Subliminal Messages

You have probably noticed that I changed the background colour scheme of this blog. This was done in response to an off-line comment I received that the previous colour scheme made the person feel wierd. It seems that the colour scheme out-wierded the writing, and I couldn't let that be, so I changed the colours around.

Let me know what you think of the new look.

Speaking of colour schemes, while I was fiddling with the colours it occured to me that perhaps I could slip some subliminal messages into the blog. According to Wikipedia:

A subliminal message is a signal or message designed to pass below the normal limits of perception. These messages are indiscernible to the conscious mind, but are alleged to be perceptible to the subconscious or deeper mind: for example, an image transmitted so briefly that it is only perceived unconsciously, but not otherwise noticed [LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS BLOG]. Subliminal techniques have occasionally been used in advertising and propaganda; whether they are anything more than a rarity is debated.

There are all sorts of unfounded conspiracy theories about subliminal messages in advertising [LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS BLOG] and the ensuing public outcry. But I'm all for it. People don't know what's good for them. Advertisers do.

So once I decided to go ahead and include a subliminal message on this blog, the [LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS BLOG] only remaining problem was, what message to convey? Something egotistical? Peace and love? Something political? It took me a while until I decided that - well, if I told you then it would spoil the whole thing, now wouldn't it? So next time you find yourself espousing an opinion, stop and think for a second that perhaps your opinon is really a sinister result of reading this blog...

*Disclaimer: any opinions expresed by readers of [LEAVE A COMMENT ON THIS BLOG] this blog do not necessarily reflect those of its author unless, of course, it is a particularly convincing opinion or one that is so eloquently put that it flabbergasts the listener into agreeing - in which case it is probably my opinion (unless it is an argument that strawberry ice-cream is better than chocolate because everyone knows that chocolate ice-cream is far better than strawberry so any argument to the contrary is bound to fail and is therefore not included).

Why Being a Dead Celebrity Is Good For You

Since I started writing this blog, I have mentioned at least two very dead celebrities - Jerry Garcia and Elvis Presley (alright, there's a doubt about Elvis...), not including the con-men mentioned in a previous post.

There seems to be a fascination about celebrities who have died, especialy if they died young (James Dean) or in wierd circumstances (Isadora Duncan), or both (Brandon Lee). Assasinated celebrities are the best because their deaths are premature and unexpected so they generate more interest (John Lennon).

Anyone who has a life-insurance policy has probably made the joke that they are worth more dead than alive. While this might be a [very mildly] humourous comment for the average person to make, it is probably true if you are a celebrity. For instance, let's say I have the late Princess Diana's nail-clippers. I bet I could sell them for a good few hundred dollars. I wouldn't even have to stoop to selling them on ebay. I'd go straight to Sotherby's. Being dead is good for business.

Deceased artists, gotta love them - they are poor during their lifetime, but become filthy rich when they die (except for a notable few who manage to be both alive and rich simultaneously). If Goya was alive today, he'd be better off dead.

Given the passage of time, I suppose that Elvis' estate has now amassed more money than the King himself ever made. So it looks like dying can be a good investment for the future.

Frank Sinatra died in 1998 at the age of 82. He had stopped performing in 1995. Sinatra was earning big bucks when he was working, the three years before his death were unproductive in terms of new income (ie: not royalties). I'm willing to bet that when he died, sales of Sinatra music soared. Now that's what I call a smart marketing move.

So, my point is that if you are a celebrity, you are probably better off dead than alive. Just do me one favour, please bequeath your nail-clippers to me. Thanks.

Elvis Has Left the Building

[Congratulations to me on my first blog of the new financial year].

I worked late last night and took a cab back home. The taxi driver drove like a complete maniac. I think that he thought that fishtailing the car is a good thing. We wove in and out of traffic, leaving the ambulance in our wake, flashing lights and all.

In full flight down Highway 1, the driver opens his door, looks back along the side of the car to the rear tyre. Suddenly, he pulls a hard right onto an off-ramp, squealing the tyres and kicking up smoke. I am loath to question him about our detour because I don't want to disturb his rhythm. It takes a lot of concentration to drive a Skoda like a formula-one Ferrari.

Slamming on the breaks, the taxi banks hard-left across the road through oncoming traffic. The car then tilts up onto two wheels as we round a traffic circle at high-speed, spin 180 degrees and come to a sliding halt opposite an air-hose in a petrol station. Perfect parking.

The driver gets out of the car and puts air in the back passenger tyre. He turns to me and says, "You probably noticed that I have been driving slower than usual. That's because the back tyre needs air. I'll fix that". I grimaced politely, mainly because I realised that my trousers had melted to the seat and I found it difficult to escape. I took the opportunity to glance around at my surroundings. Nothing special, just petrol pumps, a service bay, a coke machine and a huge 12 foot golden statue of Elvis.

The exterior walls of the petrol station are covered with Elvis billboards, "Elvis in Jailhouse Rock: the Rebel of Song" and "Elvis in the American Diner". Posters with the classical Elvis silhouette: one leg forward, the other behind him with the 1950s style microphone and stand sliding between his legs as he leans over it - hair flopping down over his face.

As the driver shifts into first and pulls out of the petrol station, I look behind at the fast disappearing building, slowly being obscured by the rising smoke from the spinning car tyres. I see that the entire petrol station is one big shrine to the King. A number of things run through my mind at that very moment:

1) The way this guy drives, this will probably be the last time I see the Elvis Petrol Station;
2) If I do survive the ride, I would like to buy petrol at this station because anyone who puts so much effort into dedicating his petrol station to a dead celebrity probably deserves the money;
3) If I do make it back to this petrol station, I could pay one shekel at a time and say, "One for the money, two for the show, three get ready now go, go, go!" just like the other thousand people before me.

The sudden quiet while the taxi became airborne as we hit a speed bump made me think that perhaps the place is probably really "jumping" during the day - Elvis music blasting out of the roof-mounted speakers, the petrol-pump-guys all with the classical Elvis hairdo and petrol on sale at 1950s prices.

I looked out the window and saw flashes of the petrol station come into view, disappear and then come back again. I was glad that the taxi driver knew how to get us out of the 360 degree spin we were experiencing in the middle of the highway. But at least it gave me a chance to view the increasingly intriguing petrol station for a few more minutes, albeit a little blurry.

Arriving in Ramat Beit Shemesh not too long afterwards, I peeled myself off the seat, rearranged my innards to where they were supposed to be and left the car, reflecting on the evening's detour. And now, here I am, sitting at the computer in the wee hours of the morning thinking to myself that in real life Elvis was probably just as exaggerated as this blog.

PS: If you travel down Highway 1, please look out for an eyeball. It popped out of my skull when we reached Mach 5 somewhere around Mevaseret Zion.