The Bearer of News

Calling

I've found my muse in a new blog site, myspace.com/blarmey.

My new blog is there. I aim to see what I have here and transfer some over there if it's worthy at all in retrospect.

If you want to check out my music (rough, few, but heartfelt and true) please check out myspace.com/carlosgarch.

Then add me as a friend. I need more guy friends so that girls will like me for who I am, not because I am a pimp who brings her money.

Great Scot!

He speaky Engrish funniree.

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoID=1246270671

Goodbye Hello Goodbye

Nothing in this world is meant to last. Not silence; nor pain; nor the rush of a drug that smoothes all kinks in the fabric of life.

It's Friday today. Interesting. A hot muggy day. Not much different from Manila. Except I am in San Francisco with a computer in an office overlooking the bay. It's 10:13 am and cloudy as hell outside and empty inside with exception to the painting students that randomly go in and out of the studio across the hall and Ted Roberts, online coordinator for the Advertising Department, whom I beat this morning to be the first in.

It's been 2 and a half months now since I left a beautiful one-bedroom on Polk St.--a long road that runs the length of San Francisco's social spectrum. Things haven't changed much from me. Still quietly haunting the streets of the city by the bay with my long hair unshaven face and eyes hidden behind sunglasses even when the sun don't shine.

Well, I have moved into a new apartment. Much smaller. A little more expensive. Cozier but lonelier in the midst of crackdealers, whores, and lunatics. A little piece of hell that is kept at bay by two steel gates.

Still, I am as isolated today as I ever was. Without the internet or television or radio, I am left to my own devices, playing the guitar, recording music, writing songs about my melancholy waiting for the day that I can write about how good my life is and how happy I would be to share this with someone or someones.

Ah, bullshit. Nothing ever changes. I've never been in a relationship more than 6 months except for once, and that was interrupted by a flight to America, where my destiny was written in making commercials. Selling things, ideas, and motivations to people is hard, but very rewarding when done well. It doesn't have to be a soulless job. After all, you can get people to act positively, support causes, even support corporations that have causes so that you can act through them if you are too busy or too self-consumed.

Nope. Never did.

The Finger

Hey all.

I want to break the notion that I only have things to say on this blog when things go wrong or when I am being persecuted by peons of agencies like "HRP". (Honestly, I thought that HRP meant either Human Resources / Personnel--or Honey, I Ripped My Pants, I'm not a very good spellar, you see.)

Well, if you MUST know, I'm still being persecuted, mostly by the front covers of Sports Illustrated who non-stop whisper things about me to the brides-to-be on the wedding magazines.

But my publicist (played by the man who lives in Fozzie Bear's finger) and HIS intern (played by the woman who lives OUTSIDE of Fozzie Bear's finger) each gave me a great idea.

The first was to throw away the alfalfa sprouts that had been in the fridge for far too long.

The second, though not as urgent as the first, was to post my advertising work on my blog. So that unlike *some* people, *I* have something to prove I exist. Because why would someone go on to create a fictitious person to create bad ads? While some bad advertisers ought to spend the rest of their days thinking about their careers, and whether they spelled spankalicious right or not (who, after all, does one consult when spelling of the word spankalicious?), I have more extroverted shameless self-promotion to do. Well, lucky for me, the woman who lives outside of Fozzie Bear's finger showed me the light, and told me there were no Es in spankalicious. Saving me the embarrassment and a mean bout with salmonella.

So this post is dedicated to the boys in blue who make up the characters in the "new" show, The Shield.

An awesome cast and great writing about a police district in crime-, gang-, drug-filled Farmington, Los Angeles. The temptation to steal, protect druglords, and be on the take for these characters is too great, especially when the lines of morality are blurred by the rising vapors of everyday life and the face-to-face enounters with death.

It's Not the Pale Moon That Excites Me

It was something like 25 days of rain that San Franciscans endured. Some say that this might be a Buiness Book of World Records record. Either that, or the Start Of Something Big.

But! Today was different. The sun shone from the instant I saw the yellow pavement. No, that was not a dog and its peenmanship. It was a humid morning. San Franciscans must have been ecstatic. You know how I know? Because I got this flattering email that I will print verbatim:



April 4

XXXXXXXXX (Harper's name withheld to protect his/her real identity)

Hey!

Making a list of the advertising department at the
academy. If you know someone who's name isn't on this,
please send it over or forward them this email. Puting
together a list for everyone's records. Will send out
a final email when the list is complete.

Blithe

p.s. I hope no one takes advantage of this list and
starts sending spam. just ad stuff please!



(OKAY, innocent enough. But what if it's a spammer? I (Carlos) choose to be on the cautious side)

Apr 5 (2 days ago)

Who are you and what is this for aside from a list "for everyone's records"? And for whom do you work?



(Sure, a bit standoffish. But who sends emails with the intention of getting this forwarded to multiples and chooses to start it with "Hey!", with poor spellchecking, and lowercase starts of sentences? Anyway, it gets better obviously.



Harper Blithe
to me

Apr 6

Oh yeah, I heard about you. Don't worry, I'm removing
you from the list. Everyone happily obliged. You
didn't. Typical.



(Ouchie! What the heck was that? Did I miss something? Well, obviously, the reputation precedes the man, but wow! I got slammed. Meanwhile, some girl thinks the email list is a great idea, and uses the email addresses to get some collaboration on a project of hers. Kudos, Harper! I, on the other hand, prepare my salvo.)




Carlos Garchitorena
to Harper, (bcc:alaushman), (bcc:aherre) ...
More options 12:32 am (22 minutes ago)
Dear Mr Blithe,

Obviously, you don't listen to what people tell you about me. And what's more, you expect me (and everybody) to happily oblige some mass email from a complete stranger who doesn't bother to clarify matters with a simple "I am so-and-so, and I want to create a network of students who can share creative insight, network, and show off their respective talents in an increasingly competetive world saturated with inane media and a dearth of cooperation--when our only objective is to further the consolidation of art and commerce for the good of Peace, Justice, and the American Way." Instead you admit a huge lack of foresight by including me in your well-meaning but unfortunately uninforming and informal email in which, when pressed for said clarification, you choose to be judgemental, shortsighted, and flatly sarcastic. And guess what? *I've never heard of you*. I'd rather be notorious than unknown. Furthermore, fuck you.

Yours Truly,
Carlos Garchitorena

ps: Attached are some screen shots re: your interesting name. Fitting.

pps: Anyone looking for a copywriter? email me blarmey@yahoo.com. About me: in need of intelligent discourse when brainstorming; I like: challenging briefs, concepts and consumer insight to reflect my fascination for "Eh?...Ahhhhh!" advertisements; my fave campaigns: the Economist, Comcastic, and my personal favorite, hybridcenter.org; when critiqueing/brainstorming, I will: 1) give it to you straight, 2) will never say "no", 3) will not stop at a mediocre idea; willing to teach and learn, but only in equal portions.



(Of course, true to form, I fail to attach the said picture files, but needless to say, the dictionary definitions of Harper Blithe are less-than-flattering.)



END OF COMMUNIQUE



So I will update you on the case of Garchitorena v Blithe.

Waiting In Line: An American's Birthright

So there I was, hanging out with my sister on her last night in San Francisco in the yuckie...I mean the yuppie hood called the Marina: salvaged land; reclaimed from the bay; doomed to be the first to swim at the first shake; reclaimed by the bay.

Something you have to understand about the place we were in. Not only the area which is pretty much fratboy/gainfully unemployed HQ, but the particular bar. Now there is no reason to flung dung because I think all these places in these areas are filled with those damn yanks (shout out to my pinsan "london") who think that bud light and skeet ball is just so fucking rad, so let's just call the place...hmmm...Mauna Loa to protect the hangout's identity. Cool?

So there's a cute little pool table with a good game...not bad...girl knew how to shoot...needed practice...the guy was doing good until he realized that he wasn't going to be king of the table for long. Some challengers had chalked up on the board and I was waiting for my turn to play.

Thing is, I love a match. Whether I win or lose, it's nice to play, meet folks, and talk shit. Unfortunately, yanks love to wait in line more than actually play. I find it pretty sad that in place of fun and love of the game, people would rather sit a week in the dark for a day in the sun.

America: If God killed you right now, would you rather kiss your own ass good bye while feeling the joy of victory (or the agony of defeat)? Or would you rather die in line, respectable-like, gentrified, and civilized--like cows? Yuckies.

No Free Rides, Howsoever Hip They May Be

"Want a free* iPod?"

"I swear** this is true."

"My† friend is a lawyer***************** and he says it's true." (No asterisks).

Just recently, I started a huge shitstorm, lashing out at the world at large like a monkey in a cage with a tattered bag full of feces. It all started on a sunny morning in San Francisco...

I woke up to a fresh pot of coffee and a sweet mug and a bowl with some pot. In my terrycloth robe and my Invader Zim Grrrr Slippers, I went to check my email and grab the electronic news. I was distracted momentarily when I made small talk with my neighbor, Lisa, who happened to be online as well. I didn't notice the big bundle that all but stuffed my inbox. 'Twas a forward to about a million people about a DJ I've never heard of, and a party I would be loathe to go, in a country that was as far from my mind as it was from my body.

I have been spammed by strangers. I have been spammed by spambots. I can so easily write off these fuckers and send them to the guardians of the 'net who are slightly subtler, incognito, and ruthlessly efficient than the Spanish Inquisition (Fear and Surprise, at the very least, being their priority).



But when it's people that I know who are trying to sell me Notox Footspa® or a chance to win another chance to be on the mailing list to the pre-qualifying contest, it is very hard to tell people to fuck off whilst setting a good example. So I replied to all and told them, "stop this". Doesn't the wholewideweb know by now that these mass emails and forwards are what unscrupulous marketers (hate them types marketers) use these email lists to harvest email addresses and personal information? Or is that only a fact I made up in my dredged up mind?

Oh, yeah. What triggered this rant after æons of dormancy? click on the link then:

http://www.wired.com/news/technology/0,70420-0.html?tw=rss.index