Harken back to ancient summers the sinuous tapering of your earlobe dwelled in the parallel edges of my teeth. There, amidst down and linens, I ached to say something but my awkward words sunk, eclipsed by froths of your weightless titters. Those words never floated since, wisely opting to colonize the obscure spaces of Never Been Said. I lacked of something clever to say; they were of no credence or consequence—nothing but jumbles of a cancelled declarative that have lost its peal: You made me grasp the exhilaration of Soumchi. Oh, the elation! Of writing the alphabets of your name! On a lake in a sink! To cup them into a pool in my hands and splash it upon my face! Pedalling downhill on a bike, muttering your name, my heartbeat racing with the wind!
Friday, August 31, 2007
Mozilla Firefox loads my blog all right but whenever I open it using Internet Explorer only partial content of my most entry shows up. My sidebars, blogroll and older entries fail to load too. Is IE possessed by Beelzebub in technoviral incarnation, or I fucked something up in the posting/coding ergo the inexplicable amputation of my entries.
I'd hate to think Boy Abunda read my most recent entry, sneezed a wicked hoodoo in my blog's direction and in what can only be hypothesized as potent synthesis of malice, telekinetic willpower, and horrid apemanship, succeeded to obliterate my blog into an embrassing journal castrato.
Someone, send me an antidote!
Posted by loudcloud at 1:20 AM
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Quite recently I had an insane banter with a cyberbuddy.
This smart-Alecky chatter have been quoted in my past entries under the stern condition that he shouldn’t be identified in my blog as the source of disparaging and snide remarks. Actually he didn’t mention anything disparaging or offensive but knowing the nature of this blog he might as well take extreme precautions.
Which boggles me: This particular cyberbuddy, an interior design professional, is well-brought-up, well-mannered, and very urbane so this incognito clause is beginning to hit my paranoia meter into an all-time high. Is it possible that instead of trading rug swatches he’s trafficking contraband?
During the course of our aimless repartee he exhumed one of my semi-forgotten mortifying memories. All at once it dug itself out from the graveyard of embarrassments and ricochet into my brain’s frontal lobe. And that involved the blasted television!
I have written about it in the past and in the interest of public curiosity I am recycling it here:
People look at me in equal parts disbelief, disgust and disdain when I say I don't watch television. This is very shocking, if not mildly disturbing bit of information and was very unsettling for a starstruck Pinoy Big Brother fan when I nonchalantly asked over lunch many moons ago, "Who IS Sam Milby?"
Silence. Glacial silence.
Someone coughed, another suppressed a giggle, and my best friend chuckled with the same glee and decibel Stalin did before he enslaved Europe. The star-obsessed gal, well, she thought I was a snooty, pretentious schmuck who leapt out of a petri dish in a lab experiment gone haywire.
This is baffling for some people, that someone presumably evolved as I am is immune to the influence the television. Growing up I was imposed with a daily regimen of reading at least two major broadsheets and an alert but critical absorption of the daily news telecast. That was when intelligence plague the screen and the murky daily pulps.
For the past six years I avoided headlines and I suspect I am the only resident in our building who owns an obscenely-priced plasma screen and not subscribe to cable TV, nor have I had a TV antenna installed. This earns me brownie points among DVD-toting friends and certify my being a complete retard when it comes to the trivialities of say, Desperate Housefucksor the larynx-bursting proceedings of American Idol
Apparently this is a state of devolution for majority of people. For a cynical few it's a desirable thing. Being free from the plague of idiocy, be it in print or in broacast is not a democracy. It's a choice. Depending on which IQ level you fall in: It could be an apathetic one. Or a smart one. Considering the virulent political circus streaming recently the TV comes in handy: As a surefire gauge of your threshold for insanity.
Being constantly mocked for my idiotic lack of knowledge on what’s brewing around me I caved in and begrudgingly had cable service installed in my flat recently. The very second the connection was installed I maniacally channel-surfed like an ampethamined geek.
I clicked through scenes of Babe, or Charlotte’s Web, I am not sure. All I know is it’s about a talking pig who isn’t Cristy Fermin. Then my pop culture ignorance screeched to a crashing halt when I snapped my thumb on the clicker and beheld the magnified nostrils of Boy Abunda.
National Geographic Meets E! Channel.
It's Planet Of The Apes all over again.
Posted by loudcloud at 12:00 AM
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Nothing triggers heartbreak and condolences easily than a gorgeous dunce.
Part of my work would have it that I have to deal with a lot of them on a regular basis. It’s fascinating. It’s quite moving. The fundamental dynamics of ambition, ravenousness, determination and steady resolve stand side by side with conceit, narcissism, egotistical tantrums and divaesque bearing among these folks. They all feed the cannibalistic frenzy grinding the incestuous business of selling a product, an emotion, an aspiration, a dream or simply the sexuality of a brand. They are aware and unmindful of this harsh reality and bless their overeager selves who consent for exploitation in the almighty name of fame, fortune and public lust.
My semi-warped friend once whined about gorgeous folks populating the tony nightspots and the probability of them treading the lowly loams of the earth seems nil. If it makes you feel any better, Ian, I have news for you: Having worked with these attractive aberrations it is unbelievably ironic to know that they are the most insecure folks around. Despite their anomalously gorgeous genes their anxiety meter is so high. And they have very low threshold for rejection. Turn them down for a plum project and their depression hits far lower than the Bermuda Triangle. Measly citizens should be comforted that, to a degree, these demigods/demigoddesses come with a stamp of relief: save for a handful, majority of them are not the sharpest tool in the shed. It’s enough to restore a regular Joe’s sense of self-worth.
Oftentimes I feel awful. I maybe detached when I toss a model’s set card off the shortlist bin but inside I feel terrible having to play god and decline anyone an opportunity. A huge part of me wants to help some of the lesser mortals but professionalism dictates I should stick to the ideals set by a creative brief. Having a conscience is a setback in this case.
This gets worse during casting calls. People will stand in the rain for two hours to get a stab at an assignment, and the sheer amount of determination would melt your glacial resolve. Then there’s an annoying cabal of opportunistic agents who would ply talents like slabs of meat. Lovely dunces dangled among a pack of exploitative wolves. Not a pretty business.
I am writing about this because in the past week my hypercalories got depleted from a casting frenzy that spanned a couple of days. My friend Nicodemus and his equally-gorgeous platoon of stylemeisters did the preliminary screenings. Hordes of beautiful potentials and countless delusionals streamed to the office for the go-see.
I actively participated in the first few batches of screenings but after a while everyone started to look the same. See, this is my problem: I easily knock the boredom ceiling. And when I’m bored I grab a magazine, a tabloid, a copious volume of say Marcel Proust’s Remembrance Of Things Past or Leo Tolstoy’s War And Peace, or anything to read and all the commotion will be shut out like unwanted blurs of voices and shadows.
“I’m sorry, I’m late. My photo shoot earlier got delayed.” came a crisp voice which registered like alchemy of semi-husky purr and the mineralized register of Russel Watson belting Neesun Dorma. I can’t be plied off an article in a magazine at hand.
“Are you of mixed race?” Nicodemus monotonously inquired.
“Half Brazilian, half Japanese.” came the nippy reply.
My head reflexively jerked up from being latched on the magazine. I swiveled my chair towards the breathy voice and got confronted by one of the most appealing manboys my cynical, jaded eyes have laid on. Taking cue from my sudden interest Nicodemus casually slid his folio towards the end of the conference desk where I am staring like a stunned tarsier. He’s not automatically androgynous but is surely possessed of a cherubic gaze of a polished European/Latin American and a glint of mischief of a Japanese rogue. He has just the right amount of edge in his features to keep him from looking like a generic attractive foreigner. He’s a bombshell yet exudes approachability. Though he comes off not very threatening to the egos of plain humans he’s several ladders above the caste of meager mortals.
Nicodemus and the ladies in the team continued the interview while I scanned his book for flaws to arrest my escalating inferiority. This guy can easily make anyone with shaky self-esteem feel like a rag. All his angles are photogenic and he has that noble air of a sophisticated Prada boy: slick, exquisite, expensive-looking. I slid back the book towards the beautiful assistants.
Empathy crept up my spine for the thirty more hopefuls who will no doubt get trumped by this very striking, racially blended demigod.
The wolves howled an unanimous cry of approval.
Being a dense technoretard I was wandering about blissfully unaware that my yahoo link in the sidebar isn’t working because of a fucked up code that escapes me. Much thanks to the wilted prune for her technological wizardry. Now people can leave me offline death threats, voodoo spells and proposals of the indecent kind.
Posted by loudcloud at 8:38 PM
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Bizarre things frequently ricochet in my head like wicked Frisbees hurled with mad glee by deeply crazed Olympic javelin throw athletes. Today one of these insane thoughts circled on my sudden realization that most of the crucial, life altering moments in my life slid off to oblivion undocumented in any of my blogs. The most euphoric moments, the most devastating, the most triumphant, the most heartbreaking, the most tender, the most touching, the things that really matter passed into the great beyond like spectres drifting into the far recesses of remembrances with no tombstones erected in their wake. There are no verbose manuscripts inked in their honor. Yet they are not completely gone. When I unintentionally fix my gaze towards the windowsills and see smudges of rain my thoughts float into splintered pieces of recollection and I smile. Their once brief visit is remembered. In equal measure of welcome and regret.
Posted by loudcloud at 1:39 AM
Paranoia ranks high in my anthology of distorted leisures. I always suspect the Universe will drop anvils upon my head, especially when I’m not looking.
Anyway this is one of those wadding entries which have no significance or purpose but to calm a couple of identical paranoiacs who follow this virtual insanity to such alarming compulsiveness. No, I’m not decomposing. No, I’m not shipped without preamble straight to Alcatraz. No, I am not convalescing from gender reassignment.
Yes, I’m busy as hell and it’s grating my nerves to no end.
These past few weeks have been a constant struggle. Things didn’t turn out efficiently as I giddily anticipated, thanks to the warped sense of humor of the ironic cosmic powers that be. At times my faith in people and the general goodness and benevolence of the universe fluctuates. Yet the annoying thing is I can’t seem to shake off that infinitesimal sliver of hopefulness clinging like fungal growth that refuses to go away at the back of my head. I should have thrown a tantrum. I should have exploded into wrathful fits. I should have shrugged off my shoulders and plot retributions with glacial howls of fury.
Strangely, I’m calm. Strangely I’m patient, pragmatic…restrained.
When did I ever grow old?
Posted by loudcloud at 1:20 AM
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Clutter plagues my floor. Half-read quarterlies heave, face down, abiding the cruelty of parquet. Their spines angle—beckoning, echoing the paleness of the ceiling. I remain ignorant; oblivious to their grudges and mournings. They are silent mirrors, jumbled pyramids loitering in disarray - squadrons of cumbersome paper hills, hoarding dusts, noiselessly. Even empty bottles, dwellers of random corners, remain dormant—their embarrassments concealed by creased underwears; their apologies veiled by blemished shirts carrying pristine memories of former holidays. This is where I remember you. You, and your fictions of seahorses that dream eternally. I would repeat to such abundant, aching redundancy your breathless, restless narratives, aquatic fables and drifting reveries. We shall dance, tonight, in my sleep. Our steps floating casually; our whispers melting, like mislaid echoes, dissipating faraway.
( * remembering E )
Posted by loudcloud at 2:22 AM
Friday, August 17, 2007
Regular doses of insanity will be rationed again very soon (This weekend to be precise, if the cosmic rocks align well). The mad purveyor of this blog is currently swamped with annoyances namely work and complete lack of sleep.
Meanwhile I'd goad you to checkout the charming folks in my blogroll.
Excuse me while I pass out from exhaustion and dire sleeplessness.
Posted by loudcloud at 1:15 AM
Monday, August 6, 2007
Tearing aimlessly in Greenbelt3 my eyes beheld the precise embodiment of everything that induces thunderous spasms of lust in me. I try to resist its blinding appeal but in the case of most obsessions my judgment is instantaneously reduced into that of a pathetic, slobbering idiot. Sanity charges that I shouldn’t fixate over it; that there are much more pressing things in life that need undivided attention (world peace for instance)— but I am beyond help.
Ladies, lads and every other hormonal species in between, if you want a sex slave, memorize the following to stuff in my Christmas sock.
The Hallowed Bang & Olufsen. They have opened their flagship store in the third world!
I have repeatedly written in the past that I have the taste for Veuve Clicquot but am cursed of having the budget for SanMig Strong Ice. This glaring fact doesn’t stop me from the delusion of someday owning the überstylish BeoCom2 Phone, the BeoSound9000, BeoCenter2 (or the BeoSound3200) sound system and the convention-defying BeoVision9 flatscreen. Whenever I see magazine spreads featuring them I get wildly aroused, it’s embarrassing. It’s as if the tasteful acoustic advancements of BeoLab5/Beolab8000 is directly hotwired to my crotch.
Bang and Olufsen was also the trigger of a bitter argument between me and my pseudofriend Nicodemus. Nicodemus is a bonafide audiophile. His father’s home boasts of high-fi audio, video, theater systems and obscenely priced super speakers having the price tag of two million pesos. Each. Though these speakers and systems are technically superior they come off so-so on my personal style quotient. So imagine his chagrin on my insistence that sophisticated urbanites, as far as home electronics are concerned, should only possess Bang & Olufsen as the supreme statement of one’s polished taste.
Removing verbal profanities our heated debate goes this way:
Nico maybe theoretically correct with his arguments but for a rabid fan that’s nothing short of blasphemy in my book. Bang & Olufsen is the iconic design maverick! Even Michael Grave’s Target phone or Philippe Starck’s Ola Phone are not close to the licentious seizures the BeoCom2 Phone provokes.
Approximating a hallucination of owning the Bugatti Veyron or a Lamborghini Diablo, I am aware that buying the BeoCom2 phone or the BeoSound series will fling me irrevocably into The Great Poverty Limbo. Then again what’s the point of living without obsessions? Obsessions defy logic. Wallpaper*, the purveyor of acquisitional culture, puts it succinctly: “I don’t know where it would go, I want it!”
In the same vein I am going to ignore reason. I just want my big Bang!
Pleasant Dispatch From A Parallel/Saner Universe:
Booboostrider merited my insanity with Blogger-Writer Of The Year citation!
As I mentioned in his comments page, I didn't expect to win this award! *wipestearandstiflesacry* Considering the brilliant, brilliant, ravenous competitors out there I feel so humbled! I thank the Academy, Booboostrider whose taste is beyond reproach, and of course, mom and dad for all those tuba lessons when I was five...
Thanks muchly for the vote of confidence!
Where do I claim my BeoCom2 phone prize?
Posted by loudcloud at 12:21 AM
Saturday, August 4, 2007
(* Recycled from my other blog as triggered by similar incident.)
Little did I remember that buying condoms in this town has the same ease as soliciting a hand job from a cloistered Orthodox nun.
Personally my issue is this: Why is the very mention of rubber makes people recoil with awkward embarrassment? (Or an unsuppressed burst of the giggles?)
Here’s the scenario: a few blinks from being three in the morning. You’re a routine insomniac. So you stroll into your neighborhood inconvenience store. (No, that isn’t a typo. It’s apt: there is always a very high probability of them being efficiently out of something you need badly.) While you survey the racks for junk to gorge on, you realize your hygiene cabinet is running out of Q tips. Instantly it also crosses your mind that you could use a box of latex. You don’t really need it tonight, but it gives you a certain comfort that there’s spare stock if the need arises. Besides it wouldn't hurt to sustain the paranoia of being directly responsible for earth’s alarming overpopulation escalation. You rummage through the aisles for the love globe in the same fervent mania of a bingo player who has too many cards to blot. Nada. You oscillate your head, crane your neck and dart your eyes from side to side like a crazed, rabid lizard.
Then you spot it.
Securely ensconced in the topmost shelf behind the checkout counter. The blasted rubber is almost overhead of the fundamentalist, deeply devout religious salesclerk.
Is there a rampant condom larceny going on? Why would you store condoms in the same protective measure as prescriptive heroin? The concept is quite far out—bordering towards the bizarre alien trajectory as Boy Abunda auditioning for the role of a human being.
You don’t see anything wrong with buying or using condoms. Hey, you once worked in advertising and prudishness isn’t your most sterling virtue. If at all you totally uphold what hip London-based agency, Mother, so gleefully shrieked in the cover of a paid off guest editorial in Creative Review: "I sold my soul and I like it!"
But let’s waltz back towards the tirade about buying latex.
With beaming, confident resolve you approach the counter. In very un-malicious flippancy you announce (albeit not too loud) while pointing at the boxes of condom that you want some.
Now here’s the cosmic split. While you go about unblinking at the request, in the salesclerk's parallel dimension, everything, including her synapses, screech into a stunned, silenced halt.
She gives you a mildly shocked (peppered with deeply amused) look of incomprehension. It’s as if she’s trying to gauge if indeed you’re actually, seriously, buying one. Judging from her blushing embarrassment you can fill out her floating thought balloon: “You’re haplessly purchasing a one-way ticket to Satan’s basement!”
She looks at you, looks at the condom, looks back at you, and then avoids looking at you, whilst visibly suppressing the outbreak of the giggles.
Lucky her you’re one person who has the appetite for absurdity. You don’t flinch, you don’t blink; you stare at her in the same vacuous steadiness perfectly manifested in Mark Herras’ acting.
She still avoids looking at you while stammering something that strikes you as hurried mumbles of The Apostle Creed. To ignite your growing exasperation she asks you again what is it that you want. Which starts to annoy you, because you distinctly declared your intent to buy a pack of condoms in decibels equal to what drunken Japanese executives emit when howling My Way in Karaoke Bars.
Again you say you want to buy a pack of condoms. She approximately hesitates reaching for the stacks of rubber in the manner like as if you bluntly asked her to dip her fingers in a vat of industrial-grade uranium/thorium compound. You also detect a hint of resentment that can only be explained if you insensitively suggested she fondle herself with a cracking livewire. At this point your annoyance becomes visible. Why would a dimwit stack sex-related consumables beyond customers’ reach if you deem it radioactive?
To make things more awkward the line behind you starts to build up. Then her colleague who was probably violating the broomstick in the backroom joins in the counter, and they trade nervous, amused and uncontainable half-smiles. One bites her lips, while the other stares at her feet. You cannot hear a single word but, thanks to your gift of combustible paranoia, you are convinced that telepathically they are swapping judgmental declarations about you. You happen to have a hyperactive imagination so to cancel your mounting irritation you try and imagine what their clairvoyant conversations would be. It might go along these lines:
Salesclerk 1: Oh My God! He’s buying a box of condoms!
Salesclerk 2: Indeed! Degenerate Sex Maniac! He probably hosts sixth generation Herpes!
Salesclerk 1: Horny toad!
Salesclerk 2: And a boxful at that! Haha!
Salesclerk 1: Probably having a drug-marinated orgy!
Salesclerk 2: Hmmmm. You think he’s hung?
Salesclerk 1: Stop You’re making me blush!
Salesclerk 2: YOU stop. I’d do him in a heartbeat.
Salesclerk 1: Hey! I saw him first!
Salesclerk 2: Slut.
Salesclerk 1: Bitch.
Though this fictional exchange is insane and hysterical you switch back to the realization that you’re getting more cross than you were thirteen minutes ago. Thirteen minutes! To buy a freaking condom! And you still don’t have it in your hands!
She fumbles among piled boxes, scrabbling between brands until she finally holds in her wobbly hands the very plastic fabric that draws the line between singlehood and alimony. Or, if you are of the alternative persuasion, the tacky souvenir disease. She tries to get a grip of her shaky reflexes and after mistakenly punching the purchase, twice, she avoids your eyes while demanding the payment.
You maintain your steady, now warpedly amused gaze. At that moment you decide to torment her more by flashing your most boyish, mischief-laced grin. The kind of thing that is part choir boy, part Hannibal Lecter, part Tommy Lee while pounding Pamela Anderson.
A few people behind you shift uneasily, some clamping their lips inward, amused, and—also—judging you with the same conviction of a pious snoot who is certain that you’re residency in Hell is now confirmed.
You grab your C2 iced tea, leisurely accept the plastic containing your condoms, wink at the now crimson-faced clerk, turn and grin diabolically at the folks behind you, clamp on your iPod in your ears, and with the composure of King Louis XIV steadily walk out.
Nonchalantly whistling a happy tune.
Posted by loudcloud at 3:21 AM
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Amateur Misanthrope has impressive discrimination for music but when it comes to cybertagging his judgment seems to be impaired. I mean, how can one possibly explain picking me, yes, warped me, to participate in this electronic version of good old classic chain letter? Remember those chain letters? Remember how you get all worked up over admonitions that if you break the chain endless misfortunes will befall your heedless head including but not limited to spontaneous combustion, instant sterility, rapid baldness, contracting antibiotic-resistant airborne herpes, imminent bankruptcy and teeth rotting at the speed of light. It’s not much different than horoscopes that reveal a believable fact that Geminis are generally bisexual and will probably get run over by cement truck mixers if they don’t observe cosmic warnings.
Good thing I am astrologically agnostic. With one exception: I’ve read in a psychic chart somewhere that Aquarians are the best human beings around. I didn’t doubt it one bit. That’s the only time I can vouch for this metaphysical hoo-ha’s unimpeachable accuracy. Of course I’m digressing like a twitchy kindergarten whose attention span is marinated in undiluted industrial grade sugar syrup. The challenge hovering over my scattered mind is to write eight things about me.
Great. Another crack at conceit and narcissism.
Now that I have divulged all these unpleasant details, and as the tagging rule would have it, I’d like to inflict the same torment on the following folks:
I fear for my scalp, my sperm count and my dismal bank account.
From my off line YM messages re this entry:
(name removed upon request) (8/4/2007 12:22:33 AM): hahahhaaha... The Devil Wears Nada.... hahahahaha. I, too, have a keen eye on these things. I once saw a banner that said "This Barangay is 98% Drug-Free" (Watch out 2%, we know who you are) Parentheses mine. And to top it, the 98% was hand-written on a blank. This meant that they had updates :) hahahah
(name removed upon request) (8/4/2007 12:25:27 AM): And who could forget this example: You know how some imported trucks are right-hand drives? I saw one with a sign that said Right-Hand Drive. Well, I guess they converted it to comply with our rules because I saw a manually-painted scribbling right before the sign that said "No More" hahahahaha.
Bwahahaha. What a riot! we should compile this!
Posted by loudcloud at 2:32 AM