iñigo mortality

Epilogue: TC vs. IM

2011-05-05T10:13:00.000+08:00

Feb 9, 2010

[14:45] IM: oi
[14:46] IM: game
[14:46] IM: copy paste na
[14:46] IM: hehehe
[14:46] TC: hahahahahaha
[14:46] TC: diary ko yun noh
[14:46] IM: handwritten?
[14:46] IM: fax, gusto mo?
[14:46] TC: edi para narin akong nag nude photo shoot non
[14:46] TC: ungas
[14:46] TC: typewritten
[14:46] TC: e bat ba gusto mo
[14:47] IM: self loathing
[14:47] TC: ahah!
[14:47] TC: buti alam mo contents
[14:47] TC: hehe
[14:47] IM: haha
[14:47] TC: u might not be ready to know the truth
[14:47] TC: harhar]
[14:47] IM: at least one perspective to it, ok na ako
[14:48] TC: wasnt last night enoughj
[14:48] TC: parang i overtalked ata
[14:48] TC: pero you know wat
[14:48] TC: i wasnt conscious kasi of wat ul think e
[14:48] TC: i just became me
[14:49] IM: ayus yan
[14:49] TC: parang kulang lang after i recalled what happened
[14:49] TC: cute ng friend ko
[14:49] TC: kakasal na rin sha
[14:50] TC: sabi ko kwento
[14:50] TC: tapos she copy pasted her prepped story
[14:50] TC: cool
[14:50] IM: hehehe
[14:50] TC: title- STORY PROPER
[14:50] TC: sana ganun kadali for me
[14:50] TC: haha
[14:50] IM: game na
[14:51] TC: ur making my heart beat rise...wag ka magulo
[14:51] TC: 2 mins
[14:52] IM: haha
[14:52] IM: magbabanyo muna ako
[14:53] TC: take your time
[14:56] IM: ok na
[14:56] IM: game
[14:56] TC: ganto yon
[14:56] TC: lahat ng tao may knatatakutan
[14:56] TC: ayon sa isang librong nabasa ko
[14:57] TC: ikaw, may fear ka rin
[14:57] TC: yung akala mong kine-claim mong destiny mo, actually, fear mo pala sha
[14:58] TC: so i guessed you're prepping yourself up for your fear
[14:58] TC: di ito mula sa sinulat ko
[14:58] TC: intro lang
[14:58] TC: ayoko ma-judge
[14:58] TC: kasi ikaw ang hinusgahan ko sa diary ko e
[14:58] TC: what if...
[14:59] TC: you write something about it...a serious enrty
[14:59] TC: then we exchange
[14:59] TC: but
[14:59] TC: i read yours first
[14:59] IM: eh wala naman akong sinulat about it e
[14:59] IM: ikaw meron na
[14:59] IM: my memory isnt as good as yours
[14:59] TC: e kaya nga pinapasulat ka e
[15:00] TC: kala mo lang yun
[15:00] TC: daya
[15:00] IM: nagcoconsolidate agad ang events sa isip ko e
[15:00] IM: sayo, may himay pa e
[15:00] IM: daliiiiiiii
[15:00] TC: pilitin mo pako
[15:00] TC: im not convinced
[15:00] IM: haha
[15:01] IM: ive stopped writing
[15:01] TC: seryoso
[15:01] IM: di na ako nagsusulat for a long time na
[15:01] TC: :p
[15:01] TC: yup, same here
[15:01] IM: may diary ka kaya
[15:01] TC: nakakainis nga e
[15:01] TC: well, first entry in a looooong while
[15:01] IM: pinaka hirap ako is with narratives...mga kwento
[15:02] IM: and, as if maaaffect yung opinion ko about last night dahil lang sa sinulat mo
[15:02] IM: i promise to be honest
[15:03] TC: e ano ba opinion mo?
[15:03] TC: anong hhonest? about what?
[15:03] TC: IF i allow you to read it, magcocomment ka ganun>?
[15:03] TC: eweew\
[15:04] IM: o sige... hindi ako magcocomment
[15:04] IM: promise
[15:04] TC: di paron
[15:04] TC: parin
[15:05] IM: kung ano man yung reservation mo
[15:05] TC: ....?
[15:06] IM: if it's me commenting or whatever, dein na yun
[15:06] TC: kasi naman, in the first place, kaya ko sha sinulat, ang kulit niya sa isip ko. so i had to write it. lamo yun
[15:06] TC: nope
[15:06] IM: ya me too, kaso lang hindi ko pa alam kung ano ang iniisip ko
[15:06] TC: hahaha
[15:06] IM: sopas pa sya
[15:07] TC: corny
[15:07] TC: lay it down raw
[15:07] TC: game
[15:07] TC: knting input
[15:07] IM: help me out... pabasa muna ng sayo
[15:07] IM: ni hindi nga ako makachat ng maayos kasi im at a loss for words
[15:07] TC: for?
[15:08] IM: para akong amateur chatter
[15:08] TC: so expert ako
[15:08] TC: yesss
[15:08] IM: as in, hirap ang verbal facility ko, all week this week
[15:08] IM: hirap ako magexplain sa team mates ko and sa client when we visited them last week
[15:08] IM: kahapon, i was stuttering bad
[15:08] TC: not working
[15:09] IM: ni hindi ko maexplain kung bakit ako messed up
[15:09] TC: :)
[15:09] IM: i kept on saying "basta", as if alam mo kung ano ibig kong sabihin
[15:09] TC: ill give you phrases
[15:09] IM: wala akong thought
[15:10] IM: to give phrases to
[15:10] TC: ok, 1 paragraph
[15:10] TC: teaser
[15:10] TC: hehe
[15:10] IM: ano ba emoticon for sighing?
[15:10] IM: haha
[15:11] TC: di pwede lahat e
[15:12] TC: At the beginning, we were so uncomfortable. I had to massage my face for over smiling coz my cheeks were starting to twitch. I did that in front of him, signaling that I won’t wear any masks anymore. I told him that I was happy being with him that night. That I never thought that it could ever happen. But it did. And I’m honest in saying it’s a great thing to do… to finally sit down as friends and talk, really talk.
[15:12] IM: o... ok naman e
[15:12] TC: diary to
[15:12] TC: noh
[15:12] TC: ok ka jan
[15:13] IM: i mean, what's not to show?
[15:13] TC: i just jumped off the cliff
[15:13] TC: thats what i could show
[15:13] IM: nyeeee
[15:14] IM: baduy
[15:14] IM: i mean, kj
[15:15] TC: L-)
[15:15] TC: I wanted to share with him my theory of why he’s been shrugging off the idea of marriage, commitment and responsibilities that I gathered from his own words but I wanted him to know and learn it for and by himself
[15:16] TC: o:-)
[15:16] IM: i was meant to read that, kasi i wasnt going to text u, but you unintentionally rang me. and i asked whats up. i meant to ask about the ringing, pero apparently you didnt know about it and you said, you were writing about me. see... im destined to read it.
[15:17] TC: kahiya grammar ko
[15:17] IM: i wasnt supposed to know about it, pero you told me about it, then you hold back... asus
[15:17] IM: grammar lang yan :D
[15:18] TC: maybe in due time....
[15:18] TC: e malay ko bang napindot ko
[15:18] TC: siko ko yun
[15:18] TC: di daliri
[15:18] TC: maybe
[15:18] IM: bob's telling you to tell me na
[15:18] TC: im rambling
[15:19] TC: bob your face
[15:19] TC: gagu
[15:19] TC: takutin mo pako
[15:19] TC: question
[15:19] IM: seriously... i went to bob's wake to "ask" him, something in my mind.
[15:19] TC: bakit kayo nagsplit nung gf mo after me?
[15:19] TC: nasa states na ba sha nun?
[15:20] TC: what was the question>
[15:20] TC: ?
[15:20] IM: ya... we split kasi i couldnt handle the little space i was in
[15:20] TC: huh?
[15:20] TC: be honest and il be/
[15:20] IM: i don't know the question exactly... when i go to him dati, we just talk and ramble aimlessly, and I would accidentally resolve it
[15:21] TC: di ko gets
[15:21] TC: anong little space>
[15:21] IM: she made effort to be very involved in my life, when deep inside, i didnt want her to
[15:22] IM: because i havent experienced my own life then
[15:22] TC: really?
[15:22] TC: hmmmm
[15:22] IM: yup
[15:22] TC: anong involvement
[15:22] TC: wala na mukang mali theory ko
[15:22] TC: ayan. no more na
[15:22] TC: kwento ka nalang
[15:23] TC: #-o
[15:23] IM: like, for example... that was a time na my family just moved to the states. then she started suggesting things to change yung arrangement ng bahay. which irritated me kasi i couldnt feel that my house is MY house
[15:23] IM: things like that
[15:24] IM: eh, i want to know what you think. i want insight either from strangers or people i dont talk to that often
[15:24] IM: youre the only one i talked to about my problem with mahal
[15:24] TC: then?
[15:25] IM: then, what?
[15:25] IM: ano yung thinen mo?
[15:25] TC: then after the home makeover ...?
[15:25] IM: ah
[15:26] IM: my schedules
[15:26] IM: i could hardly go into my band thing
[15:26] IM: i should be home at a certain time to catch her online
[15:26] IM: my selfish self couldnt handle it
[15:26] IM: i had dreams for myself, but my time is for her
[15:27] IM: since wala sa sa harap ko, it was easier for me to just break it off
[15:27] TC: hmmm
[15:28] IM: malabo?
[15:29] TC: selfish
[15:29] IM: yup
[15:29] IM: i dont disagree
[15:29] TC: di pala encompassing conclusion ko
[15:29] TC: hehe
[15:29] IM: which is?
[15:30] TC: siguro i have to knit it further
[15:30] IM: what has been knit so far?
[15:31] TC: naks galing mag stir
[15:31] IM: stir as in lie, or stir as in move?
[15:32] TC: move
[15:32] IM: ah
[15:32] IM: go
[15:32] IM: move
[15:33] TC: ano nga ulit definition mo ng resp/marriage?
[15:35] IM: di sya definition, parang practical application/effect
[15:35] IM: pero naguluhan ko bigla, ano ibig mong sabihin?
[15:35] TC: ?
[15:35] IM: ah
[15:35] IM: naalala ko na
[15:36] TC: im reading my entry and i just want to clarify
[15:36] TC: bawal ka magatnong
[15:36] TC: ako lang
[15:36] TC: :D
[15:36] IM: pag kasal na, there's the law binding you, apart from your mutual understanding.
[15:37] IM: the law binds you forever, your mutual understanding binds you for the moment
[15:37] IM: di ko ma-take yung concept
[15:37] IM: short-term outlook pa ako
[15:38] TC: should you be mutual all the time? it seems like youre inclined to either look for one who'll never walk pass your drawing or never have it at all
[15:39] IM: dahil hindi sya concrete sa utak ko, so abstract and romantic ang perspective, which i dont trust. the uncertainty keeps me aback.
[15:39] IM: "never walk past..."
[15:39] IM: sorry, can't help it :D
[15:40] TC: there you fo
[15:40] TC: go
[15:40] TC: tsk\
[15:40] IM: sorry na nga e
[15:41] TC: isa palang yan
[15:41] TC: pano pa king
[15:41] TC: kung
[15:41] TC: tsk
[15:41] TC: umalis na yung tren
[15:41] TC: you missed it
[15:41] TC: umalis na yung tren
[15:41] TC: you missed it
[15:41] IM: ya
[15:41] IM: ok
[15:42] TC: hehe
[15:43] IM: so, game, ano pa sinulat mo?
[15:44] TC: I pressured him by saying first, kwento. Tell me your story. As I did that, I started telling mine instead. One of the important questions he asked was, do you know why I split up with you? I was great, I was confident, I was fine and then he asked me that. I didn’t pretend that I didn’t want to hear it after 10 years coz it might just burst my bubble and I might feel the pain all over again. But you know what?! I was even better after hearing it from him. Not that I didn’t know why, but that I have reconfirmed my conclusion that it wasn’t about me. His memory of what happened to me and to his other girlfriends was all HIM. I tried to remind him of the surrounding circumstances but he seemed to forget most of it, so I didn’t bother anymore. Coz you know what, I was just fine.
[15:45] IM: good analysis
[15:45] IM: i agree
[15:46] TC: :)
[15:46] TC: kahit na di ka nag-aagree...:)
[15:46] IM: if it was my decision, then it is about me. i always believe that.
[15:46] TC: i told you i na na-shake esteem ko for a while
[15:46] TC: kasi i was wondering ano ginawa kong mali
[15:47] TC: or if i loved you this much, you should have loved me the same
[15:47] TC: pano nawala
[15:47] TC: mga ganung effect
[15:47] TC: biglaan
[15:47] TC: then i analyzed and searched and so on...
[15:48] TC: then i found me
[15:48] TC: i kinda liked me
[15:48] TC: after you
[15:48] TC: coz the me with you wasnt me at all
[15:48] TC: or 25% of it
[15:50] IM: good to feel that no?
[15:50] TC: liking me
[15:50] TC: not always
[15:50] IM: liking you, with you as reference, not other people
[15:50] TC: i dont like me always
[15:50] TC: yup
[15:50] TC: we argue alot
[15:50] TC: :)
[15:50] IM: thinking na you're not other people and their decisions
[15:51] TC: me and myself....it DOES exist
[15:51] TC: seriously
[15:51] IM: yes
[15:51] IM: ganun na nga
[15:51] TC: meron akong idea noon ano sasabihin ko pag nag-usap tayo ulit e
[15:52] TC: pero di ko sha baon kagabi
[15:52] TC: nalimot ko na
[15:52] TC: i didnt care anymore
[15:52] TC: which was way better
[15:52] TC: im free from that shadow
[15:52] TC: kahit na i freed myself a long time ago, ngayon, may seal na
[15:52] TC: cool
[15:53] TC: and im super glad you're my friend now
[15:53] TC: everything's just so pure and clear
[15:53] TC: nice
[15:53] IM: closure
[15:53] TC: haha
[15:53] TC: freedom
[15:53] TC: from myself
[15:53] IM: haha
[15:53] IM: from and to
[15:54] TC: A+
[15:55] IM: ok na... i can go back to work na
[15:55] TC: i know
[15:56] IM: sige... later
[15:56] TC: that was my closure
[15:56] TC: and yours?
[15:56] IM: closure sa iyo? knowing that you're really ok na
[15:56] TC: no comment on your own thoughts?
[15:57] TC: you thought i wasnt all along?
[15:57] IM: ya
[15:57] TC: how long?>
[15:57] TC: eeew
[15:57] TC: mejo feeling ka lang ha
[15:57] TC: haba ng hair mo, sa kilikili
[15:58] IM: maghahanap ako ng mais, isasaksak ko sa ilong mo
[15:58] TC: e ang feeling ng dating e
[15:58] TC: amininin mo feeling ka
[15:58] TC: ay sobra
[15:58] IM: sinasabi mo pa rin yun?
[15:58] IM: haha
[15:59] TC: alin>
[15:59] TC: feeling
[15:59] TC: ?
[15:59] IM: aminin mo feeling ka
[15:59] TC: e word pa rin naman yun a
[15:59] TC: ows?
[15:59] TC: script ko sha
[15:59] TC: teka lang, last words>
[16:00] IM: ah
[16:00] IM: ok
[16:00] TC: gandahan mo
[16:00] TC: suklian mo ko
[16:00] IM: ah ako?
[16:00] TC: oo
[16:00] TC: noh
[16:01] IM: unprepared
[16:01] IM: and unfit
[16:01] TC: try
[16:01] IM: dahil ang closure ko sa iyo is only a step into another closure, which i have to work on, so wala pa akong conclusion
[16:02] IM: i dont feel free, again. and i have to figure it out
[16:02] TC: puzzle
[16:03] IM: yes
[16:03] TC: parang level 1 complete
[16:03] IM: ya
[16:03] IM: im seeing signs, pero i dont know how to read them
[16:03] TC: a hundred more to go
[16:04] TC: ah
[16:05] IM: youre a sign, and our closure was a sign, and sir bob was a sign, and a lot more
[16:05] TC: nanahimik na utak ko
[16:05] IM: astig
[16:05] TC: salamat ulit
[16:05] IM: ya... salamat din
[16:05] IM: log out na ako
[16:05] IM: thanks ulit
[16:05] TC: :)

Brand X

2011-04-04T20:40:00.011+08:00

"Personality" as a psychological concept, as theorists of Filipino psychology would explain, is different from the local concept of "pagkatao". Personality is derived from "persona", Latin for "mask". It is a face. Something that one presents to others, and in effect, it is what people see.

Pagkatao, on the other hand, is more like an essence. Person-ness (albeit "person" is also derived from persona). It is something that exists despite what is manifested or seen.

I suppose you can deduce that the concept of pagkatao may also explain why Filipinos tend to forgive easily. A plunderer, a dictator, or a child rapist might have done something wrong, but if he is perceived to be good deep inside--his pagkatao is good--then it might be reason enough so he might be pardoned, or as what has been proven in recent Philippine history, to be even worth electing to public office or considered being buried in a heroes' graveyard.

*****

Guitar history lesson: The factory that makes guitars for Fender Japan was the same factory that made lower-priced imitations in the 70s to early 80s for Japan's domestic market. The factory made such good copies that people considered them to have better craftsmanship than the original Fenders made in the US. Their output was so good that it gave the original US-made Fender such a bad reputation; and to battle it, Fender bought it in the early 80s. It now produces guitars for Fender's domestic market in Japan.

You might hold your 70s Jap imitation with high regard now, but you realize that there will be some prestige that should be coming from the Fender brand (or at least by referring to it), and no matter how much better the craftsmanship your Jap copy has, you will find yourself explaining to others the greater value of craftsmanship over brand, but through time you will probably find yourself ignoring your guitar's intrinsic value, and maybe even find yourself considering replacing the decal on the headstock.

You force yourself to pretend. Brands do that to you.

*****

What would you feel if the person you loved told you that she wasn't being herself when you were together? That the person you loved--on whom you spent a lot of emotional currency; from whom you tried to base your entire identity; for whom you halved your life--wasn't her, but a mere personality of her, the one that shut her mouth up and made up stories, feelings and (gasp) realities so that she'd feel good about you feeling good about yourself?

I mean, it's like you got what you wanted, but you didn't get what you paid for. All of a sudden you realize that you were together for the feeling that the stigma of being together gave it--its brand--and not its intrinsic value.

And, you realize that all this happened in the span of a full 10% of your life expectancy. All that time. Wasted. Like withholding taxes in Philippine government, hoping that you'd get your taxpayer's money worth, but you know better that it will just go to modding some brat's Honda Civic. Like tithes going to the church, with full confidence that they will go to a noble cause, but you know better that it'll just go to cosmetic renovations. Like all that money spent on romantic dates just to get laid when you know better that you could've spent less on a whore.

But, like how Chris Cole found out that Bobby Beers was queer, it's bound to get funny soon enough.

4/14/2001... I lost a knee

2011-03-22T01:27:00.002+08:00

4/14/2001

I lost a knee
where could it be?
Been looking up and under
here and yonder
I lost a knee
where could it be?

I lost a knee
Took me to find
my elbow my shin
by buttocks my chin
I lost a knee
where could it be?
It could just be in
any joint in the summer

I lost a knee
looking for a hand
Scouring through fields
digging through sand
I lost a knee
where could it be?
I lost it just when
I’se about to run

I lost a knee
And no one had seen
I’d tell no person
I’d tell no bee
Nobody’s searching
for my just lost knee

It I were a knee
where would I be?
Under thighs and chests
and tables and desks
I’d be sittin’ and yappin’
ever the telephone

I lost a knee
where could it be?

Fear

2011-02-14T16:45:00.005+08:00

Warning: I haven't written anything of length for a while now. I'm blaming Twitter, Facebook, diagrams, and concise business presentations.

Of course, not having written anything of length, in some way, was brought about exactly by this post's title.

[But then again, it might just be an excuse for writer's block (and what a huge block that was), lack of inspiration (writers exist because of the existence of pain, the lack of friends, or the regard thereof), or laziness (which is more realistic).]

Fear can be a lot of things. Fear is being (at least almost) certain of something unacceptable and terrible. In uncertainty, fear is expectation of the bad while desiring the good. Either way, it's like feeling the pain (that you hate) before the pain is inflicted.

For example, I felt that when I wrote on a public blog what I felt, it can be conveniently read and I will risk hurting and maybe losing someone that I loved. Which is, coincidentally, a perfect segue to:

Fear is having something to lose.

You have something that is threatened to be taken from you. Losing it will make you incomplete. Losing that something will make you weaker. Losing it will shake the foundations that form the basis of who you are. Losing will make you feel, well, lost.

Imagine a baby, thrust into a world it does not know, without that familiar maternal scent with which it had become first familiar. It cries with feelings it does not understand, but feels as real as physical pain.

Fear comes with vulnerability.

Once under fear, your instinct becomes defensive. You either fight or flee. You turn red or turn blue. You toughen up and fight the outside force or cry and calm the inside tension.

Or you just freeze.

You do nothing. You can't think. You can't decide. You're stuck. Your will defies you. Your reflexes defy you. Headlights are fast approaching and you don't know whether to run forward or turn back.

Everyone (EVERYONE!) will need some sort of back-up to counter fear. Your parents. Your friends. A big brother. A benefactor. The authorities. Ideals. A stronger self that you talked to like it was another person. Superheroes. A god. Karma. Hope. Heaven. Eternal life.

Fear penetrates so deep that even an illusion of a back-up will comfort it, like how a lost man will believe the first map he finds.

A defender, a fall back, or some twisted belief. Anything will do.

Then there's uncertainty. Yes, sometimes uncertainty brings comfort, especially if it is thrown to the wind.

"Bahala na" comes into mind. A common argument about "bahala na" is that it's fatalistic, submissive, and is an indication of weak character and lack of planning.

While the planning part might be true, "bahala" as a singular concept is so much more than fatalism and passivity. Zeus Salazar argues that "bahala" is such a non-fatalistic term, particularly when used in "ako ang bahala sa iyo". In this context, it is a personal readiness to take action and own the outcome of events, even for other people's sake. It is taking responsibility. It is exhibiting courage. It is sucking it up and dealing with shit like shit should be dealt with. It is Sylvester Stallone's patented war scream while he charges forward and wastes millions of bullets on random Southeast Asians.

It is ballsier than hope. Hope just hopes for the best. "Bahala na" doesn't fucking care. "Bahala na" doesn't just recognize the worst: it assumes the worst. It is attacking consequences head-on with a clear head and a ready heart. The "bahala na" mind is Buddha. The "bahala na" spirit is Robert Jaworski. The "bahala na" face is Judge fucking Dredd.

Or, as this cartoon puts it, it's a cute bunny.

I mean, whatever works. Without fear, you're down to like/not like. Bunny or bat, doesn't make a rat's ass of a difference.

Are you really happy?

2011-01-18T19:21:00.003+08:00

Not too long ago:

Bob: Are you really happy?

Me: Does it really matter?

(Roberto "Bob" Mendoza, I could use you right now. RIP.)

Looking down

2010-09-16T20:01:00.003+08:00

Looking down
From the twenty-seventh floor
Of an office building
In the middle of the bustling city
At nothing in particular
At night
Makes you see flying lights behave like beads in a kaleidoscope
Supposedly from cars until you realize
What makes them kaleidoscopic is that
Some of them aren't actually cars
On streets
Just reflections
On windows
Of buildings
Around the streets
Around where you are
Looking down
From the twenty-seventh floor
Of an office building
In the middle of the bustling city
At nothing in particular
At night

Desperate Housewives and an anti-Pinoy remark

2007-10-03T10:00:00.000+08:00

Radiant View Communication posts a letter by Kevin Nadal:

Alas, our medical schools in the Philippines are highlighted in a “Desperate Housewives” episode at ABC.com — and not in a good way. This time, it’s a racist comment about Filipinos and their credibility in the American medical scene. I don’t particularly care for “Desperate Housewives.” OK, I watched its first season, then shifted to “Grey’s Anatomy.”

My sister’s blog, AboutMyRecovery.com, has a video clip of this particular offensive scene, courtesy of the blog, “Mindy’s watching too much TV.” We had received many e-mails yesterday about this incident as well. Doesn’t this remind you of the Claire Danes and her “cockroach” comment about Manila?

Click here to view Radiant View Communication's entire post

Video clip:

If you think that the episode offended your sensibilities as a Pinoy, sign up at a petition here.

Vote CHUNAMI for Song of the Year @ NU107 Rock Awards

2007-10-01T17:44:00.000+08:00

We never thought it was possible but it is.

You can vote for Chunami for Song of the Year in this year's NU107 Rock Awards.

Listen to Chunami on http://www.myspace.com/thehaneps.

Vote online. All you need is an e-mail address and 2 minutes. Minimum hassle registration, I promise.

To vote: Follow the instructions in this link: http://fliptunes.net/rockawards07/

Song of the Year is on page 8.

Procrastination kills. Vote now.

CHUNAMI!

PS. Vote for Radioactive Sago Project for Artist of the Year because they kick the ass the best.

Embers

2007-09-24T14:48:00.000+08:00

In a furnace of coals, the last things to die out are embers
Emitting heat despite lacking the red glow of combustion
Little masses of carbon once again given life after their death
Much like how any fossil fuel usually digress from the path on which they rotted

Embers hide themselves in a coat of unsuspecting white ashes
Hiding from the soothing cool the external world can give them
Is it through being buried and unseen that makes them
Longer-lasting than the flames that once engulfed?

People wishing to kill the embers stroke the fire
A movement also done when getting it started, or maintaining the heat
Only this time they do it to expose the embers to water
Hoping that the embers can be seen, and be doused
Or at least that's what's usually intended.

What of the embers that are not touched, those that are not exposed?
What of the glow that they still possess despite outliving the flames?
Much can be thought about flames being forgotten, buried deep to live for ages, or forever; however,
Much more can be seen when the coal the ember sits upon runs out, as coal is programmed to do.

Gloria in disbelief

2007-09-06T13:49:00.001+08:00

Original image from PDI (HERE) ...

The New Virginity

2007-09-04T13:37:00.000+08:00

Someone once told me that condoms are overrated. Then I thought, rated how?

I guess she only meant that they're being talked about too much (or being inflated at concerts and parties too much). If that’s what she meant, well, then it's really a bit highly rated.

I don’t know about "over" though. Condoms, in the society I'm in, doesn't seem to penetrate (pun!) that much in that probably only less than a third of the copulating population (assonance!) use it. A study by the World Health Organization (LINK) says that even among sex workers (oxymoron!), condom use is very low with only 57% reporting to use it with their clients (euphemism!).

To this date, at my age, I still find friends who have not imbibed the use of condoms when having sex like they would put on shoes when they go out.

No, wait...

To this date, at my age, I still find friends who have not imbibed the use of condoms when having non-reproductive sex like they would put on shoes when they go out.

Shoes are a pain. They cause rashes, foot odor, and fungi. Wear an ugly one and it causes mirth on your expense. But they protect your feet from the elements and allows you the freedom to walk slowly on hot pavement.

Same with condoms. Blah blah blah blah blah blah (you know the drill).

But really, the usual arguments against condoms are the consequences of pregnancy and STDs. The argument for condoms, on the other hand, is the pleasure of unprotected, penis-flesh-to-warm-moist-vaginal flesh contact. Never mind immorality. No wonder it takes either a pregnant or an infected friend to convince a non-believer!

I had a conversation with someone recently about condoms, and he said an interesting thing. Condoms, he said, is very important to him because it gives him peace of mind (no this isn't it yet). He doesn't mind putting on condoms and losing some sensation. However, there will be that special time, when he finally meets "the one", when he, with solid conviction and with a virtually fresh penis, will have sex without a condom and therefore feel his sodomy to the maximum, and allow life to take its course.

I said "holy shit" in my mind like I meant it, and I knew that he just made a very good point.

Then he said, "Di ba ang sarap nun? Pare para kang na-devirginize nun."

I said "holy shit" again in my mind like I meant it more than the last one, and I knew I had to tell this story to other people.

And he also said he might ejaculate prematurely as a result.

I was like, um, yeah. How about trying a pill, man?

The Haneps EP launch

2006-11-28T20:35:00.000+08:00

We're launching our first EP, entitled "han-EP" on Dec 9 (see poster below). Beer is cheap-ass (35 pesos!). Tickets at 100 pesos that will already give you a beer PLUS you get a free copy of the EP. Also playing are Free Beer and The Purple Chickens. It's going to be one hell of a hanep time.

Poster:

(click to enlarge)

Am I dead yet?

2006-11-23T15:20:00.000+08:00

Am I?

I am missing something

2006-04-12T17:08:00.000+08:00

* * *

I am missing something.

I mean, "I miss something". Not "something is missing from me".

I could have said "I miss something". But I'd rather be passive.

* * *

It's funny how one can feel uric acid in his joints after having a few cups of coffee. It's funny how one attributes to coffee the uric acid he feels in his joints. It's funny how one attributes the feeling one has in his joints to uric acid.

I mean, each of these could be anything, really.

* * *

I am missing something.

I mean, "something is missing from me". Not "I miss something".

I could've said "something is missing from me". But I'd rather be the subject.

* * *

Fidelio

2006-02-23T18:15:00.000+08:00

In a truly queer manner, let me just say that I am convinced that the way I shop relates to the way I handle my sex life.

My mother talking: having a busy lifestyle means having to adjust your life a lot.

Not that it's something new. It's probably known among certain schools of psychological thought that man's internal energies, however good the person is, has to be channeled somewhere, somehow.

Anyhow, I've found myself, a guy, these past few days, to spend a lot of time going to places, visiting websites, acquiring information that will lead me to buy something, even if I don't.

And these are the times wherein I also find myself increasingly looking at and being very observant of cleavages, asses, arms, necks, legs, chins, blouse holes….

Women probably shop a lot because they're repressed a lot. Sexually, that is. Maybe part of societal pressure, who knows?

I meant probably. Meaning, I don't know, really. That settles the sexism debate. "Probably".

*****

(Insert romantic beach music here)

A 20-something lady was with her friends in post-Holy Week Boracay, walking along the beach, trying to absorb the cool sunset glare. It's relatively peaceful without the usually irritating party music, prompting them to walk slowly and bask in the tranquility of it all. She wraps her hands around her arms and giggled coyly—almost inattentively—to her friends' jokes; for because she was only with her friends, the feeling was only bordering on romantic.

Like scenes would flow, a smile formed on her face when, as would be sometimes desired in such conducive places, a man approaches and seems to take interest in her, the man giving her all the appropriate gestures that befit her--probably the (un)usual approach-talk type of routine, with all the introductions and all the appropriate getting-to-know civilities. It was going as quick as the girl's heartbeat but felt like it would last as long as a man's last minute to live. Her friends felt the "tension" and trailed off, aware that they needn't mind if she thought they were leaving her alone, for she was with him. They felt happy for her: he was smiling all the while and she's apparently interested. It was going quite well until the girl (like any other sigurista) casually asked to the effect, "baka naman may magalit..." The guy, seemingly confident, smiled and said as-a-matter-of-factly, "Yeah, meron, actually. Pero don't worry, stable naman kami eh."

(Insert tape wobble here)

*****

Is it just me, or by some stroke of intelligent design, that in PUJs, the last couple of people before the thing fills up, those that make number 8&9 of "siyaman" (or number 9&10 in "sampuan," or whatever) in each bench, will end up facing each other, knees clashing, both thinking why the hell they ended up that way while at the same time finding ways wherein each of their knees can harmoniously take up aisle space before at least one passenger gets off?

Long question, I know.

*****

They say our instinct is that thing in us that makes us similar to animals, in that it doesn't have that "human" control. Assuming, of course, that to "control" is the essence of being human.

Everyone has probably heard (and been involved in) numerous debates about infidelity, monogamy, the nature of man to do so, that women also do it, that it's men's fault, that women make men do it, fuck shit shut up bitch, et cetera. Some say that it's part of man's cosmic role in ensuring the propagation of the species. Some people say it's some role both men and women mutually agreed to assign men so they could make a thing called a "community" work, wherein each one didn't really have to think about everything all the time--that one could concentrate on hunting, or gathering, or making fire, or taking care of children, or cleaning the house, or paying the bills, or getting loans, or settling divorce papers, or whathaveyou. The way I look at it, it was probably invented in the spirit of cooperation more than domination.

Just look at male lions, their harems, and their 8-seconds-till-ejaculations.

In the same "spirit," some people describe any peaceful, universally-inclusive, and self-uncentered movement "feminist."

No, it's not just anything pointing to a vagina.

Whatever.

*****

One time I learned that a friend was having an affair, effectively isolating his 5-year-old relationship during isolated moments wherein he lost himself to the arms of an older, more ego-satisfying woman.

We talked about it, and the more we did, the more I did not understand. The more I did not understand, the more I became fascinated with it. Just because it was happening.

It was real. It was staring at me through a lardful of a man.

Months later, a (married) friend told me once that if money wasn't an object--in that if he had lots of it to throw out--he'd probably have an affair.

The second he said that, it was as if I had earned Satori and the world's pieces suddenly fit together like they're lovers and green digits began to trickle down from the ceiling. "Yes, I understand completely".

Sometimes, a man just has to be with another woman. Period.

As far as energies are concerned (it's just so convenient to use energies), it's letting of some through things that can't be released the same way in things we're used to.

I mean, we can't really treat our wives / girlfriends as "other women," can we?

Men who have been there know how it is to crave for another. And there are those who know how it is to think that it's alright.

Why do they think it's alright?

Call it discontent. Call it a craving for flesh. Lust, even. Hell, call it gluttony for all its craving qualities, for all I care.

I'm starting to like it. I have, actually. It has been an itch ever since I've pledged to be faithful. Rubbing my hands and letting out a smile only Beelzebub can emulate.

But I haven't done it. I haven't been unfaithful. Call it luck, destiny, or some sort of intelligent design, chances of me being unfaithful have passed and only passed, never seeming to want to stop and take me for a ride.

The same way, perhaps, that I haven't died no matter I take late-night ordinary buses that travel at light speed; or walk through streets reputed to be infested with the pests of society.

Or, probably, it's the same way that some people are meant to die at such young ages, in such unexpected times.

I am destined to live long and live a good boy.

All. My. Life.

It's in minds of people like me that the Devil gets invented. Do I want to be unfaithful because I haven't done it? Do I want to do it because I don't know what it feels like? Do I want to do it because it gives me a cheap thrill?

Do I want to do it because I just want to, that I want not just variety (because one can certainly do something about that) but that I simply want to fuck other girls?

If I was ancient Greek, I'd blame it on some god.

But if it calms my aura, satisfies my hunger, and sets my mind anew, and I can afford to effectively not let anyone get affected in any gross manner, how much could a night's pleasure cost my soul?

Eyes Wide Shut by Stanley Kubrick. The couple had a shaky relationship and the guy thought he'd try his luck out in a very exclusive men's club, where it's so exclusive that only the most important people in town are involved in it. The guy, not being very important was cornered by the others and was, in a rather interrogating gesture, asked him for the “password.” He said the password correctly: "Fidelio."

Now, the story had more turns, but this is where I end. If you haven't felt the impact of that one scene, you mustn't have realized that for a men's club (a "harem" if you will), "Fidelio" would have been the last thing in all the members' minds.

I guess it would take a man to understand another.

If it's part of instinct, what's so bad about that?

I'm not so sure how it will go about, but I'm imagining that it would have consequences on how one would look at things and how one would relate to people. Like, how one (if you may) innocent attempt at paid love will probably make a man look at women, sex, life, and manhood in a totally different way than if he hadn't.

They say experience is the only key to true learning. Hearing it from others isn't the same. It's like learning about the joys of sex by jacking off.

I choose to not to learn.

It's about probability, I guess. I've known myself to doubt things (in a truly Descartes-ish fashion), so I'm just guessing, feeling stuff that's probably there or not there.

I'm not certain about anything that might happen as a consequence of being with another woman--whether or not I'd be caught doing it, or I'd behaviorally change, or that I'd be a better man, or whatever--it's still all muddy to me. I can only think about how monogamy has become part of some sort of cultural wisdom, take a shortcut, and choose to learn from what others had already made out of their messed up lives.

What I'm saying is that, in my mind, if that's what's going to cost me the love of my life, then it's worth every penny of my soul saving.

I know. It doesn't sound so cheap now.

*****

Malayo ang lakbay na gagawin

2006-02-21T16:24:00.000+08:00

Malayo ang lakbay na gagawin
Malayo ang lakbay
Mayaman ang ihip ng hangin
Mayaman ang ihip

May silong sa gawing ilalim
May silong sa gawi
Mamaya na titingin sa gilid
Mamaya na

Dumapa
Humiga
Walang kaibigan sa dakong ibabaw
Nabusog
Sa uraro
Ang hangin ng laman ng hangin ng laman ng

Malayo ang takbo ng hangin
Malayo ang takbo
Mainam ang kain ng labi
Mainam ang kain

Nangyari ang di dapat na nangyari
Nangyari na nga
Mangyaring yari ang mayari
Mangyaring mayari

Humiga
Huminga
Walang pag-asa sa dakong ibabaw
Malusog
Mausok
Ang hangin ng laman ng hangin ng laman ng

New Abu Ghraib torture photos (via BoingBoing)

2006-02-16T17:52:00.000+08:00

Boing Boing reports that Aussie Dateline just released pics of torture that's happening inside the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq. There are also links to more pictures and to video clips of the Dateline report.

This is fucked up.

http://www.boingboing.net/2006/02/15/new_abu_ghraib_tortu.html

Tingin ka ng konti sa rearview. Pero konti lang.

2006-01-11T00:52:00.000+08:00

Nasa threshold ka na.

Medyo.

Wala ka pang syota na lumalagpas ng 17 months.

Nakakatatlo pa lang ako no. Hindi conclusive.

Nagconclude ka na kaya.

Kaya yan.

Well, dapat lang.

Pag natapos to, hindi ko na alam kung anong mangyayari sa akin.

...

Di ko na alam yung next attraction.

...

Palaboy-laboy na lang ako tapos nito. Bar hopping.

Hehehe. Bar hopping.

Supposedly, all roads led to here. Supposedly ha. Kung may option ako na maglagay ng intention sa lahat ng coincidences, eto, dapat ending nato.

Happy ending?

Happy ending.

Or tragic.

...

Or dead end.

...

...

Or dead end.

...

...

No.

2006-01-11T00:38:00.000+08:00

No.

Groovetube

2005-12-19T15:04:00.000+08:00

Groovetube turns your TV into a pixelated block of disco heaven.

God, I want one.

http://www.groovetube.tv/site.htm

When cars are moving by

2005-12-02T09:52:00.000+08:00

When cars are moving by
Fast by your side
When you're moving by
Fast by their side
The cars seem the world seems
Like they're it's moving by itself like they're moving by themselves
Right past fast right by your side

When the world is spinning
Whirl by and slide
When you're spinning
Whirling sliding
Whirling by sliding
The head the world the senses
Seem like they're moving apart like they're moving apart they are
Sliding apart by themselves

When the sky is falling
Fast approaching
When the ground is coming up
Rising ascending
The sky looks the ground looks
Like they're coming closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer
And the middle gets smaller and smaller

You'll probably realize that you're not moving at all.

I loved Jim Lee

2005-11-17T12:35:00.000+08:00

No, this isn't a gay post.

For the longest time, when I was a kid (and time is as long as it can get when you're a kid), I wanted to draw. I decided, when I was a kid, that I would draw comics and be more kick-ass than Jim Lee when I grew up.

In fact, I wanted to draw so bad that I forgot that comic books had storylines that someone should think up. See where that got me now (haha).

When I got tired of comic books back in high school, I couldn't think of anything else to draw. I tried still life, cartoons, dramatic-abstract-cheezy shit... everything (I think).

No, I didn't draw my own porn.

I knew that I could draw, but I just could not think of images that I can put into paper. It's like, endless moments of being in front of sheets of paper, doodling(and doing that penmanship exercise we used to do in grade school).

Not a single piece. Nothing. So I stopped drawing altogether. Just stopped. It sounds so Zen when I think about it, but not when I start to regret it.

Like, for instance, when I stumbled upon a blog entry by Gerry Alanguilan (here), I felt so nostalgic that I felt I had to let out my frustrations in some way or another.

The entry is about Jim Lee (his blog here, here, or here) wanting to get the inker's perspective across to those who think that inkers just trace pencilers' stuff, and thus aren't really worth all that much. (Read the entry here).

These are the works of some of those who took up the "challenge" (so to speak. I got these from the comments section in Jim's blog entry):

http://underdog.dreamcomics.com/english/superman208.htm (This page includes the pencil image which was in the original link Jim provided)
http://www.maurusso.com/ink/JimLee2.jpg
http://www.blogger.com/r?http%3A%2F%2Fwww.edgartadeo.com%2Fduh%2Farchives%2Fjimlee_inked.gif
http://webpages.charter.net/chilinski/JimLeeX.jpg
http://www.normrapmund.com/images/LeeMiki.jpg
http://www.deviantart.com/view/13356304/

Wonderful, wonderful stuff, these things.

Time Capsule

2005-11-07T16:57:00.000+08:00

I saw in Boing Boing, a "directory of wonderful things," a free service offered by Forbes wherein you can e-mail yourself a message, and the message will only get to your inbox after 1, 3, 5, 10, or 20 years.

(Click here)

I just wrote an e-mail to myself the things that are on top of my mind right now. I think I'm looking for things to make me smile, in advance.

I'm just hoping Gmail would still be up after 5 years.

Screenplay in the works (or, I'd like to think that it is)

2005-10-20T23:46:00.000+08:00

MAR
Late 20’s, Taxi Driver

ROMY
Early 30’s, Taxi driver

SUZETTE
Early 20’s, Call center employee

BEA
Early 20’s, Call center employee

ANTON
Mid 20’s, Call center employee

I. MAR

EXT. GABI.

Ang kahabaan ng Pasay Road ay maluwang kung dis-oras ng gabi.  Mukhang nakauwi na ang mga tao, at dahil weekday, kaunti lang ang natirang gumigimik sa mga bar.

CUT TO:

INT. GABI

Mabagal at maingat ang pagmamaneho ni MAR ng kanyang taxi, na tila nilalasap nang mabuti ang hangin na pumapasok sa nakabukas niyang bintana.  Lumiko si MAR sa isang kalye at napalingon sa liwanag sa gawing kanan kung sa’n may McDo na bukas ng ganitong oras ng gabi.  Parang may call center, maraming kasing tao—at uwian na ata.  Tiyak maraming pasahero.  Kaso, medyo bumibigat na yata ang mga mata ni MAR.  Pero, sayang ‘to, baka pwedeng pilitin, kahit isang biyahe lang.

     MAR (V.O.)
Mar…minsan ka lang sisipagin, hindi mo pa sulitin, ano?

CUT TO:

EXT. GABI

May paparang DALAWANG BABAE.

     BABAE#1
Suzette, sa ‘yo na ‘to.

     SUZETTE
Oo ba.  Thanks, Bea.

Tatabi ang taxi ni MAR sa harap ni BEA at SUZETTE. Sinilip niya ang dalawang babaeng pumara sa kanya.

     SUZETTE
Sa Parañaque po, manong.

     MAR
Pasensya na miss, medyo inaantok na ho ako.  Hindi na ako aabot ng dilát sa Parañaque, delikado na.  Hindi ho ako namimili ng pasahero, pero sana intindihin niyo

     SUZETTE
Hay.  Bea, take this one na.  He can’t take me to BF kasi inaantok na raw siya.

     BEA
Ah talaga?

Dudungaw papaloob si BEA.  Kita ang konting cleavage ni BEA.  Napansin ito ni MAR.

     BEA
Pioneer lang ako, manong.

     MAR
(Pause) Halika na.

     BEA
Bye, Suzette.  I’ll see you tomorrow.

Sumakay si Bea at umupo sa gawing kanan ng likuran.  Bubuksan ni Mar ang aircon at aandar na ang taxi.

CUT TO:

INT. GABI.

P.O.V. NI MAR. Kita si BEA sa malawak na rear-view mirror.  Maganda rin naman si BEA.  Maputi na medyo morena, medyo tsinita, maikling buhok.  Slim din.  Mukhang type ni MAR.

     BEA
Sa Cityland lang ako, manong.

Natanaw ni MAR sa rear-view na may kinakausap nang taxi si SUZETTE.  Mukhang nakahanap na ng masasakyan ito.  Maingat ang pagmamaneho ni MAR, at titigil ito sa lahat ng stoplight na madadaanan niya.

Masayahin ang tono ng pananalita ni BEA, pareho ng pakikipag-usap niya kay SUZETTE.

     MAR
Ie-Edsa ko na ito, ha?

     BEA
Yeah.  Tama.  Galing ni manong, ah.

     MAR
(Tatawa nang bahagya) Sa call center ho ba kayo?

Sa gitna ng pag-uusap ay hininaan ni MAR ang aircon ng taxi.  Parang nainitan si BEA at magtatanggal sya ng sweater.  Tutuon tayo sa tila malambot na braso ni BEA, at sa kanyang leeg na kita sa rear-view, kapag i-anggulo lang ni MAR ang kanyang paningin nang kaunti.

     BEA
Yeah.  Obvious no?  Ang dami naming nakakalat sa McDo.

     MAR
Madalas nga hong mga taga-call center ang nasasakay ko pag ganitong oras.

     BEA
Paano, uwian namin alanganin.

Sandaling katahimikan.  Habang tahimik ay tinype niya sa cellphone niya ang taxi company na nakasulat sa may pinto, pati na rin ang address at telepono.  Para ring tinext niya ito sa isang tao.

     MAR
Pasensya na’t hindi ko naihatid yung kaibigan niyo, miss.  Talaga hong pumipikit na’ng mata ko e.  Baka ho kung mapaano kami kung magmamaheno pa ako ng malayo.

     BEA
Ikaw ha, parang ang tanda ko naman kung kausapin mo ako.  Ayos lang yun, manong.  Mabait naman si Suzette, maiintindihan ka nun.

     MAR (V.O.)
Bea.  Mukha ka ring mabait, Bea.  Lamang ka lang ng Ingles sa’kin, pero… binata ako, at mukha ka namang dalaga.  Ano ba ang nasa pagitan natin?

     BEA
Saan ba kayo gumagarahe?

     MAR
Novaliches.

     BEA
Eh ang layo din nun e (Tatawa nang bahagya).

Kita sa mga mata ni MAR na masarap pakinggan ang tawa ni BEA.  Mahinhin, pero buo.  Malamig, pero nakakatunaw.  Tila mapagpakitang-tao, pero malalim ng pinagmulan.

     BEA
Sa gabi talaga kayo bumibiyahe?

     MAR
Minsan ho, kung nakunsunadahan ko.

     BEA
Wow ha.  Feeling boss.

Napaisip sandali si BEA.

     BEA
Oh, my God, sa ‘yo ‘tong taxi?

Feeling pumogi bigla si MAR.

     MAR
Napag-ipunan lang.  Ayos naman, kumikita kahit papaano.

     BEA
Wow, galeng.  Magkano kita mo per day?

     MAR
Minsan, kung swerte, mahigit ‘sanlibo.  Minsan 700, 800.  Pero kung bibiyahe ako ng araw umaabot ng ‘sanlibo, lalo na kung sa Makati.

     BEA
Minus gas and everything?

     MAR
Oo, kita na yun.

     BEA
Wow. Shit nakakainggit ka ha.  Eh, mas malaki pa yata kinikita mo sakin, no!

     MAR
Kaso lang, eh, wala naman akong, yung, security ba.  Kumbaga, di tulad ng sweldo, siguradong kada buwan, meron.  Pero kunyari ako, pag ako magkasakit, siguradong wala akong kita.  Kayo ho… balita ko malaki ang kita sa call center, di ho ba?

     BEA
Ayos lang.  Pareho lang tayo halos e, mas malaki pa nga yata yung sa’yo.  Wala pa kasi akong one year, so heto, ganito pa rin yung sweldo ko.

     MAR
Alam mo, ayos din yang call center eh.  Kung marunong lang akong mag-Ingles, papasukin ko yan, eh.  Eh, mas marunong pa yata ako ng Arabo eh.

     BEA
Ows, nag-OFW ka? Saan?

     MAR
Tumagal ako ng mga dalawang taon sa Dubai, sa hotel.  Tagalinis ng kwarto, tagabuhat.  Pero kesyo wala akong sinusuportahan, akin lahat ng kinikita ko.  Kaya pagbalik ko rito, yung naipon ko, eto, pinapasada ko.

Sandaling katahimikan.

     BEA
Alam mo, ayoko naman ng trabaho ko e.

Sandaling katahimikan.

     BEA
Sino ba namang gusto ng trabaho na pare-pareho lang ang sinasabi mo tuwing may tatawag.  “INSERT SPIEL HERE” Hay naku.  Ayoko na.  Ayoko na, ayoko na, ayoko na.  Ayoko na.

Sandaling katahimikan.

     BEA
Ayoko na.

Matatawa nang bahagya si MAR.  Papaluin ni BEA si MAR sa balikat.

     BEA
Hoy, hindi nakakatawa yun ano!

     MAR
Kung nakita mo lang mukha mo kanina, matatawa ka sigurado.

Sandaling katahimikan.  Seryoso na lang tono ni BEA.

     BEA
Sabay yung mga kasama mo pa sa office.  Hindi ko maintindihan.  Magdamag na nga silang nagpapakaplastic sa mga callers, plastic pa rin sila sa... Hindi na nagsawa!  Feeling nila… Ni hindi mo masabihan ng… Hindi ko maintindihan.

Sandaling katahimikan.

     BEA
Hindi ko maintindihan.

     MAR
Bea ano?

     BEA
Bea.

     MAR
Bea.

     BEA
Bakit?

     MAR
Maganda ho pakinggan.

     BEA
Ikaw?

     MAR
Mar.

Dadaanan nila ang Sogo Motel sa gawing kanan

     MAR
Dyan, lahat ng tao, totoo.

     BEA
(Nalito) Ano yon?

     MAR
Sa motel.

     BEA
Mar, maraming nalolokong pumasok dyan.  Yang mga babaeng yan, I bet, konting sweet talk lang ng mga BF nila, sasama sila dyan.  Konting bola lang.  Hindi honesty yun.  Hindi totoo.

     MAR
Alam mo, tanga lang ang hindi makakahalata ng kaplastikan pagdating sa mga ganyang bagay.

Sandaling katahimikan.

     MAR
Una, buong buhay ng isang babae, sinasabihan ng magulang na huwag makikipag-sex sa boyfriend nila hangga’t hindi pa sila kasal.  Pangalawa, sa dami ng palabas sa TV, at malamang naman may mga kaibigan din kayo, hindi pwedeng hindi sila masagap ng values na nagsasabi sa kanila, at least man lang, kundi sa pinagtututuro ng mga magulang tungkol sa sex na yan, na maraming manlolokong nagkalat dyan.  Isama mo na yang mga kanta.  Ang dami nyan, yung nagpapalakas ng loob ng babae, yung mga nagsasabing huwag mo ‘kong lolokohin kasi masasaktan ako, huwag mo ‘kong lolokohin kasi tao rin ako--yung mga ganun.  Pangatlo, sabihin na nating adult ka na, may-isip ka na, tingin ko makikita sa mga actions ng lalaki kung ang gusto lang niya sa’yo yung katawan mo e.  Simple lang mag-isip ang mga lalaki.  Madali lang tantyahin.  Tip ko sa’yo Bea, mag-assume ka.  Medyo masama yun, pero hindi masama ang mag-assume.  Survival tactics yan e, kaya hindi na pinag-uukulan ng pansin ang ibang bagay at pwede nang gawin ang iba pa.  Parang filter, pinapasimple ang buhay.  Isipin mo, tao ang lalaki, may isip at puso.  Kahit anong naituro at natutunan mo na dati, kahit sa mga experience mo dati, isipin mo na ang lalaki, meron ding katawan.  At, sasabihin ko sa’yo ‘to, malakas ang kapit ng katawan ng lalaki sa isip niya.  Lalo na’t kung sinasabi nito sa kanya na pwede, pwede mong gawin, at walang makakahuli sa’yo.

May sandaling tahimik ang dalawa.  Mapapatingin si BEA kay MAR.  Parang nabighani siya BEA sa kanya.

     BEA
May girlfriend ka na?

     MAR
(Nagulat) Ha?

     BEA
Sorry ah.  Tinanong ko lang kung may girlfriend ka na.

     MAR
Ok lang.  Wala, ho.  Available pa.  Hindi ko muna pinag-iisipan yang mga ganyan.

     BEA
Iniwan ka siguro ano?

     MAR
(Matatawa nang kaunti) Ako kamo ang nang-iwan.  Kailangan e.  Paalis kasi ako noon papuntang Dubai.  Aaminin ko, hindi ko kaya yung long-distance eh.  Ako kasi yung tipong ayaw muna patali.  Eh yung syota ko medyo makapit.  Akalain mong binutas yung… yun bang… yung condom na ano… Eh buti na lang napansin ko agad at hindi ko pa nagamit.

     BEA
Edi nanlambot ka bigla?

Tumawa nang malakas si BEA.  Nahiya si MAR ng bahagya.  Kikinang ang mga mata ni MAR.  Magtatagpo sila ng tingin sa rear-view mirror.  Iiwas ng tingin si MAR, pero hindi iiwas si BEA.  Iiling na lang ito habang nakangiti at titingin sa bintana.

Binagalan ni MAR ang taxi at liliko sa isang intersection.

Tutungo si BEA paharap upang ituro kay MAR ang loading bay.  Mas malapit na ang mukha ni BEA kay MAR.

     BEA
Park ka dyan sa labas lang.  Sarado yung loading bay e.

Babagalan ni MAR ang taxi.  Hindi babalik si BEA sa kanyang dating pwesto.  Nasa 65 pesos ang nakarehistro sa metro.

     MAR
Sagot ko na ‘to.

Mag-aabot ng 100 si BEA.  Nakatingin siya kay MAR.

     BEA
As if!  Heto bayad.  Suklian mo ako, kundi irereport kita.  Nasa akin ang phone number mo.

Tahimik sandali.  Nakangiti habang “mapipilitang” maghanap ng panukli si MAR.  Nakatingin pa rin si BEA kay      MAR.

     BEA
Sige, ayos lang, keep the change na.

     MAR
Sige.  Salamat.

     BEA
Salamat.  Ingat ka.

     MAR
Sige, ingat, Bea.

     BEA
Alam mo, Mar… diba sa Novaliches ka pa gagarahe?  Uuwi ka na ba?

Tutungo lang si MAR.

     BEA
Huwag mo na i-tolerate yang antok mo.  Gusto mong matulog na?

Sandaling katahimikan.
     BEA
Maghanap ka ng safe na place.  Yung mailaw tsaka matao.  Or yung may sekyu sa malapit.  Pag bumiyahe ka pa, baka mabangga ka pa.

Tutungô si MAR.  Sandaling katahimikan.

     BEA
Ingat ka Mar.

Aabutin ni BEA ang balikat ni MAR at pipisilin ito ng konti.

CUT TO:

EXT. GABI.

Habang V.O. ni MAR, ngingiti lang siya habang lumalabas si BEA’t isinara nito ang pinto.  Aakyat si BEA pataas ng hagdan.

     MAR (V.O.)
Ingat, Bea.

Mabilis na papasok si BEA sa condo.  Makikita nating dadaanan niya ang gwardya at dederetso sa elevator.  Aandar nang mabagal ang taxi ni MAR paalis ng condo.

     MAR (V.O.)
Ingat ka, at baka kung sinong dumakma sa likod mo.  Ingat ka, at baka may manyak sa elevator.  Mag-ingat ka.  Sumigaw ka lang, at maririnig kita.

CUT TO:

INT. GABI

Sa loob ng taxi.  Nagsindi ng sigarilyo si MAR at binuksan ang bintana. Habang V.O. ay tumatamlay ang mga mata ni MAR.  Mararamdaman nating bumibilis unti-unti ang pag-andar ng kanyang taxi.

     MAR (V.O.)
Ibang klase ka rin Bea.  Matapos mong buhayin ang gabi ko, pinagod mo naman ako sa kakapaimpres sa’yo.  Sino nga ba naman… kung magkakilala tayo, ikaw ang liligawan ko.  Tiyak yun.  Hindi ko alam kung may syota ka na, pero ang masasabi ko lang, marami akong oras para sayo.  Garantisado, Bea, hinding-hindi ka na magtataxi pa.  Sundo’t hatid ka sa’kin.  Anytime.  Anywhere.  Isang text mo lang.

Mabibigla si MAR nang may bumusina sa may kanan niya.  Aapakan ni MAR ang preno.  May malakas na ilaw sa gawing kanan ni MAR at makakarinig tayo ng pagsara ng pinto at sunod-sunod na pagmumura.  Hindi ito papansinin ni MAR at iaabante niyang muli ang taxi.

     MAR (V.O.)
Kelangan ko na matulog.

CUT TO:

EXT. GABI.

Habang V.O., itatabi ni MAR ang taxi malapit sa isang kanto sa isang residential area, sa tabi ng poste ng Meralco kung saan maliwanag.  Iaakyat niya ang taxi sa bangketa.

     MAR (V.O.)
Hindi kaya may balat ka sa pwet ha, Mar?  Buti na lang kamo at hindi mo na naikwento kay Bea kung gaano kahirap sa’yong magka-girlfriend na tatagal ng isang buwan.  Pag alis mo, nung iniwan mo si Beth, wala ka ring puso.  Wala kang pakialam.  Feeling mo pa nasa tama yung ginawa mo.  Feeling mo nasa dahilan ka.

CUT TO:

INT. GABI.

Pupwesto si MAR upang matulog.

     MAR (V.O.)
Hindi naman ako nagsinungaling kay Bea eh.  Lalaki ako.  Kasalanan ko ba kung ganito ako ginawa.  Na ganito ako pinalaki.  Na ganito ang nasagap ko.  Kung ayaw nila sa’kin, ayaw ko rin sa kanila.  Isang text lang, Bea.  Hindi ako mag-aatubili.  Isang text lang.  Isang text lang.

Mabilis na makakatulog si Mar.

FADE TO WHITE.

CUT TO:

INT. GABI.

Simulan ang DREAM SEQUENCE na tila walang bahid ng pagkakaiba sa pagkakagising.

SA LOOB PA RIN NG TAXI.  C.U. sa cellphone ni MAR. May nagtext. “BEA” ang nasa caller-ID.  Binasa ni MAR ang text:

     MAR (V.O.)
Malayo ka na ba sa Makati?  Hindi kasi ako makatulog, gusto ko sana lumabas.

Magrereply si MAR.

     MAR (V.O.)
Hindi pa ako malayo.  Sige, babalikan kita. Five minutes.

CUT TO:

EXT. GABI.

Makikita natin na lalabas si Bea ng condo at papasok taxi ni MAR.

CUT TO:

EXT. GABI

Nakaupo si MAR at BEA sa hood ng taxi, na nakaparada kung saan pinark ni MAR kanina para matulog.

     BEA
Sweet ka rin pala eh no?

     MAR
Parang pagbubuksan lang ng pinto eh.

     BEA
As if!  Style lang yan eh.

     MAR
Aba!  Yang mga ganyang bagay, hindi na pinag-iisipan.  Pagbubukas ng pinto, yung papaunahin mo, yung bubuhatin mo gamit niya…

     BEA
Ang corny.

     MAR
Corny ka dyan.  Gusto niyo rin naman yun eh.

     BEA
Hinahayaan ko lang gawin sakin yang mga yan, pero hindi ko ine-expect no.  Pag ginawa sakin, edi good.  I appreciate it.  Sweet eh.

     MAR
Ganun lang ba yun?.  Basta iparamdam lang sa inyo na importante kayo, ok na sa inyo?

Magagalit sana si BEA nang banggain sa may likuran ang taxi ng isang rumaragasang taxi.  Mahuhulog si MAR mula sa kanyang kinahihigaan SA LOOB NG TAXI papunta sa kalye.  Magugulantang si MAR sa biglaan niyang pagkagising.

     MAR
(Na parang nananaginip pa) Huwag mo sabihing mali ako…

CUT TO BLACK

II.  SUZETTE

INT. GABI.

SA ELEVATOR NG ISANG BUILDING.  Paakyat si SUZETTE sa kanyang palapag.  Tumunog ang cellphone nya.  Si BEA.

     SUZETTE
Kakatapos ko lang BEA.

Pinindot uli ni SUZETTE ang “G” at bumalik sya pababa.

     SUZETTE (V.O.)
Lecheng ANTON ka.  Kalokohan ‘to.  Pinahamak mo ako, ‘lang hiya ka.

Magkikita na sina SUZETTE at BEA sa yosihan.  Malakas magyosi ang dalawa habang nag-uusap.

     BEA
Eto o.  Di man lang nagreply.

     SUZETTE
Suuuus.  Pareply-reply pa ang drama mo ha.

     BEA
Paakyat na kaya ako.

     SUZETTE
Aba gaga ka, at balak mo pa ‘kong iwanan?

     BEA
Sira.  Uuuuy, busy ka ba?

     SUZETTE
Oo.  Pero, shit, pake’lam ko.  I’m fucking fed up with this shit.  Mag-intay silang mga ‘tang inang mga Kanong yan.

     BEA
Don’t talk like that.  Trainer kita.  You’re supposed to set an optimistic future for me.

     SUZETTE
Putang ina mo, as if!  Sipain kita dyan eh.  Alam mo lahat ng kalokohan ko tapos you expect me to set a good example for you.  Sige BEA, you can leave na, ako bahala sa’yo.  Di kita isusumbong, promise.

     BEA
Haha.  Sira.  Di ko na alam lahat ng kalokohan mo ‘no.  Tanginang best friend to, hindi na nagkukuwento.  Bakit sa tingin mo inaya kita magyosi?

     SUZETTE
Kasi miss mo na ‘ko?

     BEA
Haha.  Ulul mo.  Papakwento ako kay ANTON, gaga.  Alam mo namang ikaw na surveillance camera ko sa mga kalokohan ng leche kong boyfriend e.

Sandaling katahimikan.

     BEA
O, ano?

     SUZETTE
What?

     BEA
What is love?  Ano ka ba?  Si ANTON?

     SUZETTE
What about him?

     BEA
How is he?

     SUZETTE
Ayun, si ANTON pa rin.

     BEA
Gwapo pa rin?

     SUZETTE
Haha.  ‘Tamo to… yun pa rin ba tingin mo kay ANTON?

     BEA
Aba shempre.  Hindi ko siya ika-crush ng limang taon tapos magsasawa ako sa kanya just because one month na kaming kami ‘no.

     SUZETTE
Jesus, get a grip, BEA.

     BEA
What?  What’s wrong with that?  I’m trying to keep our flame strong.  What’s wrong with hoping for the best?  I’m trying hard for our relationship to work.  Di naman ako tanga diba?

     SUZETTE
You know you’re my best friend, BEA.

     BEA
Aba!  Ang kapal!

     SUZETTE
Hoy, ikaw ‘tong wina-warningan ko dati pa ‘no.  You know how ANTON is with girls.  Remember at how he was with you dati.  Kala mo special ka kaya ganun siya sayo?  Hoy!

     BEA
Well, you gotta admit.  He was acting like I was special to him the longest.  Yung iba, fleeting lang.

     SUZETTE
So, ikaw yung pinakaspecial, ganon?

     BEA
Ano ka ba?  I’m trying to make myself feel better.  Anong klaseng best friend ka?

     SUZETTE
How do I say this properly…

     BEA
Don’t say “I told you so,” putang ina.

Sandaling katahimikan.

     BEA
Tanga ko no?

     SUZETTE
I love you BEA, you know that.  Kahit tanga ka.

     BEA
You bitch!  Comfort me naman!  Gaga ka talaga.

     SUZETTE
Sorry, dude, I can’t help it.  Hooking up with ANTON is kinda dumb, if you think about it.

     BEA
Hindi lang ako tanga, bobo pa.  Hay nako, salamat SUZETTE.

     SUZETTE
Haha.  That’s not what I meant, sira.

Sandaling katahimikan.

     BEA
I finally caught him… nakwento ko ba sayo?

     SUZETTE
Nope.

     BEA
Her name’s Mitch.  Anton forgot to delete a message sa cellphone niya.  One fucking message.  And I saw it the one time na chineck ko phone nya.  It was so easy, I didn’t even have to try so hard.  It was like, “ANTON, borrow phone, wala na akong load eh.”  Na totoo naman.  I just borrowed his phone to text my mom na gagabihin ako.  Then I thought of taking a peek at his messages.  Ayun.  Huli ang hinayupak.  I shoved his phone to his face with the message still on, tapos I walked out.  I never called him since then.

     SUZETTE
How long na?

     BEA
A day lang.  That bitch, Mitch.  Bagay talaga sa kanya yung pangalan niya.  Parang ngongong bitch.  Mitch.  Haha.  Putang ina siya.

Sandaling katahimikan.

     BEA
And he never even bothered to call!  Like he took it as a signal na, na… a fucking sign na…

Nagsimulang lumuha si BEA.  Pagkatapos ng ilang sandaling pagpipigil ay napahagulgol na rin siya.

     SUZETTE
Shit, BEA.  Get up.  Come here.

Iingay sa halakhakan ang isang grupo ng lalaki di kalayuan, sa area din ng yosihan.

     SUZETTE
Don’t worry about him, BEA.  Marami pang iba diyan.  Don’t you fucking cry over a guy.  Don’t you ever.

Sandaling katahimikan.

     BEA
Yeah.

FADE TO BLACK

===========

Parts 3, 4 and 5 have been "in the works" since fucking February. No, I'm not being maarte. I just haven't touched the file since Feb till ten minutes ago. Haha.

And, oh yea, this was posted using the Blogger tool for Microsoft Word. Cool.

Heave a fart

2005-10-12T16:18:00.000+08:00

Everybody knows how it feels.

You’re walking. Or sitting. Or whatever. Your gut begins to crunch, your chest feels cold and you can’t imagine which hell the pain comes from. You try to stretch to, so to speak, tweak your insides, hoping--like one would hope when one repeatedly bangs a remote on the table--that somehow the pain will go away.

And it doesn’t.

Out of frustration, you go to a corner of the room, an isolated bench, a remote tree--an alone place--and try to take the pain with dignity, showing the least contortion that your face can afford.

And then you heave a fart. A huge one. Long. And. Heavy.

And as if the hand of Dionysus quenches your alcoholic soul, the suffering ends.

No more crunching gut. No more cold chest. No more hell from wherest the pain cometh.

++++

It’s strange that while I know myself to be righteous and hardworking, I can hardly remember two weeks straight in which I’ve killed all worldly associations and worked with 100% inhibition, and thus produced excellent results. There will always be periods in-between wherein I would take a step back and not do anything.

I’m talking about my job. As in, employment.

Sit. Sleep. Forget.

And I will always need to re-orient myself with the job-at-hand, which, if you ask me, is totally inefficient.

Likesay, now.

I work in a high-stress environment wherein creativity and logic must marry and get the wedding done-and-over-with, Vegas-style.

And here I am, writing a blog entry.

++++

My horoscope today says that today will be a great day for creative stuff, and that I will totally please people because I’m so creative.

++++

(Heaves a fart)

++++

...

Gigs

2005-09-23T20:39:00.000+08:00

Just like "world" society, only one of my activities take up most of my time, while most of my activities only have some time to materialize.

A couple of this "most" that I've managed to squeeze in "some" of my time are the two bands in which I play drums: The Haneps and MHS.

MHS will play (gasp) later in Freedom Bar in Anonas, QC, starting about 12 midnight (which would make it tomorrow, thus enough time has been allotted for everyone make up their schedules). MHS plays old-school a.k.a. Razorbackish rock. We're playing with Hummingbirds, Saffron Speedway, Few Apologies, Gazmagnet, Zoo, Winterroots, and (or so I've heard) Chicosci and another-band-whose-name-I-can't-recall (really, I don't).

We'll also be in Mai Yuchi in Malate on Sunday September 25. Where that is, only the devil knows.

(Update: Mai Yuchi is on the corner of Pedro Gil and Adriatico, across Robinson's Place Ermita. Well, it's somewhere there.)

The Haneps, on the other hand, are scheduled to play at Freedom Bar on Tuesday September 27 with a couple more bands There are a few other bands scheduled to perform, but I've yet to know who they are. One of the bands feature Benrie Cadiz, formerly of Popgun. I've heard his songs and I'm wishing they were mine. Show starts at 8pm.

Woohoo.

Developmental

2005-09-09T19:40:00.000+08:00

I'm writing this in the office in the middle of waiting for 10:30, when my other band, MHS, will play in Freedom Bar. Somewhere 8-ish, I stumbled upon a post by Regina Lynn in Wired.

It talks about vintage erotica. What caught my attention was Ms. Lynn's brilliant, brilliant opening lines:

Hester Nash, curator of vintage erotica site RetroRaunch, has a theory about what turns us on.

"Our sexual reactions are formed in childhood, not in puberty," Nash says. "Whatever we're exposed to when we first have those feelings will always move us throughout our lives."

While vintage porn doesn't really suit my taste, the article made me remember a part of my childhood I am very proud of. One that up to know brings enlightenment during times when I think of why I have become the man I am now.

The horny kid stage.

As an adult (I swear I'm an adult), and even back then was I was a teenager, I can't imagine someone not thinking that children can be horny.

Probably because I was.

Children? Innocent? Bullshit.

The farthest back that I can remember seeing porn was, well, I can't pin point exactly when or what age I was, but it's most probably a bit after preschool, because I distinctly remember my yayas, ate Corsing and ate Letty, at the door when practically the entire family was watching some B-movie erotica in Betamax.

(Entitled "Private School"... I saw it on the label when I was a bit older na. Haha.)

(And the reference to my yayas was because of the period of time they were with the family. How dare you?)

Anyhow, I remember lying on my belly, on the narrow strip of floor between my parents' bed and the wall. My dad was on the side of the bed nearest me, and beside him was my mom. At the foot of the bed, nearest to the TV, was my brother. At the opposite side of the bed from where I was, was my grandma, sitting on the floor. By the door, was my two yayas. The room was dark, and I remember feeling that it was already very late in the evening (of course, I was a kid then, so I'm guessing it was just 7).

I remember the bathroom scene when a mute girl was gang-raped (or I think so) was a bunch of guys. I distinctly remember how the guy took the girl's blazer off, tore her sweater and ate through her bra. Then I have this weird image of a guy outlining her chest with his fingers and, in my mind, boobs sprung up (and for a long time, I knew of boobs as being things that should be outlined for them to spring out). The next thing I remember was, wide down shot, the girl being left on the floor, completely naked.

I swear I can still jack off from that last scene.

After that, it was a series of adventures of me and my brother rummaging over my dad's porn together (and later on, each on our own convenient time) fascinated, laughing over pages upon pages of girls with large dicks in their mouths (which, of course, I learned later on was pretty normal).

The experience was so virginal that even now, the smell of old magazines instantly remind me of porn.

Then came years of opportunism. Every time my parents would go out, and I would be the only one left in the house, it was porn time. And I was happy that my mom, having recognized that I was the oldest among her kids, was confident that I can be left alone in the house, responsible enough to take care of it.

And I was. No kidding.

It was enlightening, developmentally. Now, I can claim to be wiser because I was exposed to things very early.

Now, my girlfriend says her kid brother's having erections. Who knows what he's thinking when he has them?

The Haneps @ Frances Bar

2005-07-27T15:17:00.000+08:00

The Haneps will play a set at Frances Bar in 112 Matatag St., UP Village, Diliman, QC. It'll be mostly an all-orig set, so hopefully someone important in the audience will be listening attentively.

How to get to Frances Bar? I have no idea. I'm just told that it's somewhere near East Avenue Medical Center.

Show starts 8:00. We'll probably play around 8:30.

I am Iñigo

2005-07-11T00:40:00.000+08:00

Marxism (and Ducard in Batman Begins) says that a man is defined by what he does. In a realistic setting, this is saying "I'm a researcher" after your name when you're asked "Who are you?"

In a few ways I feel irked when someone says "I'm an ah-tist." I mean, hey, okay.

*****

This is isn't the only time I'm blogging to get away from what I'm supposed to do, which is, in this case, do a report that's due just this Friday.

I am Iñigo, researcher.

Research really has its up-sides. For one, it's not a monotonous job. A project is different from another project, one that's unless you've been in the business for ages, totally unpredictable, especially when you're working with a team whose quirks anyone can't really control.

In fact, it's so not-monotonous that I've very often wished for monotony. How exciting it would be to be a typist. Or a cashier. Or an accountant. Or a call boy (as in customer service representative). I mean, I've heard people in these kinds of jobs that wished they had a more colorful life, that they wished something different would happen. I wish I could tell them (I haven't) that I envied their situations because they're bound in a box, and that box allows them only eight hours a week to attend to their monotony, which leaves them a third of their day to sleep and the remaining third to do something else.

That's eight full hours of pure happiness. I'm not gonna spend that watching TV.

I'd do stuff. Like practice drums. Learn German. Write music. God, I could read with that amount of time. And I could have more time if I just slept six or seven hours a day.

My present also job allows me eight hours in the box, eight hours of sleep, and eight hours of whatever. Difference is, the eight hours of whatever is also done in the box, so it's like eight hours in bed and sixteen fucking hours in the box. Yes, even on weekends. Like now, for example.

I am Iñigo, researcher.

"Why don't you just do what you want to do?" It wont earn me money, idiot. This is the closest "I want to do this" that would promise me I'd make it someday.

Then, there's the Haneps.

It doesn't promise anything much, but the way things are going now, it seems to be one of the few remaining links I have with my youth (and my "I want to do's").

I am Iñigo, drummer.

It's a hard situation, really. Being in a band, at this age, means that I should be competent enough in my instrument to perform at the level that would allow me to offer something interesting to our audience. Meaning, I have to be able to do good music that complements what Allen and Rocky (the other guys) are doing. Meaning, I have to be good on drums.

Meaning, I have to practice.

Now, this is is pretty hard thing to do if I only have so much time in my hands. Worse, I don't think time goes by my hands anymore. It just goes pfft past without even looking.

My guitar will kill me. It's amazing that I actually see myself more as a drummer now than a guitarist. To think that's where I started shedding all the bullshit from.

I am Iñigo, musician.

I think "I'm a blogger" irks me as much as "I'm an ah-tist." It's like "I'm your friendster."

I am Iñigo, writer.

I've been trying to finish an article for Bembang that to this hour remains in the "trying to finish" stage. Some people have graciously complemented me on my writing, and I am eternally grateful.

But, it's just not me.

For one, this is just a vanity thing. If I had wanted to be known for writing, I'd set up a blog under another name, with no identifying marks that it was me who wrote my stuff. In a sense, I wanted people to tell me that I write nice. I wanted to feel some sort of admiration people felt for my work.

Then again, this is Inigo Mortality. Me, dead. All forms of adulation are regarded as part of a eulogy.

Which is still inescapably vain, mind you. I've more than once fantasized about killing myself just to see what people would say about me.

Then I'd think it would be pointless because I'd be dead by then. No one to hear the eulogy and critique it as if it were a Friendster testimonial.

*****

Marxism says that work is an end, not a means to something but towards his self-realization. Meaning, to only work for compensation, we are alienated from ourselves. The goal is to do the thing, not to receive anything out of it. The thing is to do research, not do salaried work. The thing is to make music, not sell records.

Which one does not alienate me... doing research or making music? How about "living"? Isn't that an action word?

A teacher in college once said that being in the liberal arts is a special thing. While people in engineering, business, science, and other courses were taught how to make a living, we at the liberal arts, he said, were being shown how to live.

I am Iñigo. I live. So much for working.

The Haneps @ Ardz Katipunan

2005-06-28T10:56:00.000+08:00

The Haneps will play at Ardz Katipunan on July 2 Saturday. A hundred pesos says you will hear the music better (because you can go inside) and (meanwhile) twentysomething is saying you can have a beer. Or probably thirtysomething said it.

Passing Time

2005-06-27T19:37:00.000+08:00

It's past 7 and I'm still in the office. Not that it's unusual for me (or for this office, for that matter) but I'm in a situation wherein I'm not supposed to be here. Now that's unusual. It's usually work then split. But I haven't split. I'm waiting. That is, I'm not doing anything anymore but trying to pass time.

As if you're actually "trying" to pass time. As in "doing something" to pass time, like, "making an attempt" as if there is an actual "activity" of "passing time"...

It's like smoking. I always tell my friends that I wished that I smoked. For one thing, it's one thing that you "do" when you're not doing anything.

Like, say, "passing time."

It's like a window for Taoists: what's important is the space in between the frames. Or a room. Or a door. Or a wheel.

Anyhow, it doesn't exist for nothing, this one. "Passing time," that is.

Oh look, there goes time, passing by. Hey, watch that crack on the road. Whoa, don't say I didn't warn you.

Talkin' 'Bout my Geeeeeeeneratiaaahn

2005-05-22T23:53:00.000+08:00

As of this entry, I'm trying to finish a report that's due to be submitted to a client tomorrow.

Yeah. On a fucking Sunday.

I can't say I didn't know I'd have days when I'm working when I'm not supposed to. We were told that we "might" have to work long hours in this line of work. Not that I don't know how it is to work in a research firm and bust my ass off, but this, I must admit, would be the first time I've worked two weeks straight, including weekends.

Well, at least next week the company's off to Boracay. Oh yes.

After that, it'll be week after week after week of no weekends. Expect for the worst, I always say.

Just recently (about yesterday) I told a friend that I think I'm in the wrong career path. I mean being in research means I have to take time off from the real world and work practically theoretically, writing derivatives from data, pausing only at certain moments to make sure what I'm doing actually depicts the real world.

It's ironic, really, when you only spend moments thinking about the real world when you're supposed to depict the real world when you're analyzing consumer data. Oh, well... the real world don't fill my wallet with employee compensation and overtime pay. It can wait.

Plus, it means a whole lotta work.

I think I don't think I'm made and raised for this kind of effort.

Images of achievers and family pressure come to mind. Images of pursuit, of curiosity. Of shutting out and drawing in. Of blinders, earphones and irises focusing.

Someone once told me that men, being the food-gatherers evolved to be specialists and women, being food-gatherers and child-rearers, multitaskers. Women can do things at the same time, but men at only one, but devotes his life into it, thereby messing up other circumstances that other people (e.g. his wife) expects from him.

Einstein had a bad first marriage and ended up marrying his first cousin. Go figure.

For the longest time, I've gotten myself into things that my parents let me get into. Art, rock and roll, guitars, drums... they helped me get into it. My mom, with her meager income and resourcefulness, when we were young brought home reams and reams of bond paper from her office and got me heaps of expensive drawing pens and pencils so that I can get lost in myself and draw. After some time, I had prided myself for being able to do stuff that no one else could at my age (and would just laugh in my head at other people's work) and fuck as hell didn't care about anything else. I was 13 and I know I could do it. At this point in my life, I wanted to draw comics.

Along with this came Guns N' Roses' "Appetite for Destruction." Daddy got me a guitar, a little amp, a DS2 and a CH1. I got these things the first time I asked. We weren't rich, but I had good grades, and I think my parents thought I'd deserved it at that time. Time passed and I think I earned me a reputation with the guitar that precedes me until now. Well, at least with the people I knew back then.

Then the drums. Me and Adrian had been looking for a drummer and we didn't find any, so I played drums temporarily. I found it enjoyable and bought myself a set, leaving my guitar to decay in the corner of my room. Never gotten much time with the thing, but I think I'm pretty usable as a drummer.

And there was school. And the thesis experience. Oh yeah, research was fun. Made a whole lotta accolade. I thought, why not make this into a career?

After hopping a couple of research jobs, I'm now with this one I have now. The one I'm still up writing a report for. Expectedly until the wee hours of fucking noon.

Heavens, why did my teachers encourage me to get into this?

Maybe that's it. I got encouragement. I mean, my parents bought me stuff I could use, and let me use them, but they never encouraged me outright. But my teachers, oh yeah, they'd talk about it openly and tell me I've got what it takes to become an intellectual and shit.

I think it's messed my mind up. Now I think I'm capable of "thinking work". Jesus, I've been hanging with the wrong crowd.

While it's particularly lucky that I've been blessed with a work ethic that gets my grades up or gets my performance to a certain optimal level, it's also particularly unfortunate that I've been cursed to think of ways to ultimately simplify things. That is, what is the purpose of life when you're gonna die anyways? What is the purpose of your work in the universe when it's gonna end up in the Big Crunch anyways?

What's the point in working? What's the point in getting money? What's the point in accomplishing things? What's the point in letting life pass by? What's the point in being off touch just to secure a family's future when there's no family to secure?

There is no point. We're dead men walking. Dead men working. Dead men waiting for retirement and retirement pay.

Retired people look back and see all the life they had missed, and pass on the enlightenment they got to the newer generation. The new generation don't get it, but accept it anyways. Life has to be good, they say. Enjoy life to the fullest. Take life one day at a time. There are more important things in life than money.

People who say these can say them only because they have something to hold onto. Like, say, money. If some politician says that there are more important things in life than money, let's see him give his money away for the good of those more important things. Invite a rich brat who talks about spirituality and inner strength and values to live as most human beings do... without. Live without anything to lean on. Live without anything to stand up on.

How about being that since birth? Some people just have no imagination...

Do. Not. Care. Then maybe I'll listen to what you have to say.

Until then, I'm gonna finish my report, and hope my boss will like it. Then maybe the company's gonna find it easier to give me more work, so that I can earn more money. And more. And more.

Then maybe someday I'd retire and spread some bullshit around for some confused generation to feed on.

Mr. Mojo

2005-04-07T22:08:00.000+08:00

Jim Morrison had a knack for doing anagrams. One of the most well-known is “Mr. Mojo Risin’” from “LA Woman”, allegedly a reference to his preferred reincarnation, made up of letters from his name.

The mojo, originally a Ki-Kongo concept meaning “soul”, has become to mean some sort of power associated with healing and influence, and even magic.

Take the mojo out of Ki-Kongo and bring it to English via black blues legends who sez they got their mojo workin’.

Have an imaginative, adventurous white kid listen to black blues legends who sez they got their mojo workin’.

Put him into film school, so he could meet Ray Manzarek, and eventually, John Densmore and Robbie Krieger.

Unleash the monster within the imaginative, adventurous white kid by letting him front The Doors.

Make him realize that chicks dig him.

He oozes with sex appeal. Chicks want his meat. Legend has it that he began wearing tight leather pants so he can flaunt his meat.

Chicks dug it. Apparently. Make him say he’s got his mojo workin’ while chicks reach for his meat.

Jim the Lizard King liked to bask under the Mr. Mojo limelight, being portrayed as an Adonis. A sex symbol. Testosterone made man. A man workin’ his mojo.

The public loved it. The public ate it up.

What does Mr. Mojo do when he feels like he was eaten up? He flies to Paris. And dies. At least supposedly. No one saw his dead body but his girlfriend. Faked or not, Mr. Mojo’s death marked an end to his mojo risin’.

A man can only take in so much. Apparently, a man’s mojo dries up. And how.

-CYCLE-

Interestingly, mojos drying up seems to be just part of a cycle. That is, at a point in one’s life, one craves for flesh, like it’s the ultimate thing a person should spend his time on.

They say a guy typically peaks at his late teens to early twenties, while a girl peaks during her late twenties to thirties.

(Would it just be attributable to culture? That the men I know are enlightened with the wonders of sex earlier, and that women stay in a land, far, far away much longer, to be awakened by the approach of the third decade?)

(Do you even understand what culture means? Haha.)

Then maybe there are sub-stages. And sub-peaks. Subdivide a lifetime into years, or years into months, for instance. There are dormant months, then there are eruptive months. Weeks one There may be a season a guy’s hormones can just soar. And pardon me for imagining images of thermometers going over-the-top.

Then again, a year might be a whole season of it. A season of love. The entire five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minute stretch.

No wonder Mr. Morrison dried up.

-SUBLIMATION-

Writing, they say, is a form of sublimation, or as Freud would put it, a way where we could express our libidinal energy in not only a socially acceptable way, but in a productive manner.

And I’m not only talking about writing about sex. I’m talking about writing in general. Same goes with things like music, painting, sculpture, dance….

One can also include all types of work. Only here, sublimation manifests more apparently with people who are really good at what they do. Or at least, the hardest-working.

In my mind, this is a plausible reason why homosexuals (or, those who behave like they are part of society, i.e. “cooperating” as opposed to being the histrionic type) seem to be very good at everything they do.

And they look good. They’re the main reason why women tend to think all the eligible bachelors aren’t eligible at all. Or bachelors, even.

So if you think of it, people who do nothing but work have sex lives after all. Some truth here for a man’s guitar being more preferred than his wife.

Now, I don’t have personal experience of being old and mature, but I must say that being flushed of my mojo has been more than once experienced.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you.

But alas, I now am on the verge of resorting to whatever defenses my psyche has for itself. After a couple of months having nothing to be much a-doing, I’ve finally gotten myself employed.

And if you’ve been listening attentively, I could probably say that I’ve been having the best sex of my life… in the office.

And, get this: I can’t even get it up.

At least not at the moment. I can vaguely remember some times in the past that I worked so hard on something, so hard that I forgot to be a sexual being. It made me worry so bad that I had to find a spot in my brain where my mind and my body met.

Yes, I had to meditate. My mojo’s a-running and a-running away.

Thing is, I’m not thinking about getting it up, really. I’m not imagining anything. No mental masturbation. No mental stripping of women I see.

(Well, maybe sometimes. A fine piece of ass is hard to resist, even for the mind…)

But now, I don’t worry. I just don’t feel the need to.

Maybe the thirties are kicking in this early. Maybe my mind is thinking about settling. Maybe I’m seeing that there are more to things in life than sex. Maybe my soul has grown old and had mated.

Maybe I’m finally realizing that the head is higher than the (um) head.

Zeitgeist

2005-03-26T06:33:00.000+08:00

Going home today, Saturday morning, from Mahal’s house, I went along the highway real slow, not going over 60kph (as if my beat-up car has anything significantly better to offer), with open windows and lazy eyes. Everything around was already visible, giving off that bluish morning diffuse.

Today has been the second day that I’ve gone home at daybreak. Going home during the early morning has been fairly unfamiliar to me, as I’ve grown accustomed to either going home while it’s still dark, or just staying over wherever I am to spend the night and going home at noon. But since I’ve been more than a couple of months unemployed, I’ve been given more than enough time to enjoy the times of the day often slept off by most.

This Holy Week, Mahal and I had bought a few DBDs at Ruins (hence the “B”) because we had anticipated that everything would be closed from Maundy Thursday to Black Saturday. That, and because we were trying to cut down on expenses (a.k.a. “no beach this time”).

Anyhow, we watched DBDs at her house when her dad’s finished with the TV (it’s his house anyways), which is at around midnight. We ended up watching two movies and a few episodes of whatever’s on TV.

The last movie was Spiderman 2. Mahal had already seen it, so she just slept through it while I watched. As she slept with her head on my lap, I couldn’t keep myself from staring and wondering with great curiosity at her. I don’t know if it’s just me, but there’s something with sleeping girlfriends that I find fascinating. I can’t remember, for instance, how many times I marveled at the fact that we’re together.

On a different note, I also got to see things in the house I don’t usually see. For instance, on Thursday, I got to spot the hole on the roof that's been bugging my dad for some time: a “natural lighting” translucent PVC roofing got as thin as paper at some parts, and punctured at a couple. I had also seen enough grime on the walls for me to finally manage to borrow a water jet pump so I could clean them.

In the process of looking around, I got to sit on the roof at late afternoon Thursday and just bask in the cool sunset glare. I’ve been an indoor guy recently, and the change of scenery was wonderful.

I don’t know, but maybe it’s a Christian thing that, during the Holy Week, the way the sun shines and the way the wind blows are just a bit different. It was also interesting how they began being different the moment I remembered that it was already Maundy Thursday.

Call me a sheep of my flock, but the part of me that doesn’t think rides a wave, and this week, the wave tells me to stop and notice. Look around and stare. Feel the air and breathe the breeze. Smell the roses while being careful of the thorns.

Today, I got to spot a large, pale orange moon on a grayish blue backdrop of an overcast sky at the end of a downhill road. On my rearview was the top of the hill, behind which were clouds giving off a subdued golden glow, signaling the wakening of the morning sun.

As I turned to my street, the corner streetlamp turned off. As if I had to oblige to something, I turned off my headlight. Yes, I thought, it was already day. I don’t know if it’s going to be beautiful, but I’m sure glad I’m going to bed knowing that it started nice.

Boner

2005-03-22T02:49:00.000+08:00

I stumbled upon an interesting post at PinoyExchange, headlined “Eve was made from a penis-bone.” There wasn’t much in the actual thread for insights, but the links the author (a certain “vproject”) posted was interesting enough for me to check out some facts.

The link posted by vproject argues that, one, men and women have the same number of ribs, thereby refuting the rib theory (men should lack one rib…but ribs come in pairs!); and two, most male mammals have something that humans don’t: a penis bone called a baculum. A bone for boners. All men have is a hydraulic mechanism wherein blood fills the penis’ corpus cavernosum, or blood sacs.

How plausible was the penis argument?

The link also says that word the Hebrews used for the supposed rib God took out from Adam to make Eve out of wasn’t exactly a rib. There wasn’t a word for penis in “Biblical Hebrew,” so they used the word tzehlag, a word that pertains to enclosures, like cells or vaults; and which also pertains to (in other parts of the Bible) to corner, board, plank, leaves, halting or other means of structural support as used in temples, trees and upright structures. (A link posted by a certain “gekokujo” on the same thread argues that this might be a reference to a hermaphrodite Adam’s womb rather than something else)

Now, I can only argue for or against this thing tongue-in-cheek. They’re still not sure if which Homo somethingsomething lost his baculum and evolved into us, but whichever did, Pfizer is definitely glad they did lose that bone, or Viagra would’ve been like a sling or something.

An interesting note. This here says that baculi are used as toothpicks or coffee stirrers. Well, we do eat isaw and pwet ng manok, right?

Fuck You

2005-03-18T04:42:00.000+08:00

It doesn't quite come up to the same relief as when you shout it out loud. But I must admit that it does take something off my chest just typing it.

Fuck you.

Putang ina ka.

Sarap, tangina.

It's 4:44 am Friday and I can't seem to get myself to sleep. I tried watching a movie, but the copy I have of Once Upon A Time In China has its subtitles going off the sides of my TV, so it gives my head something to ache about. That didn't work. I still tossed and turned until I decided to waste my energy on something.

I'm still jobless. For a couple of months now. At least I've something to say to my mother when she calls and asks how I am.

"Eto. Wala pa ring kwenta."

They say the number 4's not a good number... the main reason why 13's so unlucky. I guess at least for the Chinese.

Other windows in my taskbar include two Firefoxes on 1) JobMarketOnline and on 2) PCIJ. Then there's my Windows Media Player playing some tracks I don't know. Thanks to Jon.

Then it's this space right here.

My eyes hurt from behind, like they're being pushed out. Despite this I've turned on the light right above me. Somehow it's soothing. It probably balances my monitor's glow.

My breathing feels like I've slept for 15 hours. Smells like it, too.

Jon's music doesn't have drums playing. Just some quiet percussion clicking and boinging every now and then. That, and some guitars going on. Nice.

When I was lying in my bed a while ago I felt an urge to curl into a fetal position. Then I felt I had to sit at the edge of my bed. I saw my door open and I felt the urge to close it. I did, and went back to the edge of the bed. I looked outside and I noticed that the moon was shining brightly down on my yard, despite not being full.

Jon's music now has drums. The 70's pop subdued type. Uptempo. Unison guitars plus piano. Playing some happy music.

It's in these moments that I feel like I'm being watched over by something. By someone.

Fucked up @ Brannigan's

2005-03-06T21:01:00.000+08:00

I found out last night that Brannigan’s Timog isn’t in Timog, but in a sidestreet beside a Shell station (not Caltex) on Timog, right after the rotunda when you’re coming from EDSA.

In any case, Brannigan’s is probably one of the few places that starting-out bands are “allowed” to play, so me and the rest of The Haneps were more than grateful to have been included in a list of audition bands that hopefully would get us paid gigs.

But, I don’t know, things just fucked up that night.

The equipment was less than OK, but it wasn’t anything that I couldn’t cope with. So the gig went good, at least.

I was warned that the drums would be crappy, and I had been advised to bring some of my own gear along, but I thought the problem would stop at fucked up cymbals and things like that, so I brought my own cymbals. It turns out that the snare stand was fucked up. It could be set up, at its lowest, at a position where probably marching drummers would find it comfortable to play--if they were standing up. The snare was thus set so high that one should either set it up extremely slanted towards the drummer, or put it on a stool that was much more of a comfortable height. It sounded better on the stand, so I had to adjust with the snare drum being higher than the first tom. Other than that, everything else was pretty much bearable.

The set-up was also different. The establishment was made as an outdoor-dining resto, with most of the indoor space devoted to the bar and a few billiard tables. What little space left of the inside, about enough for eight four-seat tables, was devoted for the band playing--which means most of the people who would come to watch the bands stayed outside. The set-up made the bands play as if they were in a display case being looked upon by passing customers.

In a way, this does the audience good because they won’t have to bear with loud-as-hell music piercing their ears if they didn’t want to. The music from the audience point-of-view was mostly muffled by the glass that separates the indoors from the outdoors.

It’s weird for the band because you can’t hear applause (if there was any), and any PR the band would try to establish would be, at best, directed towards people in the audience that actually listened to you: because the noise was a lot muffled, the audience can afford to chose not to listen.

In any case, it was a good night for music, with none of the bands playing badly. At least I hope ours did as well as the others. And the atmosphere was nice, with the cool after-the-rain breeze a welcome accent.

Anyhow, about things that fucked up…

The way the gig went made me hella tired, and I felt like I needed a heap of food to compensate for lost energy. So I ordered what according to the menu were two sticks of inihaw na pusit. The waitress came back and gave me just one. I asked why and they said that I must’ve seen the old menu. So I said I’d have to cancel the order and just order pork barbecue, which I had to confirm to actually be (as written in the menu) two sticks. And I had to speak with the manager herself just to get my way.

I was getting hungrier and hungrier by the second. Maybe the pork would come soon.

Anyhow, the pork came and it was two sticks of pork alright, each stick having four cubes of unadulterated pig fat. This wasn’t pork barbecue, this was roast lard.

So I had to talk to the manager again and ask if they really served barbecued fat. She took a look at the fat on my table and told my that they’d bring me another one. It had already been 30 minutes since the time I ordered and I just thought, sure, whatever. I had no energy to think.

After a long time, the manager came to me and shoved up to my face two sticks of raw pig, asking me if these cubes were OK. I mean, I know what cubes of meat look like if they’re raw, but do they really have to act stupid to actually not know how much meat a stick of pork barbecue should contain? Haven’t they ever bought a stick of barbecue off the street and looked at it to see if it had too much fat? Because, hell, even this one had more than twice as much fat as the actual meat!

I just made them cook it anyway. Good thing the grill was outside and within view, so I had to watch real carefully whether they’d spit on my food, me having given them a piece of my mind already.

I had a hearty meal (‘scuse the pun) with 98% rice and 2% ulam. Yes, I had to scrape off all the meat I could scavenge from all that fat.

Lesson of the day: Do not order food at Brannigan’s. I bet their sisig isn’t even that good. I saw the next table’s sisig go half-unfinished. Now, what “outdoor” restaurant has sisig so bad that people can barely eat through half of it?

And their beer wasn’t 25. It was 28, which is still the best thing about the place.

Watch Rufino Funk on April 2 at Brannigan’s. Don’t order food. Eat at the Burger Machine on Timog, about a block away.

Gig @ Brannigan's Timog

2005-03-04T03:06:00.000+08:00

Rufino Funk will play in Brannigan's Timog on April 2 Saturday. Show starts 9 pm. We'll be trying out a guitarist who gives me another problem on scheduling (another person is another personal schedule I have to work with) but gives us another layer of texture. Vertuso and Pagan Smoke will also be playing. Mark your calendars and at least come for the beer.

While you're waiting for April 2, you might want to check out my other band, The Haneps, also in Brannigan's Timog March 5 Saturday, 9pm... which is tomorrow. Be there at 9. Also playing are Sisig and Tye Dye Shift

Shell out 50 pesos for cover that already comes with a beer. All subsequent beers are 25 each (gracious me, did I say 25?). Twenty five!

Brannigan's Timog is along (uh) Timog Ave. in QC, just a bit past the Timog Circle (from EDSA), near a Caltex station.

Taken for granted (Part 2)

2005-03-02T02:26:00.000+08:00

(Continued from this post)

How many people stop and think about what's given?

Given. Things that are there. Already there. Already there in the first place. Before you even thought of thinking.

People liken it to lenses. Rose-colored ones portray a nice view. But to think rose is a nice color would take another lens to take that to view.

Come to think of it, having a lens to color your world isn’t a bad thing. It practically gave the human race a tool to survive. It gave us this leeway so that we can forget about other stuff and focus on more stuffs-at-hand we can get our minds working on.

Imagine having to judge a person from scratch over and over again, as if every time you meet him would be your first time.

(“Judging” is probably a harsh word. It’s more like evaluating. “Knowing”, if you’re the sensitive type who doesn’t want to be judged)

More than memory, our mind kinda classifies the information that comes into it. Indexes it into understandable information, often useful for our own survival or day-to-day relief.

“Oh, there’s that nice, cute, sweet-smelling chick from the next floor. I reckon she may be a good catch.”

“Oh there’s that sloppy old kraut. Don’t want to run into her today.”

Stereotyping, likesay.

It’s not bad. It’s just plain classifying. Helps you weed out the bad from the good, the looks-trustworthy from the looks-scheming, the hooker-type or the girl-next-door-type.

So what if all people have some good in them? I don’t have to deal with all of them, anyways. I have a puny brain, with so little space for so many people.

Of course, too much of it gets one into a lot of trouble. Me, especially. For the most part, or at least the ones that I remember, the upset faces I’ve caused are mainly due to assumptions made by me. Wrong ones. Those that I had only thought about after I had pissed them off.

That’s why we’d have to share some beer if you want to get some sensible things from me. Yea, I want you drunk, too.

People are more open-minded if they’re drunk.

Or am I just assuming?

Freud blamed it on the repressed libido. Imagine being caught in an extremely interesting conversation with an extremely interesting lady (I’m assuming you’re a guy) and you suddenly feel the need to piss. It’s either you excuse yourself and lose your momentum or stay on and just ignore the pain in your bladder.

That’s your libido being repressed.

Freud tells us that the repressed libido can be projected to other people, not using the piss analogy, but in that what you don’t like about yourself, you attribute to other people. Of course, what you didn’t like about yourself was already repressed.

Say, you’re a horny little lady (assuming that you’re a lady) but you must be prim and proper, lest you be frowned upon by your parents. You can’t be naughty with your friends because they’re prim and proper themselves. Then there’s the extremely nunnish values you were taught and had imbibed which practically chained your vagina shut.

Think of a stereotype, and you’ll already imagine a lady who either extremely abhors sluts and flirty gestures.

(Freud’s a nice reference, the way he pioneered studying the mind. Of course, that’s my opinion)

In terms of assumptions, you’re assuming that what’s true to you is also true to others.

In terms of colored-lenses, it’s like having inward mirrors for eyewear.

In terms of trying to be objective and journalistic, it’s a fucking online journal.

In terms of mind, it’s not having enough brain to allow others to have assumptions.

In terms of being smart, it really, um, isn’t.

As far as I know, it’s when people start to have a glimpse of their givens that they start to think about their lives a bit more, and their careers (the things they have to think about aside from the givens) a bit less. Maybe that’s why retirement age is an age when old people start to think like they’re old, i.e. been-there-done-that-you-little-brat.

If you think about it, maybe givens are just common sense--common sense being the sense that’s common, and not necessarily the right thing to do. (But how could they have been so common if they didn’t do at least a couple of generations some good?)

So maybe the next time you want to knock some sense into someone, think about if the sense you’re about to knock into him is at least somewhat common. We’d probably be a whole lotta smarter then.

Taken for granted (Part 1)

2005-02-28T04:45:00.000+08:00

Yesterday,

I had just come from a practice session with my other band The Haneps and took Mahal by surprise by telling her instead of me going to her office so we could go home together, I’d just meet her somewhere else.

I don’t know if it’s because of the incredibly (and relatively) fresh and cool breeze Makati is capable of blowing on a Sunday, or if it’s because of the just-concluded jam with The Haneps that gave my repressed libido a breather it needed, but I thought it’d be a good idea to stay outdoors a little longer and, for the lack of a better word, rest.

I stayed in the Petron station across EDSA from Dusit Hotel on the corner of Pasay Road, just outside Dasmariñas Village. Gas stations had (finally) discovered the penchant of Pinoys to hang around wherever’s comfy and it was about time this one caught up. The place was perfectly situated where winds from the four corners of the earth met; so that combined with a good view of pleasantly light traffic, a view of the evening sky and a large cup of ice-cold Del Monte pineapple juice from Chowking seemed to balance the bustle of the city and the tranquility of a southern suburb.

I started contemplating about savoring good moments too long and then getting tired with them later on when, suddenly, the otherwise boring scene was accented by an argument that just erupted out on the street.

Imagine a soothing Mozart playing in Tim Burton-fashioned drama in all its phlegmatic appeal, in full surround mono. Then the tape got stuck.

Apparently, a couple on a red Corolla, who meant to cross EDSA from Dasmariñas, was pissed at a bus driver for driving his bus on the EDSA-Pasay Road intersection (with the big yellow X) where it stayed (because there was another bus in front) even when it was the Corolla’s turn to pass through green. Instead of being satisfied with a long and loud blow on the horn, the Corolla hastily overtook the bus, made a cut, and stopped, blocking the bus’ way. The bus’ conductor went down and the couple--as indicated by quick waving of arms, pointing directions and fierce head movement while apparently speaking--went on berating the conductor on road manners. Then the couple seemed (I was far enough not to hear their voices) to want to give a piece of their mind to the driver, who came down on cue from the conductor. Fingers pointed to the driver, then the bus, then the couple to themselves, the couple to the temple of their heads, then the driver to the intersection, then the driver to the couple, et cetera--with no one seeming to give it up. With a final heave of expletives the Corolla then turned around, sped through the gas station for a short cut, hastily going back to where it originally waited for its turn to cross the street, at the edge of the intersection. The bus waited a few seconds more, and then went on its way.

Now, one could only imagine what they’d have said to each other, given the hot heads of the couple in the Corolla and the possible disposition of the driver. For one thing, the couple could have argued that the driver was idiotic enough not to think of clearing the street of the bus when he was supposed to. Then again, the bus driver could have blamed the bus in front of it blocking its way--that he could have gone forward if the bus in front of him hadn’t waited for people that long. Then, the couple couldn’t have believed it, because they themselves had overtaken the bus blocking the driver’s way, and had managed to block the bus in question, so it was therefore possible for the bus to do the same. On the other hand, the driver would argue, that it is not possible because if he did that, he’d be out of sight from potential passengers, being already too far off the unofficial waiting area.

If my imagination had its way, it would say that what transpired is not merely an argument but--as with all arguments that don’t end in consensus--a difference in assumptions.

Or underlying things. Those upon which arguments are founded. Those from which thoughts are formed. From which feelings are aroused.

Things that are given.

For example, it is understood that one should not be blocking an intersection--that’s why that big yellow X is painted in that intersection in the first place.

Well, at least for the couple in the Corolla.

Another given thing is that, when someone doesn’t want to wait for its turn to go through, then it should learn to fly.

It’s a common sight if you’re a commuter. A bus or a jeep halts, and whatever’s behind it gets pissed off and lets of 101% use of its horn. The driver then turns back to whomever it is who gave a hoot and shouts “Lumipad ka!”

And don’t ask them to imagine what it’s like if you did the same thing to them. They’d probably say they’d grab the opportunity and wait for some more passengers.

The law doesn’t work for them, so why work for the law?

So, what’s correct? Following the law (getting off an intersection for the sake of others) or working on a human principle (you’re the others that have that sake other people wait in an intersection for).

Careful, you’re working on a given, too.

If you’re someone who has kids to feed and send to school on measly minimum daily wage, you’d understand the driver. Or maybe even just put it off till the next time he breaks the law.

If you can afford to live on more, you’d probably demand his head on a silver platter. And I’m not building up on the discrimination bit here. I’m saying you can’t understand fully what you can’t even relate to. Yes, even if you know what I’m talking about.

Hell, I’m also working on a given that I bet even you don’t know.

(Continued...)

Happy Valentine's

2005-02-15T05:45:00.000+08:00

Mahal ko,

Bagama’t ako’y minsang nagmatigas
Nagpakasasa sa sarili’t sa sariling punyagi;
Ikinakabagabag ng aking isip at pansin--
Bunga na rin ng kirot at hawi ng damdamin--
Hindi maikakat’wid ang pagpawi ng paningin;
Sigaw ng aking ulirat, sa iyo'y namamalagi

Hindi dantaon ang itinagal ng iyong paglisan
‘Sang sandaling ‘sintagal ng hugis ng alapaap;
Ngunit ang wari mo’y narito--
Sinusuyo, hinahanap--
Na tila ika’y tuluyang mawawala, maliligtan.

Hindi dantaon ang itinagal ng iyong pag-alis
‘Sang minutong itinagal ng isang dampi;
Ngunit ang halimuyak mo’y narito--
Sinasamsam, tinitimpi--
Na tila ika’y tuluyang lalayo’t mapapanis

Ang bawat sandali, ang bawat agos
Ang bawat ngiti ng araw
Ang bawat huni ng kulisap, ang bawat bulong ng hangin
Ay mula sa tinig ng iyong alaala
Ay mula sa iyo, sa ikaw.

May ilang sandali ka ring nawala sa paningin
Isang kumpas ng notang inawit
Subali’t ang tinig mo’y humimlay--
Namuo, namugad
Sa ingay ng humuhuning katahimikan

At sa bawat kuskos ng isip sa lalim ng gabi
Sigaw ng ulirat, sa iyo’y namamalagi.

Ang bawat sandali, ang bawat agos
Ang bawat ngiti ng araw
Ang bawat huni ng kulisap, ang bawat bulong ng hangin
Ay mula sa tinig ng iyong alaala
Ay mula sa iyo, sa ikaw.

Sa iyo,
Sa ikaw.

Rush

2005-02-12T02:29:00.000+08:00

I am now selling tickets for a gig as what may be another effort to jumpstart Rufino Funk.

Aside from this, I have been busy with doing practically nothing. At least not anything useful, anyways.

Most of my day’s spent staring at my PC, and that’s if I’m not sucked in my lola’s universe (a.k.a. GMA-7, 24/7), at least if I can help it (my TV’s been broken for a year now).

The rest of the day, I try to be a little productive. Read a little, write a little. I think I’ve blogged a couple of times this month already--already a great achievement given my already obvious propensity not to write like a blogger, that is, to “log-in” oh-so-frequently, like a blogger should do.

Also, about a couple of motivational boosts ago, I have managed to start a little screenplay. Nothing too fancy. Just four little boring stories that are intertwined by certain common events.

To cut it short, “Mar,” a taxi driver drives “Bea” home, dreams about her, and gets hit by another taxi in the process. Rewind. “Suzette”, meets up with Bea in their call-center yosi tambayan, and Bea rants about how her boyfriend, “Anton” doesn’t seem to have time for her anymore, now that their call-center schedules have contrasted. Rewind. “Romy,” another taxi driver, drives Suzette home, dreams about her while awake, and hits Mar in the process. Fast forward. Bea is taken home by Mar, who gives her a good conversation, or at least she thinks, one that makes her consider him good company for at least more than one instance. Fast forward. Anton wakes up the next day, gets ready for work, and calls up Suzette, asking her if they could meet up, and not to tell Bea about it.

End of story.

This is one of the first times that I’ve got something’s backbone down-pat at the start. I’m usually the build-up-to-whatever’s-available kinda guy.

So that one got me up to my neck for about a day and a half and currently 15 pages.

The next motivational boost gave me some reading initiative. I’ve done reading the 45-page introduction to The New Science of Giambattista Vico by Giambattista Vico, translated by Bergin and Fisch. It’s supposed to give someone some new ways of looking at people and knowing people as individuals and societies. It’s supposed to be a pillar of modern social theory, even older than Comte. Pretty intimidating, if you ask me. To make it more intimidating, the original title--a longer one--reads “Principles of a New Science concerning the Nature of Nations, by which are found the Principles of Another System of the Natural Law of the Gentes”. “The New Science” suits me fine, thank you.

It was originally written in 18th century Italian, which brings me to the fruit of my next motivational boost: learning German. I got me this 4-cd instructional about a year ago, and I’m finally getting to use it again after my initial motivational boost, which was the reason why I bought the thing.

Alas, I am now busy. In fact, I’m now too busy for my own good, as I’ve set daily schedules for each, sort of like a curriculum, so to speak. Uh… except for the screenplay, which I add to only whenever I feel like it, which I promise to change. Haha.

The present routine, if I’m home the whole day, is 1) Newspaper & coffee; 2) Lunch & Eat Bulaga; 3) Drums; 4) Spongebob Squarepants; 5) German; 6) Dinner; 7) Lola’s infectious primetime soaps; 8) Giambattista Vico. The screenplay comes in anywhere between 3 & 4 and 6 & 8, depending on my mood.

What I should have time for, I realize, is school, which I’ve yet to finish. I should be able to finish a concept paper on adaptation in the urban setting, which has to be done before my INC lapses next term.

So, I guess I have to cut on Eat Bulaga and the soaps. Maybe a little of the drums--music being in a different mindset and all than everything else. And if I do decide to put school in the itinerary, Spongebob will have to go, and German will have to be right after dinner, replacing the soaps, because school is about 4 cities away and spending just half the day would be plain sloth.

Then there’s Rufino Funk. One of the things that made me quit that Japanese company in the first place. Having it go down because of my own inactivity will make it one of my life’s greatest regrets. This one, no matter what course my day-career takes, has to happen.

Then there’s that one thing my system takes for granted: Mahal. I tell you, the 10 years we’ve known each other helps us be familiar with each other, but the fact that we just got together recently has been an exciting thing for me. It should be at least a different experience because I never imagined hooking up to someone I really didn’t have to get to know. Anyhow, she’s not part of my testosterone kingdom (a guy thing that most girls don’t understand), so my current state of mind (and don't get me wrong, though) tells me to set her aside every now and then.

I have to accomplish. I have to succeed.

There are other things. Dreams, if you may. Making a snare drum from scratch. Making an entire drum kit from scratch. Making a table from scrap wood my dad left behind. Making more than just one table from the scrap wood my dad left behind. Building a sound-isolated room for me and whoever’s music, mainly for my neighbors’ peace.

Making money from any of these.

All this dreams talk is giving me a rush. Kinda like group-think. Just when I don’t need it. It’s 2:30 in the morning fer god’s sake.

Ooh. Time for Vico.

Gong Hei Fat Boy Slim

2005-02-08T23:50:00.000+08:00

This might be the end.

Turning on my PC has been a routinary thing for me, that when press the power button, only then do I think about what I'm supposed to do. So I often leave it on for some time before I could finally figure out what to do with it.

Checking my mail is one standard thing to do. My inbox is usually filled with 30 or more messages a day, often with posts in 4 mailing lists, and personal mail usually comes in ones or twos every two days or more infrequent.

This roughly takes thirty minutes. After which I try to think up of something to read. So I click on the Google News page suggested in the middle of my empty Gmail inbox. It used to be full of whatever's really really talked about (i.e. pathetically ubiquitous) like the Al Quaeda or the Tsunami, which aren't all that bad (because they're important issues) but sometimes one gets the feeling that too much is too much.

Then there's peeping into other people's lives i.e. blogs, trying to see what's up. Usually, there isn't, so that doesn't take that much time.

The list used to go on and on, the things I used to frequent on the internet. And that includes this spot right here.

Now, I don't know what to do with this fucking machine.

I have a few options. News, trivia, chat, porn. I'm done with news (woke up early today). I'm done with trivia (the TV was on at GMA all day, thanks to my lola). I don't think I want to chat, because then it'd just be like watching TV, but words come out. And my horns are feeling a little blunt today, so porn's out.

Good thing the Chinese New Year kicked in just now. A neighbor let go of some pretty loud irritating fireworks. It's the middle of the night and he just stirred my quiet Filipino midnight atmosphere. He doesn't hear me banging on my drums in the middle of the night, so Jesus why can't he just go to Binondo where it's OK to play December 31.

At least it's something I can rant about in a blog. Never mind what you think.

Nga pala... pareng Enteng... nagamit ko yung ubiquitous sa sentence. Haha.

1/1/2001... You are evil you

2005-02-07T01:19:00.000+08:00

1/1/2001

You are evil you
slithering across my fearful feet you
hissing your charms unknowingly you
as chills I know them from my spine

You are evil you are
sly fox sliding gracefully along planes of sight of space you
of snow across planes of soft soft snow you
plundering each fragile crystal crushing them beneath your paws

Evil you are you
symbol of nonreal supposed chivalry
supposed scandal supposed pleasure
supposed heaven supposed bliss you

You evil you

To blog or not to blog

2005-01-17T05:08:00.000+08:00

Putting a journal online for everyone to read is one thing, thinking of something to write about is another.

In the first place, I started this in lieu of a personal need to get to a certain low, and, because I am sort of a people-pleaser, what I needed was, in some way, to be recognized as a rat, or something filthy--someone not deserving of all adulation or whatever nice things people want other people to think of them.

In a way, I have come to admire Charles Bukowski... or Henry Chinaski, his supposed auto-biographical pseudonym (as how most beat writers did it). Chinaski wanted to experience women, so to speak, so that he could write about them. Of course, he didn't plan all his womanizing in advance. His explanation came by way of retrospect.

Justification, you may say. Enlightenment, if you ask me.

Here's a person whose lust for a new woman doesn't dry up, even if he can't seem to perform. It's the thrill and the fact that every time, he is in a brand new process of knowing a woman. The good thing about it is that he doesn't care if he's a dirty old man trying to hop around twenty-something girls' territory as long as his reputation can make him get away with it. On the contrary, he is convinced that he feeds on it.

Not that I'm unconvinced, but you gotta give it to the man. He loaded himself with shit because he found out he can't hack it.

That's just it. There's nothing like scum saturation to cure an insecure ego. And for the short while that I did just that it felt good. Relieving. Liberating, even.

Lack of better words just add to the feeling.

The advantage of being Henry Chinaski is that he doesn't fucking care. I don't know if Chinaski (Bukowski) got married and got nagged by Mrs. Chinaski (Bukowski) for being such a filthy ass. I don't know because I never bothered to spend five minutes finding out (I got tired after four).

The difference between me and Mr. Chinaski here is that now I give a damn what people think about me, much to the disappointment of my former mission to fuck it all and just be me. Mahal will just be too upset, and I can't have that to bear for the rest of my life.

So... What now?

Do I tell her that I still urge to be alone? That I quiver to live the life of me and no one else? That I itch to accomplish things only a single, available, perceptively socially inconsequential guy can peform? Notice that I'm not talking about asking for space.

I'm thinking of asking for territory. Fence included.

Then again, maybe I just want to live some bits and then come back to my old obedient, nice boy, traditional, suburban self. Then maybe recharge. Then maybe go out to the wild again. Then maybe get back and cuddle in bed.

Then again, again, maybe I could take the interpreter's road, and do fiction, as far out as my creativity can feign it. Write about things I'd only imagine about. Make out a world in my mind and express it.

If only my mind were that good. It isn't.

For things as long as this blog entry already, my system just can't seem to feign bullshit. Maybe I could hold out a day or two, but once someone starts to act in accordance to assumptions based on my lie, I start to fold and hope someone takes something as a joke.

I sure hope nobody talks to me about this. This is, after all, just me thinking out loud, which, might I add, has caused me more trouble than I asked for.

Haneps

2004-12-17T19:17:00.000+08:00

The Haneps will play Peligro on December 22, Wednesday. Oooh I hope I don't mess up this time.

And my blog doesn't it know yet, but I'm a lot more of a bum than my bum right now.

Rufino Funk Gig

2004-12-06T21:38:00.000+08:00

Rufino Funk will play at Peligro on Wednesday, December 8 at about 10:30 pm. It's gonna be a classic rock/funk amateur night. Total chaos, I tell ya.

Weehee.

The difference between men and boys

2004-11-29T03:21:00.000+08:00

Let's see...

Boys have this thing of keeping their boyhood for as long as they can, even if they’re way into their adulthood.

Experts label this as “prolonged adolescence.” They do. I mean, experts, they really do label…

Might as well label a towel saturated with tap water “wet,” eh?

Anyhow… boys. All boys want to become men at one point in their lives, in as much effort as they try to do the things men do, like shaving, smoking, sports and what have you, never mind the necessity or lack thereof. Boys just have to do it.

And why not? Boys have all the right to beef themselves up as they prepare themselves for adulthood. Not that they’re actually preparing for it like the way one prepares oneself for an exam or a presentation, but the natural process of growing up and discovering exposes us to things that we find fascinating, and thus we want to experience.

You can look at it the other way around, that because things fascinate us, our systems find it fulfilling to move on to achieving some thing related to that fascination. Thus, “growing up.”

So, in a way, boys have other people, boys or men, that they look up to. Other than that, they have their toys and themselves to take up their time.

If they’re not too preoccupied with girls, that is.

Childhood passes and adolescence creeps in. Boys are thus given more room to try things--“more room” meaning “more than what children are permitted to do”, since as relatively older people (as evidenced by lower voices and body hair) boys are considered more able to move around and sniff out the norm for themselves. Besides, the parents need a break from 12 years of babying the poor kid.

During this time, boys still look up to people they want to emulate--be it pop stars, sports icons, national heroes or local personalities--simply because they haven’t had time to collect anything they’d want to call their own. Besides, these “heroes” boys look up to have had their period of looking up to people. Heck, they might still be looking up to their heroes up to the peak of their careers. But the thing is, well, they have their own thing to hold on to.

And they don’t even have to prove it. They feel that they’ve done something that is so themselves that seeing someone better only inspires them to climb higher. Call it testosterone, but that’s the calling of man--to be the foot soldiers. To be drones of the hive. The movers of the earth. The sparks to initiatives. The catalysts of change.

Of course, women, despite being different from men, probably have similar callings, but they require another argument, to put it simply. I’m talking about men here.

Picture a boy in your mind and you’re bound to also think about his parents, friends, relatives. Picture a man, and you can picture him alone, standing by himself amidst the world moving around him.

Whoa, déjà vu.

Today

2004-11-27T01:12:00.000+08:00

It did take me a week to take my Ixus to Canon, and it will take them a week to fix it.

Buy the November issue of UNO. It will come out first week of December.

It's the Ber months already and it's still putanginangmainet. Lagkit pa, puta.

Watched The Barbs play. They made the audience spell S-A-T-A-N in their last song. Wrong place, dudes. Saw some heads shake.

La lang.

Gotta reflect on something.

Oh yea. Found out that Pasong Tamo is parallel to Amorsolo. Ain't it grand?

Hanep

2004-11-20T03:38:00.000+08:00

Just came from a The Haneps gig in Peligro. Opened for Agaw-Agimat.

Twas nice. A few (lot) of slips here and there considering that we didn't really have time to practice. You see...

Before that, I came from Mahal's office to spend an hour with her after...

Staying a while in the office to do some copy editing for the somewhat-overdue November issue, which was something that I didn't really want to do, considering that I planned to go to Canon right after...

I arrived from Singapore at 1:10pm. Went there for an Epson Press Tour featuring Hollywood photographer Greg Gorman and some new Epson printers. Interesting thing. We had time to talk to him and actually see him in action when he took photos of two Singaporean models and Nadya Hutagalung who (gasp) who (gasp) who (gasp)...

Anyhow, I wanted to go to Canon to get my Ixus fixed. I dropped it after I stupidly walked too close to the Merlion and slipped on wet moss. My tailbone got a spank from the earth while my camera got knocked on the head and is currently in a coma. Hope it doesn't take a week for Canon to fix it.

Hope it doesn't take a week for me to take it to Canon.

Which got me thinking... What does God have for me now?

Not that I'm being religious and stuff, but my camera broke at a time that I'm getting interested in taking pictures--I'm actually starting to get a hang of my camera.

Fatalism has its usefulness in situations where you can't really blame anyone. Much less ask them to pay you for damages.

The Merlion hath no sin.

"Maybe God has something else for me."

"Maybe I'm just being tested on what I really want with my life."

"Maybe I should just stick to editing... but I was sketching since who knows when."

Yadda yadda.

There's nothing like a solid, expensive Catholic education to help me make sense of things. Not that they're making sense already, but it's a convenient outlet.

Good thing my parents were sane enough to let me think what I want to think.

I think I should go to bed now.

Hanep.

High Joy

2004-11-15T13:20:00.000+08:00

Wired says that sometime in the later part of this year, the company that makes sex toys for Vivid will launch a virtual dating and sex-hookup service via internet. On it, one can get a “date” and get not only to third base, but all the way with (gasp) Jenna Jameson.

And Devon. And Kobe Tai.

All those voluptuous Vivid vixens.

What do they call it? High Joy.

Reminds you of how the Japanese name their products.

Somehow, the Japs want to emphasize connectedness with the customer, and if not, with the whole of humanity. They want to be agents of harmony. Of love. Of peace.

I bought a padded case meant for water bottles for 100 yen a couple of years ago in Tokyo. It read,

“Joyful Impression”

And subtitled,

“We produce it for whole human beings.”

Poor human beings that are half. And worse yet, those that are a mere fourth. How will they ever enjoy Joyful Impression?

Imagine the perils of the already marginalized one-sixteenth.

Of course we don’t want to generalize this bit to everything in Japan. For instance, on yet another one I bought, a soft carry case, read,

“Soft carry case.”

Feel a punchline coming?

Anyhow… High Joy.

Of course, it’s all virtual, this dating sex-hookup thing. Meaning, it’s a version of Leisure Suit Larry wherein the characters really look like people, and famous ones at that. Meaning, it simulates sexual fantasies sad people may have of their favorite bedroom wank-off-froms. Meaning, it’s a detailed and subtle web of logical responses and sequences that should simulate “reality”, much to clients’ satisfaction.

Meaning, it takes a whole lotta intelligence to make this crap. You think it’s just a group of horny people wanting to make a buck? Think again: It’s a group of social experts who knows what millions and millions of horny little men specifically love to hear and experience from women; it’s a group of highly-trained financial managers who have extensive experience in online payment systems; it’s a group of certified computer technicians who are adept at maintaining security of customers’ payments; it’s a group of businessmen who with their skill, knowledge, and cunning probably make more in a day than what you’ll ever make in a year.

In other words, it’s the shit.

The moral sector of society is, in effect, underestimating the intelligence and the capability of the smut industry by calling it “mindless”, “insulting”, “immoral”, “detrimental”, and worse, “non-productive”.

Try imagining someone calling your science project that--one that you sacrificed hours and hours and sweat and tears and sleep on.

I mean, why not just call it “ugly”?

(Cough. Cough.)

I call this “taking a break from magazine-style writing.”

I can talk about anything. I can even waste.

Space by.

Putting in as much paragraphs in any which way fragment a sentence as I want not.

Worrying that anyone will have something to say about it. I could write poetry, for crying out loud.

i can write like e. e. cummings, and

No. Body. Will. Care.

Ha. Ha.

Peligro

2004-11-08T21:30:00.000+08:00

Played last Saturday in Peligro. First gig in a long time. Oh yea.

More at the Rufino Funk home page.

Brace yourself for some horrible, horrible journalism.

Toys

2004-11-03T01:08:00.000+08:00

Got me a new toy. A second-hand Canon Ixus 400. Spent a lotta cash.

Before that, I bought me a new phone. A new K700i. Spent a lotta cash.

Jesus… and this was right after I resigned from my previous job and got me another one that paid me less than half of what I used to make.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t get those things on credit. I did have cash those times I bought those things.

Not that I’m bragging and all.

But that’s the thing: I spent my money. And on things. I don’t even know if I spent my money right.

For one thing, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with an expensive phone. I mean, it’s nice and all, but I never really dreamed of me having it. Back in college, I never even thought of having a phone of my own, much less one with the works.

I skipped the pager phase. Yep, it’s a brand new era.

Now, I have this, another toy that cost me half of what I thought would cost me to set up my own jam room. Come to think of it, my phone plus my camera equals a sound-isolated place where me and my band (and anyone else) can play till the wee hours of the morning, and for free. I can even rent the room out at 120 pesos an hour, and it would be cheap.

Pat proves a case in point. I was in Olympic Gold with him and I asked whether I should just spend my money on a home gym instead of the Ixus. He explained--and wisely--by saying that his photo equipment costs as much as a car and more, but a car won’t make him money.

Now, I have a phone and a camera that I’m not really sure would make me money.

Maybe I’m being blind to something. When my parents were still home, about two years ago, my mom and I had a talk one morning about finances. I told her that I was having difficulty saving, and I was putting all my money to useless spending.

Then my mom said, “Well, not really. You’ve invested some on your phone and your drums--that’s worth something.”

Investment. It struck me that time that my mom thought I was investing my money on something worthwhile.

Maybe it’s the thing moms have that us kids don’t really see. Or, I’m really just that stupid.

Ok, so I’ll try to be smarter now. What I have is an expensive phone…what can I do with it?

Let’s see. I work in a magazine. My phone can be... a topic of conversation in a party the magazine organizes. Or, an instant communication tool if I wanted to confirm a layout with my boss. Or, a very useful alarm clock.

The first two felt like not quite there.

Topic of conversation? A phone? Lame.

An instant communication tool? I’m an editor. I’m the communication tool. I’m the one who’ll make sure the layouts are fine--that’s why they hired me.

A very useful alarm clock? Why, yes. I composed something that would definitely shake anyone off their beds. Try sleeping on a samba melody on a trance drumline, at 185 bps.

That's about it. Useless. Utterly useless.

Well at least I feel cooler.

The camera. Ah, that’s something. Professional photographers start with something simple. And how much do they make in a single shoot? Enough to last them a month, if they don’t have a family (or a girlfriend... diba Pat?)

That’s one option. Another is shaking the cobwebs of feeling restricted as an editor. I don’t have to schedule that much shoots anymore. Nor do I have to pull Jar (who owns a camera) to my shoot so that I can save on scheduling.

Career improvement. Sounds promising.

Plus, I feel cooler.

Sigh. I wish my mother was here.

UNO

2004-10-19T22:43:00.000+08:00

Buy UNO Magazine. If you can't find it, well TRY HARDER!

Bayabas

2004-10-04T01:49:00.000+08:00

I told a couple of people that I felt the flame dying down on Rufino Funk, that I didn’t feel like continuing with the whole band thing.

But then I have soon-to-gig The Haneps, and hopefully Medjazz is still on. These things, I think I’d like to do. Maybe the difference is that in Rufino Funk, I actually have to work, as in actively look for gigs and setting up jams, on top of actually trying to make music. The last one, I don’t really do particularly well, but the point is that the motivation isn’t exactly there.

Then there’s the writing bit. If you notice, I don’t write as much as I used to.

Hell, I write like shit nowadays. Just look at this blog entry.

Now, I write for a certain magazine. I also edit and decide on content. I’m paid to do all these. Little do they know that they might receive shit for all the money they’re paying me (not that it’s much, though).

I'm gonna rant.

Is it because I can’t really spread my creativity too thinly, doing music and still trying to write?

Is it because of my environment, that because I’m not surrounded by people hectic with deadlines, that I myself have no sense of urgency?

Is it because I am terribly happy with what has become of me and the love of my life, that I have left my quest for my muse because I have found her and thus art has left me?

Is it because I actually can’t think for myself, as I have imagined myself to be, and still need the guidance (or the whip) of a tight-gripped boss, an assertive girlfriend, or (alas) my parents?

Is it because I myself have nothing to show for to myself -- whatever started, whatever done -- one that can tell me “this is what you want to do with your life”?

The current train of associations tells me that the shit I’m in is because I have become too confident without things to push me, things to overwhelm me.

I have no heroes.

When I was writing our book, I had Zeus Salazar. When I was taking graduate class, I had Madelene Sta. Maria. When I was training in sari-an, I had Alvin Aguilar. When I was in research at NRI, I had Masashi Takano and Ed Peralta. When I was a kid trying to draw, I had Jim Lee and Bart Sears. When I was learning guitar, I had Marty Friedman and Eric Clapton. When I was learning drums, I had Ginger Baker, Tony Williams and Matt Cameron.

When I finished the book with Zeus, my zeal for writing about culture vanished. When the last trimester of regular class with Ms. Madé ended, so did my interest to study. When it got too organized, I quit Alvin’s tutelage. When I got tired of it, I left Ed at NRI. When I had nothing else to draw, I stopped buying comic books. When I saw that I had to read notes to actually move on by myself, I stopped studying music and decided to just play.

One common thing: maintenance. My system despises maintenance. The one thing I have criticized in my mind as the weakness of Pinoys and UP people. Maintenance.

Start a revolution willya? How ‘bout maintaining it?

Starting a business? A band? A comic book? A research program? A graduate course? A language tutorial?

You see, it’s easy to say “I wanna do” something. It only takes the spur of the moment and the right resources to start doing something. But as moments spur, the thing you’ve started will start to die down if you didn’t think about it properly.

And here I am, sitting in front of my computer wondering why all of these things died down at the same time.

Could it be my motivation? Could it be just a phase in my life? Could it be that I just didn’t catch some momentum, some opportunity?

I was told by someone that probably I’m just too lazy to get my ass moving.

An old story tells me that fruits fall from the trees by themselves only when they’ve rotten.

As simple as it may seem, but old combinations of words stay in the lingo probably because they hold some general truth that people seem to understand, albeit in a general type of way.

I’m just too lazy to get my ass moving.

Yawn

2004-10-02T17:08:00.000+08:00

I realized that when people click my September 2004 archive, they'd only see one entry. And to think I'm now paid to write.

Maybe that's it, hmm.

The Color Bluish-Warm

2004-09-03T13:39:00.000+08:00

A slow and leisurely walk through the Makati Central Business District on a Friday morning seemed like my last day on earth, especially when the night before that was entirely spent on building a database form. With no sleep and a heavy laptop in a bag without a shoulder strap, my internal discomfort built up to be just the right thing to balance my mind. It’s like how scratching your balls, with fingernails vigorously and repeatedly plowing through thin skin membrane under which is where most men derive their essence, even if it means some skin being scraped off, is one of the most heavenly things in the world.

Danny’s Song by Loggins and Messina is playing on the office radio. The volume is unusually soft and comforting. The boss is out and nobody here seems to be doing any work. Then the radio plays Wonderful Tonight by Eric Clapton.

And it’s lunch time. I haven’t eaten, but my mind is in some sort of bliss just being tired.

Later tonight, I’m having dinner with some old friends from graduate school in Rockwell Club, all courtesy of Amy, the group’s mommy and main organizer. A sweet girl at her ripe age.

After that, it’s off to the movies with Mahal to see The Notebook. Hopefully, it’ll be just us, with the rest of the world just there, existing. Like it’s supposed to do.

It’s a Friday oh yeah.

A Conclusion to Peachy

2004-08-23T17:49:00.000+08:00

Call your omnipotent entity however you like, but my omnipotent entity has been playing with me ever since I noticed.

It’s not supposed to be true. Things that happen around people should only be coincidences. There shouldn’t be any pattern, any purpose, any inkling of bias on the part of the universe to direct cosmic occurrences to a specific few.

Nothing but coincidences. Nothing.

Or if ever there are any, they shouldn’t be noticeable unless everything has fallen into place and there is nothing more for the universe to do but die.

No, not to a human being. Not to us, mere mortals.

Today, I sat with Peachy in the back seat of my daily to-Makati shuttle. And I couldn’t have avoided it: my seat was the last unreserved seat for the day, and I couldn’t afford to be late.

Yea, I think I was trying to avoid her.

You see, my soul has recently been married to quote-unquote the love of my life---something I wouldn’t in my right mind have let pass. No, not this time. We’ve been wandering around too long. It’s about time we met.

It was a blissful weekend; a weekend unbelievably blissful that I still find it hard to believe that it was just a couple of days.

Like, it felt like forever.

Like all things good, forever ended on a Monday---the day the Devil tells us all to get up, against our natural nocturnal functions, and get some money.

The man that I am, I thought that I have to get through this week, and I’d better start fast. I have to work thinking not about money and all the things I could buy, but the fulfillment I could derive knowing that I am doing what I like.

So much that I’m quitting my job in half a month. So much for that.

So, the morning dragged slowly. Well, at least I was. The morning sped off before I could finish my hotdog.

I was running late.

At least the traffic inside the village was relatively permissive. The cars used to line up for about four blocks, and it only lined up to about three today. ‘Saved up about three minutes going out.

When I got to where the shuttle was parked, it was like I hoped this happened several months ago: I was the last guy in line that could fit into the shuttle, and Peachy was fifth to the last, which means, if everything runs the usual way (and if you care to think about it) she’ll sit at the back (where everyone doesn’t like to sit) leaving the corner seat vacant, and if the next four didn’t want to sit in the back and let everyone else in first, they’ll reserve the four seats in the two middle rows covered by the folding seats, allowing me to sit (alas) in the back row, right beside Peachy.

It happened like clockwork. I couldn’t have been more proud of myself.

So there I was, at the back of the shuttle, with Peachy. We still don’t know each other, but I’ve made her up in my mind so much that I feel like we’d gone to high school together.

Why now?

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I mean, who knows? We might not connect conversationally. We might not have common interests. We might not be complementary.

And all that shit.

Of course, we also “could be,” but the way things turned out didn’t quite point to that direction.

The way I figured it, Peachy was a product of an idle mind, an image of a woman I liked plainly due to the fact that I didn’t have anyone at that time. My eyes were on predatory mode and they would instantly react to sexual heterogeniety, particularly when the difference indicated curves and bumpers.

This girl, Peachy, she showed up out of nowhere. The shuttle bit was still new for me, and I really haven’t had a particular “trip schedule” yet, in that I still ride with different people, as opposed to what happened later on, when I would be seeing pretty much the same people everyday for longer periods of time.

When first I saw her, she had short hair, with a little clip to hold it in place; a generic black leather bag; a slumped posture; your typical banker-type uniform with a blazer and a skirt and holy moley look at those legs.

Nothing spectacular, it’s just that they’re good enough that she didn’t need to wear stockings. And she didn’t.

You don’t see that very often.

Everything else fell in place in my mind. Her somewhat-average looks and somewhat average body had a character. The build-up was fast as lightning. So fast that before I got into the shuttle that first time, I already had wanted to know her name.

Fast-forward. This morning.

If you’ve been reading this blog long enough, you’ll know what perversions I do with Peachy in my mind, while we’re on the bus, at the back seat.

(No, really)

Today, it was different.

I sat beside her, and it felt different. Almost weird. It’s like it wasn’t her.

For one thing, she wore a reddish uniform. And pants. What the hell was she doing in pants?

And she blended in with the rest of the shuttle-riders. Nothing standing out.

They say we only notice things we want to notice; see the things we want to see. Today, my mind didn’t want to see her.

Jesus, even if I tried to look at her inconspicuously while she was sleeping I could only marvel at my indifference. I actually slept almost all the way.

Then I remembered Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. Sure, the gods were there, still living amongst us. But what are gods without people to treat them like gods? What is power when there is no one---nothing---there to feel it?

What is Peachy, “my goddess”, when there is no me to worship her?

Then I remembered Enteng, who once said that he had a Peachy, and that seeing her cross his path made his day in an almost kinda way. But Fey was an ultimate---the ultimate---and whether or not to think twice about it is not a question to be asked.

Love is love. It answers to no one but to itself. To challenge it is like asking for a raise in the hell me and a couple of others would like to call our “office”.

A Quarter-Life

2004-08-16T12:24:00.000+08:00

I once told a friend recently that I thought people my age are starting to think about their lives in a way that they've never done before.

Then I began to think about school.

Then I began to think about symbols.

Then I began to think about the real world.

Then I thought about people getting out of their symbolic world, getting in touch with the real world. Finally.

Is it just a matter of people being stuck that makes them uncomfortable in situations wherein things can change?

It's almost primal. Like how, as adults, the fetal position still feels the most natural thing to be in.

But this change is an unusual one. Changes are supposed to be something different from the present condition. It presumes an original present and a target future. It's probably linked to fear of the dark, or more generally, fear of the unknown.

This change is all about going back. A fear of home.

Like, people were once something, shifted into another thing, and at their mid-twenties they're thinking about going back.

The way I figure it, people get stuck with some image of life they were used to or wanted that the moment they become independent, a crisis looms.

They say things you generalize about say something about you, generally. Ask your local shrink. The main criticism against personality theories is, in fact, that these theories basically reflect the background and personalities of the theorists themselves.

The way I figure it, I got stuck with some image of life I was used to or wanted that the moment I became independent, a crisis loomed.

A quarter-life crisis, likesay.

I didn't want to use the term, because "quarter-life crisis", although it pertains to some crisis associated with change and moving on with life, doesn't necessarily grip the present subject.

That of the fear of going back.

Usually, one wants to go back to the highs of high school and the comforts of college, dodging "harsh realities" of the "real world". Change becomes a threat and you make like a headless chicken in confusion.

A particular discussion drives a point home. People my age had formed expectations a few years back. They had wanted things for themselves and had formed a grand plan on doing it, thinking they'd be something in a particular period of time.

Then someone goes emo and starts a bandwagon going.

Then they write blogs.

Or do art. Write music. Participate in charity.

What's funny is that these people, they live in a third world country. And little do they know that a great majority of other people don't care about their emo shit. They don't care whether you've lost yourself and you're trying to find it somewhere. They don't care whether you've cracked your soul and buried your head in the depths of Hades.

What do they care about? Think Love Radio.

Or, Yes FM. Or other epitomies of baduy.

People who embody these in everyday life just let life pass by. They have more important things to attend to.

No, not that.

Life.

These people know what they are. They know how their hearts and minds tick. They have a clear picture of how to handle themselves and whatever confusion that may come their way.

Quarter-life crisis? Putang ina. Trabaho ba yan? Inuman na lang pare!

And it's simple. It might not be smart, but it's simple, the way these guys work. And I have a good feeling that successful people have tapped this gold mine in themselves.

It's anti-emo. Wonderful.

And so far, the thing I'm learning from this is that life can be full of shit, but it can only be if you keep the shit in.

Rufino Funk Site Update

2004-08-07T16:51:00.000+08:00

I've posted some news on the Rufino Funk site about our Mayric's gig last Thursday.

It's a little self-indulgent, but hey, I'm "marketing".

Rufino Funk @ Mayric's

2004-08-01T22:50:00.000+08:00

Rufino Funk will have its last-breath heave-ho (well, no, not really) start-up this Thursday Aug.5 when we play at Mayric's, "where great bands are born".

Hopefully, we'll be a great band. Hopefully, too, we'll get to be born.

Show starts about 9pm, Pinoy time. There'll be a 100-peso cover charge. I think we'll be the first to play, doing about 6 numbers.

Ohshitohyeathisisgonnabehuge.

Mayric's is along España Avenue, in front of UST.

Here, But Not Really

2004-07-30T17:11:00.000+08:00

“Eschaton” is a word that theologians use to describe the coming of the Christ---that Christ is here, but not really.

Discussing this topic fully, I am told, is an activity and a cause for frantic discussion, as well as a main reason why people in seminaries start to think twice about moving on.

The word’s also used to describe symbols---you know, things that stand for something else---that the things symbols stand for aren’t really present at the moment, but the fact that the symbol’s around somewhat makes it. Like some sort of representative. But not quite.

Yes, but not really. Probably the most definite answer a typical guy can say to a girl when she starts to talk about marriage.

Thinking about symbols and pondering about how people think gives you some sense of how they work.

Think belief. Think the art of persuasion. The necessity thereof.

Apart from individuality, wherein the person’s inner workings try to manifest themselves in external forms with which they can most accurately self-identify (“this is me”), persuasion tells us that there are things from entities other than us that may mean different things for different people.

Meaning. As much as people come from different molds, we also have different molds for many other things.

Symbols and meanings. Symbols and their meanings. Meanings and the way they are symbolized. The way these meanings mean for different people. The way people’s meanings mean for other people.

Words are symbols. So are movements. Gestures. Facial expressions.

Things. Statues. Pictures. Property.

Form. Colors. Shapes. Sizes.

Tastes. Moods. Preferences.

Needs. Wants. Dreams.

In terms of “the thing”, these aren’t. At least they might not be. They’re the cough, the cold, the fever, the diarrhea that makes us look sick but actually only does only that. They might stand for something else that we have in our psyches---our minds. They might also stand for something else that other people have in their minds.

Things in people’s minds, mind you, might also stand for something else.

Say, experience.

Things happen. We get involved in things happening. We get to think and feel thoughts and feelings about things.

We experience things.

But our thoughts about these experiences, these aren’t the experiences themselves. They’re just imprints it left on our brain, or whatever it has touched on it, considering we only have sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch to feel it; and from these five types of information we try to put things together and see if it fits anything we’ve experienced so far.

We try to make sense of experience, in other words.

If it doesn’t we try to come up with new things. We try to imagine. To create. But even if we try, the components of the final product still resemble things in the original experience database.

Then it gets more complex. The “created” things in our minds become part of the experience pool, making them re-usable for future creations.

All it takes for them to last is for them to make sense. To add up. To comprise a coherent whole.

And these are just for direct experiences. There are still experiences which we didn’t really experience---things other people just told us.

Then, there are things we just read. Through written words.

Imagine the things we create in our minds in trying to simulate experience.

(Trying to feign experience?)

It’s like how a single screenplay would be applied differently if done by different directors. How a single book can be read and adapted to a screenplay by different screenwriters.

How people rant about how the book was hands-down better than the movie.

A reality made up of representations. Of symbols. Things that aren’t really. Imagine a company so loaded with messengers that you can’t really decide who to shoot.

And it seems so beyond philosophical. The superstring theory in physics postulates that things we “see” in our universe are just reverberations of some dimension (other than space and time) that we can’t comprehend.

It’s like the universe has a psyche, and for us the invisible dimensions are its unconscious.

Some ancient guy said that metaphors help people understand things because they create errors in the human mind (or was it Anne Carson?)

HERE, BUT NOT REALLY

While symbols are useful for the tiny human mind to simplify things for it to actually function the way it has been, mere ignorance of the nature of thoughts as representations probably have oftentimes led many people astray.

A.K.A. they’ve misunderstood something a lot of times.

If you (I) think about it, even awareness of the nature of thoughts as representations have led people (me) astray.

A.K.A. information overload.

A.K.A. praning.

A.K.A. disillusionment.

Which was why science had tried so hard in the past centuries to distance its own body of work from personal biases. Physics succeeded. Chemistry did. All other physical sciences did. Even psychology had to try very hard.

A.K.A. objectivity.

However, to make a long story short, some things were overlooked.

A.K.A. people were seen the same way as objects were.

So, scientists had to find other methods....

Whatever.

To scale things down, at least down to the way my little brain can handle, to see things in as much as what they were in their essence was the key to me comprehending things.

It would be at least useful in periods of emotional turmoil. I imagined, the world would be a huge chunk of rock. People would be like how I see ants. Work would be just something I do. Having money would mean I can get food. Having more money would mean I can get something more than food. Love would be great sex stretched throughout a lifetime. Longing for someone would be different from longing for someone in particular. Women would be meat.

Peachy would just be someone I happened to like.

I don’t really like her. I don’t even know her. I just have these imagined things about her.

I have an idea how she looks like. How her voice sounds like. How she smells like. What kind of clothes she wears. The way she sits. The way she walks.

Things I can observe.

From these things I play with her image in my mind like a little girl would play dress-up with her doll.

She’d be down-to-earth. She’d have a great sense of humor. A carefree attitude. A sense of independence. Wholeness. A penchant for self-reflection.

She’d be a mere symbol of someone I liked. A holographic projection of my innermost desires.

My goddess.

Take me and put me in the middle of a pool of people and you’d have a community. Take several, and you’d probably have something like a town. Bigger, still, and you’d get a country. A couple of these, civilizations.

And several more of these, humankind.

Carl Jung described archetypes as a collective unconscious, made up of symbols personally constructed then shared with other people, then other groups, built-up from the thousands of years of modern man’s existence.

Like, snakes and the dark are supposedly objects of fear.

Similarly, saviors are the good guys while omnipotent entities are not to be messed with either.

(Enteng-san, who’s sitting beside me just told me how geekish he used to be when he remembered that as a kid, he devised a way of subtracting numbers.

God I feel like a geek right now.)

8/13/2000 alone in the dark

2004-07-23T00:58:00.000+08:00

8/13/2000

alone in the dark
on a doubledeck bed
widda doubledeck mind
wishin’ for daylite

Money, Music, and Miscellany

2004-07-23T00:41:00.000+08:00

Yes, I'm gonna get somewhere, someday.

Medjazz

2004-07-13T10:52:00.000+08:00

The other band in which I play drums, MEDJAZZ, will try to squeeze ourselves in-between sets and do a few numbers when our absolutely fabulous singer Irene's other band REGGAE MISTRESS takes a break in their gig at XAYMACA this Wednesday, July 14.

So, if you're into Marvin Gaye or Erykah Badu, you might want to check us out.

XAYMACA's along Timog Ave, QC. REGGAE MISTRESS plays excellent reggae in Xaymaca on Wednesdays.

Lost in Translation

2004-07-08T01:48:00.000+08:00

Tomorrow, my boss will say what he usually says when he reads one of my reports.

“What the hell do you mean by this?”

Of course, he won’t exactly say

“What the hell do you mean by this?”

because he’s Japanese. He’d probably say

“How you mean this part?”

The harshest comment he’d ever given me went something like

“I cannot read your report anymore and almost became angry. Write so reader can understand. Who is reader? Not you!”

Thankfully, with the help of a certain god-sent consultant, I now have something to say, just in case.

It all started a few weeks ago with a meeting.

A past client, also a potential one, accommodated us for a presentation for a performance evaluation system as a result of a previous corporate culture analysis we did for them.

I presented. And horribly.

It turns out that they didn’t really need a performance evaluation system. At least not yet. What they did need, according to our gracious host, was some sort of internal systems control, wherein procedures inside the company would be standardized and there will be some sort of system that would facilitate administrating standardized procedures.

Simply put, all activities inside the office will be as mapped out and as detailed as a cookbook, that in case all the people in the company mysteriously died out, a new batch can just come in and work because there’s an instruction manual to everything.

Now, upon hearing this, my boss asked something like

“By internal systems control, do you mean process control, as in using software such as MFG-Pro?”

Without batting an eyelash, our host replied with something like

“Yes, we have to update our control procedures, as per the result of the corporate culture analysis.”

Then my boss said

“We have some people in our Hong Kong office who’d probably have the expertise you need…”

Our Hong Kong people are IT guys.

At that point, and even now that I was given the task of writing down the meeting’s minutes from which an exploratory discussion with our Hong Kong people tomorrow will be based, I’m thinking

“Did our gracious host even say ‘yes’ to the software question?”

Now, the Japanese are supposedly a high-context people. By supposedly, I mean

“I don’t really know for sure, but hey, I’ve read a lot about this and many people I know who’d ever had contact with Japanese longer than I have say this”

Yea, “high-context” is a technical term some people use in referring to cultural traits, like “individualistic”, “masculine”, and the like.

Anyhow, being in high-context means one can’t really know what’s going on in a group of Japanese unless they “feel Japanese”. A group of Japanese, for example, can speak in pronouns for a long time and still understand each other.

A phenomenon that would probably also exist everywhere among close friends.

I don’t know if my boss is just that smart to grasp the response he was inciting, but even the god-sent consultant who also happened to be with us during that meeting certainly didn’t have his channel fixed on the thing.

I also don’t know if our gracious host, who was a human-resources guy, understood what MFG-Pro was.

So now, me and the god-sent consultant have figured out a way (like what consultants are paid to do) to “simulate” a “yes,” as if our gracious host said it, albeit in a subtle, “yea, I knew that” kind of way.

No, we didn’t lie. We just found a link with internal process control and MFG-Pro. I’m just hoping my boss figured this one out, too, because he invited our Hong Kong people over to meet our gracious host just for that.

Imagine the embarrassment if we had figured it out wrongly.

Well, I’ll find that out soon enough.

These things, they can get out of hand.

Imagine if you, out of nowhere, commented to a friend--although not directly--that she looked awfully thin, and this friend, not really minding to ask you what you meant, took your words for sarcasm, or worse yet, an insult, and started portraying you as an ass in front of all of her other friends?

It may not cost you money, but thinking about it--that moment where you could’ve thought more about and said things in a better way that anyone wouldn’t interpret it as any other way other than the way you meant it--would cost you a few hours of sleep.

I meant me. Yes, this is for you. I meant, I'm sorry.

'Funk Site

2004-07-06T09:02:00.000+08:00

I recently reserved http://www.rufinofunk.tk in Dot TK.

The TK extension, as you'd probably read in the Dot TK site, represents the island-country of Tokelau, a country I have never heard of in my entire life. I don't even think it's listed in the United Nations.

(Or at least in the UN Flags poster I used to have as a kid. God, I used to love that thing.)

The grand thing about Dot TK is that (if the info in the site's true) it espouses sharing--that in Tokelau, being an isolated island, things are shared, so why not include domain names in the pot?

The main purpose, it seems, of Dot TK is to raise awareness and tourism for Tokelau, hoping that these would allow them more access to education, medicine and other necessities. Plus, they have a paid domain name service, so it's a hopeful additional income for them.

I'm giving it the benefit of my doubt.

RUFINO

One of my worries about the name "Rufino Funk" is that it's an actual name of someone who's alive, and in the country. And as of the 2003-2004 Metro Manila Residential Pages, the latest addition is a certain Rufino Funk III.

Now, this is one who's in the proper age to own a phoneline. What if there's another kid with the same name?

And we were planning to name albums like Led Zep did. There'd be a Rufino Funk, a Rufino Funk 2, Rufino Funk 3...

Damn him for having such a cool name. Cheers to the Funk Family.

We're crossing our fingers that he's not a lawyer. Or that any of the Funks are lawyers. We're hoping no one's going to be offended. We're also hoping they like our music.

WHICH COINCIDENTALLY

Two of which are now in the MUSIC page of RufinoFunk.tk.

No, actually, it's just a link to a Soundclick page, but hey, we're working on it.

One. Damn. Slow. Step. At. A. Time.

Rufino Funk

2004-07-05T01:37:00.000+08:00

Today, me and the rest of Rufino Funk recorded a four-track demo in Perfect Studio for a whopping 1,730 pesos.

Yes, 1,730 is whopping for me. Look, there it whops right now.

This week, it'll go to the hands of some bar owners. Hopefully, Imma land us some gigs.

Hopefully, too, Rufino Funk guitarist Adrian Arguelles can upload the songs to his site one of these days.

I'm excited as hell.

You are unreal

2004-06-28T00:35:00.000+08:00

I think I wrote this back in 2001.

Old stuff. A solution to writer's block. Even to musicians. Just look at all those reissues.

Anyhow...

===============

You are unreal
You are the blackness that envelops my morning
You are the blur that fronts my mind
You are the anger the frustration that makes my day worth remembering
You are the driver of my engine
You are the fuel to my flame
You are my flame
You are my mind playing truant
You are my reality
You are my hampered vision
You are my dream
You are my last thing to do
You are my milk before I sleep
You are my something true
You are my something real
You are my something else
You are my scalp oil
You are morning breath
You are my joints cracking
You are

===============

Block

2004-06-27T01:46:00.000+08:00

Yea, there's a huge one on my head right now.

Einstein

2004-06-15T11:55:00.000+08:00

Sometimes it’s fun to be geekish because you can stand long intros, especially when it reminds you of textbooks.

ANYHOW

Michio Kaku was trying to prove a point in trying to describe the similarities between Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton.

Newton had simple questions that gave fruit to his greatness. It went something like, why do apples fall to the ground while the moon stays floating up there?

Why is it that if you throw a stone forward, it falls at a certain distance? Why is it that if you throw a stone forward more strongly, it falls at a farther distance?

What if you throw it real strong that it never returns? It would probably go around the earth and hit you at the back of your head.

He concluded that the moon was acting in a similar way, being thrown forward strong enough that it is suspended in virtual freefall from the earth’s gravity, as opposed to the traditional belief that it’s just being cradled in the sky.

Einstein, on the other hand, once put that a theory in physics isn’t any good if you can’t explain it in as simple a way that a child can understand it.

Hence, he came to his conclusion about relativity with a simple question: If you could catch up to a beam of light, how do you think it would look like? What would the rest of the world look like, since you were traveling at the speed of light?

Imagine running alongside a beam of light. If this beam of light was the view from a clock tower, it would seem that the time stopped, because you were running away the beam of light going off the clock, which gives you an idea of the time the clock is displaying (a.k.a. “looking” at it). At the same moment, your ‘watch seems to run normally, having traveled with you at the speed of light (like how we all seem standing still despite the speed the earth moves through space). Thus, the faster one moved, the slower time would seem.

All of a sudden, time stopped being constant, one of the principles Newton based his theories on (the other was that space was constant). Upon answering this (among other things), he changed the way science ran its course. The whole thing was virtually re-thought since the theories of Newton were basically overturned, or at least rendered useless if applied to the universe itself.

Of course, all these were accomplished with the help of a whole lot of physics and a hell of a lot more of math.

It’s simple but not simple. How could one fathom that the secret to the universe’s existence can be seen in a mathematical formula less than an inch long?

Physicists call it “beauty,” the way formulas are written. The clearer and seamless it is, the more beautiful it becomes.

Not to be mistaken for beauty used in choosing their wives, I presume.

IS

Same goes with most forms of thinking, I guess.

In trying to think up stories for almost anything, one asks himself one basic question: “What will this thing be about?” Because no matter how stories unfold, there lies an essential story.

A complex love story can be summed up as “two people meet and get together in the end.”

A murder-mystery can go “Someone was killed, but they didn’t catch the killer.”

A tragedy can go “two people meet and one dies, so they didn’t get together even if they really, really wanted to.”

(A comedy, on the other hand, can just go.)

Same goes with scientific papers. “What does this paper want to find out?” Thesis mentors and Japanese bosses (mine, specifically) when they ask this question don’t expect a complex answer. They can be as short as titles, even. Heck, they themselves can be titles.

“The organizational culture of Company X.”

“The semantic structure of gay lingo.”

“The feasibility of a sex-oriented Filipino community website.”

“The relationship of facial hair density and erectile endurance.”

“The environmental views and attitudes of people who pee in public.”

(The last one, me and my friends actually did for our undergrad thesis. Virtually the whole psychology department, as an entity, laughed its ass out.)

Edmund Husserl suggested something in-parallel when he proposed his philosophy of phenomenology.

Experience, he said, is a key part of the truth, because it is only through experience that we know the world. It is this experience that we need to explore.

However, just looking at experience includes judgments, which color our experience. Hence, we don’t really see the experience in its pure form.

This pure form, Husserl says, is the closest thing we have to the truth.

The trick is to get to the core of the experience. To its essence.

Thus springs phenomenological inquiry, based on reduction of experience, “stripping” it to its essence—the principle he suggested for one to get to the truth (bracketing, phenomenological reduction, eidetic reduction, and all that shit), or at least the one that’s closest to it.

It’s more than what’s important that matters. It’s what’s essential.

It’s what is.

“Being” is a strong word. It’s a state, while at the same time a movement. The way beings be is, well, the “way.” It’s a nameless thing, really. Or, things. Whatever.

So little credit for being the mother of the Ten Thousand Things.

THE WHAT?

The Ten Thousand Things. Sounds Chinese, if you ask me.

That’s because it is Chinese. Lao Tsu said it (Yea, in English. Jeez).

Anyhow, the way I understand it (at least the way I understood how the translators understood it—I had read a couple of versions) is embodied in a focal point in Lao’s philosophy.

The Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao.

Labeling can cause confusion. I might understand “bukid” as a flat land; no matter how much my Cebuano friends insist that it’s a mountain.

To name something is to limit something. To name something is saying something is something, and only is that something. Anything else that it actually is, but not contained in the name, it isn’t anymore.

Now say that thrice as fast, five times.

Even God. Notice how many people debate God’s nature. Notice that those who don’t think about God’s nature don’t fight about God (they fight about something else).

Yes, ignorance has its good points. It’s almost a virtue.

A virtual virtue.

NOW

These things, they’re not everyday life.

How many times do you say “phenomenological reduction” in a day?

On the contrary, how many times do you think about sex in a day? In an hour? In a minute?

How many times do you think about that girl in Starbucks you saw? That chick a floor below you? That ex you just can’t let go? That ex who just can’t let go of you?

That sumptuous, juicy chickenjoy?

Magazine experts say women think about sex once in an hour, while men think about sex five times a minute.

Yea, right. Five times a minute.

Lady magazine writer with an idle, jobless boyfriend in the house.

And the ex. How many barkadas have characters who whine about the ex? Even boyfriend-girlfriend relationships in general. There are even friendships created, bonded, and even fundamentally based on screwy relationships with other people.

Point is, these are everyday life.

But the question is, during the times you think about that girl, that chick, that ex (and that chickenjoy), how often do you exaggerate?

By exaggerate, I mean blow up. And by blow up, I mean adding on to the story. Adding things that aren’t really there. So much, that seasoned chicken suddenly tastes like chickened seasoning.

Seasoning’s meant to flavor, not eaten.

TSSSS

The term, if you can call it a term, was probably created by some guy who thought everyone else is stupid.

“Tssss.”

Executed with a crumpled face with an upper lip hardening. Better if you can un-even up your eyebrows and constrict your neck as if you’re imitating Big Bird.

And the two-handed forward wave. Don’t forget the two-handed forward wave.

Once again, “tssss.”

Sometimes, it’s just a matter of false consensus, or the feeling that everybody does what you do, or thinks how you think.

Yes, your psychology teacher has a term for “pa-astig”. Don’t wonder why they laugh at you when you act like one.

They also have a term for “feeling.” And two kinds: pluralistic ignorance and false uniqueness. Terms mostly used when studying risky adolescent behavior.

You know—sex, drugs, rock and roll, and everything beyond and in-between.

And they don’t just do this to piss kids off, no. They’re all grown up, these geeks (which includes me), and they’ve seen a lot of things and experienced a lot of stuff. They probably have gone through more than most kids.

Maybe it’s the same with old people, in general. One would realize later, when one gets to really talk with their parents, that these people know their shit. And you go wonder why they didn’t tell you some things that they felt they should tell you now.

Sometimes, it’s because back then, when they were younger, they didn’t know how.

Then there’s the old sage. Wise men. People you get to talk to when you get the chance to. Some of these people you already know. Sometimes, you just run into them.

Even the twenty-something year old. Like, I’m 24, and I think high school kids today are stupid and full of shit (I mean, come on, Creed?). I can just imagine what my parents thought of me when I was 12.

(“Come on, Guns n’ Roses?”)

Sometimes, one realizes why wisdom was always associated with age and foolishness with youth.

Old people have seen life. Some even think they’re done with it. It’s off to the next stage. It’s up to the young people to run it now.

It’s about this age that non-writers suddenly release a book. That billionaires suddenly become philanthropists. That people suddenly get involved with charitable institutions. That men and women suddenly become active in church. That people begin to see the important things in life. That life could be simpler, but they made it complicated. And that most of their youth was wasted covering these things up.

Makes me think, why would the youth not think about these things?

(Yea, why wouldn't I?)

You see, a lot of bullshit can happen if you cover things up.

And I don’t even have to elaborate on that.

12/10/2000... Ennui

2004-06-11T10:20:00.000+08:00

12/10/2000

Ennui
is dreamy done mildly heavily
is wasted glee is me
done medium to a juicy half-pound
well-suited to the dictator’s palate

Frugally
does it serve does give
does show display
does shower does it fairly
the times I controlled dutifully
the eon that is my twenty years

come to me
my share my sense
my destiny my quilt
my fastest flee
into my hands rest and let me have you
not that I haven’t reached out to grabba holda you
but I haven’t haven’t I?

12/8/2000... This humble retreat's my form of advancement

2004-06-08T01:39:00.000+08:00

12/8/2000

(1)

This humble retreat’s my form of advancement
Stepping forward
means standing still
means stepping back
means getting out of your way
his way her way its way way
way off of anybody’s way

‘Tis this mind-distorting drug
this daftly-crafted excuse
this I call
doing everything by doing nothing
This way I understand the Way
misunderstand the Way
This deftly-crafted excuse
ever so daftly-crafted

for I only wait

I wait
for I believe time will come to me
I wait
because I believe that time will come to me
And when it comes it comes
That when it happens I happens
And whatever happens happens to me

And because I wait I take
And because I take I accept

I accept with palms open
My ignorant rough-edged palms worked out
      from so much accepting
that these things are happening to me
happening
because that is the Way
that is how the universe runs

And to run with the universe is to embrace the Way
(or so I heard
that I cannot believe that
I really don’t understand really don’t
really don’t have much effort trying to understand
)
that’s why now I sulk

And I wait

(2)

I find breath escaping rapidly in bodies
      engaged in work idly
This because I made me believe the mind
      is more important than the body
This information bullshit I’ve been raised to embrace
This utter defiance of my will to move
Because my mind
my mind is supposed to work
The body only assists the mind
It only carries the mind
where the mind wishes to go
where the mind wishes to evolve into eternity
where it carries out its quasi-altruistic dreams
of improving the self by improving the world

They say a revolution takes two things:
Thinkers who start
Thugs who move
Imagine starting but not moving
Imagine moving when not really driven

Belief is such a strong word

Belief is what keeps me alive
I believe, therefore I am
Alive, at least

I believe there is a tomorrow
I believe there is hope
I believe in fate and
I believe it has good things waiting for my coming

I believe in my past
I believe it carried me here
I believe it made me who I am
I believe it has good things hidden from my reflection

Also

My tomorrow’s also my today
My hope is full of regret
My fate is deep in mud and
My good things are buried deep somewhere
      in the middle of a million-hectare shithole

My past had been brutally kind
It had carried me so often my legs went rubbery
My make is crumbling to the ground and
the good things are forever hidden from my reflections

Fucking melodrama

(3)

Why am I still alive, by the way?
Memory has it that bloodletting roadkissing
      skydiving saltwaterbathing and disinfecting
      all had been guest to way to many get-togethers
      with my executive committee

Sadly, I have hope to spare
If hope be named it
This overzealous kind of gurgling
prancing around in my lungs making me feel like
I’ll leave something behind when I’m out
or that I may have done something if I’d
      just waited a minute longer
or that someone remembered my plainwater
      book borrowed and finally returning it giving it back
or that
or that maybe my Sino-flame finally wanted
      to have a chat over the phone, perhaps
If I had just stayed a bit longer

my flame flame
my Sino-flame

Fate has it that I’d see someone within the month
Or the cards have it that way
And the coin
The cards told me she was not a Sino
not milky, not anyone I know
Simple high-card configuration
The coin has it that I’d met her already
Telt me she was next to me on the bus I
last rode on
Telt me I made a dumb move of not moving
to get to know the minx
Although she didn’t look like a minx but I
      thought she was
Fate has it that it is that way

I believe, therefore I am

(4)

Buses are interesting in the sense that they’re unique
Well, buses and trucks, like
They’re big and all
but they move like bikes
Managing to snake through heavy traffic

An identity crisis, likesay

I’ve rode on buses for only over three years
Been my main mode of traspo since school
      became 25 kilometers from my doorstep
I’ve managed to have free rides
on my friends’ (or so’s) cars when I can but
I’ve settled to take gigantor here ‘cause
      I get to sleep longer (since they take farther routes)
      and I need not worry if I’d be
      owing the kind driver some gratitude since I pay for my mobility
Not minding being too user-friendly and all

Had to even stomach the music playing on buses
Jukebox music that’s hurting my
      sophisticatedmusicloversears
      that is
Ate them up all of them up till I’ve digested a few
Like sucking concrete lollypop
The bus
All of it
including its wonderful idiosyncrasy

Touché

12/10/2000... another day of looking at

2004-06-08T01:32:00.000+08:00

Time to dig up some old stuff. Most of them still make sense to me today.

=================

5/14/2000

another day of looking at
looking at
looking at myself nothing but
myself along with many
many
people messing up
the kitchen where
I work

=================

2004-06-03T11:25:00.000+08:00

Picture a little girl. Imagine a high pitched voice. Imagine she's talking with a lot of sense. Now imagine that with the volume at 10 and you still wonder why your ears aren't already bleeding when they should be.

Call her Zhinesade. Call her Sade. Call her Allan. I call her Czerina. All of them can be seen at Zhinesade's Surreal World. Best served with cappuccino sipped with your pinky pointing straight up.

Benevolence (or, Steam Let Off In The Midst Of Meaningful Stationary Electronically-Inscribed Symbolic Visual Sensory Input)

2004-06-02T00:16:00.000+08:00

I heard this word first in school. Benevolence. They used it to refer to Americans, who were said to be “benevolent colonizers” doing “benevolent assimilation” which supposedly was doing us Pinoys good, because it was basically “shaping” us into a nation. Many people didn’t believe this at that time, mainly those who, from direct experience and study of real events, have knowledge of events and had actually thought about past atrocities, present inconsistencies, and future negative implications America’s “benevolence.”

It’s like spanking.

Chambers’ Encyclopedic English Dictionary traces its roots from the French benivolence, which in turn came from the Latin bene (good) and volens (wishing).

Dictionary.com has it that benevolence is…

1) The disposition to to good; good will; charitableness; love of mankind, accompanied with a desire to promote their happiness.

2) An act of kindness; good done; charity given.

3) A species of compulsory contribution of tax, which has sometimes been illegally exacted by arbitrary kinds of England, and falsely represented as a gratuity.

Funny, how the third definition came out. It’s like how they used “liberation” in taking over Iraq. Only history will tell how the word will mean in the future.

Funny, too, how the word “liberated” now means “wanting to have sex.”

In both instances, and as well as in the third definition, the words were used in contexts of male inclination, that is, in those two countries (the US and England), the males basically lord over the land (they still do, do they?). Females somehow still have to assert their roles to be considered equals in many fields, and that those who do are considered either exceptional or irritating, just because they’re girls (right?).

Now, equality is a hard thing to assert in gender issues, especially if you’re a man. And especially in places where chivalry is looked up on.

I mean, isn’t it nice if a guy opens a door for a girl? Or if a guy lets a girl through a door first? Or if he helps her when she seems to be having a bit of trouble carrying her luggage?

(Makes you wonder, does anyone argue for equality just because it’s inconvenient? Equality of the sexes! Hey! Woman! Hold the door for me, wouldja?!?)

In contrast, isn’t it rather gay to do all these things to a guy?

(Why is “rather gay” better-sounding than “a bit gay”?)

If you said yes to all these, you’re probably the right reader for this.

Even scientific studies are a bit interesting in this issue. Gender equality issues are more written and studied by women psychologists than men. And issues about men’s emotional aspects are studied by men psychologists more then women.

Everyone is selfish.

In any case, in my male-dominated society, everything works well in the name of inequality.

Enter the girlfriend.

She’s a single mom. Battered in many ways.

Enter the benevolent boyfriend.

He’s quite a savior, saving the girlfriend in a multitude of ways. At least it’s how he thinks things are.

Enter the breakup.

He feels bad that he left her, although he really wanted to leave her anyways. Thing is, he thinks the girl still needs him, the girl being vocal about it and all, plus the guy being smart and analytic.

And all.

Thus is the guy’s dilemma. In a society where good education means sending you to a good school, and a good school means you learn about gender equality, how do you stop being a benevolent motherfucker?

No pun intended.

She needs me. If I leave her, she’ll be shattered. She wouldn’t be able to handle it all, being dependent on me in a lot of ways. I just can’t do that to a girl.

It’s chivalry blown up. Women are weak. They need man’s help.

(Well, let them make their own civilization. Haha. I’m kidding, of course.)

You’ll know it’s benevolence if everything doesn’t fit well together. Like saying you have compassion for the poor or talk about diligence of work while at the same time you say “mukhang katulong” or “mukhang OFW” in a mocking way. Never mind if you say it’s just for the sake of making you feel good because you’re talking about an ex’s fling.

What a fucking hangover. I’d say “exactly.”

Anyways, yes, a guy thinks this way (at least the way that I think guys do). If not, not many people would recover from breakups not thinking a little before it that there’s a hint of possiblity that it all could be happy in the end. This is all but a dream.

But as Shakti says, “What need have I for this, what need have I for that? I am dancing at the feet of my lord. All is bliss, all is bliss.”

THE POINT

Detachment.

Heartless, numb, cold. Indifferent. People like to call it that.

What, you want someone to cry over you or something?

So someone doesn’t think the same way about the relationship the same way you do. So someone thinks something else is important, something that’s different from what you think is.

Big deal.

Feel you’re special? Not anymore. Think about it. Get over it.

And yes, us guys ought to think about that, too.

SAY, WHAT?

Nothing.

I am dancing at the feet of my lord. All is bliss, all is bliss.

Peachy

2004-05-26T00:53:00.000+08:00

God played a trick on me today.

My usual going-home routine didn’t turn out to be so usual. First off, this had been one of the rare times that Sucat buses were twenty times as frequent as Alabang-Skyway buses. Not that it couldn’t happen, but what are the odds of it skewing? It’s as if all Sucat buses got out first, then went the Alabang-Skyway buses. And there were lots more Baclaran buses than those two combined. Anyhow, I got on my bus after twenty (yes, I counted) Sucat buses and forty minutes passed.

In the middle of this, I remembered Peachy, my morning shuttle fantasy.

OKAY

So this really isn’t about God playing a trick on me. This isn’t about God either. Using God in such context blurs the meaning behind the sound, almost making the name into a mantra.

I guess this isn’t about Peachy either. But hey, I mentioned God didn’t I?

I know two Peachies. One I’ve known for a bit of a while as a good friend. The other I’ve seen for a bit of a while and have been thinking about all day long today.

And yesterday. And the day before that.

By seen I mean I laid my eyes upon. As in looked at. Not that I couldn’t do anything more.

But I couldn’t.

Mornings are a joy when you wake up inspired. Most people are inspired by work. The inspiration comes from not being fired.

That’s what inspires me most of the time. Try waking up 6:30 every morning when you’re used to going to bed in the wee hours of the morning.

Quite recently, I’ve been inspired by Peachy to get up 6:30 in the morning, mainly to be sure that I’m ready to get out and start walking at 7:15, the time Peachy comes around the shuttle.

OH, YEAH

The shuttle. My morning ride. 40 pesos say I get to the office on time, everyday. Early even. Only my tight-assed Japanese boss gets to the office earlier.

Now 45 pesos say this. And five minutes earlier, says our office administrative assistant who kindly had our bundy clock repaired. Now we have to keep the time in mind.

What joy.

Anyhow, the shuttle. It’s kinda amusing when shuttles cater to a small part of town, and only a few people seem to know or want to avail of the service. This way, you kinda have an idea who you’ll be riding with. It’s like the grade-school school bus. Only this time, nobody really talks to each other.

I mean, you know everyone. You know their faces. Sometimes, their voices. Sometimes, their wardrobe schedule. Marital status. How many months pregnant. You know that this guy gets off ahead of you. And you presume that the other guys who get off later know where you get off.

That their cellphones are Globe. That they get off at the Enterprise. That sometimes they step out of their homes with their hair wet. That some never, ever, wear stockings because their legs look just fine.

Sigh.

And lots more things, if you care to notice. All without talking to each other. Sometimes you feel safe among people you trust. I don’t even have to care whether my pockets would get picked when I doze off.

It’s like a little community of some sort.

As with all communities, there are characters. The old hag. The mommy-type. The father figure. The newly-weds. The eligible bachelor. The rich kid. The kid. The chick. The girl next door.

Who’s Peachy? The goddess.

THE BACKSEAT

Is a nice place. Especially when all seats in the shuttle face forward. That way, no one ever sees where you’re looking, not unless that someone’s right beside you, seeing you from the corner of his or her eye.

The beauty of it is most people sleep while the shuttle speeds away. The purring white noise created by the combined sound of muffled engine, road contact and wind friction seems irresistible.

On lucky days, me and the goddess sit beside each other, in the backseat. The purr would prevail over her. She’d close her eyes. Lean on the seat. Drift to sleep.

And she just sits there. Relaxed. Not caring that I stroke her in my mind. Play with her hair in my mind. Feel her face in my mind. Smell her skin in my mind.

Download her into my mind.

On lucky days, me no never get any sleep.

THE BUS, WHEN IT’S NOT YET THERE

I suffer from temporary tuberculosis. I just don’t spit blood around because I’m too polite.

Also, I’m very, very, very conscious that goddess will come around. Goddess will never like it if I spit blood on the curb.

And it goes like that every day.

Every. Single. Day.

Weekday time in transit is time in anticipation of my goddess, my Peachy. It’s as if she’s staring at me. Following me. Stalking me. Passively intimidating me with her presence.

But not quite. You know.

I try to plan my fate, when it’s not yet there, the bus.

Although the Sucat buses go to Alabang, I will not get in. Peachy goes in an Alabang-Skyway bus. I know. Spotted her once.

My Peachy database.

The buses pass by from my left, but I shall look right, because that’s where all the people come out from. From a passageway. A bottleneck. A funnel by which I can effectively conduct an efficient visual survey.

Where the hell is she?

Thus, my fate. If I see her come out of the bottleneck, she’ll wait for a bus. She will get on a bus. I will get on that bus. And on that bus, I will hope to catch a line or two with her.

As with publicity, good or bad, doesn’t matter to me.

She's bound to show up. If she doesn’t. Well… No, she will.

SHE DIDN’T

An Alabang-Skyway bus just when temporary tuberculosis threatens to take root is a pretty good wake-up-to-reality pill.

Air conditioning. Ahhh.

As a squeeze in into a three-seater between two men bigger and wider than I am, I struggle to look to my right, where the bottleneck is. There are people standing on the bus’ aisle. There are people sitting on the right side of the bus.

C-c-can’t. B-b-breathe.

As I look through every inch of glass I can get a glimpse through, I swore to myself that if I see a mere speck of her existence I will dart out and act like a fool.

So much for swearing. Good thing the seat’s comfy.

AND THEN, SOMETHING WEIRD

Or, at least something that would appear weird enough a half-awake temporary insomniac.

The bus misses its drop-off point. Passengers are lined up on the aisle waiting for the door to open. You can hear “tsks” of distaste in the multitude, almost as if the fiberglass windows were starting to give in to water pressure outside.

Picture a lake. And the bus is underwater.

Now, the bus was taking too long to stop. When it finally did, much to the spite of the already rowdy mob, it was already way too far for comfort, considering walking the distance required one to pass through the wet market, which, I may add, is not a very secure, much less comfortable, thing to do.

I, the half-awake temporary insomniac, already jolted anjanatayo-style, with the bus stop seemingly drifting a couple of hundred meters away, and suddenly dispatched on a darker, damper-than-usual get-off point, thought to myself… What is there to all of this?

Things don’t just happen randomly. They’re caused. They’re part of a chain of causes that’s bound to have terminals somewhere.

Jesus, even God must’ve had something to do with this.

So there I go, talking to God in my mind. What in hell have you got here for me?

All of a sudden, all my senses started to open up. I could hear everything. Although it’s one big mesh of sound enveloping me, I feel I can hear everything. I can feel the sound pressing up my ears. Against my neck. Down my throat. My gut. Behind my eyes.

My eyes started moving fast, searching for every detail. I will find something that means something. I will find something that means something. I will find something that means something.

And as every second passes, every sensory input take their turns in my consciousness. Some try to get in at the same time. And instantly as those seconds pass, sensory data get lost, discarded forever, at least of their meaning.

Everything suddenly is a blur. But a blur that makes sense. Chaos that somehow resemble the back of your hand.

But then, nothing. Nothing means anything. There is nothing that means anything significant.

What in hell have you got here for me?

As I move slow-motion the world moves slow motion with me. Everything takes foreground. I hear my breathing. I sweat. The person beside me sweats. Breathes. Takes foreground.

But he is nobody. Haven’t met him in my life.

Why isn’t he Peachy? He was supposed to be Peachy.

As I approached my destination, the Ayala jeep, I scavenge for every ounce of sense I could squeeze out of everything.

Nothing.

The driver beside whom I sit.

Nothing.

The people piling behind me.

Nothing.

Hawkers. Hawking.

Nothing.

The guy who gets on beside me, staring at me. Must be my long hair.

Nothing.

Arriving at Town Center. The shuttles to Cavite. Shuttles?

Nothing.

My car. There are three cars around it. All of them have drivers seated, and all of them meet my eyes as I look at them.

Nothing.

Home. My Lola. Leftover bistek. Newly-cooked sinigang.

Yum.

Nothing.

The end of this piece.

Still. Nothing.

Ambiguously

2004-05-17T13:55:00.000+08:00

My first fiction. To be published in Bembang.com.

========

He was a month older and we played with each other a lot.

What I meant was that as cousins, we were friends, and we played as children would do, and this was when we were kids. Although it takes on a different meaning if seen in today’s context.

Merits an explanation, like what I’m doing now.

“Have you read Drama Queen, pare? It’s a lot different from the SVHs when we were kids.”

“SVH?”

“Sweet Valley, pare.”

For polite conversation, I’m tempted to say “Ah, High. Alam ko lang Twins.” I’m also tempted to say “pare,” but ethical questions regarding discourse and communication are running in my head.

THE THING

The thing is, he was the best girl-friend I’ll never have, only because he’s a guy. Stress on the “U” in the middle of G and Y please.

I can start on the oh-so cherished childhood memories. Us playing superheroes. My older brother was Superman. I was Batman. He was Aquaman. After that he got bored with Aquaman, he suddenly wanted to be Wonder Woman. And he insists that his invisible jet has a small cockpit, so we have to sit close together. “But I can fly!” my brother suggests, but Wonder Woman, being the woman she is, will have her way.

But things are different when you’re all grown up. When you’re done with puberty. When you’re done with the prom. When you’re done with your virginity. When you’re pretty much done with most pretenses most kids would have.

As an adult, everyone is pretty much the same difference.

“Dude, balik tayong Bora,” he says.

“Bora uli? We’ve been there just this year. Holy week, remember?”

“Yea, but I miss it agad. The beach, the sand. The parties. All those people. I even saw Marc Nelson there.”

Yea. Sure you did.

“Right. Marc Nelson. Wanna go to Puerto Galera instead? Heard in Bembang that it’s 2/3 water and 1/3 ….”

“Tama Puerto. Tama, para cheaper. I don’t want to spend all my 13th month just on a vacation anyways.”

Funny thing is, it’s all innocent. If ever he’s going to be guilty of anything, it’s only for slips he can’t control. It’s been like this forever.

It’s been years. For me it’s been a lifetime.

A long time doesn’t seem to be a long time when you’re talking about how long you’ve been family with someone.

This guy, we’ve been family forever.

You get used to it, after a while. It’s easier than when you’ve been family with someone from the beginning than when you start being family with someone when you’re already three. That way, you don’t remember how it all began. That way, you don’t think about going back to “the way it used to be,” because you don’t know any. There are no “good old days.” Only everyday.

It’s like being born into the war. In Somalia, for instance. Then therapists from the UN come to cure your pains and rid you of post-traumatic syndrome. They say they want to get you back into society. They say they want to restore equilibrium in your troubled mind.

The thing is, contrary to what the shrinks think, for the kid born into the war, trauma’s normal.

THE WAR

As an adult, I get to have more sense in my head than what I had as a kid. Maybe even more sense than what my older brother has now.

“You know what? I think you’re gay.”

Good one, bro.

“Me?”

“Yea. I think you’re homo.”

“Break it up will you, bro? He’s not gay.”

“What made you think I’m gay?”

“C’mon, the way you look at those guys?”

“What way I look at those guys? You can’t even see my eyes, my shades are too dark.”

“Yea, well, when you turn your head at them your mouth opens a bit.”

“Towards who?”

“Those guys. On the beach playing frisbee.”

“I’m not looking at them.”

“Saw your jaw drop as soon as that guy in the red shorts took his shirt off.”

“He isn’t even gwapo. If I was a girl, I wouldn’t give him a second look.”

“Stirero. Gwapo yan dude. And with that body? I think he even looks like….”

God, no. It’s in the blood.

I heard somewhere that homos are increasing in number. Or, bakit dumarami ang bading at lesbo, eh hindi naman sila nanganganak?

Some say it’s with the culture. You don’t find that much homos in tight-assed Japan. In contrast, the US seems 80% gay.

Some say it’s in the genes. Maybe they found a pair of twins strewn apart by some war or something, only to reunite years and years later in a gay support group.

Some say it’s a mix. Japanese homos just aren’t developed. It’s in the genes, but the genes need some stimulation. Like, put the kid into gay school.

The more important question is, why treat it like it’s something worth diagnosing? When would being gay be normal to the point of the topic being boring? “Hey, I’m gay” would be as interesting as “Sex: ( ) Male ( ) Female (x) Whichever.” Something that merits an “Ok, next please!”

Why does my cousin have to be gay?

FOR BETTER

Or is he?

This month, my cousin is set to get married. To a girl. I’m pretty sure she’s a girl because I dated her years ago.

(Blood. No.)

It’s different this time. Here’s a man who’s going to marry a woman. They shall, in a traditional Catholic ceremony, be one in the eyes of the Lord. And as of todate, the Lord ain’t lookin’ at joinin’ two homos together.

And at the wedding, there wasn’t anyone happier than my aunt.

His mommy. What, a mommy can’t be happy for his son?

(Happy. Gay.)

In any case, I’m happy for him. I’m not so sure this is going to last a lifetime, but this sure will do. I’ve always wondered if he thought about it, if he was gay. I’ve always wondered what choices he had to make. What he chose not to do. What he chose not to say. The things he had to give up. The things he was afraid he would lose. The people he would have hurt. The shame he would have brought. And, in the midst of all these, the dignity he would have mightily proven.

This makes me want to cry. Somebody hug me.

I am 23

2004-05-09T05:51:00.000+08:00

Found this thing I wrote more than a year ago. I gave it to the Inquirer, but apparently they didn't like it as much as I hoped they would.

Cheezy. My first attempt at writing. Laugh your hearts out.

===============
I am 23

A few years ago I wondered why people didn’t want to get out of their teens, and in turning 20 they would, if asked their age, say they were “twenteen”. My stand was that getting old wasn’t as big of a deal as that.

I remember one incident in school when I was in first grade. I was just about to enter the restroom when I saw three or four high school students beating someone up (I knew they were in high school because they had differently-colored pants than mine). I quickly covered my ears to the call of nature and swiftly went back to the classroom, heart beating and eyes wide open with images playing in my mind. Since then, I didn’t have the guts to go up the third floor of the building where the high school classrooms were.

When I was already in high school and I had the chance to have some friends who were already in college, I was stunned at the subject matter they were discussing. Cognitive theory, Einstein, Kurusawa, Nietzsche, Shopenhauer, and all those weirdly spelled, foreign-sounding names (all I knew was Schwarzenegger). I thought, hell, I can’t go through these! I knew how well I did in school and I knew what I could do (I never thought of myself as an incompetent kid), but this? So in choosing a course I had to take one I thought was with the least math.

Eventually college came and all those weirdly spelled names came about and frankly, they weren’t so bad as they sounded. In going through them I felt the same way back in third grade when I just couldn’t figure out how to do multiplication of two digit numbers (I had always thought the end of all mathematical equations were represented by the long dash, and below that nothing could come after other than the final answer), or in high school when algebra seemed enjoyable more than difficult and the things you learn aren’t always what your parents know something about.

I started to feel that growing old isn’t all that harsh. I actually think it’s fun because I get to brand people younger than me as “shallow”, or “immature”, or better yet “kids”. I started to laugh inside (and outside, too) when people started worrying about turning 20, with their anxiety starting at age 18.

Turning 20 will be a breeze!

Imagine all the possibilities! By then I would have gone out of school, probably have gotten a job, and earning my own money. I’d have responsibilities. I’d be treated like a regular person (which in our society means an adult). I’d be able to own cars and real estate. I’d have all the things I expected and hoped for when I was still a kid: independence, respect, and a life of my own.

This last one I didn’t expect to turn out the way it did.

Just last month my entire family left me alone. Not just figuratively—I mean they left. For the US. My grandmother had all her kids petitioned, and now my dad, the last of her children here in the country, finally joined the rest of the family, and brought along the rest of my family along with him.

The funny thing is, I was left behind because I was too old. I had to be less than 21 or had just turned 21 for me to join them. I am now 23.

I am 23, and I have my own job, my own things, and my own bank account. I say where I go and I do what I want to do. And yet, when my family left, I felt like a kid, not knowing what to do, where to go to when an electric fan doesn’t work, whom to go to when I have trouble with the police, what to do if the toilet suddenly wouldn’t flush, what to do with the house that was finally mine.

I am 23, and still clueless about my own life.

Most of my classmates in graduate school are my age. Many people I interact with in doing my work are about my age. Most of the girls I think are attractive are about my age or younger than me. People to whom things happen are about my age.

Many people who had done great things started their proficiency around my age. People become entrepreneurs at around my age. People get to be called “sir” at around my age. People start to be suspected for crime at around my age. People get to be grownups at around my age. So many great things happen around my age, and I can’t even make firm decisions for myself. I haven’t even voted.

I read somewhere that someone in the military, Lt. Jessica Chaves, was 23 when she was supposedly murdered for supposedly not having cooperated in some hidden military extra-curriculars. She had made a decision and whatever it was, it cost her her life. All I did was admire her for her bravery.

Finally

2004-04-28T10:29:00.000+08:00

After hours and hours of mostly interrupted work, I have managed to squeeze in here a tagboard. And towards the right of the page. A huge feat for me, an HTML idiot.

Now I can go back to figuring out what to write next.

Patrick Martires

2004-04-23T18:03:00.000+08:00

is an excellent photographer. See his genius in www.pbase.com/patmartires. Unfortunately, you have to e-mail him to get the link to the fun parts.

Bembang!

2004-04-20T20:41:00.000+08:00

My posts also appear in Bembang!, although most of the time earlier here than there. They come up with a monthly online mag, but I come up with stuff faster.

Sorry, Mark, I'm a bit impatient. :D

In any case, Bembang's not copying from my blog... I e-mail Mr. Editor-in-Chief Mark Verzo my articles myself. Go visit Bembang, it's a fun site. More stuff to read by a whole bunch of people.

:)

The One That Got Away

2004-04-20T20:37:00.000+08:00

I remember a term a friend told me. Blututan. As in Bluetooth-an. Bluetooth-ing. As if it's a verb. Meaning sitting around in Starbucks, turning your Bluetooth on and sending whatever. Of course, your pics, your music, or anything you send out would also be caught be anyone who would happen to also have their thing on.

Best experienced with friends giggling around.

In the spirit of fun, likesay.

I read somewhere that in Britain, there’s such a thing as “toothing,” or Bluetooth-enabled hook-ups. A guy or a girl would be somewhere, like a train or something, and he or she’d turn her Bluetooth-capable gadget (like a phone or something) and send out something like,

“Toothing?”

And then some other person by chance also has his or her Bluetooth toy on, and when hormones flick appointments are set.

(Where do I get this kind of stuff? Try BusinessWorld. Yes, it’s a newspaper. And yes, those things can contain things like this. Business and sex? Who knew? So go get rid of your cigarette and start another habit.)

It was described as a “craze.” It’s a new form of anonymous sex. Some say it’s more exciting than sex-eyeballing in chat, because you know for a fact that your “partner” is within a 10-meter radius from you.

Plus it’s free. Imagine the possibilities.

It’s, and I quote, “...employing expensive, complex toys to find the most basic form of entertainment.”

Touché. Makes you want to cash in on it. Like what most money-hungry opportunists would do to texting, music, sex....

And they have entire websites dedicated to toothing. Some of them in German. Gee, when would this catch on in DaPilipens, you ask?

You horny little thing, you.

What’s so nice about anonymous sex?

If you ask, you probably haven’t had any.

Then again, it’s not really a thing one would readily admit, wouldn’t it? At least not usually. By “usually” I mean at least in my circle of friends.

It’s like having the guts to buy disposable porn off the streets. When sex comes to you, let it lord over you.

Like when you’re in love, the world is but a blur.

Like, world-blur-I-have-had-anonymous-sex-blur-world. In that particular order.

Then again, sometimes, it’s not really that. You meet up. You talk. You ask for each other’s names. You ask what she does for a living. You ask what school she came from. You ask if she has kids. You quickly ask if she’s married.

So much for anonymity.

The one night stand. Some say it’s different, mainly by virtue of where it starts. One night stands can’t begin in chat rooms or via toothing. They start in social places. Like bars.

Well, supposedly. If you’re too technical, you’d say, “hell this can happen with friends!”

Tsk tsk.

One spots the other. One buys the other a drink. They chat. As in talk. One flirts. The other hopefully would flirt back. Pheromones would ooze. Sometimes, pre-cum would, too. Panties would get wet, and it’s off to whoever’s place it is.

It’s supposed to be more traditional. You use more of your brain and less technology.

But then, there’s the flesh trade. Need cash? I need pussy. Wanna swap?

This time it’s a bit less personal. Little pussies for hire. No personal questions necessary. Investigative journalism discouraged. Forget your RELSONE (or CL, if you’re still in high school; and “Religion Class” if you’re totally confused with what I mean.) and stick you schtick into my (what rhymes with schtick?) twat. I could say a few oh yeahs if you pay me a little more.

Business and sex. Again.

Point is, it happens. Anonymous sex, in whatever form. Thing is not to have the other as a friend (as defined here). Maybe you’ll be friends later, but not before.

To some, this is stock knowledge. To some, this is imagined stock knowledge. To some, this is “like brushing my teeth” type of knowledge.

To some, this is “reeeeeeeeeaallyyy!?!?!”

Interesting questions come from the interested. Maybe it’s time somebody else wrote something about this (ha!).

No, really, it’s an interesting feeling. Almost fascinating. Something magical to it if you do it the first time.

I’m talking about anonymous sex.

Then comes the interested’s question: What if you want more out of it?

Yea, what if?

What if you felt a connection? What if you felt that you wanted something more from her? What if you felt like she also wants something more from you?

Not love, stupid. At least not necessarily. Don’t let that Pretty Woman bullshit get into your head.

Not that it couldn’t happen, I mean.

But anyways, what if you wanted to meet up again? Even just for the company? The cuddling? The warmth? The thrill? The novelty of it all?

What if you miss that feeling that you were a man? I mean a real man. Someone who made some girl’s fantasy come true. Someone who was a sweating, drooling, steaming sexual toy summoned by the queen ant to fulfill her essence as a woman. Someone who in turn fulfilled his own essence as an entity with a spitting piece of red hot meat.

Makes you hungry more than it makes your meat throb.

Good thing we have that analogy to come by. If ever this happens to you, you’re screwed. You end up regretting you didn’t get her number, and if you did, you’d end up frustrated why you got her number wrong, and even delirious if she gave her number wrong on purpose.

A piece of hot meat lets a throbbing dick un-throb. So go get some spam, choke chewing on it, and be the slob that you are.

And go read BusinessWorld.

A Week in the Fucking Business

2004-04-07T09:39:00.000+08:00

There are two ways to say it.

1) “Well, she’s only been a week in the business. Can’t get anything from her at this point.”

2) “Well, she’s only been a week in the fucking business. Can’t get anything from her at this point.”

What’s the difference?

For one, the latter is a bit rude at face value. The first one, on the other hand, is rude in a gentlemanly way, in that dirty words (i.e. “fucking”) would just make everything uncivilized and not worthy of attention. This would make the latter one a bit unsophisticatedly sloppy, hence with less appeal.

Unfortunately, I meant the title as it is. A week in the fucking business. As in the business of fucking.

Context can do a lot to meaning.

If anyone has only been a week in the fucking business, expect business to be good. And good means good business flows in two directions: towards the fucker and the fuckee.

The fuckee gets good business because she gets paid a lot just for being new. Money for just about nothing. Images of meat and real estate come to mind.

The fucker, on the other hand, gets good business because he gets the best there is. And it doesn’t really matter if intrinsically, the meat is a bit off. The point is the meat is fresh.

Now what is fresh? Is fresh different from frozen? Japanese sensibilities come to mind.

Ever wondered what’s the difference from sashimi in Saisaki and Kikufuji? There’s an old Japanese sage (by the name of my boss), who said that sashimi is expensive, despite of its very basic preparation, because of the care one takes in making sure that every sashimi is served fresh. This is why the best time to order sashimi is when there are a lot of people in the restaurant, so you can be sure that the sashimi you’re getting is freshly killed and cut.

I think I’m sounding a bit Japanese.

Funny, in Japanese AVs (adult videos—their term for porn), girls are made up so they look fresh. In fact, they’re made up so fresh that sometimes, there’s nothing to augment the ladies’ beauty but a little lipstick. Everything is natural. Even the bush is made to look natural. I doubt if they even touch it. The point is that the girls look young. Fresh. High school-girl fresh. And they start scenes with talking, then eventually, it’s as if you, the horny audience, talking to her. And taking her clothes off. And touching her. And slurping on her mouth.

All in the name of sensual fidelity. Freshness.

Now, if you’ve watched Prosti by Erik Matti (yes, featuring Her Highness Aubrey Miles), you will hear the wise old Mamasan preaching the philosophy of the flesh trade.

People come to the brothel, not only to fuck and fulfill desires of the flesh, but to be involved in a substitute reality, where they can do what they can’t do in the real world, and to people that would gladly let them do it to them.

The one-weeker in the fucking business. You don’t get one of these every time. You can’t get one of these, and get one of these who really, really, really like their job.

Seriously. It’s a hell of a catch.

Usually, when you go out there, preying for meat, you hope to get a pretty cooperative slave who basically knows how to strut it, do it for you, give you a good time.

However, most of the time, you get someone who’s basically a veteran; meaning she’s been there, done that. Lay flat on her back and won’t do squat. The most she’ll do is open up her legs and try to avoid your lips from touching hers.

Luckily, one day you stumble upon the week-old. A signifier must be appropriate (“the”), as you will not find as much week-olders such as this one. She had a neutral accent, nothing like a turn-off. You have faith in what she says is her age. You find her angelic. You find her posturing innocent. You find her smell fantastic. You believe that she’s only one week in the fucking business. Her pimp tells you she’s one week in the fucking business. You know she knows for a fact because it’s also her fucking business.

Eyes can be deceiving, looks can be practiced in front of a mirror, and nice fragrances come in bottles.

So what gave her away?

(How can I say this properly?)

When we kissed, we kissed. As in she opened her mouth.

And there was passion. And moaning. And synchronized gyration. God, her breath smelled fresh. Her skin smelled and felt fresh.

And there’s something in girls’ eyes that come out and tell you she wants to be with you. Even if you know it’s only for tonight.

And we did it twice. I didn’t even need to pay her. She was doing this out of her own hormonal needs.

All because she was a week into the fucking business.

Sex and the Busy Loner

2004-04-06T00:29:00.000+08:00

I'm gonna have this in Bembang, April issue. Hope you like it. :)

===========

A geeky start.

Freud had a point when he proposed the concept of the libido. No, he didn’t mean “sex-drive.” He meant “sexual energy,” “sexual” meaning “pleasure,” and not just plain intercourse. Thus, he said, when a baby likes to put things in his mouth, it’s because an infant’s pleasure center is his mouth. He called this stage the “oral stage.” He had another stage which he called the “anal stage.” Damnit, do your own research.

In any case, as a person moves from stage-to-stage, the pleasure zone (“erogenous zone”) transfers from one area to the other (where, oh, where is the erogenous zone for the “anal stage?”). In theorizing, Freud followed a law of physics called the conservation of energy), which states that energy is neither created nor destroyed. So, libidinal energy (“sexual energy” if you may) just goes around, until when you grow up when the energy finally settles in the genitals (therefore “sexual” becomes what it means to most of us earthlings).

Although his theories have been mightily refuted by many other theorists, his application of the conservation of energy concept to how people work makes one (me) think of how I work, like how I get aroused, how I get tired, how come I liked this before and now I like another thing. Stuff like that.

On to chapter one.

“Stress” for a twenty-something-year-old takes on a new meaning when one is paid about a hundredth of the value of one’s work. By value I mean money. As in cash. And by a hundredth I mean I’m charged as if I’m a lot older and more experienced. All this especially when you’ve seen the huge amounts of money your company charges others as “honoraria” for your services.

The perils of consulting.

“Sex” also shifts meaning. It transforms from being an item in fill-out sheets to intercourse to love, then back to being an item in fill-out sheets, to whatever.

Then you get stressed out. “Sex” suddenly shifts to “recharge.”

Funny thing, actually. To recharge something—your phone, for example—you plug in. In recharging, something heats up. In recharging, something is restored to its optimal state. Not charging will leave your phone cold and dead. And of course, over-recharging can wear out of your battery, that after a while, you can’t recharge it anymore.

During this time sex becomes a necessity. As in “I have to have sex” instead of the usual “I want sex” or “I need sex.” Makes you sound like a drooling maniac.

But the thing is, as with most have-to’s, you don’t necessarily want to do them. I have to have sex, but do I really have to?

So after an immensely hard day when hours turn to days and pages just don’t seem to fill up, you think you have to have sex. You’re dead tired, but you have to have sex. Your batt’s out, you have to recharge.

Good thing for someone who has someone, recharge-sex becomes affectionate love, and love-that-is-given-despite-of-being-tired. A generous, thoughtful thing that elevates the typically masculine provider’s ego.

When you’re a loner, however, it becomes dirty. Recharge-sex is still recharge-sex. No matter what happens, you have to plug in. This, no matter where the plug is (no, they don’t allow you to plug in at Starbucks).

The thing that separates man (as in males) from the machine is that one can plug in even there isn’t any electrical outlet around. Call it Wi-Fi, I’ll call it a gift from god. Of course, that’s because I’m a loner.

Plus, I have options. Do I want pictures? Video? Just words? How about words, interactive and in real time? How about video, interactive and in real time?

Well, going virtual is plain weird for me. I understand the boost audiences are supposed to provide performers, but It’s just not my thing. Scrap that.

Pictures are nice. And it’s available everywhere. In Google, search “adult” in Directories, and you’ll get a link to “mature content,” then “image galleries,” then “free.” Indexed there are gazillions of free porn. Try to enjoy as wide a variety as you can. I’m hooked to Hsu Chi (this one you can search in the “normal” Google page).

You’ll get sick of it, believe me.

What is dear to my heart nowadays is god’s gift to the impoverished horny guy: disposable porn.

If you like them, you can keep them. If you don’t you can give them away. It’s even ok if you have double copies. You can give them out as gifts or something.

They cost around 20 to 35 a piece, and you can get them anywhere. If you know where to look. And if you have the guts to even look.

Ever seen a crowd of guys standing around a tabloid stand? They think they’re not obvious, but don’t they think they are because they’re all guys standing around the tabloids? Do you think they mind that they’re obvious?

Ever seen a crowd of guys standing around a bunch of VCDs on a mat on the ground? Ever seen any of them buy even one? Ever seen a lone guy squatting over a mound of porn, picking out about five, asking for discounts and package prices (six for a hundred?) from the VCD guy (or girl), while the whole lot of rush hour going-homers pass behind him?

Did his grandmother ever pass by behind him unknowingly? Does he even mind that chicks can think he’s a total loser-maniac when they see him seemingly drooling over a pool of smut?

And it feels good, too, when a friend asks you to buy one for him, just because he doesn’t have the guts to. Did I just say “you?”

I bet you forgot the Freud thing already.

Chapter two.

So I get porn easily. I did a lot of work mustering up guts to actually buy street porn when the streets are busy. I spent a lot of time going through the net looking for free porn because I didn’t have enough money to buy commercial ones. I gave up a lot of face initially trying to be open to having people know I like porn.

Liking and looking for porn takes a lot of effort, you see. I call it an investment.

And for what?

It’s all about energy. I think already I have it down-flat scientific. If I was paid to write a manual, I’d write it.

Our good freund Freud said that if the sexual energy didn’t go around properly, one would go neurotic.

And so, the story goes. My work pisses me off because I make in a month what I’m supposed to get paid in five days (according to honoraria terms in our contract with another company) for consulting work. I hate the fact that I love my job because I can’t find another company that has the same sort of work I’m doing, so I’m kinda stuck.

The stress is killing me. I can feel the pressure trying to get out, pushing from behind my eyes.

Thing is, it can’t go out my eyes. If it could, I wouldn’t derive pleasure from it. It has to go out somewhere else.

Freud tells me I’m in the “genital stage.”

If you have been paying attention to your General Psychology (or Ms. Reyes’ Christian Living lecture back in high school), the genital stage is when one’s erogenous zone is the genital area.

Context, please. Context. Read Part One if you haven’t. Read it aloud and embarrass yourself (haha).

Context: it means you want to screw. No matter how you try to get it out somewhere else, you will want to screw.

Some people say art. Some people say music. Some people say work. Some people say community.

This loner says porn.

Porn’s legal and safe for the horny. It’s legal because it is what one wants—sex. It’s safe because it doesn’t merit your conscience to kick in and tell you that you’re screwing up other people’s lives. Nevermind if your mother or your sister are women too.

You know what they say about conscience. It’s trainable.

Once you get it down, it’s easy. Assume you’re tired. You’re under a lot of pressure from work that you feel it at home. Your head hurts and the back of your neck is starting to numb.

Feel that pressure. It’s in your head.

But you’re in the genital stage. The best way to get energy out is through outlets that gives you the most perks. Why let it out where it’s not going to give you pleasure? At this point in your twenty-something year old life, the outlet is down there. You have to move the sexual energy to where it’s going to benefit you as of the moment.

Fuck sublimation. I say manage it.

Time for an epilogue.

Nah.

Left

2004-04-05T23:20:00.000+08:00

Of course, it has been written about a lot of times in almost all media in almost all genres: the ex having a new one before you do.

So what’s new?

First off, this is going to be a bit bitter.

Yea, like I said, what’s new?

It’s me who’s talking.

…

I meant me, I’m talking.

Yea you are. I think you’re almost ranting.

I broke up with her. That’s what’s different.

It is?

Yea.

Sounds like a normal twist to me. Give me another one.

Well, it’s new for me.

So you wanna talk about it?

It’s weird, really. It’s not like when you’re dumped. That way, you can crawl back all you like feeling sure that nobody thinks you look like an idiot. Pathetic, maybe, but not an idiot. Pathetic people, you can have pity on. Idiots, they’re just funny.

So you’re an idiot?

Well, I feel like one.

Maybe you are one.

Fuck you.

Well, you’re asking for it. Look, so you dumped her. And now you wanna go back to her. Why don’t you then?

I can’t go back to her. I never left. I’m still in the same house. Maybe when I dumped her, it was just like me locking myself up in my room. Like, I kinda bored her to death so that she’d get out herself.

She got out, right?

Yea, pretty much.

Idiot.

Fuck you.

That’s pathetic. You’re making pathetic sound like worse than idiotic.

No, I’m just an idiot. Ok, pathetic, too. It was funny because I was hoping she’d always be there.

This was after the breakup right?

But I only realized this when I knew about it. The new guy. You know how is it when someone’s dead? I mean, how it’s different than when someone just goes on a long vacation, or leaves for another country?

You can’t come back from the dead.

But it’s not like she’s dead or anything. She’s just out. Out. I think it’s a one-way door she passed through.

Yea, you’re an idiot making those one-way doors.

It was my fault. Totally. Even if she did come back, I had those one-way doors.

What, she came back?

I think so. There were several times when I thought we were going to get back together. Back then I think I was feigning honesty. It’s funny how a lie, when said brutally, sounds more like it’s true. Sometimes you have to frame your mind for that. Like, train it to imagine scenes, like in movies. Sometimes you believe what you imagine, even if it feels weird because it’s just not true. You just made it up. It’s like playing a role on stage and being in your character so much that it becomes you. I played a cool guy who needs no one.

Beer?

Yea.

Need me?

Fuck you.

Promise?

I’m the guy, and I’m the one playing hard to get. I’m pathetic.

You’re a loser.

Yea. Yea. Yea, that’s it.

You lost it.

And she asks me how I’m holding up. “Holding up” she says.

What’s wrong with that?

She’s assuming I’m miserable.

You are miserable.

Well she doesn’t know that. Well, maybe she does. I dunno.

She asks how you’re holding up.

See. She knows.

You’re so romantic.

Fuck you.

I meant romantic, exaggerated. Ever listened in history class?

Art appreciation.

Yea, whatever.

…

I mean so what if she knows. She thought you were up to no good anyways. There isn’t any more good you can uphold. You’re dirt to her now. Nothing to be proud of. This thing, you can leave behind, I tell you. It’s like good beer. If you’re done with one, no matter how good it was, you’ll abandon it and ask for another one. Just because it’s done. It’s finished. Glass-bottom.

…

Jesus, you’re already drunk.

…

…

Yea, well, it’s hard.

…

…

Been a long time right?

A year.

…

…

Ever thought of moving on?

Yea.

…

…

Wanna move on?

I dunno.

...

Love and Pussy

2004-04-05T23:13:00.000+08:00

My first published article. A bit unfair because it was published in a web magazine (www.bembang.com), which makes it lose all its "prestige." A bit ambitious for a first article, bordering on corny (haha).

====================

One day you're horny; the next day you're dreading pussy. Especially when you just had one.

A fishy one, that is.

Whorist.com wasn’t lying. You can't trust pussy you get off the streets. No, not in Cebu. Cubao, yes. But not in Cebu.

It was sheer bad luck, I suppose. It was 2 in the morning and I just got back to my hotel room from a night in a comedy bar, which wasn’t too bad, considering that the comedian in a dress spoke Cebuano althrough out and I still found myself laughing my guts off. It's a macho, Pinoy guy thing I guess, that loud homosexuals are funny by default (of course, it's just me), no matter what they're saying or doing.

Anyhow, I had a couple of beers with my Cebuana friend Rory and two of her friends, Rissa and Helen (not their real names… but who cares, anyways?). While Rory, being an old friend kept checking if I was OK, and Rissa, being beside me and while not being at all boring kept orienting me with interesting facts about Cebu, it was Helen who caught my eye. No, both of them. Caught them so good, they hurt.

I should be listing her qualities now. How she looks like. How smooth her skin is. How wonderful she smelled like. How she made me feel welcome with her smile. How her quirks made her more perfect than she actually was. How her body flows like the slow meander of the deepest river. All that shit. It's the next logical thing, after I practically introed her as a potential bembang.com girl.

You see, girls like that are what make me what I am. They're the type that makes artists. The type that starts wars. The type that makes men boys. The type that reverses the status quo in sexual domination.

In my case, the type that makes me get whores instead. And that's exactly what I did.

Like moments spur, the moment I got my feet out of my shoes I put them in again, headed straight for the elevator, and squinted my eyes in a predatory pursuit. Luckily for me I didn’t need to be, as the little Cebuanas for rent proved to be more predatory. I swiftly picked my candy and pulled her up the tenth floor.

I impatiently waited for her to finish setting-up: getting naked, showering, all that shit. When she finished I laid down on my back and let her get on top of me. She was having a bit of trouble, uh, getting it in, I turned her over and decided to play with her a little bit.

So I went over her sixty-nine and spread her legs, to get her beaver in full view, and suddenly the fish market opened early.

No, worse. It was so bad that only decency kept me from throwing her out. Decency and hormones. Yes, it's possible.

I had to come. I had to come.

And I had to do it with minimal air movement. I laid her on her chest, with me on top of her, my chest flat on her back. Luckily, I'm endowed enough to enjoy that. She was quite cooperative to actually derive pleasure from business. I came fantastically.

I brushed aside decency and called it propriety. In other words, I didn’t tip her. Not a cent. Not even if she's charming me to the last minute. Not with her two-day old sashimi.

Later that night, I taught my little Pedrito what "hygene" means.

The next day, I got up early before my clock went off, washed up and went down for breakfast. Pretty ordinary day, I thought. Gloomier than yesterday, but pretty ordinary. A group of rather noisy Korean guests had just arrived, and they're a bit ruining my breakfast.

So I grab a newspaper from the front desk and went back to my room. While in the elevator, my heart skipped a moment and I thought, "Helen".

Truth be told, I couldn’t stop thinking about her the entire day.

Disturbing, I thought, and although I have had experiences like this one, it never ceases to amaze me how jacking off can make you feel so in love with a person. How suddenly, once you let off your juice makes you like a person as purely as you can. How suddenly, you’re in love.

At this stage, you don’t think about pussy. Oh, no. You don’t think about getting laid. You actually despise pussy for a while (especially after a bad one). You think about being with her. Being there for her. Comforting her. Setting her at ease. Curing her grief. Taking care of her. You know… family, children, your future…all that shit.

But, hey, since I’m a guy, so I just jack this thing off. So I lay on my back and bring Helen down from her pedestal in my mind to the flesh arena. God she’s good when she’s on top.

It’s nice being a guy. Things can be so... uncomplicated.

Hello blog,

2004-04-05T23:05:00.000+08:00

My first post. Hello blog. Might as well say "Dear Diary."

I'll be posting more or less, um, things. More of me can be found in the magazine section of www.bembang.com, if you care to check it out. As of this time, there are only about two of me there. Most of it is in English (say, Ingles) as this blog would probably be, too.

Well, hey maybe as an intro I'd post my bembang stuff here.

Laters.

Archives (post number zero)

2004-04-04T13:13:00.000+08:00

2005

November 2005
I loved Jim Lee
Time Capsule

October 2005
Screenplay in the works (Or, I'd like to think that it is)
Heave a Fart

September 2005
Gigs
Developmental

July 2005
The Haneps @ Frances Bar
I am Iñigo

June 2005
The Haneps @ Ardz Katipunan
Passing Time

May 2005
Talkin' 'Bout my Geeeeeeeneratiaaahn

April 2005
Mr. Mojo

March 2005
Zeitgeist
Boner
Fuck You
Fucked Up @ Brannigan's
Gig @ Brannigan's Timog
Taken for granted (Part 2)

February 2005
Taken for granted (Part 1)
Happy Valentines
Rush
Gong Hei Fat Boy Slim
1/1/2001... You are evil you

January 2005
To blog, or not to blog

2004

December 2004
Haneps
Rufino Funk Gig

November 2004
The difference between men and boys
Today
Hanep
High Joy
Peligro
Toys

October 2004
Uno
Bayabas
Yawn

September 2004
The color bluish-warm

August 2004
A Conclusion to Peachy
A Quarter Life
Rufino Funk Site Update
Rufino Funk @ Mayric's

July 2004
Here, But Not Really
8/13/2000 alone in the dark
Money, Music, and Miscellany
Medjazz
Lost in Translation
'Funk Site
Rufino Funk

June 2004
You are unreal
Block
Einstein
12/10/2000... Ennui
12/8/2000... This humble retreat's my form of advancement
12/10/2000... another day of looking at
Ad
Benevolence (or, Steam Let Off In The Midst Of Meaningful Stationary Electronically-Inscribed Symbolic Visual Sensory Input)

May 2004
Peachy
Ambiguously
I am 23

April 2004
Finally
Patrick Martires
Bembang
The One That Got Away
A Week in the Fucking Business
Sex and the Busy Loner
Left
Love and Pussy
Hello blog,