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

This is my latest artwoork. I was able to get hold of Inseeyah's camera (albeit sneakily, hi-hihihi-hihi!) and took this single light photo of the CLIO award, the highest honor in advertising (which could be construed to mean being the Overlord Satan in the Fiery Pits Of Hell).

This will be sent out to all locally-based agencies in San Francisco as an invite to our school's playing of the CLIO Reel at 491 Post. The evening's secret theme is Hot Damn (tchang-inang init yan!).

It might look like it was really easy to make. And it does. What isn't apparent is the work that a designer has to make so that everything looks and flows as it should.

And when text is added, you have nuance, logic, sense, and a whole lotta letters to love.

"Way, way, down inside/Honey you need ice/ Wanna give you my love/Every inch of my love...Yeah/"

Would You Like the Sense of Sight?

Sure there's tons to see
Sex and violence on national TV
With movies and ads telling me
Who I want to be
I'll skip the Last Action Hero's fight
Give up my sense of sight.

The Big Mouse City

It's easy for the City Mouse in the Big Mouse City to blend in. All he needs to do is grab a suitcase and stop gawking at the tall buildings.

City Mouse in the Big Mouse City

I nervously thought of how I would ask this girl that I just met. We were talking about Cirque de Soleil at 10 in the morning. She was a fine arts student. I am in advertising.

Outside, the momentary center of our attention, the Cirque freeway billboard stood as it did before we talked about wanting to see it. So I figured I would ask to see her either before or after the show, so that we could talk about it.

I rehearsed it in silence thinking that I had a simple goal. To make a connection with someone who was placed there for me to meet in room 501 even though she was a fine arts student painting on the floor designated for advertising.

It was alright, she had said. She started going to the academy in the advertising department but because she had no time to draw or paint, she was made to choose her true love.

Too much concepting, she had said. What?, I had thought.

All I do is draw and paint (in Photoshop) when making addenda to my concepts. It's called putting flesh on the bone, lady!

Meanwhile, I'm cooking up my vague plan to "meet up with" her "before or after the show...so we could talk about it." I'm such a dork. What was she...15? No, about 21 or 22. But I digress. I should have the balls to strike up conversation AND have the mojo on call. And I can't walk away shaking my head...feeling shot down...not after years of experience and having snagged the prettiest, sexiest, least tameable, stunningly smart, most kwela women IN THE WORLD. And this girl with the swollen lips with the newsboy hat laid low over her brow sent me packin wit nuttin.

It's like highschool, I like to say. What I'm really doing is subconsciously trying to invoke the past...which is like the drug that you reach for in the middle of the night. Clawing at it. Trying to catch enough of the blue smoke that it leaves behind when your hand passes straight through it and it disappears.

Enough of that. I'm not in highschool anymore. I love my work too much to let it get sidetracked by heartache, longing, and daydreaming. So let's draw.

And then it was 12:30. And still

My Effin D

This article could also be called My Stupid Mouth, since it was from my mouth after all, that I heard myself habitually pointing out to Unitedstatesans the horrible history they have made. And that they are making. And it has only struck me now...now that my US History Teacher FLUNKED ME with a capital D. All of a sudden I'm self-conscious of how I really find it hard to relate with these descendants of war when all that I can think while they are driving their electric buses down clean fast paced lifeways dotted intermittently with the camouflaged hobo in the perfect San Francisco sun and Western Sea air and beautiful white women with their murdered blonde hair. And I think, you have so much blood on your hands from the bloody money that bought my country and the bloody backs that bore the slavery of blacks. Sunglasses today. ipods tomorrow. Harry Potter and the return of the Cadillac

And I think, even though it's painful and even though it's true, I've just got to say it to you. Because you act like it's not happening. And because of your not acting on its change. And what am I doing? I'm collecting. (Did you know that all machines that take coins in this here city accept peso coins as quarters? Which with the "current exchange rate" at 56:1, the "Change exchange Rate" is 14:1. 'La lang. That's probably how most millionaires from the Philippines make their money. They come to the states with a shitload of pisos and use them to buy all the cans of soda and ride all the buses and trains that they can. It's genius. Can you imagine back to the time that the "public exchange rate" was 2:1? Then we could have used our pisos back then and our currency would have actually been stronger. But only in vending machines, Bart stations, and Muni buses.)

But seriously, there are good things in this world thanks to the 'cans. Like the internet. And um... hmmm.... anyway, the internet {BBC podcast: http://audio.theworld.org/wma/2005/07293.wma} If there is a tool that breaks down barriers, blurs if not erases borders, and raises the questions of an international governing body/bodies, it's the net. It's really ushered in a big way a level of connectedness that G7/G8, or the UN or the WB or the OC in the WC could never do. Kablam. Toto, I don't think we're in the eighties anymore.

Ah, the USofA. Snake oil salesman who went home with the Rotisserie--As Seen On TV! "You live by the packaging; you die by the packaging." That should be on the lips of every environmentalist in the world. There's no doubt. This is a throwaway plastic society. Recyclable and with a V8 engine... I swear, look at your life. Doesn't matter where you are. In my life, at least, the scariest toys in the world say MADE IN THE USA. Bein a good little Indian.

Running Late

On a normal day at this time, I'm toweling down (or is it up? depends which body part we're speaking of) but instead I start with art.

Before we forget completely

Agosto 21, 1983
Pinatay siya bago makatapak muli sa lupang sinilangan.

Benigno 'Ninoy' Aquino
His words made liars run in every direction.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.henkelsandmccoy.com/corporate/timeline/images/83NinoyAquino.jpg

The Kiss

I wish

When you see me making a wish, do you try to guess what I am wishing?

Well, I wish you wouldn't. Because then you would know that behind that penerating gaze is a shell--thin as a veil and empty as hell.

Catching floating flowers and releasing them on bonds payable next to never; crossing locomotive tracks with a singe stride; a candle on a cake; an eyelash.

Today--what remains of it--the memory of a week and sixty years comes and goes in a flash and the bang of a atomic bomb's mushroom cloud flattening a city and burdening a generation with the evils of their lords and mighty ones; warmongers and Presidents.

This week, I've been listening to the Technology Podcasts of Clark Boyd, BBC in Boston. This week, I've been listening to the accounts of the survivors, the memories that have only in this day and age surfaced. The memories interpreted are like my own. They are now my own.

I live very close to Japantown. In fact, I pass it everyday. Twice.

If I wished a wish, it would be never to hear a word said in anger again. Never to have a word said in anger laid in a fertile mind whereby only hurt and pain would grow. Never to have an idea of hate escalate into violence.



To those who have looked and found nothing new in this space, I apologize. I know what it feels like. I've been visiting stagnating blogs myself. Erch.

But I've also been busying myself with a new original song that I've been composing. An old one. Wrote it in 1999 in CDO. "Mercy me, is that a skyscraper I see lying on the ground?..."

You'll hear it soon enough.