn’t find them quite as enjoyable. And the coke had long been consumed, while I was walking to work. Hey, I hadn’t drunk coffee. I need caffeine in order to function properly.

You know which fast food joints I miss? KFC, Popeye’s, Wendy’s. I’m not even sure there’s a Popeye’s here in town. It’s nice to indulge every now and then. On the other hand, I cook well enough that I don’t feel the need to eat out that often.
(Unless my plans for spaghetti are thwarted by the odd smell emanating from my ground beef).

The Iceberg

You women complain too much about your, um, “organs”. “Waaah, menstrual cramps”. “Waaah, bloating”. “Waaah, the pains of child birth”. Try being a guy for one day.

Of course, I wrote that previous paragraph in jest. I don’t have a vagina of my own, but I’m sure it’s tough. I’m just pissed that we guys are never taken seriously when it comes to our own particular “problems”.

It’s been expressed by certain groups (namely, feminists and Kevin Smith) that God may be, in fact, a woman. A silly idea, since of course there is no God (at least in the image presented to us by organized religion), but let’s go with it for now.
Let’s say God, on the sixth day, created man and she saw that it was good, and all that Genesis crap. Stumped when it came to male genitalia, she wired a few things wrong, and since she’s a woman, she didn’t give a shit. Or she plotted her revenge because Adam forgot to take out the trash. You never know, when it comes to women.
“I shall make man’s bladder in such a way that when it gets filled up with urine overnight, the extra pressure will impede blood circulating through the penis to leave said penis, creating an erection. Then, man will wake up and have to pee. WITH AN ERECTION! LOL!!”

And that’s how many days begin, for the male population. Manoeuvering over a toilet. How does that make sense, either biologically, or creationally? It doesn’t!

Well, gotta go. Coffee’s ready.

The Iceberg.

I’m stumped. Sometimes, intelligent reasoning can go in two separate directions. In the end, it becomes a battle of reasoning between one’s own brain and… one’s own brain. All, thanks to a 5,000 year old Egyptian invention.

In cartoons, there’d be a little angel over my right shoulder, and a little devil over my left one. Both present valid arguments.

Here’s the situation.

Yesterday, I bought a case of beer. 24 cans. On an average day, a case will last me two days. A weekend, so to speak. Today, however, wasn’t an average day. Days, by the way, are becoming less and less average.
It used to be that I could calculate my beer intake by the hour. Such as, if it takes me 12 hours to drink 12 beers, I can start drinking at 3 PM, and be safe and sound in bed by 3 AM. Now, my tolerance is much higher. Twice as much, actually. Now I go by half-hour averages.
Anyway, yesterday, apart from my case, I bought two cans I didn’t have in my collection (yes, I collect beer cans). 26 cans total, of which I drank half yesterday. I awoke today with 13 cans in the fridge.
By my standards, I figure that’s six and a half hours of beer, which, based on my 3 AM standard, means I’d have to start drinking at 8:30 PM.
Problem is, it’s not even 6 PM yet, and I’ve only got 6 beers left. Which is why I have this conundrum.

On one hand, I could muster up a lesson in economics 101, and figure out how not to spend on shit I don’t need – and I’m not an alcoholic (yet), I don’t need beer. Maybe those 30 bucks could come in handy down the road. Put them in a jar, save them for when I go back home. Do you know how far 30 canadian dollars can take you down in Mexico?
Makes sense, doesn’t it? After all, the money you don’t have because you previously spent it on unworthwhile shit always comes in handy at a certain point…

On the other hand, says the little devil, what do you work for? The purpose of holding a job, beyond covering your living expenses, is to be able to earn enough so you can enjoy life. You don’t (and can’t, as of lately) spend on any other entertainment… why limit yourself?
If you want beer, and you can afford it, why not buy it? It’s two hours of work, for 12 hours of fun!
Rent money’s in the bank. The next paycheck can go towards bills and groceries. Plus, you have more than enough for beer. Buy it, and you’ll still have enough left over to get you through the week. Plus, it’ saturday! Let’s party! And remember, with all the empties you have lying around, thing of it as getting a case at half price!

Well, geez, that little devil makes a good argument. They both do. I already made up my mind. What would you have done?

The Iceberg.

My brother-in-law, Calvin, makes a kick-ass pasta salad. On top of everything else he prepares, this salad is easily one of the highlights every time I’m over for dinner.

However, whatever proficiencies he shows in the kitchen, he lacks when it comes to the internet. Or maybe not, but three weeks ago I asked my sister to tell hin to email me the recipe, and I never got the email. So, it was time to get creative.

I managed to get all the ingredients I remembered, except for broccoli (I hate the stuff, but in this instance I honestly forgot). I got feta cheese, olives, tomatoes, green pepper, and complemented with whatever I had lying around. Oh, and of course, a bag of fusilli pasta.

Celery and half an onion are missing in the picture, because I thought about them after I took it. But here’s a recap of the ingredients:

A bag of fusilli pasta, a green pepper, olives, a tomato, two chunks of celery, half an onion, feta cheese, ham, salami and pepperoni (my idea, but they’re italian and Italy is in the Mediterranean, and this is called “Mediterranean” salad, so fuck it), vinegar, olive oil (it didn’t make the picture because it’s a big-ass container), pepper, oregano and italian seasoning.
Oh, and my parsley was half-way rotten, so I had to do without.

While the pasta cooked, I chopped up everything else. Of course, the water you cook your pasta in should be heavily salted. If not, there’s no flavour. I mean, it doesn’t have to to taste like the ocean, but a teaspoon won’t do it. I just threw a fistful of salt into the pot. Of course, I’m using a big pot and it’s 3/4 full of water. Make your own calculations.

It took a while for the pasta to cool down enough so I could mix everything together, but finally I was able to. I added my vinagrette with spices at the end. And was it all worth it?

You’re damn right, it was worth it! I ate two bowls, and am in the process of considering more.

The Iceberg.

It’s been a weird week, in that I’ve tried to shut myself up about this subject all week. I don’t want all y’all to think I’m whining, yet again.
Which is something I find oddly amusing in itself. One of the most curious aspects of Bi-Polar Disorder is that the very same thing that depresses you one day turns out to be hilarious the next. So relax, I’m not bitching.

The more I tried to shut myself up, the more and more examples I found of this very same thing – the fact that for the most part, I find myself ignored by almost everybody.
I know it’s not on purpose, and I’m not paranoid about it, but it’s just funny to see that wherever I look, there’s people ignoring me.

I’ve mentioned before that it sucks (well… it does!) that you drum up a quasi-amusing status update, and in your deepest fantasies you picture everybody at the very least “liking” what you wrote. Or commenting something. You come back hours later, and NOPE! Everybody was too busy playing FarmTown or whatever the newest trinket is, or taking their idiotic quizzes like “Which Sexually Transmitted Disease did your Dad give your Mom the night you were conceived?”.
Hell, at times I’ve posted as a status update something on which I need, um, assistance. Like asking to borrow a phone, while mine got reconnected, or asking why only two Red Sox players wear red socks. The replies have been overwhelmingly absent.
But all that is not what I want to discuss today.

On monday, at work, it was break time. There were a few of us outside, one of them was making their funny because it’s so ironic remarks, another was discussing the inner workings of his recently-purchased truck to a degree of detail only specialized mechanics could understand… and everybody listened. Then the retard mentioned how he was able to go to the ball game on saturday – something he had exclaimed he wanted to do, the week before (I mean, it’s not like it just came from nowhere), and was met by dead silence. In the distance, a single tumbleweed said “nah, fuck it”, and stayed put.

What a ghost might look like.

I quit posting comments on fark.com a long time ago. I never saw the point in bringing up a comment relative to the topic, and being ignored because people prefer to troll, or reply to the trolls. But on wednesday, it was different. A thread came up in which the topic was how one of my favorite bands had just fired their singer. Myself, being an authority on all things Anthrax (not really, but hey), I decided to comment. Nothing groundbreaking, and I wasn’t really expecting to hear from anybody. The next morning, I discovered nobody had replied to me. What a surprise. Not only that, but other people commented the same things I did (that John Bush was their best singer), after I did, and people replied to them. It’s like I wasn’t even there!
But if you care, I laughed, this time. I didn’t feel bad at all. Like I said, it amuses me now.

Then yesterday morning, a friend posted on facebook she was having a specific problem – a problem which I’ve had and had just gained the knowledge on how to solve.
I posted my “discovery” as a reply. Then, some other friend of hers “posted a funny”. Guess who she replied to. I’ll give you a hint. Her reply was “hahahahahaha”. So, here I am, offering a solution to a problem, and now I’m 0-for-3 this week.

Oh well, I guess that’s my thing then. Being the invisible man. Which reminds me of Queen, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, right? RIGHT?

The Iceberg.

Those of you who know me well are aware that I hardly ever leave the house, if it’s not for work, or to scavenge groceries or beer. This past saturday, however, was different.
The plan had been made a few weeks earlier. My sister, her husband and his cousin, who’s visiting from Mexico, wanted to go to the Blue Jays game on July 18th. My sister was kind enough to invite me along.

As luck would have it, one week prior I had received an email from the Mexican Consulate in Toronto inviting me to a “Mexican Festival” happening over this particular weekend. Studying the events calendar, I happened to notice there would be a concert of sorts by mexican “rock” band, Café Tacuba. I mentioned this to my sister, and although they aren’t exactly the biggest “rock fans” in the world, I guess they decided to humor me.

The adventure started on a kind of sour note. Alas, the fucking government again has decided to give everyone at my workplace a big fuck you for another three-week stretch, regarding its supposed Employment Insurance/Work Sharing program. Flat broke, I almost cancelled my plans with my sister. But maybe I could borrow some money from the Money Mart at 30% interest. Thanks, Government!
Cash in hand, I went ahead with the plan. Much more strapped for cash than I would’ve been if those clowns at Service Canada were any more competent.

For instance, arriving at 9.30 in Toronto, and with three and a half hours to kill, I could have joined my brother in law and his cousin when they went up the CN Tower. Instead, I watched people walk by the Rogers Centre, ticket scalpers and entertainment booths. Finally, at 12.30, we entered the ballpark.

THE GAME
We managed to score some pretty sweet seats off a scalper, for $55 a pop. That’ more than half of what I carried, but hey, it was the whole purpose of the trip, so fuck it.
I hadn’t had anything to eat, and judging by the prices inside the park, it became apparent I’d have to go hungry for another three hours, at least. Also, I nearly fainted when I saw the price (and the selection) of beer.
Anyhoo, we found ourselves on our seats, located in Level 2, just off third base. I was marveling at the whole Rogers Centre, an impressive structure. On the field, people were working. Suddenly, I spot a few of the players from the Red Sox warming up. Then, on the nearer side of the outfield, a few Blue Jays doing the same.
I was struck by a sudden realization. “Fuck”, I said. “We just paid 55 dollars each to watch millionaires throw a little ball around”. Humanity is amazing, innit?

Suddenly, the opening ceremonies. And well, being a fan of stand-up comedy, a special treat for myself. The guest celebrity in charge of throwing the ceremonial “first pitch” was none other than Russell Peters. That was cool.

Then, finally the game started. By the bottom of the second inning, it looked like Boston was going to score an easy win. Toronto looked sloppy, while Boston looked impressive. But then the inning ended and the score was tied, 1-1.
Toronto, by the way, was coming in from a losing streak, while the Red Sox had been on a winning one.

Funny how it can all change at the bottom of the fourth. With a runner on second and another on first, it was Adam Lind’s turn at bat. He swung, connected, and the ball took a rather long journey into the Toronto bullpen. Fuck yeah! That was my first of three standing ovations.

Top of the fifth. Jays pitcher Marc Rzepczynski struck out Kevin Youkilis. With one out, David Ortiz struck the ball, but the bat shattered and the outcome was a ground ball, straight to Rzepczynski, who threw to second, and from there a double play at first. I decide to get my first beer. I end up hating myself. I just paid $10 for fucking Budweiser. 

Bottom of the fifth. Runners on second and third. José Bautista hits a double and brings the score to 6-1. Standing ovation number two.

Start of the seventh inning. Toronto relief pitcher comes on. His first pitch, his VERY FIRST FUCKING PITCH ends up on the wrong side of the playing field, courtesy of Jed Lowrie. 6-2. Shit. Soon after, my sister informs me they’re not selling beer after the seventh inning stretch, so I “stretch” myself out to the concession stand and repeat the process of exchanging a ten-dollar bill for whatever Anheuser-Busch describes as “beer”.
Then, time for standing ovation number three. The “play of the game”. Boston’s J.D. Drew hit the ball, and it was clearly going to be a hit. Except Toronto 3B Scott Rolen made a fantastic diving catch. Wow.

Kevin Youkilis struck out again, and I only mention this because he’s one on my friends’ favorite player. I took a shitty video with my camera, in case he wants it. Hee hee.

So, the game ended 6-2. How lucky of me to have gone to that game. We hung out as the retractable roof closed in over our heads, then we hit the gift shops because the cousin wanted a Toronto Jersey.

THE SHOW
After walking around downtown Toronto for a while, we decided to go take a peek at the Sirius stage, just on the lake there, to see what was up. Some band was plaing its last song, and it was announced the Café Tacuba would be playing next. After about 45 minutes, finally the show started. We hardly saw anything, because the crowd was huge. I honestly never thought I’d see that many mexicans in Toronto. I felt like I was somewhere in Mexico City. But the show rocked.

They started playing some of their staples “El Borrego”, followed by “No Controles” (a cover of some pop trio from the eighties), “Alarmala de Tos”, “Rarotonga”, and after that I guess they decided to play their newer stuff, which I’m not that familiar with. Overwhelmed by the crowd, my sister decided it was time to leave. I can only assume Café Tacuba ended their set with “Ingrata”.

All in all it was a good day.

The Iceberg.

PS
I’m working on a gallery I’ll be setting up on Facebook. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.

So, last monday I got a call from Rogers, regarding my account. Because, well, I hadn’t paid since december. Stupid economy, and all. I told the nice lady I had already entered an agreement since May in which I had until July 26th to pay five hundred and seventy-odd dollars. “Nevermind”, she said, upon realizing I was speaking the truth, and hung up. “I will be paying this thursday”, I mentioned.
She said “Yes, well, you still have until the 26th”, to which I replied “I’d much rather get this out of the way”. We parted rather amicably. In fact, her last words were “if you pay on thursday, we’ll have you reconnected by monday, at the latest”.
Have a good day, and all, too.

So, when I received my vacation pay from work, I could have gone with the heart, said “fuck it”, packed a suitcase and gone back home. Still, I had to think with the brain. “Why don’t you rid yourself of debt, instead?”. And that is exactly what I did. I had already caught up on my rent, my Bell thingies, paid off my Zellers credit card… the last bastion between me and a debt-free life was Rogers.
Last thursday, I kept my promise and visited the nearby Rogers Video store. I waited until monday, as a good little boy. Nothing. Tuesday night, after work, nothing. Today, I decided to give them a piece of my mind.

“Herro”, she answered. Not really, but she did have an asian accent, and I love me my stereotypes. She was a bitch. A cunt. A rude assholish idiot from the credit and billing department. “I paid what I was told to, and my service hasn’t been reconnected”, I explained. “Werr, sir, you have to pay one hundred and eighty four dorrars“. “No”, i explained. “I was promised if I paid what I paid my service would be reconnected”.
Se replied with “Oh, I’m an idiot, let me transfer you to somebody else”. Five minutes of one of Mozart’s sonatas later, some guy picked up.
“Repeat unto me all of your personal info”, he said in my imagination, “because our  automated service, while technologically impressive, can’t keep track of a single file account”. So, I did. “Oops, sorry”, the idiot said. “I’m an imbecile and can do nothing to help you. Sorry, but our princess is in another castle”. So he transfered me back to the credit and billing services department, where I got a hold of this “Ryan” dude.

Ryan tells me I’m fucked, as have all the idiots before him. As I had explained, I had been lied to, and would have no more of this. I wanted to cancel. Ryan, at first, gave the same speech as all the others. “Ha! Ha! You gave us 580 dollars and you’re still fucked!”. He wanted me to pay another 140 dollars, just for the privilege of cancelling my cell phone service (another 400-odd quid). I hung up, pissed. Fuming.

In my rage, I nearly smashed my iPhone against the oven door. Just as I held it over my head, in an effort to gain maximum force, it started vibrating in my hand. “Is it pleading for mercy?”, I thought. Realizing inanimate objects don’t plea for mercy, I realized it was ringing. By the time I tried to answer it, the call had been lost. It apeared to be from a blocked number, but still, it was strange I had even received a call.
30 seconds later, my home phone rings. I answer.
“Hey, buddy!”, the voice says. “This is Ryan, we just talked about your Rogers account”. In his non-chalant, unprofessional demeanor (not that there’s anything wrong with a guy acting “fresh”, mind you – it beats the monotony, at least), he said  ”Listen, um, I was wrong, I just noticed there is a note on your profile saying you had made an agreement in May, and you already paid that”.
“Well, duh”, I thought, but I kept listening.
“You know what? I apologize for not doing my work properly, I messed up. I reconnected your service, just turn your phone off for about a minute, turn it back on, and you should have no problems. Your next bill is due on the 19th, but if you can make your payment by august I don’t see there being any problems. Again, I appreciate your time and I apologize for my mistake”.
Oh, between my first dialogue with Ryan and his announcement that I had service, at least 30 minutes went by. He did apologize for the wait, every ten or so minutes, but at the same time, I developed a fascination with jazz music.

Well, thanks to Ryan, a.k.a. somebody with a fucking brain, I have my cell phone service up and running. I just turned the thing on, and indeed, it shows my 3G icon. Yeah Ryan!

So, if the call had ended with the asian lady, or the other prick, I’d be cancelling my account. But thanks to Ryan, I guess I’ll stick to my Rogers account after all. I hope some Rogers big wig reads this and takes appropriate measures. Give the guy a bonus, at least.

So yey! I got my iPhone running now.

The Iceberg.