Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Dashboard Conventional

Homecoming is sugared melancholy. You negotiate the windswept streets drained of commuters, strangers and faces without proper names. Epiphanies dawn upon you like obscure comprehensions suddenly unfastened: It is how it feels to be orphaned. No one and nothing is there but skins of pavements to bear witness to your hovering thoughts, or the degree of silence that amplifies the rising and falling of your breath. A certain ache nestles deep inside you as you resume your departure from necessities, obligations and wants.

Your heartbeat subsides into steady inflections; pacifying your inner storms, leading you into wakeful awareness of your sunken poverties and your only momentary abundance, rain.

The translucent dashboard sifts beads of light flickering from hushed lampposts and distant windows. Their glimmers race after you like reluctant waves of goodbye.

You commence on pondering the perplexing necessity of downpours or the vacillating weights of indecision clashing at the margins of your descending exhaustion.

Maybe I should call him.
No way, I called him the last time;
I shouldn’t be giving in this time.

But you miss him.
So? Let him suppose I am fatigued from constant regards,
now immune to his preciousness.

How about a text message? A SMS should be harmless.
It’s past one in the morning, you inconsiderate,
needful dunce. Need you importune him of one goofy message? Go ahead; unhinge him from the soundness of sleep.

Right. I do miss him.
I know. *Nod* Me too.

A sentimental song floats from the stereo. You want to reach out and switch into something cynical but the alphabets creep into your faculties like flimsy fingertips gliding down your spine. It is maudlin, because it is true. In a darkened room somewhere another soul is listening to the same sappy song and cries himself to sleep; or another tender wound soothed by the compassionate comfort coating the saccharine melodies and tender lyrics spinning oaths of possibility at another dance.

Rain hasn’t diminished. For the first time you strain to hear their muffled songs.

Their chorus is conventional. Honest, simplistic, saccharine and true.

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Monday, May 28, 2007

Valley Of The Dulls

Roughly four weeks ago I discovered dullness. Or, rather, dullness discovered me, relocating into my cerebral cortex like a cheerful parasite. Immediately dullness did a jovial simulation of Invasion Of The Body Snatchers and began creeping into every deed and occupation: work, meals, reading, listening, even sex.

Dullness is devious, underhanded, sly.

It didn’t prompt nor announced its advent (“Dullness is arriving!”). There was no buzzing at the door (“Oh, hello, Dullness checking in!”). It practically discarded all manners and courtesies (“Sorry for the invasion but I got sick of Poland!”).

Soon after I’m reduced into something less human: I’m legitimately transformed into Dullness’ thrall. My eyes were beady. My movements got out of synch. People began to appear identical. Everything looked beige. Scampi pasta; beige. Deadlines; beige. Online porn; beige. Brushing teeth; beige. Movies; beige. Jägermeister shots; beige. Insane jokes; beige. Fornication; beige.

Sometimes the call of obligation and a pinch of guilt squeal at the back of my head (“Finish your work! You have so much to do! Be Productive! You can’t rot on company time!”). Dullness, having rendered all locomotive synapses invalid chirps otherwise (“Read that forgotten stack of magazines and abandon them mid-paragraph! The linens sure look comfy, don’t you think? Work is another word for exploitation; you deserve an imaginary sick leave.”)

Keeping my end of the conversation is a struggle; listening to Wagner’s Tristan & Isolde is way too involving, therefore deserted. A mound of half-read fictions began having illicit affairs with dusts. Blogging, a spontaneous pastime became benign.

Struggle is pointless. Why fight it? What for? Apocalypse is at hand anyway, if we are to believe polyester-garbed televised evangelists. What award would I obtain if I outpace dullness? Where is my fucking prize for having to put up with this shit?

Then it hit me. One unassuming morning I woke up ecstatic. No discernable reason. I just am.

Dullness left in a hustle in the dead of the night to occupy The Philippines' Next Top Model show. Then it can replicate itself upon the masses.

Dullness is devious, underhanded, sly. Yet clever and just.

~ ~ ~
Hilarious offline YM missive: [name removed upon request]: i was smiling to myself as i read your blog today. the answer to your question about why koreans have such disregard for silence: they're used to shouting at each other from across the demilitarized zone. and i share your sentiment with kids. i love my own pamangkins and some cute behaved kids but i wish for the day that i grow old and have geriatric license to glare and shout at boisterous kids (and oldies who are noisy in church or at concerts)

That shouting at each other from across the demilitarized zone had me cracking up like a maniac! I now bow to your sparkling insight and elevated wisdom! Hahaha!

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Sunday, May 27, 2007

Moans, Pools & Caterpillars

Unruffled by Saturday night road congestions and the foul weekend weather we braved the grueling elements and made it to the Fort in roughly one piece. I didn’t author this insanity. It was the brilliant idea of Euclid [name changed to protect the guilty] who wanted to support a DJ friend spinning for the night’s Looper Sessions—some last-breath-of-summer dance and pool party at the posh One McKinley Tower.

Then the slut of a universe, being one irresponsible spoilsport, hemorrhaged a drizzle to discourage the whole bacchanalia. Not to be dispirited, people still convened to the thumping grind of house, techno and smooth grooves, marinated by bubbly and beer.

We arrived right in time when the party is just peaking. Drenched in smattering downpour, unmindful gorgeous Caucasians, stunning Latin Americans, cute local brats and assorted cool cats dance, slither and writhe like spineless caterpillars on hormone overdrive. Some lounge around drinking inexpensive champagne out of plastic cups. Others crowd the taco and hotdog stand within reach.

Everyone seems to be furtively checking each other out, plotting permutations of possible hook up stratagems to ensure a weekend isn’t wasted. Not to be outdone, we participated in this sly game. You'd have to invoke vast supply of fortitude to feign non-stimulation when everywhere you turn you are confronted with washboard abs, meticulously toned physiques, crotches gifted with winking bulges, bubble butts threatening to leap out of spandex, cleavages so deep you’d call to mind the Suez Canal. It’s practically an orgasmic grocery. A few couples make out in the pool openly and no one blinked when an attractive bombshell accidentally unhooked her bikini top and created quite a stir.

Though the party is civilized, you can practically inhale hormones soaking the air. It’s as if The Playboy Mansion has gone coed and relocated to Cancun.

Letting our baser instincts go unleashed we launched into manic people-watching. It's an embarrassing diversion to admit but a basic human being can't stare at buxom breasts and think at the same time.

“Four o’clock,” a breathy, panting bud alerted me on a hottie, “total dynamite!”

I stealthily turn sideways and check out the object of lust aided by bionic strength of my peripheral vision. He’s right: I am witness to knockers so proud and nipples so firm they seem to be smugly beckoning the sky.

“Eight o’clock,” a strained urbane gasp leaked out one of the girls in our group.

She's eyeing an edible number indeed.

“Isn’t that George Michael?” I chuckled.

A few paces away a George Michael deadringer wade the pool in skin-clinging board shorts.

“Oh lord,” a smart aleck rolled her eyeballs. “Don’t let him burst into Freedom 90!”

We laughed, drained our cups of bubbly, cast one final lustful glance toward the crowd and split — our breaths labored, our excitable imaginations exploding like New Year fireworks in Beijing.

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Friday, May 25, 2007

Water Soluble Dreams

(for e.e.)
Oftentimes I drift into fogs of unbeckoned remembrance and liquefy like a glacier terminating it’s unhurried pace. I daydream I am more like water, never casualty to the scar of extinction, merely shifting endlessly in a redundant cycle of disappearances and rebirths. I daydream I am more like water, eternal, running through veins, descending to heal cracks of loam, or climbing up to the uppermost limb of a proud tree.

I daydream I am more like water, swelling into oceans and hurling into rocks to announce my fury. Or sit still like a mild-mannered lagoon, placid, eager to buoy untroubled bathers during pregnancies of summertime.

I daydream I am more like water, carrying with me the secrets of spaces I’ve traveled. Or to awaken in a foreign hammock complete with the breathless uncertainty of untold grievances lurking in the foyer, or the possibility of fertile encounters in the unlikely shambles of a wasteland.

I daydream I am more like a handful water, purely to justify my not honoring your affection, ceaselessly dodging your gentle grasp with suitable causes and apologies.

Seasons might shift and I’ll wake up to the forlorn reality that forever is a solitary attic where I sit by the fire skimming yesterday’s papers with my sleeves rolled, unblemished of hungered trivial conversations that will warm entire winters. I would slide the blinds and greet daybreaks with quiet, stubborn, regrets. I would think of you and your tender admonitions to unhinge myself from the stable oppressions of a stimulating profession, when you know full well being fool that I am, I would smile softly, tousle your hair, and retrace my steps into the stipulations of a merciless job.

On certain nights I’d clamber out of interrupted sleep and coast towards the windows for your beloved ghost. I would wave to your departing smile with ache, compunction and guilt as I quietly see you vanishing past the shorelines as architectures, bright lights and memories blur behind you under the spell of midnight.

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Thursday, May 24, 2007

Laureate of Lewd

“Fact is, you’re an asshole.” My agreeable vegan friend states with unshakable certainty in between mouthful of croutons. “You should write a book about being one. It won’t be a bestseller.”

Bah! Negative Nelly!

My eyes instantly glaze as my entire faculty whoosh past our lunch table into delusions of grandeur: Uncountable royalties! Fame! Fortune! Celebrity! Entire issue of The New York Review of Books enshrining me as the next Gore Vidal! Adoring fans and, ideally, gorgeous-beyond-belief-but-übersmart-superiorly-literate groupies! The Nobel and Pulitzer and the Booker juries and luminaries pestering me with predictable congratulatory late night calls! Sold-out-months-in-advance-standing-room-only reading engagement at Carnegie Hall! Book signing ruckus surpassing the Backstreetboys heyday melee in Madison Square Garden! The entire banana!

“Oh, I forgot.” She dryly adds. “You have the grammatical facility of a stillborn.”

Deflated. Not just my ego but my tumescent arousal.

Women. They get you all worked up, then kick you in the nuts. Attabunch of tease.

That got me into thinking. Considering my glaring impairment on grammar and all this trivial inconvenience about writing with clarity and technical facility and shit. Who gives a toss, right? On a textese generation? Come on! Besides I happen to be partial to the chaos technique, double entendre, vagueness, and the whole convoluted salad.

Yet the discouraging reality shall not dampen my enthusiasm. To hell with Penguin, Vintage, Picador, Knopf and Random House editorial and grammar freaks!

All you grammar Nazis, back off! This is my prime! My apotheosismic moment!

Except for one minor nuisance: since I would be beyond the assailance of jealous book editors, my opus will probably not see the Light of Elendil in traditional book publishing. Out of spite and blinding envy, they'd do everything in their moment of power to prevent my genius from reaching its rabidly starved audience. Not to worry as I have deviced a foolproof plan: I will harness the instant access-instant celebrity potential of the web! Yes! Blogging!

And since this being my blog, I shall not kowtow nor become prey to editorial intrusions!

I look forward to the platinum Blogger Of The Century plaque to double serve as my doorstop.

Excuse me while, I compose myself and begin composing my, ahem, monumental masterpiece. I’m all set for glory!

Bow before thy Emperrrraahhhh!

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Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Pansy Pill & Other Psychosis

Huge chunk of my afternoon got spent on ultraproductive, highly-beneficial endeavors, no wait, who am I kidding? I was procrastinating like a sedated skunk.
The PANSY PILL. Working along the warped idea of a “happy pill”
with some pansy overtones this came out of my idea chute.

That’s when it hit me. Why not create some jpeg posters for this blog? And I did, furiously. A lazy spin-off of the previous Wry Martini idea, maybe I should shove the idea further in a crazy purpose of loading this blog with more insane attempts at shameless self-promotion.

This is not fantasy advertising, as there is no coherent or logical strategy behind these random doodlings. I shall however discuss each design briefly and send exorbitant creative work billings to one of my multiple personalities. Hey, it’s a democracy. If foul account directors get away with plying clients with stratospheric rates for hackneyed creatives, what is so immoral about doing it upon one’s self?

Evidently I need my screws checked.

The SKEWERED MADNESS . A derivative, along the line of
“served daily” and “daily fix”.

The STROKE IT MERRILY Swoosh. Stroke the brush
till the rainbow comes out.
Hideously offensive concept.

The MISSING CARCASS. A tad boring
adaptation of the earlier post.

Hopefully someone steals these jpegs and—if luck would have it—spam them to everyone on their address book then my visitor counter would finally get rescued from miserable anemia.

Only then I can have fame! Fortune! Friends!

Delusion is a great motivator.

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Wry Martini

Boy scouts honor their pledges and in the spirit of allegiance I'd take similar stride, regardless of the horrific consequences.

Someone left me an offline message but emphatically specified that I leave out his name/handle (a mistake I made in my previous posting). His chief curiosity circles around the depths of my wobbly confidence:

“Not to be shallow,” he states. “But it would be nice if you could post your picture on your blog. I’m sure it’s very doable (insert smiley emoticon here). I’ll meet you halfway by emailing my own picture. (insert three smiley emoticons here)”

Wow. Big incentive!

“Ok,” I fired back. “I’ll meet you halfway.”

Half of my face is posted above.

Your turn.

~ ~ ~

In reality the picture request kind of served a good purpose. I have developed some sort of instant jpeg poster to further my shameless self-promotion initiative. Not only will the cyberworld recoil from my gruesome features, it will hopefully reel in people to this blog.

A double dose of horror, to be blunt about it.

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Immediately following the rank of loud Koreans, pesky kids never fail to bring out my inner Hannibal Lecter.

Let me clarify early on this tirade that I’m neither a xenophobe, nor a bigot or a racist but I happen to live in a building partially colonized by a few infuriating Koreans. Anyone who has the same misfortune would double over in sympathetic nods when I say some, not all, of our Kim Jong II brothers would effortlessly trigger human extinction just by having a conversation inside the elevator. At minimum splintered eardrums is to be estimated. They rush in the lift and in two seconds flat launch into a screaming competition in decibels equivalent to a nuclear warhead detonation. The thing is they are three millimeters apart from each other and given the compact density of an elevator carriage their yelling conversations would ricochet like shrill Frisbees made of industrial grade Gillettes.

But Koreans are not my main beef today. It’s kids.

I love kids. And brush off those smug pedophiliac and pederastic thoughts off your polluted mind. I love kids because they are cute bundles of plutonium pellets waiting to explode. I have four nieces and three nephews and I spoil them to bits. Their respective parents would yell their pleura out when reprimanding them and they would cheerfully ignore parental guidance. I’d glance at them and they stand still. Else a payday quota of a gallon of cookies and cream flavored ice cream would be forfeited.

Kids, despite their adorable nature are small rotten meanies. I am not talking Dennis The Menace or Calvin (Calvin & Hobbes) here. I mean real life miniature brats inhabiting our building. At least one half of them are bonafide infanticide bait.

They scream in elevators, press ALL the buttons rendering the lift practically at standstill when it stops on EVERY floor.

They kick your shins and spit on your newly dry-cleaned suit.

They form inter-floor Olympic tournaments and shriek their lungs out while doing mad relay in hallways and stairwells on a Saturday morning when all you want is to pass out under the sheets.

They aspire to be the next Pollock, Giotto, Rubens, Rothko, Frankenthaler and Miro by making your door their canvass using crayons, keys or bottle caps.

I was describing this litany of irritation to a friend over lunch sometime ago when a two year old brat began shrieking and rolling on the restaurant floor. The parents look at each other accusingly, assigning blame and probably now thinking about the virtues of using condoms. The nanny tries to pry the screeching and flailing tyke off the floor to no avail.

We happen to be dining next to the whole ruckus.

I look at my friend and he shakes his head.

“Over here!” I said to the kid, pointing at a dusty spot next to us. “The vacuum missed the spot here! And There! Roll over there! Keep it clean!”

The kid stopped, stood up and sheepishly hid behind the relieved mom.

“You are wicked.” My friend laughed.

“Or an effective toddler psychologist.” I retorted.

It’s a relief that I am not. I’d probably raise a generation of fucked up kids.

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Sunday, May 20, 2007

The Lazarus Chronicles: Collected Failed Excursions Of A Resurrected Nocturnal Fly

Friends thought I had a date with mortality and descended to the pits, didn’t like the scene, and rushed back to familiar haunts like a deranged bat out of hell.

This assumption was fuelled by my non-presence in various gimmicks of late. It’s largely because the past few weeks have been a series of blah non-events and I was not in the mood to importune folks I care about with monotonous monologues concerning frustrations over work, rotting projects, personal ennui and the inexplicable injury on the fun department. Even this blog saw dismal updates, which, at one point, was on the brink of extinction. Things, blogs and people bored me, and it didn’t help that I was stubbornly moping over a terribly missed truant.

Eventually I snapped out of the self-absorbed languish and stormed various hang outs with no encouraging results.

We went to Piedra at The Fort, gargled on copious tanks of Vodka, sparkling white wine and beer. The crowd was inadequate considering it was a launch of a signpost fashionable event.

I’ll skip on Il Ponticello or Embassy and narrate on the annoying Friday night launch of the new “it” bar Alchemy a few blocks down Julia Vargas Avenue. Our motley squad was on the VIP list so we were smugly confident we can just waltz in anytime. So before going to Alchemy we went to a nerve-grating gig of Christian Bautista at Music Museum. Listen, I am as shocked as you are. Listening to Christian Bautista shrieking forced falsettos on a Friday night is not high on my masochistic priorities. It’s because it was something to do with WorldVision wherein underprivileged kids are sponsored by people to have decent education. And a friend was so into it. You can’t fault such a noble quest. Enduring a nasal screech of Josh Groban-revived Secret Garden-original version of You Raise Me Up is entirely another thing. Bless Christian Bautista for his generous soul, but it is complicated being benevolent when your eardrums are shredded into sofa stuffing.

We arrived at Alchemy before the voluminous crowds trickled in but the one manning the steering wheel refused to park by the roadside so we circled Valle Verde at least eight times in hope of a spot in one of the parking lots. Three fifths of the car passengers have murder on their eyes.

In the end we parked by the roadside. A good block away from Tiendisitas and had to walk back to Alchemy which is now mobbed by streams of overeager partyphiles. Here’s the clincher: even if we are supposed to be on the coveted invited list, by the time we showed up, no one is allowed inside anymore because the entire third level is bursting to the seams and admitting one more reveller would send the whole edifice into ground zero.

While other VIPs openly bitched and whined and grumbled we split.

We had a driver whose body we had to dispose of.

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A Well Of Orange Colored Sky

Floating up from momentary daze Claud shifts his head towards the window. Instantaneously he is confounded, besieged by an exceedingly effervescent orange sky. He hasn’t beheld, nor has he been somewhat acquainted with the breed of saturation or caliber of orange unfolding before his eyes. He concisely scans disarrayed drawers of recent memory for a stray flicker of recognition but his awe overwhelms him more to actually glue a finger on a particular remembrance he can associate with such blazing splendor.

He dares not to move, else the magic sputter out like tendrils of unpunctuated dream you cannot remember waking up. He is intoxicated, smashed with the glorious summer vista. In this delicious, enraptured state a certain sadness stirs in him. As if the tangerine sunset inaudibly awakens and creeps up on him like platoons of fire ants climbing his spine on frozen boots.

A faint shiver rouses him to sundry realities of stacked memos, briefings, and summarized statistics populating his desk while an obscenely priced monitor glints at him like a glacial menace, a reminder of how far he ascended from the mail room to a corner office. A dim smile hesitates at the corner unsure to inhabit his lips but like premature uncertainties quickly retreated into the sweet melancholia welling in his chest.

Summer births unprovoked sadness. It is not because of Claud’s incapacity to drink in its pleasures by intentionally favoring to fasten himself deep in burdens and obligations of a staunchly rising career, but because summer is a wistful reminder of sweet departures and unfulfilled desires of pledged reunions.

Deserting an oath is not where most of the hurt nestle itself. Claud figures this out like an idle epiphany choosing not to reveal its face prematurely. It’s the pleasures of little moments that are a testing struggle to get over with. Oreo smeared kisses. A soft, teasing nibble on a neck. Mornings embellished with familiar scents of home-tossed pancakes and caffeine wafting from diminutive kitchen.

Claud conceives of a possibility, a doubt, if there is human currency enough to wipe away the domestic nostalgia of folding laundered linen together over glutinous conversations concerning how pleasant it would be to book a one-way trip into the labyrinths of a Nepalese jungle together and not look back. Or how much wealth and ambition could compensate —or justify —discarding the gentleness of a cozy body drowsily shifting in a snug sleep and huddle closer to share mutual warmth on a rainy Tuesday?

These among other thoughts quiver in Claud’s head as he retrieves his gaze from the panorama melting into a hushed nightfall. He’ll take out Chinese tonight, he resolves.

Not before he allows himself a luxury of one more glance towards the thawing twilight, tidy up his desk and, importantly, his memory. He’ll shake off itinerant commemorative twines from summers ago before he descends into the cavernous lobby.

Then he would melt into crowds drifting under the roof of a perfectly calm summer evening.

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Monday, May 14, 2007

Vile Buddies

After extended bouts of chronic procrastination I finally dragged my slothful buns towards the neighborhood mall to watch Spiderman 3 and from hereon shall wage a rabid campaign to have Sam Raimi immortalized through commemorative postage stamps as the living poster boy of wince-inducing morality.

Spiderman 3 is your three-hour celluloid equivalent of high-octane toothache. The fight scenes are dazzling, the screenplay trifling, and the unavoidable add on is you get lectured on ethics and the inviolate principles of humanity’s preference for sleek, mega-action dreck.

I love Spiderman 3 because you not only get assaulted with kickass effects and high-gloss art direction, but it also essays an interesting theory: that reality and Hollywood are INDEED two entirely mutually alien concepts. Hollywood still persists on an archaic school of thought that goodness kicks evil’s butt. Call center agents will convulse hysterically with laughter on the same idea.

As a franchise, we follow the saga of Peter Parker, his dreamy girlfriend, MJ, his recently-evil-minted best pal, Harry, his eternal hang up on his uncle’s death and three new villains from the Geek’s High-Camp.

With the exception of a secluded Nepalese sub-tribe it’s safe to assume everyone in a civilized postmodern locale has seen the movie so it spares me the task of summarizing the plot. This is a relief because there is not much to summarize, anyway. Why let a story crimp the public’s appetite for prodigious junkfest action sequences? Stories are for Sundance, not your summer weekend blockbuster bet.

On this third installment we meet villains who aren’t Martha Stewart, George Bush and Britney Spears' vagina. Let’s begin with the most familiar: Harry aka the second generation Green Goblin heir. He is debonair, gifted, privileged, an ace airborne surfer, and possesed of the most compelling power: a disarming smile. Aside from being a genius with omelets, he can spontaneously erupt into gyrating moves of The Twist without looking like Ricky Martin on a Miami White Party or The Chelsea Pride Night. If THAT is evil, I certainly want some.

His being gripped with impassioned, malevolent vengeance and final slide to abomination is succinctly manifested in one raised eyebrow. The more wicked he becomes the more he glows, like as if malice and ill will is a prime component of a special Spa and facial package rolled into one. Harry is hell-bent to avenge his dead father and when he emerges from the mutation chamber in nothing but clingy underwear the two gay folks behind me squealed like hyenas on mating call. I stared at the edible spectacle and almost yelled, “Now THAT’S a terrible thing to waste!”

Sandman, on the other hand strikes me not as a man who is conflicted between need and evil but as Arnold Swarzenneger on the state of total incomprehension on how to run California. He is revealed to be the actual felon who shot Peter’s uncle. “I am not a bad person,” he protests, “Only a man who got bad luck!” or something to that effect. I totally sympathize with him. He’s like Erap Estrada on reverse. While eluding authorities he accidentally fell on an atomic testing site which altered his molecular configuration into sand particles. This is very exciting because aside from the fact that similar concept was already seen in The Mummy, the idea of recreating the Sahara in the middle of Manhattan is something novel. Especially if the Sahara in question can single-handedly pound five skyscrapers into Ground Zero in less than three seconds flat.

To show that Sandman is not entirely evil, he is portrayed as a loving father whose very sick daughter drove him to petty felony which escalated into unplanned murder and now, mass terrorism. And to show that he’s not getting any better in the luck department, he is cruelly made to wear drab khakis and a permanent muscle shirt in moss green stripes by the wardrobe department. So it’s totally understandable that his rage goes out of hand.

Then there is the Symbiote, an alien, murky blob, which eventually became a full-pledge villain. This foreign life form clings upon a host and triggers the host to breakpoint or berserk behavior, a concept not far from Kevin Federline living it off Britney Spears, which in due course resulted in a hostile Vagina-flashing, effectively terrorizing clerics and prudes everywhere.

Adhering itself into Peter Parker, the thing slowly corrupts our Hero into fiery fits of violence. We know he is crossing over the dark side and becoming depraved and evil because he not only got subtle highlights, he dons on fringed bangs. His total corruption ripened when he strolled all over Madison Avenue like he’s working on the grand chorus in The Golden Nugget or Hairspray if the choreography was directed by whoever dreamed the steps in a P. Diddy music video.

The blob ultimately grew up into Venom, played by ambitious Topher Grace, which screeches into a high-pitch irritant voice, much like Regine Velasquez who is having clitoral crises. "I LOVE BEING MAD!" he scowls, which made me think how come Borgy Manotoc didn't snag this role?

These villains, although well-versed in evilmongering and violent action sequences had me thinking. Why can’t there be an honest villain. I mean, NOT honest to goodness, but honest as in their power lies in valid, unfeigned terror most people can really get terrified of.

Why can’t there be something like The Memorist whose perverse capability lies in flashing baby pictures and all existing snapshots taken during the height of 80s fashion? (The teased hair! The acid washed Jeans! The high-cut shoes!)

Why can’t there be a Guilt Man, a potent combination of a Jewish Spinster Aunt, A Fundamentalist Born Again Christian, A televised evangelist, Your Mother and a Mormon who will screech unpunctuated litanies on your sinful history and the impending destiny that you are beyond salvation? Then brings out a really huge bag for donations/love offerings?

Why can’t there be SonicMan/Banshee gifted with the inflamed larynx of April Boy Regino, Aegis, Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Imelda Papin and Manoling Morato with a very bad lisp?

Why can’t there be a Flashlight Man/The Magnifier who can highlight anyone’s most unpleasant overgrowths, cellulite deposits, or worse, underdeveloped, unprepossessing features, anatomical deficiencies, and project them for public viewing? This will surely prompt Piolo Pascual into commissioning X-Ray resistant briefs?

In the same vein I think that superheroes are a fantastic mass delusion. But if you ask my illiterate opinion, the only truthful superhero is what I’d call The Tastemen. It’s a colorful quintet, a merry cabal of sophisticates who will fling on pastel cashmeres around their necks, storm into people’s homes and chorus: “We have come to rescue you from that hideous lamp, oversized wooden spoon and fork AND those Middle East rugs featuring bulldogs playing billiards and poker!”

No, wait! Isn’t that the cast of Queer Eye?

Who cares. They would be naturals in spandex.

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Monday, May 7, 2007

The Wedding Planner From Hell

Circe [name fictionalized to protect the guilty] is getting married, meaning, she’s now on the margin of insanity.

Her psychosis is getting malignant everyday as she frantically obsesses over the most minuscule, seemingly insignificant details on her wedding preparations. Her eyes have dark circles from losing sleep, giving us impressions of what a deranged panda would look like. She chain-smokes to rival the locomotive exhausts of primitive diesel-fuelled buses scampering along EDSA. A slightest crimp on her plans would send her detonating like a nuclear warhead doused in butane and progesterone. No one dares approach her. Even her fiancée. She’d educate you to the meaning of the word fear.

In the interest and welfare of mankind, there should be a resolution proclaiming weddings as public hazard.

~ ~ ~

Circe’s madness had me thinking of JLo’s abysmal movie The Wedding Planner and in a blinding flash of lunacy, greed and delusion, I realized I can be a wedding planner! Yes, gentle blog reader! If JLo can last two hours of acting in a movie without a slight change in facial expression, hey, I can get creative and exploit the impressionable madness of brides everywhere!

Oh no, you groan, rolling your eyeballs. Not again.

Listen. Having endured many hideous weddings in my distorted clan, not to mention the boring-beyond-belief unions of friends, friends of friends, pesky neighbours, classmates and having been involuntarily subjected to televised mass weddings I hereby declare myself qualified for the job!

Fasten your sanity. This is going to be a warped ride.

~ ~ ~

Common knowledge has it that a wedding is not just a public display of lunacy. It is a grand opportunity to show off to everyone, especially to those deliberately neglected to be invited, that you are better off than everyone else. For those unfortunate to sit through approximately ten million hours of laughable vows and dreadful bridesmaid gowns, it is the marrying couple’s way of inflicting the guest with subtle display of superiority. That they are more successful, more cultured, more sophisticated, more tasteful, and certainly extremely disturbed.

So how would I plan (specifically YOU do) an ultimate wedding?

Read on and cash on in your trust funds as I reveal the supreme wedding that shall make everyone shrivel with inferiority.

  • Announce your impending wedding by NOT sending those dreary generic embossed invitations. Commission obscure monks from the outskirt monasteries of Tibet to do delicate hand calligraphy. Then have them gilded by hand by reclusive artisans from the last generation of Japan’s imperial manuscript letterers. Spray the invites with a customized fragrance specifically formulated by little known apothecaries milked from the rarest exotic roots and oriental spices. These precious invitations SHOULD be hand-carried by adolescent butlers from the royal Siam ascendancy preferably atop an ermine and suede clothed elephant.
  • Ignore the suggestions of incompetent wedding planners to fill your Bridal Registry with insipid presents. Who the hell care about 500 thread-count sheets and coordinated toiletries, or worse, a pitiful punch bowl. Show your imagination. Stipulate a Faberge coronation egg, a 300-foot Yatch furnished by Armani Casa and Fritz Hansen furniture, a custom-painted Bugatti Veyron in pearl sheen, or private islet off-coast of Amalfi. There is a huge probability that your guests will have no clue as to where to obtain these gifts, granted they’d not plunge to unthinkable poverty if they chose to get one. This is where you showcase your utter graciousness and thank your hated sister in law magnanimously when she hands over her paltry wedding album and measly picture frame combo.
  • Insist that the wedding be cancelled if your fiancée suggests you wear Vera Wang. Please. Vera is SO de rigueur! Vera is for aspirational plebeians, or for your lesser best friends. Assemble an intimidating team of clothiers; embroiderers NOT from Lesage, because everyone from Chanel to Valentino use them. Trace the last surviving progeny embroiderers from the grand court of China’s last century’s dynasties. Have the finest Italian textician collaborate with a Moroccan regal seamstress with insights from the Thai palace weavers to produce a fabric so fluid and luminous you’d appear like a floating dream.
  • Anticipate bad weather on your wedding day. Meteorologists and weather forecasters are wankers with shaky reputation. As such contract Rem Koolhas, Tadao Ando AND Frank Gehry to build a retro-futuristic tropical biodome complete with orchids and exotic flora smuggled from preserved and restricted endangered zones of Borneo, Malawi and Micronesia. Then have a man-made pond inside the dome filled with the most expensive red-spotted carps from Japan gliding underneath a glass platform which will serve as the bride’s entourage runway. Then instruct Yves Behar, Marcel Wanders and Ron Arad to dream up a centerpiece chandelier made from combined stones of DeBeers, Swarovski, and heirloom pieces from Turkish and Sierra Leone monarchs.
  • Disregard your phlegmatic parish priest and have the Papal envoy to St. Petersburg preside over the ceremonies.
  • Never hire an hundred piece orchestra or a dorky band to play lame jiggety jig tunes. Instead assemble a supernova ensemble of musicians composed of an Armenian cello prodigy, a Scandinavian mezzo soprano, a quintet of Italian castratos, Ugo Farrel/Andreas Scholl (The world’s prime countertenors), Cecilia Bartoli, the Leipzig chamber musicians, select band members of Travis, Franz Ferdinand, U2, Smashing Pumpkins, Coldplay, Deathcab For Cutie, Interpol and the surviving members of Velvet Underground, The Rollingstones, The Beatles, The Clash and Silje Nergaard. Then specifically instruct them that the repertoire should include ONLY pieces by Berlioz, Rimsky Korsakov, Sibelius and Debussy.

Having achieved all these feats, frown and look displeased towards the end of the ceremony. Never look satisfied. Express regret profusely citing how disappointing the turn out of the event was. Even if the entire event is the most spectacular, most magical event in recent history to eclipse the Charles-Diana travesty. Sob uncontrollably. Wail your apologies and in between choked snivelling let out that your only dream is to create a humble wedding event for the pleasure of everyone present. With mascara streaking and make up melting run towards the bathroom refuse to talk to anyone. Let your guest wonder how a spectacular wedding should look like if YOU HAD it the way you imagined it.

Expect envious guests to hate you.

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Sunday, May 6, 2007

Blah Central

[name removed upon request] (5/4/2007 9:11:38 PM): I just read your story about being locked out and all the ruckus you made. I, too, have a temper which I'm slowly learning to manage. But before I learned to curb it, I would throw things around the house. I once threw a cheap water goblet at our fence hoping that that would appease me and send a signal to everybody that I was in a foul mood. Being the 'un-athlete' that I am, the glass went over the fence and onto the road out front. I was so lucky it didn't hit anything. Now doesn't that make you feel just a little less stupid and a bit better about yourself? :)
~ ~ ~

Recent fits of edginess can be mindlessly blamed on things that didn’t slide into projected proper places but little did I realize until I read that offline message that my impulses are going haywire. Routinely I’m a mild-mannered person. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Or potential dates. My vicious Stalinistic streaks are usually under control and rarely do I summon an inner asshole to surface unless things go out of hand or the situation calls for it.

Yet these past few days I’m as restless as a gerbil on hormone overload. The thing is my horemones are just fine, and sex isn't slacking either. My attention span nosedives in a split-second. I’m always sensing of something pleasant to transpire but not quite yet. Ideas ricochet in my head like manic Frisbees zipping in every direction. Yet none of them can peg me in one concrete space of interest. My emotional quotient is borderline drawn-out monotony and everywhere I look I see beige.

Beige is twice boring than brown, blander than grey. It’s a tenacious state of mind, like tedious fungal growth that refuses to go. Not unlike Tessie Aquino Oreta.

Eventually I’ll snap out of it. Meanwhile I wander aimlessly looking like a vapid thrall. Or an android clone of Paris Hilton on Valium overdose.

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Friday, May 4, 2007

Blocked Bloke Go Bonkers

Thursday had me on the brink of snapping berserk and start open firing in the crowded intersection of a nearby mall.

Three appointments got unceremoniously cancelled at the last minute prompting me to have steaming competition with the roasting summer heat. The idea of ditching work priorities and watch Spiderman 3 on a midday of a working week flickered briefly in my head. In the end I decided to careen home from the The Podium to catch up on my much needed nap. I have been suffering fucked up sleeping patterns again lately, which explains the updates on this blog done during irregular hours while the rest of the populace are having wet dreams.

Anticipating an enervating afternoon nap I head home whistling a happy tune in my head.

Then, of course, the irresponsible slut of a universe dropped its prank of the day.

I twisted the keys and pushed the door in.

A loud thud.

The inner door latch must have flicked back, conveniently locking me out.

Ok, here’s a little unpleasant detail about me: I have a lousy temper over things like this.

Have you seen Jerry Maguire? Yes the movie starring Tom Cruise.

Remember that shower scene where he goads Cuba Gooding to “Help me, help you! Help ME, help YOU!” and when Cuba laughed at this antic he began flipping out flinging his hands sideways, kicking the tiles yelling “Fine! Fine!”

That was exactly MY hallway scene. Only for more dramatic effect I was mightily booting the door and lobbing my laptop bag in every direction while letting out unpunctuated streams of really foul oaths.

Good thing no other building residents were around and the roving guards didn’t witness the flip out. I could have either been evicted or committed.

Eventually I got exhausted. Giving up, I slumped on the hallway floor and with my heart thumping an electric live version of all the bass lines in Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit called a locksmith from my cellphone who promptly sent someone over to unhinge the freaking door latch.

I thanked the utility guy, gave him money, slammed the door behind me and, imagining how I probably looked had this happened to be a Candid Camera show, laughed like a deranged maniac.

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Wednesday, May 2, 2007

Quixotic Quests

Admitted or denied we are all stitched to a universal yarn of common want.

We are redundantly seduced by dazzling physical exteriors, charming manners, covetous status, sexual prowess and the probability of bliss in the arms of someone who is plagued by the same illness we do: the chase of something superior than what we have now.

That’s why we flock en masse with raging devotion to our most ardent religion: fairytale, Hollywood, and the unattainable ideals articulated by Abercrombie & Fitch. They preach the convenient gospel; the probability of happiness within our grasp. So we steer clear of reality. Reality is a great spoiler in a cosmos populated with sought-after archetypes of driving towards sunset-soaked horizons, the happy ever afters, the gaunt-cheeked Titian-lipped poster boy in the centerfold of Calvin Klein’s underwear campaign. Our very hopefulness captured in glossy images, stirring us into epidemic daydreams and predictable discontent.

Our ache remains: finding someone who will nullify our carnal cravings. Someone who will extinguish our need for hopeless aspirations. Someone who will gently remind us who we are and in the process lead us back into the unseen beauty of our fractured, mortal selves.

Yet our tragedy is not because we want to have our hungers and fires smothered. Our misfortune lies in the fact that we quickly overlook authenticity because as humans we are cursed with embryonic gift for trivial pursuits.

We seek fondness in the cruelty of strange sandy beaches, crowded bars, aloof dance floors, failing to see love staring back at us in the simplicity of unlikely places. Love is the temperate adoring eyes we fail to take heed in a Laundromat. Tenderness is that gaze of a stranger in speeding trains. Affection is something we stumble upon and ignore in the maze of groceries and terminals.

So we revel, intoxicated in fairytales, Hollywood and underwear ads.

Love is just around the corner. It’s us who refuse to see.

This is our tragedy, our common yarn of perpetual want.

Our familiar blindness, our hedonistic sadness .

~ ~ ~

Thank you boyd and antigonic for leaving comments in my warped journal, relieving me of the lingering paranoia that despite numerical evidence in my site counter there are other people stumbling into this blog aside from a loyal friend who keep on hitting the refresh button on the browser to raise the hit count and make me feel better.

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