Loud Cloud

Crushing On Carding

2011-01-02T22:38:00.002+08:00

Sid Lucero, it is the promise of you flickering onscreen that I watched Rosario and all I can say is: Why are you so goshdarn annoying?! When I say annoying I mean you dare to have it all: smoldering gazes, gravitas, panache, effortless restraint, undeniable depths of talent to match those steaming good looks! Ignore the fact that you’re fundamentally a celebrity/royalty but if you so much as drop a hint that your IQ is above 130 well I’ll overlook the whole morality of the debate and personally rally to have you cloned!

Your Carding is so palpable, gut-wrenching, devastatingly beautiful we felt we’re not watching scenes onscreen but a projection of a slice of our selves. To know that there exist close to nil Cardings in the world all the more make us pine for you to be real.

But you, Sid, is real, and someone else as real owns you.

So we watch your shimmering self onscreen as you toss your humanity towards the audience, eclipsing everyone, giving us voyeurs a darkened blanket to behold you with a mixture of awe, longing and pain.

Vote For Chiksilog!

2010-12-10T00:12:00.002+08:00

Obviously I'm too busy for a proper campaign so I urge voyeurs and random folks who wander in here to vote for CHIKSILOG for the blogger's choice category!

Best of luck, XG!

Hushbreaker

2010-10-25T00:45:00.001+08:00

Speaking of minor yet quite significant crushes, I am vacillating between Ann Curtis and Sid Lucero. I’ll give further details about this if planets align and some insane urge to blog hits me. Meantime, you, loyal voyeur, are getting these three grand sentences.

Walking Home, Stirred

2010-10-22T00:38:00.004+08:00

Movies reveal more than we really care to admit. Cloaked with blanket of darkness we see our forgotten, secret sadness, nervous relief, joys, humanity and aspirations staring back at us like mirrors that glimmer of omnipresent recognition. We root for the star-crossed, deeply flawed heroes flickering onscreen and a portion of us depart our private selves and leap towards the scene to participate, to toss out lines we are too familiar to recite—heartaches and absolute pining for instance, are said, in different words, phrases, idioms, expressions and nuances, all talking about the same deep, throbbing wound that we carry in silence, only now, following the movements onscreen we are reminded, like intimate echoes, and we nod with tender, awakened consent.

Daydreams are Non Tax Deductible, Are They?

2010-10-10T23:37:00.010+08:00

Facebook’s all fired up with updates 10.10.10. Impressionable idiots propagated this like it’s the most clever thing than splitting the atom itself.

I kid you, of course.

10.10.10 is supposed to be a perfect day. Since I’m the undisputed grumpmaster I’d say upfront that ‘perfection’ is the word that scares the daylight out of any rational man. Why do humans flog themselves with a delusion that there is such thing as perfect? Perfection is invented by deeply insecure people. The wise ones laugh at such folly.

But that got me into thinking. If I may leap right smack into this herd-like breed of thinking, how would I imagine a “perfect day” without boring people interminably with 10.10.10 memes?

What on God’s decaying earth is a perfect day? Let’s see.

A perfect day is when your ipod dock randomly picks U2’s Beautiful Day or Lighthouse Family’s High as wakeup alarm tune and you refuse to slam the snooze button.

You groggily drag yourself to the shower and the heater temperature doesn’t scald you to medium rare.

You pick up the shampoo/soap/body scrub and it doesn’t slip out of your clutch like an uncooperative eel.

You pick up the toothbrush and notice how your teeth gleams, making you make a mental note to cancel the exorbitantly priced whitening appointment from your smug orthodontist.

You gargle on your first caffeine fix of the day and feel happy as a pup, the warmth sliding down your throat makes you contented and calm.

You nail your day’s wardrobe at first try.

You exit your flat and the downward elevator opens at the exact same time.
There are no pesky kids, smelly people, and grumpy occupants in the lift. Also someone’s wearing your favorite scent.

Traffic was a breeze and you find yourself humming a tune instead of cursing under your breath or waving at other drivers with four fingers bent.

Attractive, sophisticated people share the lift with you instead of rowdy call center agents loudly displaying their recently acquired accent which makes you guess what part of Pluto is the provenance of such twaddle.

Your phone doesn’t ring.

There is a fight among your colleagues/friends over insisting to pay for your lunch.
You happily fork over heart-clutching dessert without mentally calculating the number of minutes of atonement on the treadmill.

Your superior had a bright epiphany and decided to do the smart thing instead of being an insufferable knucklehead.

The top priority tray is mysteriously depleted.

You pass by an ATM and there’s no queue.

You get inside the bank and the teller puts the “next teller/breaktime” countertop/tent card right after serving you.

Nobody emails asking you things that can be answered by life forms with five functioning brain cells.

Over dinner the waiter's not only attentive and polite but s/he places your orders right and has dimples that can put the Middle Eastern conflicts into a grinding halt.

Over drinks your favorite humans try and set you up with someone you’d actually bone at first glance.

You bone the one you’re set up with and it restores your faith in the universe.

Cosy flat greets you like a loyal pet.

You slide into bed, wishing there is such a thing as a perfect day.

You realize there is none so you let out a soft chuckle as you click off the lights and surrender to the kindness of dreams.

Oh, Hello, I Forgot My Keys, Bye

2010-10-03T22:15:00.005+08:00

Visitors, most especially the untreatable neatniks, would glance at my office desk and elicit a low groan of disbelief. Their eyes would torpedo on the mounting mess of office priorities (what priorities? Everything’s stamped “the world will end this nanosecond, finish this fucking work!”) and their minds would whirr with high and mighty judgments about my abysmal lack of tidying skills while trying out of politeness not to imitate the rapid eyeball rolling trademarked by Linda Blair. The hell I care; I love my desk—it has a “lived in” resemblance of King Tutankhamen’s crypt after the looters trashed it and the mere fact that I’m making a vain parallel to mummified royals tombs and the rubbles of my working space is proof enough that I’m still trying to have a semblance of a busy, productive professional life. Ergo, blogging duties be damned. Pesky inquiries about my whereabouts, or the state of my well-being (no, I’m not decomposing unmourned in some remote landfill, though I know of some people who wish I am), this compact entry should be answer enough for now. I miss Manila and my favorite haunts, the mindless movies and the smart banters with smartass online friends who long ago threw the proverbial towel of defeat from waiting for a semi-coherent update.

Also, hello Xienahgirl and DencioPadilla.

There. Now I’m back to semi-silence.

ALSO: hello misterhubs and doc ian!

There. Hahaha

Loudcloud, Vaguely Explained

2010-08-04T14:41:00.006+08:00

N.S., a voyeur of this blog, needled me with questions that prompted this unplanned post. His concerns are the following:

I am writing to tell you that I am amazed by your writing in your LoudCloud Blog. How do you make such good writing? Do you have special, maybe expensive software? What books are you reading? What habits of writing can you give to a frustrated, non-English speaking, aspiring writer like me? It’s been more than 3-month ages ago since your last post in your blog. You used to be prolific, and the dwindling total number of posts each year is noticeable. Still, the quality of each post impresses me to no end. They are at par with those by Jessica Zafra or Clinton Palanca. Now, if you could answer and share with me why you are so good. Hope you help me with my poor writing. And hope to see that long overdue post, which is worth it.

Your kind words make my nipple harden especially when I keep on rereading that bit where my incoherent twaddles are mentioned in the same league as The Overlord Of The Universe and another fine man of Philippine Letters. However I have a nasty chromosomal streak that keeps my delusional tendencies in check so I must dampen your enthusiasm and say that I am not at par with those literary supernovas. I am not being coy; false humility is not stitched in my DNA either. What I do best is poke fun at the ridiculousness of everything (Hello, Cris Pablo! When’s the next flick?).

My blog is what it is: a blog. It’s not falling into the caliber of writing worthy of thesis dissection. It’s an obscure repository of warped drivels and occasional bursts of emo-ness that would make your epithelial cells curl.

I am sorry to have disappointed you dear N. I thought I’d make it painless for both of us and point you directly to Rilke’s Letters To A Young Poet so I can resume combating with my tornado-riddled daily life. I fear I am not the most credible adviser as far as finding your writing voice is concerned. The chic and catty Kitty Go once said that writing and cooking is something inherent: you either have it or you don’t. But I am sure there are seminars or workshops where foundations of great writing are taught, helping you find your own voice.

As for loudcloud, it’s not a voice worthy of analysis. It is an irregular disjointed howl of random things that the general universe can exist without much need of. Save for a few voyeurs who inhaled prohibited substances and for inexplicable reason keeps digressing here for unpredictable dispatch of warpedness.

Their persistent loyalty is rewarded with very long gaps in between posts.

Thereby educating them with the virtue of forbearance.

The Séance of Sleep

2010-04-11T03:02:00.003+08:00

Outside my window sleep avoids the city and I am a compatriot in this plague. Looking down, the opposite lanes of EDSA stream with headlights; their velocities determined by degrees of drowsiness, urgencies and whether the limbs tapping the pedals have had an extra cup of coffee that afternoon. Pedestrians huddle in elevated walkways, their movements erratic, like a ballet orphaned by a sinister choreographer. Near the lower end of the stair planks the blind guitarist strums paeans to heartbreaks, accompanying the desperation drifting from sweet unschooled voice of the equally-blind female vocalist seating beneath him, their tragic duet a catalyst of sudden philanthropy and quiet shudder of relief among passersby who are confronted of their plight but unwilling to imagine having a chance to share in their misfortune. A pair of lovers, having just punched out their attendance sheet in the nearby grocery walk by, their feet a bundle of aching nerves for having stood all day yet their spirits are light, consoled by the thought of sharing a bowl of goto in the neighborhood stall—a moment where they are absolutely assured to be in control of their destinies before they part ways with a quick kiss into the hard boards of their respective bed spaces to dream of better lives before tomorrow’s drudgery start to creep in and rob them of such fantasies. A Sluggish cabby combs the streets for that random call center agent rushing to midnight shift so he can meet the boundary rates; a slight mix of remorse and guilt creep into his thoughts for having acted like a jerk, tormenting commuters during rush hours. Along the fading refrains of sappy pop songs and the hoarse voices of late callers seeking breakup advice from a DJ who feigns sympathy, he touches the dangling Rosary twined around the connecting node of a rearview mirror, bargaining with God for a generous passenger. Street urchins accost strangers with practiced expressions of pain only to be ignored. Policemen patrol the well-maintained lanes this side of the metropolis like bored hawks, avoiding an occasion of impulsive penile erection from staring at the pinup leering in the center spread of a tabloid. The convenience store across the corner becomes a beehive of chains smokers, drifters, a couple darting off their car who forgot a quart of milk earlier, insomniacs, hustlers busily tapping their mobile phones with their impatience growing while their patrons suffer the slowness of elevators and BPO employees having animated conversations in their newly-acquired accents. I pull the canvass curtain shutters, forfeiting myself from tableaus of wakefulness staging autonomous concerts twenty nine floors below, wondering what shades will float into my dream, if it ever comes, and whether it will have a face or a name that will haunt me long after I wake up.

Just Because Jose Mari Chan Made It His Album Title Doesn’t Mean I’d Get out Of This Rut

2010-04-07T00:11:00.004+08:00

Change, as clichéd tongues would mechanically wag to no end, is constant.Jose Mari Chan wailed (rather painfully) about it too. Though there is little room to dispute this unadventurous wisdom the smartass in me would oftentimes roll my eyes and reenact soundless vomiting midsentence when this very tenet is uttered.

What makes this tired belief more insufferable is the fact that whoever utters it is possessed of massive reserves of optimism that makes you wonder whether s/he swallowed both the sun and Oprah for breakfast.

I, being a habitual pragmatic/jaded lot, would take on this disposition with characteristic glum of someone who steered clear of Chicken Shit For The Soul, which is the cue for Mr./Ms. Sunshine to save me from the clutches of pessimism. Which, is precisely my cue to start screaming and begin entertaining thoughts on cannibalism.

And the most annoying thing is Mr/Ms Sunshine would smile brightly when you reject his/her positive, cheerful and hopeful disposition.

MSUNSHINE: Change is the only constant in this world.
YOU: So is your endless supply of clichés that makes my pancreas gray with boredom.
MSUNSHINE: (Smiling so bright you can tan youself under his/her gums): Why so negative?! Today is but another day and tomorrow...
YOU: *stabs him/her with a salad fork in the eye*

Which makes me wish for a raw deal:

IDEAL MSUNSHINE PREACHING: What an ungrateful, wretched bastard you are! Of course things change and you can either grow up and embrace this reality like every thinking person would rather than moping around like a baby who deserves to be forcedfed his own diapers! If it were up to me, fools such as yourself refusing to accept the evolutionary nature of things should have been aborted so you become less of a burden in this already insane world! Get real you piece of waste of protein!

I would have more respect for a person like that.

But no, I would always receive a dramatic sigh, an almost-psychotic smile and a sympathetic gaze that tells me the mutterer of a thousand clichés is worried for my very own welfare.

S/he probably is, and it’s a comfort to know it.

But why is unsolicited kindness always the Siamese twin of cliché?

Whatever happened to originality?

Hello, I Maybe On My Way Out Again

2010-04-05T00:32:00.001+08:00

Disappearances are the hotbed of anguish. Often than not the despair resides in the hearts of those who are widowed by nonattendance, where it throbs and branches out like springtime tendrils searching for answers or apologies. The absentee, no matter how valid the reasons, or how urgent the manner of departure will always leave a bruise while carrying with him a pouch of guilt that can only be mended by homecomings.

When words fail you, melodrama comes in handy, doesn’t it?

Hello, I’m partially back. (Be warned though: this might lead to another sudden exit.)

I miss out on a lot of things, obviously. Just thinking on how to catch up exhausts the living sap out of me.

I wish I know which one to pick up first: the broom to sort out the cobwebs around here, or the mouse to click my way into non-refundable ticket to sunny Rio?

Decisions, decisions.

Hello, Arsonist II

2010-01-16T02:42:00.004+08:00

Strange. Ego deserted me and I muddle about for sober words to explain this sudden, awakened fondness. I go about my hectic day distracted, trying to locate a proper drawer in which to confine this incomprehensible stirring. Your harmless smile was a constant ghost - unshakable, omniscient like blinking billboards growing in every vacant space. It lingers: merciless, relentless, confronting me in every turn, humiliating me into realization of my feared vulnerability.

Nothing quite prepared me for your unscheduled arrival. I was in my prime that day: competent, self-assured—cocky even—dispensing shallow anecdotes, second-hand philosophies and creative treatises to pass the time as we all wait for the scheduled creative session to commence. I was bantering animatedly with your colleagues feeling rather good about myself: Life is worth living again—a positive career detour, novel challenges and I am in a time and place where I am in my element, the very familiar neighborhood of my creative enthusiasms.

I should be untroubled of the fact that you seem conventional on the surface: calm, steady gaze, fairly beautiful in a nonthreatening way, a self-possessed smile that is equal parts shy and searching.

You eroded me on the spot.

My defenses would hastily, alarmingly remind me that there are far more overwhelmingly beautiful subjects around worthy of my obsessive pursuits. I deal with them on a regular basis, them being demigods and demigoddesses blessed with polished features, physical proportions and excessive charisma enough to weaken the uninitiated. They orbit my professional life as faces we employ to trigger desire in others. And I thought that I have set my feet firmly at a point in my life when I can capably boast to have seen a fair share of superior good looks enough to be immune and unflustered; that I am now accomplished in the art of not being easily awed; that I would know how to navigate my way in a crowd of loveliness unscathed; that you will be a commonplace comparison to the grand buffet of beauties out there.

I never realized the gross miscalculations of it all until you held my gaze and that blameless smile raced across your bright, disarming face.

I was this close to being gone.

So I might as well profess this disconcerting feeling and come out clean of this disorientation. I might as well commit these thoughts into writing in the great hope that seeing them take shape into characters, words and paragraphs the feeling would come off too ridiculous and restore my conviction; that this is mere delinquency, a passing weakness not unlike beholding and being smitten by a glossy spread in a magazine. That this stirring is naive, silly and eventually be regarded inconsequential, a future source of shudders, self-mockings and embarrassments. Yet it’s not as easy as it seems. There are no manuals and tonics that can be easily had for these anxieties. That being human is sometimes an agonizing and sudden roundabout route into defencelessness.

However—and contrary to all these self-abortive denials—allow me to come to terms with a great difficulty:

You have set my armor worthless and I gazed back at you that day quietly shaken, my thoughts racing.

I was wordless, my spirits ablaze.

Hello, Arsonist

2010-01-15T01:17:00.001+08:00

Confidence is an elected armor, isolating my helplessness and the arrows of your steady gaze. Look elsewhere because I am beginning to fumble for words.

I’m starting to feel naked.

Give 'Em Hell, Osang!

2010-01-13T22:58:00.000+08:00

Noontime television shows are a daily source of pure steaming shit. They keep on bastardizing the media’s powers and shred every remaining speck of intelligence of viewers. They keep on churning subhuman, formulaic, unwatchable idiocy and pander on the desperation of underprivileged populace and brand it entertainment and civil service.

And now it seems that the charming sparks at MTRCB, in a blinding flash of supergenius, are hell-bent in establishing a society of sedated woodpeckers of us.

MTRCB I have a branding slogan for you: "Thinkers Will Be Shot"

I applaud the balls of Ms. Roces—she’s been candid, brutally honest, yes, and speaking for what seems to be a fair assessment of majority of our educators isn’t about being insensitive: it is a glaring malaise that needs a sobering rethink. Our dank educational system has long ago gone to hell and when someone points it out she is vilified? People, you don’t need to oust a judge like that: you put her in charge of the government! You don't suspend a show not because you have an outspoken judge; you suspend it because its very existence is offensive to the basic dignity of humanity.

This is a democracy and a contrarian opinion should be encouraged, not subverted.

MTRCB is neither a voice of reason nor the guardian of morality. It’s an unwanted institution gloating in it's sparkling vision: zombify every citizen into a society of agreeable, slavering idiots.

Hello, Dreamer

2010-01-13T22:03:00.000+08:00

[ DOC WHO? ]

Hello, Truant

2010-01-10T22:14:00.006+08:00

Dear LouCloud,

Skip the pleasantries and let’s zero in on the most raw of facts: you’re a negligent blockhead. You seem to have forgotten how to write a decent blog, and let’s not even get started on the sorry state with which you have abandoned TBAC.

What happened? Someone stole your thesaurus? Shift+F7 keys worn out from rampant abuse? Mental Herpes?

Frankly I am sorely disappointed. I have put up with your inadequate postings in 2009 and I will no longer tolerate the same dismal state in 2010.

I miss you and your many hideous tendencies. I miss us.

Where are you? Where were you? Have you allowed yourself to drown in the gutters of a good book and decided not to come back?

Will you come back?

If you ever did, will you have breathless stories to tell?

Will these stories rush on like rivers of running sentences drowning me, drowning cities?

Please write back. Meanwhile I am swimming in the rhythm of repeated glancing towards the driveway, anticipating your homecoming.

lovelots, verbosecity.blogspot.com

Foolish Academy

2009-12-14T02:52:00.008+08:00

Granted that I am an atheist in the Grand Church of Serendipity I may have to rethink my belief very soon because of Auteur Cris Pablo’s calibrated sense of synchronicity. It is as if his tuning fork is hotwired to my Blog Suicide Nerve and for some inexplicable reason he always manages to unleash a new opus precisely at the time when my so-called blogging tendency screeches to an abrupt coma. He is my fortuitous hero, as necessary as electroshock, caffeine and violent tropical cyclones which are the only legal means to tear Boy Abunda and Kris Aquino billboards off EDSA. So! Crisaldo Pablo, I am hugely indebted; so are the three imaginary fans of my drivels who will be happy to erect tasteful shrines in their respective rooms in your honor, because it would mean this blog will not be permanently consigned into the gaping online black hole.

I just had my essential Cris Pablo Opus fix and I am pleased to report that I had a blast although in the interest of fairness I will put into record that my circulatory system doesn’t agree with me—forty minutes into the movie my brain threatened to leak off my ears and I cannot feel both my legs. But I have such faith in our beloved Auteur’s competence and my fortitude is rewarded with dreadful acting, hyper-camp, and conversational inflections that can only exist in Cher’s Do You Believe In Love if played in lethargic speed.

The Opus of Interest in this issue of LoudCloud Drivel From Hell is Campus Crush.

Cris, I have handful questions: Is it so difficult to stalk Simon Atkins and offer him a part while he’s lining up for latte in the neighborhood Starbucks? How challenging would it have been to study hypnosis and while Chris Tiu was still a Balls-clutching sophomore swing a pendulum in his face and give us something to justify the title? Considering what I just saw, isn’t Campus Crash a little more appropriate?

I am asking because all the characters playing the parts of campus heartthrobs have Star Mall-variety highlights, love handles, beer guts and skin textures that will induce spontaneous orgasms in Vicky Belo knowing these young men will fill the quota in subsidizing her next boyfriend’s Porsche.

Anyway, Campus Crash—I am sorry, I didn’t mean to be caustic about this—Campus Crush even, is about barely legal boys populating a preppy school. If one has to judge from their uniforms then Oh Lord, I am no Hamish Bowles or The Sartorialist, or in any stretch of imagination, Andre Leon Talley but for the love of everything Holy let me ask again: Who designed those uniforms?! In my perverse imaginings my idea of Horny Preppy would be Ralph Lauren designing for Bel Ami freshmen but nothing ever prepared me for grey argyle-patterned vests, purple ties, puff short sleeves for men and pleated, baggy brown trousers inspired by repeated viewings of MC Hammer’s Can’t Touch This video. Also I have been holding my breath all throughout the movie, fearing for the school crest to fall off the vest because they appear like paper stickers printed in deskjets and slapped in the chest areas.

Cris, the uniforms alone are worth the ticket price! Thank you!

And let’s also not dwell on this blessed academy’s facilities. If you have affluent young gay students who can afford to bribe fellow students with iPhones and laptops for blowjobs how come you can’t afford to hire decent maintenance staff? There were brittle leaves that haven’t been raked since 1995, a lawn populated by weeds sharing Senator Juan Ponce Enrile’s birthday and goats grazing in the running track oval. Where is the janitor? Was he fired or is he in the boiler room servicing horny young brats?

The campus crushies are a wild band of ill-shaped boys who had a fraternity-like mission to do something noble for the campus’ Gender Equality Week: they will have sex with assorted losers as an act of goodwill. Whoever among the heartthrobs swaps bodily fluids with the grand loser among losers wins the betting pool. I am sorry, but is this trend catching up in in either University of Asia and the Pacific or Ateneo? I’d say it should be, if the school administrators care deeply about stuffing the bottom line!

Campus Crush elevated Cris Pablo from local indie moviedom’s digital visionary to Utopian Philosopher, hormonally speaking. It’s like Horndogs Without Borders! Or Greenpeace merging with Make-A-Wish while colliding with Oprah and a spool of pubic hair! And I defy anyone to challenge Jobert Sucaldito in thinking that this idea is insane!

At the heart of Campus Crush is this timid, smart nerd who, in my warped view, is much cuter than the object of his nocturnal erections. He is so convinced he is a loser and I wanted to yell at him to get a grip, find a comb and a tube of Ponds facial wash. Timid Twink diligently does his crush and best friend’s academic work, admires from a distant, keeps to himself and carry on with quiet dignity that I was half expecting Cardinal Gaudencio Rosales to show up and hand him a notice for instant beatification. He wears nerdy glasses and has such a good heart that whenever he and his flamingly swishy best friend do the people watching routine he would always raise a “Perfect” scorecard regardless of whether the one that passes by is good looking or a human equivalent of a can opener. Is anyone buying this? Is there a person this kind and meek? Does he really have a loving heart or is just someone in dire need for an appointment to an optometrist to update the grade of his spectacles?

Timid Twink’s ultimate crush is of course the Campus Crush who lives alone in a mansion filled with ornate sofa carvings and theater variety draperies. It is an interior concept not so stranger in the life of Ricky Reyes and April Boy Regino. CC is supposed to be really lonely inside because his parents are always away and to show his profound sadness he strips naked as he climbs up the staircase while the image of the blessed Santo Niño looks on in the stairway niche. CC grew fond of Timid Twink but his sincerity and intent was questionable because really, would you never doubt a potential date that made it his mission to be the walking equivalent of a pawnshop? Given his pair of clunky earrings, necklace and bracelet band he’s either channeling Mr.T or advertising his folks’ mining trade.

Then there’s the pyrotechnic of a flaming best friend who single-handedly regaled the movie with campy verbal fireworks and in the process salvaged the unsuspecting audience from irreversible blackout.

Between Timid Guy, the out-of shape “heartthrobs”, the flaming best friend and repeated exposure to ill-fitting, graphic-print super-skimpy swimming gears I’m already too drunk with absurdity to care how the movie progressed or figure out what the true plot is! I was busy howling in ridiculous glee. Cris Pablo, you are a gem, and I truly mean it. It is my fondest hope that your Artistic Vision of Hunk For Losers would be passed into law by congress as rather apt replacement for ROTC because if that happens, only then we can truly achieve genuine world peace.

::::::::

Catch a screening of Campus Crush It's currently showing in Robinsons Cinemas.

Twink Quartet In Slum Minor Movement Zero

2009-10-26T05:00:00.004+08:00

Well-cultivated sense of irony, a warped sense of proportion and a taste for absurdity are three bare minimum requirements to truly enjoy Cris Pablo’s latest opus, Boylets. Given the auteur’s credentials it is illogical to enter the theater in search of profundity, thought-provoking dissertations or cineaste-centric treatises. Your film-going pleasure will be amplified if all you have to do is avoid snacking on polvoron while watching the movie, deposit your common sense in a hallway locker, and suspend all realities and levelheaded expectations. To truly grasp the Cris Pablo Cinematic Vision think of junk food floating in intoxicating marinade of formaldehyde and botox.

This is why I anticipate and love every new offering by the tireless auteur who, for all our sheer pleasure, shouldn’t retire as long as there are multitalentless actors out there who remain undiscovered.

Don’t look at me to thoroughly explain the plot. Figuring it out in its entirety would be like asking me to explain Quantum Physics in less than three sentences. All I know is Boylets would be what would come out if you produce a lackadaisical Bel Ami film for poor people.

From what I gather (before my cerebral cortex slid to coma is that) there exists a quartet of friends, three of which are so poor they alternate between petty crimes and providing sexual joys to a handful of fags whose assorted kinks and bizarre fetishes would make Caligula look like Sixth Grade home room viewing material. Only in Cris Pablo’s universe would you see horny gay men so repulsive it will drive our hero/poster boy for smart gays Danton Remoto give the possibility of a celibate straight life a second thought. But I deviate.

One of the characters is a caring son whose mother is deteriorating and ailing and since they are dirt poor, cannot afford medical attention. The scene where he is feeding her measly rice soaked in bullion of cheap chicken soup was distressing to look at. It can easily be the entire redeeming thing of this movie but is not sufficient to save this outlandish oeuvre. This is the brief affecting spark where Pablo's humanity is revealed.

The other character is a passenger tricycle owner that despite living in a crime and larceny-prone ghetto remains naive. (Except for one episode of a stolen tire), he parks his tricycle unmanned for extended period of time and, in this unique universe, the thing never gets car-napped at all.

The third dude is a caretaker of a slum rental property and his burning desire is to go to the province and discover his familial roots.

The other non-poor twink character is so smitten with the slum property caretaker/SPC (it’s difficult to tell them apart because the four leads seem to have a classified competition to outrank Orlando Bloom’s Legolas by being facially immobile and the first one to show a daintiest hint of emotion loses) that he is so obsessed in making SPC happy in order to rethink the plan of going to the province in search of his lost relatives. So Non-poor twink does a lot of chivalrous acts: he talks to the SPC’s ex girlfriend for her to profess her undying love; scours seedy theaters in search for SPC’s mother who abandoned him and now adopts a job whose income is derived from giving lewd theatergoers head jobs; he buys SPC his dream gift of a bicycle and cooks him spaghetti on the eve of his birthday and departure—all done in the great hopefulness that the provincial sojourn will be reconsidered if not altogether canceled.

The quartet gives us a glimpse of how it is to be young, restless and breathtaking untalented. Like the shining acting prowess of head-job giving mother they dazzle us with a vast repertoire of intense emotions consisting of a pout, a grimace, rapid blinking and if you pay close attention, drawn out period of vacant stares.

And the dialogues! The caring son delivers what appears to be random non-sequiturs isntead of a semblance of coherent dialogue. Consider these lines delivered in a breathless monotone after he got expelled from the vehicle (during the drag race equivalent involving wretched tricycles), and upon regaining consciousness after his head hit the hard concrete: “Para ako’ng ibon. Madami na ako’ng atraso sayo. Happy Birthday!” (I’m like a bird. I have many faults to you. Happy Birthday!”

Or this precious negotiating gem of a dialogue:

Twink (looking for a regular client: Nasaan si (insert name of client whose name escaped me)? (Where is name of regular client?)
Unprepossessing Fag Roommate of Regular Client: Wala siye eh. Next time text ka muna bago ka pumunta ha. (He’s not around. Next time please send a text message before dropping by)
Twink: Ikaw na lang gusto mo? (How about you, want to blow me?)
Unprepossessing Fag: Di ako pwede may singaw ako ngayon eh. (I have canker sores, sorry.)
Twink: Eh di tirahin na lang kita sa puwet! (How about I butt-fuck you?)
Unprepossessing Fag: May almoranas rin ako ngayon eh! (I also have hemorrhoids right now.)

Oh, joy! Pure cinema!

Then there’s this brilliant counter-argument of a sour fag when one of the twinks refused to reciprocate a blowjob:

“Mas masarap sumubo ang mga straight kasi hindi sila insecure sa kanilang pagkalalaki!”(Straight men give better blowjobs because they are secure with their masculity!”)

Thank you Cris Pablo! I’ll commit this pearl to memory because this would be a handy, persuasive line around Colin Farrel!

Useless to overemphasize but this is why I love Boylets. It provides the kind of window into the Human Condition—the kind of window that non-mental-institution-bound patients would rather have padlocked for the general populace’s sake.

I have deep respect for Pablo’s tenacity—He never gives up, and that's admirable. He persists on convincing us that prostitution is the direct consequence of unspeakable neediness. He spins a narrative exploring destitution and sexuality and he is the only indie auteur I have seen so far whose profound understanding of abject poverty doesn’t end in shooting scenes in shanties and slums. He truly understands that poverty goes beyond dire living conditions; that poverty is all about loose sandos, oversize jersey shorts and Orocan furniture.

The film is an enjoyably deranged excursion into a sexual bubble planet—a digital excuse of a flick to get post-pubescent actors to shed their Hanford briefs and flash their pubes. Contrary to critical cries I'd say Boylets is not one dimensional. It is half-dimensional. And I want supersize coke and a bucket of buttered popcorn to go with it!

(Catch Boylets in Robinsons Cinemas now on its second week of screening!)

Biscuits And Heartbreaks

2009-10-24T00:38:00.026+08:00

Compassion is one elevated form of human sentiments. It is transcendent in the sense that you step out of selfishness and supplant your emotions into rooting for the welfare of another person. This may not be the core thesis of Ang Laro Ng Buhay Ni Juan but for some accidental reasons it just did that: this unusually poignant film makes you discover your hidden well of empathy and you surface from the screening astonished, startled and stirred.

Altarejos + Bonife along with Peping Salonga are back in vigorous form. With the recent head-scratching turn in Little Boy Big Boy they seem to have taken a momentary breath and here decided to resume making significant films utilizing their key strengths—that is penning well-thought out narrative, sincere dialogues and sexually provocative propositions. Although the central sex scenes in ALNBNJ are still charged (and even then it makes you wonder how much graphic footage got snipped by the charming folks at MTRCB) they seem to have taken a backseat to make the story, the acting and deft direction rule.

ALNBNJ is a far-reaching, affecting chronicle. It reels in the viewer into following the pivotal day in the life of its protagonist Juan aka Erwin (Ray An Dulay), a live (gay)sex performer who is making a crucial decision in his life: to leave the daily grind of seedy carnal routine in favor of beckonings of a sick mother and a simple provincial life.

Like thousands of other similar stories out there Juan arrived in the city in search of better things and months and months of struggle found him committing man to man action in an underground sleazy bar. Though he appears neither apologetic nor resentful of his fate, he is also not happy of his squandered potential—only the fading, laminated diploma hanging precariously on the dilapidated wall of his ramshackled pigeonhole of a room reminds him of once a promise of a decent life. Typical story for those who have seen scads of equally-sleazy indie movies lately but what made the story entirely his own is his quiet dignity: he never moans, complains or bitches about his ill fate; he forge on the daily struggle with courage and determined detachment.

He is not alone in this foul existence and he is very aware of it: There’s the scene where a destitute neighbor borrowed thirty pesos to buy a scoop of rice only to get bumped by a running street urchin sending every grain on the pavement and getting soaked by the murky canal water. She didn’t erupt into a wild melodramatic sob; she just tried to scoop what she can possibly retrieve, desperately trying to salvage every precious grain. In the catastrophic bar scene (you struggle to neutralize a lump in your throat as) you witness scattered, broken biscuits intended for homecoming present being picked one by one from the floor. It kills you. It breaks your heart. It makes you forget you went into the theater in the hope of looking at raging hard-on of the cast, only to be won over by shimmering raw talents who are in complete command of the role they inhabit.

Adept direction and a subtle script brought out the indisputable talent of Dulay into prominence. Whereas in the past Dulay’s acting aptitude glimmers but get eclipsed (because of the minority of his roles) ALNBNJ is his opportunity and he convinces us that you'll watch this movie not because of raging erections but because of hard-won talent. Even the minor casts approach their characters with precision and humanity they seem not to regurgitate a script but tossing out lines like spontaneous snippet of their daily dialogues.

Somewhere in the course of the film I wondered: Is it just me or the movie has an intriguing argument to make? The case being: Living in squalid condition, striving to live on and finding your way through brutalities of life are discouraging but not reasons to stop caring. Flashes of kindnesses are randomly injected to make this claim tangible: a sympathetic bar owner (essayed with candid, comic glee by Bonife himself who matter-of-factly declares “Kayong mga gays, bisexual, straight curious, straight tripper o ano man ang tawag ninyo sa sarili ninyo isa lang ang ipinunta natin dito: Burat!” Classic!), a benevolent police member of the NBI raid squad, a neighbor who would willingly split her meager meal all seem like rare likelihoods but one cannot deny their uncommon existence either.

Another interesting aspect is the underlying, semi-subversive stand essayed in the movie by putting an accent on the brand of people and forces that prey on the haplessness, desperation, misfortune and plain bad luck of individuals who are careworn and plainly, vainly trying as damned hard to claim a right to live for at least another day.

All throughout these tormenting moments ALNBNJ keeps itself in check: it is careful not to slide into sensationalism or petty melodrama. It never attempts to mine shallow sympathies on the plight and adverse conditions of its characters. It doesn’t rhapsodize the sexual scenes instead use them as natural progressions of the story. Thankfully Altarejos, Bonife and Salonga didn’t rehearse the rampant, cheap indie formula of “I Am So Desperate So I Am A Hooker” route but instead moulds its characters with willpower and fortitude. In so doing the movie and characters make our empathy spontaneous and potent.

ALSBNJ is honest and, despite the pitiable moments, is strangely kindhearted with acute understanding of a struggling soul’s tendencies and motivations. It is a well-crafted oeuvre and treats the widely familiar plot/flawed characters with delicate respect and legitimate deference. It openly tells a blunt story that will resonate with anyone who at one point in his life was driven to misery and anguish and how the viciousness and cruelty of other people (and life in general) will squeeze out that last remaining ounce of hope in you until you are rendered beaten, cynical and emotionally empty.

This is where I applaud and commend Altarejos + Bonife + Salonga. Ang Laro Ng Buhay Ni Juan is like a bittersweet, hand-written love letter designed to wound you. And it does wound you. It rouses your humanity into sudden wakefulness.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Ang Laro Ng Buhay Ni Juan is currently screening at Robinsons Mall Cinemas (Galleria/Manila. Please check other theater listings). Do support this worthwhile indie movie as a way of encouraging more neat materials to come to life and hit the screens!

Slumdog Male-O-Mares

2009-10-16T02:35:00.006+08:00

Cinemas are abuzz with independent films recently offering wide-ranging persuasive propositions that I’d like to view as stick-the-middle-finger-up-the-nostrils-of-Mother-Lily mockery. With the exception of Brillante Mendoza’s incurable stage of Auteuritis Extremis—a terminal syndrome marked by a director’s inability to use a tripod or a steady hand—local independent movies are getting better and better. Be it the craft in storytelling, the stark realism, the convincing narratives, the indies are getting more compelling with skewed perspectives and provocative ideas not beaten to a quivering pulp by the bland-headed executives of ABS-CBN/GMA Films.

Eponymous Pipo is not one of those movies and I wondered what kind of parent would name her son something that, when pronounced (pee poo), gives a disagreeable image of combined liquid waste and solid excrement. Later it became apparent: given the back draft of the movie it dawned to me that the name seems apt because all throughout the film I avoid staring too long at waterlogged backyards of floating shanties in the slums out of fear that something would surface from the murky waters that would make me lose interest for three consecutive dinners.

Pipo (Tyrone Perez) is a story of a reluctant hustler. We see him at the crossroad of his life when the call for familial responsibility outweighs the mandate of decency. Pipo’s best buddy, Mark (Marco Morales), a seasoned hustler/online sex performer, have been pressuring him to do an orgy scene for a dubious B-Movie. In this B-Movie Pipo is required to have sex with the very willing Mark and Mark’s live-in slash cybersex partner (who happens to be the kind of girl Pipo have a soft spot for). This is the cinematic equivalent of a fantasy breeding in the mind of bi-curious FHM magazine readers whose best buddy and his girlfriend are reason enough to digress from heterosexuality for a moment.

To milk out our communal sympathy it is essayed that the Pipo is a gallant brother and judicious son who would do great lengths to help the family he loves. He is a handsome chap concerned with the welfare of those he loves whose only crime is sporting a hurried Ricky Reyes buzz cut. His second crime would be not flashing his pubes or his dick onscreen, which is a grave misdemeanor if you have to consider the loud gripes of four fags seated behind me. (To appease this agitation, and as if on cue, Marco Morales yanked his briefs down thereby thwarting a likelihood of disgruntled riots by hormone-crazed viewers who would otherwise feel shortchanged).

Being the eldest child, Pipo is conflicted over trading his wang for moolah. The pressing needs of living, sacrce food, electricity and the litany of school necessities of his younger siblings torment him to no end. His mom struggles tremendously to make ends wave at each other by selling fish in neighborhood slum areas.

This is the main thesis of the movie: Poverty is the Autobahn to prostitution.

How many times have we seen or read about this argument before? The movie stakes this issue as if prostitution is the exclusive career of slum dwellers. (A concept my condo-dwelling, high-maintenance hoe neighbor would easily debunk. But a condo-dwelling whore is less cinematic, therefore not a saleable film concept?) Whenever I see a movie that says Look At Him He’s So Destitute He Has No Choice But Rent His Balls I begin to feel like I am being punished for not finishing my overpriced soup at Italiannis.

Of course a radical aleck would certainly point out: The way prostitution is viewed in this country is such a terrible thing. The hypocrisy is such that one thanks his lucky stars every day for not having to auction his penis. So what if someone is getting paid for sex? He’s not robbing you of your money, he’s giving you the pleasure and what is so bad about that? Isn’t every job in every antiseptic office a form of whoring, too?

The Philippines has no absolute claim on this “Poverty shortcut to Prostitution” complex. Colombia, Brazil and India have bazillion tales of poverty as reason for commercial sex and their hustlers look like they leapt out of GQ or wandered in from casting call of Dior Homme whereas our local movie’s version offers a sad coterie of folks spotted at D’Mall and slapped them with acting contracts. You go to Las Vegas, Berlin or Amsterdam and you’d meet jolly chaps who seem like they are having a lot of fun doing something they do exceptionally for cash. No histrionics, no pseudophilosophical bullshit. It just is: a job that pays so you might as well embrace and love it.

And here are my other questions: is it imperative that all the independent gay movies coming out in the past two years would require a filthy slum or a super seedy bar to illustrate a gay piece? Would a poignant gay story cannot be told without getting intimate with fifth generation E. Coli/Salmonella co-leasing dilapidated housing and soggy alleys? Are slums the new Petri dishes of homosexuality?

Aside from those mind-boggling questions I must say Pipo is not necessarily a reasonable piece of distraction. The direction was not entirely faulty and you can sense commitment and sensitivity but it appears strewn. The tale is not spectacular, nor does it offer fresh insights on the predicaments of prostitutes or the triumph of the human spirit but it has a candid perseverance that attempts to win you over. Tyrone Perez labors to convey the turmoil and acceptance of his fate with a visible struggling grasp of material. Marco Morales delivers his role with lackluster candor though certain instances in the movie there were glints that he can be convincing with fitting and challenging roles in the future.

Pipo is a cinematic manhole (no pun intended). On one hand you’ll avoid looking under the lid for the darkness and grime. The other hand seduces you into a different kind of mirror where you’d see a sullied version of humanity stare back with unflinching eyes.

Le Cum des Garçons

2009-10-13T00:48:00.020+08:00

Ill supply of unique title seems to be the emerging trend among independent movies. Altarejos+Bonife triggered the wave with Little Boy Big Boy and now we have Boy by Solito Aureaus and Boylets by Cris Pablo. If the trailer is any indication Boylets seems poised to bring home the Cheedar Cheese Championship hands down, guaranteed to launch projectile/nostril-spurting of soda among moviegoers. Naturally I would brave the lines to watch it for the promise of sheer ludicrous, campy fun. Being a demented and devoted follower of Pablo’s autership I am hugely convinced that If It’s From Pablo It Must Be A Riot. He is the 21st century minor clone of Joey Gosengfiao and Elwood Perez manifested by his deep understanding of the public’s need for cinematic ridiculousness narrated with pubic hair.

I have repeatedly postponed writing about Little Boy Big Boy. I was convinced I’d be unable to come up with something sensible. LBBB was by far the least inflammatory among the body of provocative works we have learned to anticipate from Altarejos and Bonife. Though it’s not terrible piece I wouldn’t proclaim it a triumph either. I thought of not writing about it at all and opted to wait out till Ang Laro ng Buhay ni Juan hits the theaters but Boy and Boylets arrived and the troika seems to be an interesting thing to pursue.

Don’t get me wrong: LBBB was somewhat clever, the direction was earnest but I felt the very strength which was hallmark of Altarejos and Bonife backfired this time: that is the ability to cast unproven actors to inhabit roles and surprise everyone by delivering spectacular performances. In LBBB the two lead stars were visibly struggling and even the kid star lacked the charisma that comes off easily among children. The girl playmate of the kid emerged to be the saving grace and the cameo of Bonife as the diva slash high priestess facilitator in the grand orgy scene reeled the movie from static dullness.

Interestingly, and I maybe looking for a fish where there is none, the orgy scene provides unintentional revelation and critique on the brutal discrimination within the gay community. You have no business joining orgies if you are fat or unattractive or too swishy, more so if you can’t handle dismissal or rejection. Coming from a work of dynamic duo who steadfastly promote tolerance and equal rights and have used the cinema as medium for wider appreciation of gay culture makes it all the more ironic though it cuts through and drive a point.

LBBB clearly is not intended for fags itching for a quick fix. It is a story that just needed to be told. Unfussy, earnest, wry. It screwed your carnal expectations and, serves you right.

***

Consider Solito Aureaus’ Boy as Snow White’s celluloid love letter to gay twinks everywhere. It is a sweeping letter, throbbing with hormonal tension, pulsating with anticipation and yearning. It is the teenage daybreak to the pleasures and struggles of stumbling into incomprehensible, intense affection - affection so potent it hits you like a quick kick in the head, the ribcage and the crotch, all at the same time.

Fans of Ang Pagdadalaga Ni Maximo Oliveros (The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros) would meet this latest work with a sense of familiarity. With this new opus, it's apparent that teenage angst is the province Aureaus know very well. Boy is gleefully treading this recognizable terrain, this tricky path of honeyed agony mixed with exhilaration of being confronted, for the first time, with the kind of gravity that snatches you from self-satisfaction and sends you spinning into an orbit of desire and persistent pining for someone who seems to be beyond your reach. It is that tender, naive spot that will strike a chord with anyone who has ever rooted for another person who appears incapable of reciprocating your burning infatuation in equal measure.

It tells of the story of aspiring poet, Boy (Aeious Asin), a Barely Legal creative writing student whose freshly-scrubbed appearance belies the murky stirrings of his gonads. He wandered into a gay bar and was instantly smitten by the star dancer Aries (Aries Pena) writhing onstage. Aries moves like his choreography were either inspired by observing mating rituals of scorpions or he's keen on plagiarizing floor exercises of yoga instructors and Olympic gymnasts. This is the kind of choreography that you will be advised against by people behind Anlene.

Boy has charms in spades. It charms you into sharing the conflicting emotions of its protagonists. It charms you into easy empathy by providing a human window into the plights of sex workers. It charms you into believing, like that Snow White chorus line “Someday your prince will come”, and sweep you off your feet. It charms you into discarding cynicism and jadedness and for one moment convinces you to revisit the wide-eyed aspiration that love IS possible. It charms you the most that the acting of Asin and Pena were inspired, graceful, subtle, as they tossed out gestures and dialogues that make you wish you are either delivering them or the recipient thereof.

Various movie scenes ricocheted in my head while watching Boy. There’s that Jerry Maguire moment of talking to a fish (or was it the peek behind the aquarium moment in Baz Luhrmann's Romeo+Juliet?), there’s that La Pieta gesture of Whitney Houston’s The Bodyguard (which prompted unanimous gasps and sighs from love-soaked members in the audience) and the fantasy scene at the gay bar evoked the sequence in that teenage gay flick Were The World Mine. While the Stripper-meets-cute-client-and-fall-for-him vibe made me recall the funny misadventures of two dudes in Trick.

Though I must declare my soft spot for Boy - and believe me I thoroughly enjoyed the movie- I must register minor dissent towards how Aureaus seem to view coming of age like cotton candy handed out easily. In both Maximo and Boy, Auereaus appears to approach gay stirrings with down-cushioned mittens. Though I will not go the lengths of calling it fancy autism it’s noteworthy that Maximo's slum-hardened, tough guy father and siblings coddle him like a pampered princess (a far cry from what would happen in reality if you get caught staring at Bench billboards by your maton older brother). In Boy, Asin has a very accepting mother who didn’t launch into melodramatic hysteria (like most mothers would) upon walking into her sleeping son’s room and (finding him with cum all over his belly/or that crucial scene of) discovering him in bed blissfully asleep with a call boy in a cloud of post-coital haze.

Questions: How many of these ideal relatives exist out there? Where do these kind of people live? And how come no one I know rarely is in acquaintance with any of them? Is this wishful thinking to encourage everyone to dive for the open lifestyle? How many strippers out there would be instantly forge endearment with clients?

If the answers to these questions are not easy to come by in real life, in a way, does it give young gay people a false sense of hope? And all it takes is visit to Little Boy Big Boy’s orgy scene or opening an account in ferociously dismissive PlanetRomeo/ManJam, or a rather bad encounter with con hustlers for a sobering dose of reality?

Then there’s the glowing press fuss about how the movie shed a new light on the quandaries of sex workers and how they are given human dimensions in the movie. Laudable effort indeed, but this not a novel perspective. The Prostitute-Are-Humans-Too essays have been explored many times over in varying degrees of treatment and accomplishments and although in Boy Aries delivered this insight with great panache and restraint it is hardly a groundbreaking proposition.

Auereaus is a gifted, sensitive auteur. He has very confident command of his materials and point of view and he has deep reserves of sympathy for his characters and audience. He skates the delicate line between gentleness and perspective-changing without subjecting you to a moralist preamble. He is also possessed of that deft ability to infuse a dose of high-art (poetry reading/interpretative dancing/poetic monologues, anyone?) and keeping things in check to prevent a downhill into pretentiousness.

Boy is rich in breath-taking textures, mood, emotion and metaphors. It is a cinematic reminder of youthful delinquency and the very first encounter with tenderness remembered in vivid details. It makes you dream.

And you thought you have forgotten how.

*****
*****

(Coming up Pipo. AND Boylets.)

Volunteer Brigands

2009-10-07T03:51:00.003+08:00

Losing humor is a rare occasion for me but tonight I so wanted to be The Grinch who wishes he brought an Uzi.

I decided to go to the Mega Tent at the DepEd complex, a few of blocks from where I live, to participate in the Human Chain project. If you are the exceptional species who was immune to the viral Facebook infection let me explain. The Human Chain was an initiative calling on volunteers to help distribute relief goods to typhoon evacuees currently housed at The Ultra. Some five hundred families sleeping on the cold concrete floor of the oversize gymnasium needed help. Volunteers will fall in line and pass on packed goods from the Mega Tent to The Ultra, recreating the human equivalent of the Great Wall. Think analog conveyor belt with hands.

Anyway the Facebook call was somewhat ominous. It said “Wear Green.”

I work in the creative industry and green means something else. On the metaphorical note it could mean life, hope, a newbie or soiled thoughts.

In this case it meant mingling with well-scrubbed, well-fed, folks with accented twangs, and cute beyond belief citizens of a certain university infamous for having Parking as the most difficult academic course. (Hello high school life, Misterheuge!)

I was in awe. People who would ordinarily consider lifting a broom beneath their dignity or doing menial jobs a fate one stoplight away from oppression or death were busily packing goods, animatedly bantering, not minding inhaling the CO2s of many jologs sweating, laboring next to them in the crowd. If this is not the closest thing to World Peace, I dunno what is.

So what got my goat?

The fucking grandstanders.

While majority of the well-intentioned Green People were frantically working along plebeians, a number of Green Dorks seem to have wandered in by mistake. Instead of toiling for the sake of others they were busy like, talking, like, you know, while busily preening, like with their friends, posing along neatly organized bags of goodies making peace signs and smiling like demented versions of Spongebob Fancypants!

I didn’t see some of them lift a finger to help; the only fingers they own that were busy were the ones glued to the shutters of iPhones and digital cams.

I wished I had access to a megaphone so I can yell: “This is not fucking Disneyland!”

What a bunch of retards. There is no doubt those images are gonna clog facebook later along captions on how they helped packed those goodies.

Huy poseurs, mahiya naman kayo! You are ruining the profound intentions of people with genuine motive to help. You are giving non-Green gawkers more ammunition against you by acting like bratty layabouts.

The Human Chain had a good turn out and excellent achievement. It restored our collective faith in human capacity for empathy/sympathy and for one moment you forget demographic divides for a common goal. According to the organizer it started as a joke but to the amazement of everyone, it snowballed into a tremendous response in the time of needs of others. Kudos to you people! This rotten country needs more of you!

All it takes is a few charming folks to foul the mood. I shudder thinking of the very likelihood that those PseudoVolunteers will end up running for public office.

Before that happens give me an Uzi.

Redemption Schlong

2009-10-03T17:53:00.008+08:00

Ditching a blogging habit was not what I intended but somehow slid off to. I never knew the put down review of a book “Once you’ve put it down, it’s difficult to pick it up again” would take resonance in this case. Then I happen to have feisty online friends like Doc Ian and Misterheuge who do not understand the concept of leaving people at peace. They needled me to post something, in alternating degrees of coercion, witty tirades and mild threats. Though I have been debating for weeks whether to finally kick the non-update lapse by posting alternative point of view on indie mavericks’ Altarejos+Bonife recent effort, Little Boy Big Boy. I must say the urge to kick start a blog resurrection wasn’t as tantalizing enough as creating a Manjam account or combing Burgos street for cleavage and tease. I will definitely write an overdue post about Little Boy Big Boy soon. However, the movie that salvaged me from blog coma stars what I thought was the worthy torch bearer of Ice Cube’s acting in Anaconda.

Bayaw (pronounced bah-yao, meaning Brother-In-Law) is the movie, and just the sound of the word is enough to make me erupt into hearty snickers. Mention the word in breathy utterances and you’d have Seiko Films materials complete with Kenny G soundtrack, bad fashion and campy dialogues. Naturally these things appeal to me and, as you already know reading my past entries, I have the fixation for absurdity.

Then I got the revelation of my life. Janvier Daily can act! This is the kind of thing you get when you sign up for volunteer work thinking you’d be toiling with Falcon or Bel Ami hopefuls only to find out they can be conversant on Sartre, Freud or Newton and can make Jeff Koons and Kurt Andersen look like lumbering amateurs. Hyperbole? Sure. If you want safe blandness go memorize Apples Aberin’s fashion critiques at Project Runway Season Two. (I wonder why her name is not hyphenated anymore. Whatever happened to Sadhwani?)

Bayaw, (insert snicker here) is a fun flick. The movie poster of Janvier reminds me of the shivering wreck in Trainspotting plus a cigarette and a scowl. The story revolves around the in-laws on the run. It is a curiously working jumble of the Thai film Bangkok Love Story, the French flick Base Moi which is carnage and sex maturity of Thelma and Loise, and the breathless sprint of Run Lola Run.

Paolo Rivero plays the role of Nilo Vergara, a brooding, ruggedly handsome mildly corrupt policeman who was discharged from service after being framed for a drug buy-bust operation. Janvier Daily plays Rhennan, his brother-in-law, a street bum in baggy cargo whose higher calling is to become the Michelangelo and Steve Wynn of spider fight gambling. Their fates are bonded interminably after a physical tussle with Paolo’s nagging, cheating wife, leading to her alleged accidental death.

Pursued by the shockingly efficient police force, they dodge arrest, sowing petty crimes, mayhem and murder in their wake, undoubtedly to honor the legacy of Andrew Cunanan. Complicating things, Janvier has a cute male stalker (Andrew Miguel) who follows their trail, blackmailing and ultimately assisting them in snatching purses. He has the hots for Janvier and has a sneaky agenda. To emphasize that this movie is thick on the gay slant he tries to score a fuck with both steamy leads and I don't blame him. Who wouldn’t?

Being on the lam drives the in-laws on the edge and the tension was so palpable that while hiding in a rundown hostel, they turned on the TV and beheld porn. Terribly tense and horny Paolo demanded a head job by pointing a gun on Janvier’s temple. The scene, though appeals to the fantasies of many, is somewhat droll. Excuse me, Paolo, but if you are THAT attractive, would it really be necessary to hold someone at gunpoint to score a blowjob? Wouldn’t it be so much easier to just show up at Manjam or PlanetRomeo grand eyeballs? When Paolo did the same stunt on the cute stalker rouge, I thought that gun-pointing for head-job is becoming a ridiculous trend. Paolo, in the future, should you need to get off, the gun would be superfluous. Why terrorize someone when you can have hundreds of much-willing fluffers just by wearing the movie’s police costume and spamming the blog postings of SGLover on the fetish forums of PinoyG4M.com?

To disclose the motivations of the two leads it is mandatory that they get caught. The interrogator was fun to watch because under the unflattering fluorescent lamp he is what would happen if Manoling Morato goes straight but is not quite ready to let go of his Lyna Face Cream.

One thing should be established: This movie is Javier Daily’s redemption. It is as if he studied the restraint of Julio Diaz in the recent indie outings and took notes while upping the ante by flashing his schlong so as to remind everyone that his new found acting maturity comes with a really big bonus. In the scene where he was given a bath by the obsessed stalker I can hear popcorn kernels dislodging the throats of excitable guys in the audience and many screaming types suppressed a wild shriek by sucking deeply on their oversize Slurpees. The pivotal confrontation scene between the husband and wife where he took a drastic move was so intense I now officially strip him of The Ice Cube statue I naively awarded him in Roxxxane. All this guy needs is good material and a capable director.

Needless to say I loved Bayaw. It is a wild romp of crime, mayhem and surprising tenderness. Paolo was a disheveled dreamboat who has the sturdy acting chops that prevents the whole material going downhill into cheesiness. The plot is neither ground-breaking nor very fresh but it sure is compelling. Monti Parungao’s direction was confident and the cast committed to hold the movie together by delivering more than respectable performances. It is the kind of escapism that is worthwhile to watch. Or imagine. In this vein let me say:

Brooding, ruggedly handsome single policemen out there, I can run and I have a sister.

Shoot Them Hazardous Big Birds Perching On Billboards

2009-06-22T02:35:00.012+08:00

Buwayahman, thank you for pointing a stream of unsuspecting bloghoppers my way, also for sharing my amused incredulity over Bench’s Bleak Is Back campaign, but most importantly for sharing this link, which, after reading it makes me feel good about living in a country where a hard working (pun semi intended) Public Works Secretary selflessly multitask as an MTRCB vigilante, a quack bishop, an urban traffic specialist, a cognitive behavior authority, an ethical guardian and alert defender of humanity’s crusade against hormonal urges. No words can convey my deep admiration to Secretary Ebdane that in order to compensate on this inadequacy I seek inspiration at Bangbus.com.

I am sure Public Works Secretary Hermogenes Ebdane is a fine, God-fearing, conscientious public official who took it upon himself to protect us from our irresponsible ways such as possibly enjoying a crotch shot of Marc Nelson in barely-there briefs too much. Though I will say that Dingdong Dantes as a celestial figure with brushed on tan and airbrushed crotch is a hilarious proposition I must say that to some people it represents a wish Santa will be too cranky to grant come Christmas. In the economics-fueled mind of Ben Chan, this makes a lot of sense. The more people see Dingdong’s dong the more the Bench cash register dings.

“Seriously,” David Sedaris once remarked in one of his public talks when he visited Manila. “There is an actual person named Dingdong?”

Which triggers a semi-philosophical question: What kind of mother would allow her daughter to go to the prom with a guy named Ding Dong without getting alarmed or cracking up?

Would you date a guy named Ding Dong?

But I am digressing.

Much as I might admire the dedicated valiance of Public Works Secretary Hermogenes Ebdane, I will go on record to say that I am conflicted: if there should be a moral standard prohibiting everything obscene then how come our fine secretary is not making much of a ruckus over being publicly plied with Boy Abunda’s nostrils? Is Abunda's flaming nostrils considered Obscene Lite compared to, say, Rafael Rosell's equally flaming bulge? Which is more sinful? Kris Aquino selling products she doesn't patronize or Katrina Halili's cleavage in yet another Bench outdoor tease?

Shouldn’t a mere mention of Boy Abunda and billboard under the same breath a violation of human rights?

But before you, moralists out there take your machetes out allow me to meditate on that Inquirer piece.

Ebdane has ordered billboard owners to remove the “sexy” ads, saying they distract and slow down motorists, including him.

“They themselves know that some of these billboards are sexually suggestive. They (outdoor advertisers) should voluntarily remove these billboards,” he said.

Sexually suggestive? When our very beloved and outspoken president once said her sex life “IS healthy” during on-air interview no one took issue even if that banter of a statement ripped across our collective consciousness and possibly would be a basis of the rise in classified enrollment in a private academy training emotionally scarred assassins. The entire legislative body going all worked up because some beauty surgeon videotaped his exploits broadcasted during evening news where school kids are given assignments to watch for the next day’s news report in class. What is that then, sexually subtle?

He claimed that sexy advertisements contribute to the worsening of the traffic situation in Metro Manila, already one of the worst in Asia.

Yes, let’s blame the billboards and leave MMDA and corrupt traffic enforcers blameless.

Ebdane noted that these billboards make motorists lose their focus on the road.

We can remedy this. Only Jesus Saves! billboard will be allowed and people would rather stare on asphalt ahead.

DPWH Director for Planning Service Melvin Navarro said that for drivers, a split-second look at the billboards could lead to an accident.

Indeed. While we're at it let’s have Mr. Navarro’s cranium scanned for permanent damage.

Bleak Is Back

2009-06-14T01:30:00.011+08:00

Surely, you have noticed it. How can you not when traffic conditions in this city would have it that you’d sooner finish Proust’s Remembrance Of Things Past than gain a yard forward in EDSA on a Monday evening? And let's not even linger on the tortures of Friday evenings, which is the ideal time of the week to realize your tardy nervous breakdown. That, or your instant induction to Homicidals Anonymous.

Anyway, I’m drifting far from the main mutton of this entry.

Surely you have noticed Bench’s Black To School billboard along EDSA, somewhere in the neighborhood of Estrella and Buendia. It features hip hop star JayR, beckoning you towards carnal thoughts, with a sly smile and not a stitch more than a black leather jacket and white underwear.

I craned my neck hundreds of feet upwards, making a fine impression of Linda Blair the first time I spot it while speeding off to an appointment in Makati. It was a sight to behold and I am not talking in terms of hormonal considerations.

It was a sight to behold because whoever thought of that idea must be licking hallucinogenic perspirations off exotic frogs’ backs. It was beyond cheeseball. It’s a scream!

Back to school terms in Manila coincides with the rainy season, which coincides with the western nations celebrating summer, which if you meditate upon the disparity, is the equivalent of a climate time warp that proves God has a sense of humor. Or, as steadfast Environmentalists would sternly point out, it’s another infallible proof that Ben Chan must have a naughty fetish to have finally come to terms with publicly.

Leather in a tropical country is beyond bravery. Bench is beyond brave, obviously. Bench must be the only global brand I know who refuse to acknowledge the fact that humans have sweat glands.

Since this is a “Black to School” campaign I am naturally giving it more thought than necessary.

“Black to School” is an attempt at wordplay but in this campaign it has the same wit as George Bush buying a dildo. Why didn’t they just made is easy by declaring “Bleak Is Back” and save everyone the trouble?

(Another possibility: "Blank is Back" in reference to the concept.)

And I am interested to know: Which school would have a black leather jacket, an exposed abdomen and plain underwear as standard academic uniform because I’m anticipating long lines in front of its admissions office!

The concept, art direction and execution points into one speculative route: This kind of uniform can only exist in an elite Prep School where the Director of Student Services took inspiration from a scholarly thesis on Tom Of Finland with complementary extensive research in the archives of Bel Ami Online.

This is a very enticing proposition until I realized another aspect of the Black To School Billboard: the crotch was airbrushed that makes me wonder if instead of a penis JayR found the crotch area as ideal storage for one miniature pillow. Or could it be that this is due to the materials innovation made possible by collaboration with Tempur –Pedic to meet the standards of MTRCB, PANA and approvals of the clergy?

Bench used to convey advertising pieces that make you aspire or dream. This is no longer the case with the label lately, I am not giddy to report. "Black To School" makes this more apparent with its simple mission: cardiac arrest from laughter.

Outrated

2009-05-22T13:57:00.005+08:00

Mark, editor and publisher at Outrate messaged me, seeking permission to re-post my insane review of Cris Pablo's Moreno. I hope this won't encourage people to poke their eyes with red-hot forks after they rent the DVD and watch it.

I told him that as a matter of habit i mock movies with glee but do try to encourage people to support the worthy ones. He replied thusly:

"Poking fun at lousy movies and encouraging people to see the good ones is what Outrate exists for!"

Check out Outrate! It's a relief to know someone shares this breed of neurosis!

Dog Daze

2009-05-11T23:45:00.016+08:00

"Over a dog!" Jack Nicholson sobs in As Good As It Gets. "Over an ugly dog!"

I find myself becoming sympathetic to his obsessive-compulsive, mean-spirited character because as bibliophilic luck would have it a very thin book would send my insecurity into an all-time high. I was reading Sharon Creech’s Love That Dog and I was stunned.

This seemingly effortless book has visceral effect on me despite its breezy nature. Its comic innocence coats the unadorned profundity and general marvel that only a child-at-heart can truly grasp. Not exactly superior to the almost reverential regard I place on Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s Le Petit Prince and Jose Saramago’s Tale of The Unknown Island but Love That Dog sweeps me into the great, sweet pleasure of having discovered it. It’s nothing short of a gem.

It’s the unfussy but totally charismatic story of Jack, the little boy whose awakening towards the strange magnetism of writing poetry is gently nudge with positive encouragement by Miss Stretchberry, his teacher. The book (as previously noted) is digestible in one coffee break, written in an interesting way that would probably happen if you compound Anne Frank and E.E. Cummings into a less mischievous version of Calvin ( of Calvin & Hobbes). It has that hypnotic feel-good quality that warms over the jadedness of even hardcore cynics (present blogger included).

Take for instance the first entry:

September 13

I don’t want to
because boys
don’t write poetry.

Girls do.

Or his take on The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams:

September 17

I don’t understand
the poem about
the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
and why so much
depends upon
them.

If that is a poem
about the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
then any words
can be a poem.

You’ve just got to
make
short
lines.

His almost-naïve wit is disarming. Take for instance his reaction to Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost:

October 17

What was up with
the snowy woods poem
you read today?

Why doesn’t the person just
keep going if he’s got
so many miles to go
before he sleeps?

And why do I have to tell more
about the blue car
splattered with mud
speeding down the road?

I don’t want to
write about that blue car
that had miles to go
before it slept,
so many miles to go
in such a hurry.

I was chuckling like a maniac when I read his understanding of The Pasture by Robert Frost:

January 10

I really really really
did NOT get
the pasture poem
you read today.

I mean:
somebody’s going out
to the pasture
to clean the spring
and to get
the tottery calf
while he’s out there
and he isn’t going
to be gone long
and he wants YOU
(who is YOU)
to come too.

I mean REALLY.

And you said that
Mr. Robert Frost
who wrote
about the pasture
as the one
who wrote about
those snowy woods
and the miles to go
before he sleeps—
well!

I think Mr Robert Frost
has a little
too
much
time
on his
hands.

Kirkus Reviews called this compact treasure “A really special triumph” and I nod like a deranged woodpecker in absolute assent. This miniature tome defused my skepticism and I am wide eyed in amazement.

My ultimate, special triumph, is owning this book, courtesy of Booksale.

At forty five bucks it's practically a precious gift, if I ever see one!

= = =

A sampling of my recent Booksale loot:

01. The intelligent, compelling, lucid Kiss & Tell from the beautiful mind of Alain de Botton. Seventy five bucks.

02. The eloquent, tender and beguiling Floating In My Mother’s Palm by one of my favorite contemporary fiction authors, Ursula Hegi. Forty five bucks

03. The amply comical slash savage tragicomedy in Things We Do For Love by playwright/director/actor Alan Aykbourn. Twenty bucks.

Instead of paying my electricity bills I hoarded books which will make me the least favorite human being by Meralco inspectors, who will undoubtedly disconnect my power next week with mad glee.

I’ll be living in darkness but my mind will be glowing every time I put each volume down.

Gallerina Doubts God And Other Tales Of Artistic Missteps

2009-05-06T00:40:00.010+08:00

Deducting a title from dusty pillars of books fencing my bedside was something I was hell-bent of accomplishing these past few days. If you have been occasionally drifting here in my blog you'll, by now, be aware that I belong to that anomalous subspecies of human beings with narcotic impetus to hoard books, stack them like soon-to-be-forgotten bricks in one corner of the room to soak dust until boredom hits and the urge to read them become the only alternative to serial killing.

Recent hoarding spree includes copies of A.A. Gill’s The Angry Island, Zadie Smith’s White Teeth, Roddy Doyle’s Oh Play That Thing and the title I devoured in one sitting, Danielle Ganek’s Lulu Meets God And Doubts Him.

Lulu is a glossy, stylish, smart, brisk, (often hilariously) wry send up to Manhattan’s nutty Art Scene, populated by snooty “gallerinas” (bratty, gorgeous gallery assistants), dubious but high-powered art dealers, ravenous collectors and egotistical artists who fuel the psychosis of Art Lust.

It’s a challenge to put it down. You’re immediately siphoned into the riotous circus of characters nonchalantly trading greed, ambition, power, fame and fortune, making you wonder whether there is a special cell in hell allocated to people who would declare, say, a bucket of brittle cow dung high concept magnum opus. There were no cow dung in the book of course, and I write this in hyperbolic sense, but personally having once worked in a gallery of a museum (and having been exposed to the kind of personalities lucidly described in the book) it is not far from being the neighborhood of really happening.

Tucked in the middle of the debauched tale are ponderings that will ring true regardless whether one is working in the creative industry or not. The sardonic protagonist, an atypical gallerina who cultivates a hidden path to being a bonafide painter herself, mulls over while attempting a self portrait:

There’s something in my eyes when I look at them in the mirror, what is that? Not doubt. More like insecurity. I want to convey an expression of what’s it like to be twenty-eight, knowing you’re a grown up but wondering what you’re supposed to be when you grow up. I want to capture what it looks like when you start to realize you have to let go of your dreams.

She robbed many of us of our very own familiar sentiments.

~ ~ ~

While we are dipping in the subject of art books allow me to take this sudden/short-lived vacation from being a complete zit and urge you to check out Preview Magazine’s stunning book of collaboration titled Preview Art.

I am not the target audience of the fashion/style rag nor am I an ardent follower of their monthly lunacy but I am very much impressed by what they have accomplished with this project.

Preview Art explores the intersection of avant-garde fashion and contemporary art in one spectacular compendium. The Philippines’ progressive crop of multitalented artists convenes alongside inventive local fashion designers, documented through cutting edge styling, art direction and photography.

This Fashion+Art concept is not exclusively original to Preview as we have throughout the years looked at groundbreaking efforts at Visionaire, Spoon, Self Service, Tank, Wad even Paper and i-D magazines. Even locally-published bi-annual Imagine magazine pushes the boundaries in this variety of exploration.

Nevertheless this is a creditable, worthwhile endeavor for Preview Magazine as it coincides with the publication of their one hundred fiftieth editions. Instead of producing self-congratulatory circle jerks for their accomplishments (through reprinting their best past works) they refused to regurgitate their archives and did the most inspired thing: publishing a striking volume that surveys the visionary practitioners in the artistic disciplines, highlighting the most innovative, conceptual approaches. The cutting edge soft-bound effort divulges a sort of foretaste to where Philippine Creative Psyche is heading when encouraged. That is a very smart thing to do.

Noticeable nonetheless is Preview Art’s “The Usual Suspects” decisions. The (majority, if not all of) designers, stylists, photographer/s and artists featured are already big names or semi-established brand names in the scene. Don't get me wrong; I admire many of those names and their works. If I may register a slight regret, this project could have been a very impactful, landmark platform to catapult obscure but prodigiously gifted, or serve as a pool for brilliant undiscovered or emerging creative individuals into prominence, or at least in the appreciative radar of the mainstream. This could have been a good route if Preview wishes to assert its claim as THE progressive seer—THE Forward Thinker among local style rags.

Regardless of this minor lapse nothing can alter the fact that Preview Art accomplished a striking momentum in curating works into a tome of distinctive voices. Through its high styled-high art convergence we get a refreshing glimpse: That Pinoy creativity is not only thriving, it is throbbing with dynamism and excitement.

Well done Preview Magazine! For your birthday I wish you’d be a maverick and abolish “Black Is Back” in your coverlines!

Bobby Eusebio! You Naughty, Naughty Boy!

2009-04-29T19:04:00.010+08:00

Getting a community tax certificate at the Pasig City Hall, though not entirely an experience comparable to a brief detention in fifth level of Hell (or Auschwitz), is something strikingly similar to masochism that you emerge from it more sympathetic to Holy Week flagellants. Having no patience compounds the lovely experience, especially when you are handed a waiting number 585 and the counter is still serving number 23. There is no scientific/statistical evidence yet but you suspect the act of getting cedula is a prime recruitment tool for rebel and separatist groups. After fifteen minutes of shifting your weight in those welded airport chairs you begin nursing violent thoughts. Amplifying your growing homicidal tendencies will be the ceiling-mounted televisions bookending opposite ends of the hall, showing the painful, unwatchable noontime duel of equally-brainless dreck popularly known as Eat Bulaga and Wowowee. Twenty minutes of these lunchtime genius and you'll catch yourself plotting to wipe out Camp Crame, The Congress, The Senate and the entire local chapter of Lady Gaga Fans Club.

Ages later you're nothing but a quivering heap of mutated protoplasm. You regroup your scattered sanity and get the hell out.

On the way home you spot the City slogan emblazoned boldly on the tacky pedestrian overpass. It yells:

SIGE PA...PASIG! SIGE PA!*

You suddenly feel dirty.

* More, Pasig! More! (This is the decent/Rated GP translation)

Summer Flyer Designed During An Eclipse

2009-04-27T18:28:00.008+08:00

Ignore the ugly design. Join the pretty fun it promises.( I am NOT responsible for this acid trip design. A Blog friend requested I post this and threatens to self-destruct if I don't. So, there).

Dialogue Straight Out Of A Gosengfiao Script

2009-04-23T12:38:00.000+08:00

Seated next to me in a cybercafé is an ultra-aggressive salesman from a Pyramid/Networking company involved in indeterminate products slash foreign exchange. He was explaining how the schemes work to a posse of loud women who seemed to be new recruits, or as I fondly call them, suckers.

I tried to zone out their networking twaddle but it was hard to ignore one of the women’s three-hued garish eye shadow/s, in shades that would make the pantone swatch book/the rainbow bright characters/the teletubbies/Elton John/Bob Mackie/Liberace’s closet look neutral.

“Ikaw, SIR!” he suddenly turned to me (which made me jump a little) with the mad enthusiasm not seen outside Oprah/Wheel Of Fortune/Televised Evanglism. “Baka gusto ninyo sumideline!” (How about you, sir?! Would you be interested to make a quick buck?”)

Even a frozen Rice-A-Roni would have a better judgment not to ever attempt declining a networking salesman’s behest. They thrive on rejection. As a sales mantra would have it: “Selling begins when the client says no!”

Or the way I would decode it: “If they decline, the fools, bring out the Holy Book and begin quoting from the Book of Revelations until they are wracked with guilt and terror that their brains melt into a gooey muck and start oozing out of their nostrils!”

Idiot that I am, in my scatterbrained state, politely but foolishly uttered a tepid “No, thank you.”

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Sensing a golden chance to dazzle his lady friends of his convincing genius, and, the potential of an economic reward of converting me into a slavering cash cow/downline he latched on my disinterest/rejection like fungal infection that refuses to go away.

“Ayaw mo yumaman?!” (Don’t you want to be rich?!) he exclaimed in a mix of shock, awe and disbelief.

Look, I may be a bonafide zit online but in real life I try to be polite and respectful of people trying to have a crack at a living. So I half-smiled and shook my head.

Naturally this incensed the resolve of the salesman, who by now is fully enraptured in an evangelical mission to convert my disbelieving refusal and embrace the untold wealth awaiting me in the grand altar of pyramid scams, errr schemes.

“Bakit?!” (Why?!)

Now I was struggling to phrase a difficult decision to refuse an equally-pesky client request and the salesman's hell-bent in not giving me a slice of quiet or a semblance of personal space.

“I am very busy, I have no time.” I said without tearing away my focus on my typing.

“Ayaw mo kumita ng MORE THAN TWENTY THOUSAND a month?!” (Are you refusing potential 20K earning in a month?” His eyes flashed like the Mephistopheles in Faustus.

Wickedness crept into my warped mind.

I stopped typing, faced him, stared, smiled with the menacing glee of Jack Nicholson in The Shining, and hissed:

“I earn more than that per hour!”

A lie, obviously. But peace was restored between us.

So It’s No Longer A Dirty Word?

2009-04-23T00:48:00.010+08:00

Bisexuals are regarded as odd subspecies in the self-loathing gay-o-sphere. Not only erroneously misunderstood but the mere mention of the B word divides even equal rights-seeking gaylandia into two fierce camps: The first camp dismisses bisexuality as one stoplight away from full blown fruitcakehood ergo the one who claims to be occupying that gray zone is in the state of deep denial, pretentious, hypocritical.

The second camp reflexively frowns on the bi word with a mix of skepticism, trivializing/mild hostility, snide suspicion and open disdain.

The poor Bis of the world! Overtly vilified for daring to enjoy both worlds!

(Personally I don't give a toss about how snarky folks view the B word. Think whatever you want about the B word, brand me whatever convenient adjective your narrow mind can come up with, but nothing will change the fact that coitus with the feminine breed can be equally enjoyable as an occasional bromance. Just don’t sum me up with your insular way of thinking because I do not meddle with who or what you fuck either.)

Not that the B kind needs validation but the species is teetering into becoming a
trend. The Daily Beast argues the coolness of having it both ways and as a sort-of-expected consequence the smarty-snarks at Gawker reacted with automatic wisecracks and jovial lampoon.

Does this mean the B word is officially laundered? Or should we revisit that orientation-bending gray zone David Bowie glamorized as pansexuality and declare it the new black?

Oral Pleasure Awaits A Zac Efron Clone!

2009-04-21T22:26:00.008+08:00

Scatterbrain infection is still upon me, rendering me incompetent in the blogging department. So as not to fling this feeble blog into the permanent depths of passing black holes I’d feed it a steady supply of random things. This policy is of course the blogging equivalent of eating LuckyMe instant noodles: filling yet empty. Or staring at the shirtless Zac Efron: compelling yet intangible.

So!

For this edition of LoudCloud I’ll share recent stuff I hoarded to gather dust by my bedside.

01. Philip Roth – The Great American Novel
02. Richard Russo – Straight Man
03. Martin Amis – Success
04. Richard Dooling – Bet Your Life
05. Douglas Coupland – The Gum Thief
06. Armistead Maupin – Michael Tolliver Lives
07. Don Dellilo - Falling Man

In case words fail to arouse you here are a few tracks to subsist on:

The Evil Panda offers an incentive: he'll enthusiastically extend oral pleasure to those who can guess all the titles and artists and the albums these stuff were pilfered from.*

Start googling. Meanwhile Evil Panda is being busy paralyzing his gag reflex.

(* subject to Vatican approval, of course. Only applicable to those who look like the aforementioned shirtless Efron)

Yet Another Dispatch From The Limbo

2009-04-21T00:19:00.006+08:00

Crawling out of the limbo is what I have been struggling on for a while. No, wait, that's a tad melodramatic. It's beyond cheesy I caught myself rolling my own eyeballs while typing that first sentence. Someone should kick me in the face. The impact might jolt my dormant snark back into circulation.

Sad to report that I have nothing much to report here. Hold on, that's not entirely true. I have lots of things to whine about, so much it would guarantee your instant migraine. In this regard you might want to thank your lucky stars that I cannot seem to commit my bent thoughts into a proper, coherent entry. This forfeits you the calamity of enduring any of it.

So what to do in times like this?

Distracting pesky voyeurs (like that evil panda) would be a very good trick. Here are a few choice digressions.

01. Marlon Brando, he, of lust worthy genetic configuration and prodigious talent, has a photograph fellating a friend that resurfaced online. It was chronicled in Brando Unzipped and he didn't deny it, dismissing it as something not to be taken seriously because it was taken as a joke in a party. Regardless, that blasted photo didn't erode my respect for his talent one bit.

02. After Fabien Baron's sudden departure from Interview Magazine (after spinning the magazine from stagnancy with this very bold cover), graphic wunderkinds MM Paris took reigns. I have been avidly following the Baron/MM musical chair game that spanned across collaborations from Calvin Klein Jeans, Arena Homme+, Vogue Paris and now, Interview. Twinky video poster boy Zac Efron is MM's launching cover.

03. Speaking of Wunderkinds, the indie dynamos, Altajeros + Bonife tandem is threatening local movielandia with another collaboration. (I reviewed one of their works here.) I haven't been in the movie theater lately but I'll line up for this one when it hits the screens. If my hunches are to be believed, this collaboration will hopefully pump much needed combustion in the comatose pinoy movies considering the steady plague of dumb and dumbest flicks yawning onscreen.

04. Meanwhile, meet your new daily cretin. Errr, Kitten.

A scab-ridden, crabby kitten.

Strangely Sterile Thoughts At Jesus’ Funeral

2009-04-11T00:03:00.007+08:00

Concentration was such a struggle. The heat was merciless at lunchtime when the readings (and insightful reflections) on the Seven Last Words commenced and having skipped breakfast and lunch entirely made the three hour ritual challenging.

As the priests reflect on the Savior’s dying words my consciousness kept on detaching itself from the church proceedings like an aimless juvenile delinquent and hopscotched freely toward less sacred (but not evil/profane either) cubicles cluttering my scattered mind.

The same thing happened when I joined the Good Friday procession which bisected a nearby posh, gated village, interrupting the steady flow of traffic in the busy intersection of the central city district where I live. I attempted to join the public recitation of the Holy Rosary but kept getting distracted by abrupt modification in pacing of the three teenagers of varying degrees of devastating cuteness in front of me. I theorized that they were siblings and cousins and like me, their attention span must be somewhere else, which I assumed to be dwelling on abstained games of DotA or World Of Warcraft. They don’t seem to be concentrating either, and they carry off the air of casualness that made the whole religious rite seem like a requisite college thesis that needs to be done without due respect to enraptured interest or depth and commitment for the exercise. Had this been a day outside the Holy Triduum, my contaminated mind would be nursing thoughts that would lewdly float towards the sets of twinky videos, but strangely, no, my usually-hyperactive imagination favorably chose an antiseptic hide.

I wasn’t thinking corrupt thoughts or anything lewd, which, now that I am typing this, seems like a major improvement.

Which gives you, Evil Panda, something to remark on.

:: :: ::

P.S. On a more virtuous note, Easter Sunday is the most important Sunday in the entire Christian calendar. Do make an effort to attend church rites in recognition of God’s mercy and kindness (or an act of gratitude) for having Jesus redeem us all, aberrant humans.

Neglect

2009-04-01T01:32:00.006+08:00

Hello, Blog.

Evidently we share the same quality these days: dismalness. A discouraging state of affairs that can be a tad disappointing for both of us and—If I may pander to our mutual delusion—for a couple of random voyeurs who wander in here, sift through your dormant pages, find nothing recent to remark on, blink at your shabbily updated self before clicking away with a fleeting wonder whether you will be as active as you once were. I cannot blame them if in the invariable displeasure of not finding something worth their trouble they’d abandon us both for good. It would be even sadder if that happens.

You see I am the one at fault. I cannot coerce my nerves to find any incentive and bundle up my arbitrary thought patterns into one coherent entry. Inspiration isn’t even a problem before; remember those days when not a single thread of inspiration can be traced in any of the drivels in here? Lack of inspiration didn’t stop us from unleashing ourselves into the blogosphere with abandon and insane disregard for virtues and discipline of good writing!

Yeah, I miss those irresponsible, fun days, too. I know you do miss it twice as much as I do, which makes me even sadder, knowing I have dragged you into the blog update limbo. How unfair is that? How very selfish of me!

Most of my days lately are spent craning my neck towards the horizon.

Waiting.

Waiting for what is to come. What blind faith tells me is coming.

Waiting for a dream to untangle itself from the shadows.

Waiting for a certain fondness that seems to have been doing perilous detours, hence the overdue arrival.

Waiting, swimming in sugared sadness, getting cheerless by the minute, floundering in growing despair, trying to get steady in the face of a frightening certainty that nothing so encouraging is stirring on the horizon.

I’d customarily retreat to you, to music, to movies, to books for comfort and indulgence of few moments where my mind could wander off from burdens and obligations and breathe freely. I am troubled to report that even those trusty distractions prove inadequate.

Meanwhile the shorelines between you and me seem to have been subjugated by indifferent gulfs that divide us into distant blurs. I wave anxiously at you, and in my mind you are waving back in the same fervor, but you seem to be fading farther to hear my words.

One of these days I’d stumble upon a raft, befriend the wind, and paddle back into where you are.

We would laugh crisply throughout the summers, our voices piercing their way beyond the clouds.

Till then I remain,
LC

Crater

2009-03-25T05:13:00.007+08:00

Ideally, you should be panicking. You should be clutching on your chest, exhaling labored breathing, struggling to oppress your pulse from inching above wholesome progression

You should be inclined to keep your strides from wobbling.

Presence of mind should dictate that you steer all your willpower into not losing sight and collide into things.

However, your faculties are not in agreement with you. Nothing is discernible among the blurs of emotions except an abundance of emptiness, a bottomless gulf that fences you.

You want to feel a thing, something, anything. Even pain would have a lawful corner in your sleeplessness. Pain is a dreaded acquaintance but a much more welcomed guest than…this.

Suddenly words have rendered themselves inadequate. Metaphors have diminished its convenience and you fumble for vocabularies to withdraw and name your sentiment properly from the gaping cellar of intangibles.

Even time refused to oblige. Hours dissolved into days, days swelled into weeks, and weeks grew into another stem in the limbs of another year yet you still cannot seem to medicate this inexpressible feeling of nothingness. It’s almost a kind of translucence. A fogged dream you walked into, a keyhole where you become an onlooker to the aimless drifting of your unoccupied self.

You rummage through half-forgotten drawers of memory for crumbs of joy or grief, or whatever thing you will find there that will illuminate your displaced feelings into wakefulness.

Yet all you grab hold of is the same glutinous mist.

So you give up the wearisome gamble into phrasing suitable dialects with which to properly consign your emotion. You catch yourself ceasing from the folly of yet another version of What Could Have I Done Differently?

You keep your feelings to yourself.

Not because people will not understand your anguish.

Not because you are robbing compassionate people the generosity of well-intentioned empathies.

But because, with what little that you know, and no matter how flawed it might be, this is a modest way that you can muster to cope with the piercing throbs and ambiguous questions that elude answers.

So you choose to dwell in the hallway of sweet, melancholic silence.

Occasionally, on the way home, you negotiate the pavements, leaving a trail of whispered wishes. You inattentively dissolve into the evening crowds, and suddenly a face stares back at you, echoing all your unspoken love and sadness, a mirror floating among a sea of strangers.

You meet its familiar gaze.

Unapologetic, unblinking.

Hello stranger, I got no minute to spare

2009-03-24T01:28:00.000+08:00

Months ago you vanished, nowhere to be found. One unremarkable evening, you’re back, remorseless, a truant lugging bagful of secrets. You are a trespasser now as you once were. And you will stay thusly: a beautiful riddle whose secrets have been watered down by absence.

Paalam

2009-03-13T23:30:00.004+08:00

Priceless chance for proper goodbyes was denied of us.

Your departure was anguished, fraught with deep longings for beloved absentees who ache in equal measures with you.

This is what wounds me the most: that fate wasn’t charitable to our shared thirst for one last embrace, for one last episode of mumbling brave reassurances that things are going to be all right. Finality has descended, as opaque and inscrutable as midnight, as conclusive as an extinguished breath that cannot be mended by grief, or revoked by tears.

But you are not entirely gone. You will be right here whenever I hear crisp, hearty laughter or whenever I walk into summers perfumed by ripe mangoes and freshly-threshed rice. Your face will burn in my mind whenever I hear strains of Besame Mucho which I will vividly recall being violated by your off-key hums.

I love you. I will incessantly love you.

I am fortunate that you had me in your lifetime and I am in profound gratitude that you have been an imperishable footprint in mine.

So for now I will mourn in silence, my labored farewell exhaled inaudibly, every saddened syllable carried by the faint evening breeze towards the infinity you will now call home.

Ahem

2009-01-28T04:47:00.001+08:00

Delayed Telecast Hits The Loud Cloud

2009-01-07T03:13:00.000+08:00

Spoiling the merriment of negative nellies is something I do with uncurbed glee. In this vein let me announce—much to the annoyance of aforementioned NN—that I have not choked on spiked chicken galantina/fruitcake during the insane Holidaze and likewise assure my nonexistent loyal readers that I am not decomposing unmourned.

(Lovely way to greet 2009, innit? To discharge fresh load of vile and caustic remark.)

But here's a dour declaration: There will be updates/radical change(s) that's going to happen this warped side of Bloggerville.

Also, being the unchallenged emperor of tardy acts, allow me to greet everyone who cared to digress here a Merry Christmas and an optimistic New Year!

I know it's very stale but the sincerity of the thought remains.

Sublimating

2008-12-23T04:54:00.005+08:00

Lowest in my ladder of priorities right now is blogging. Or having a semblance of uninjured online life (which I am sure annoys a few people, most notably, the villainous panda who mindfucked an unsuspecting chatter in a wicked effort to extradite me into the Limbo of Pure Horror). So why am I posting this entry?

Putting it into perspective, I'm nuts. It won't take three clones of Jessica Simpson to figure this out.

No, not really.

You see I arrived home exhausted from a day of running around covering two widely adjacent districts of the metro. Add to this the distressing thought that I haven't bought anything for anyone and as far as gift giving is concerned I might as well go around with a tattoo in my forehead that blinks “SANTA IS DEAD.”

Don't give me THAT look now. I figured I'll do my gift shopping AFTER the holiday rush when it is safer to hit the malls, which, by then, will be castrated of crazed shoppers. I have also given a thought on bribing some morally bankrupt medical practitioner to issue me a certificate that says “terminal stage of transient amnesia” and give the miserly shame a really snazzy medical spin. LOL.

Anyway, not to wander off farther from the first paragraph's mind-boggler: why am I posting this entry when it's almost five in the morning and later today the priorities are threatening to cancel each other out of commission?

Because the fatigue has advanced into such a malaise that prevented me from slipping into sleep. I have already devoured four different magazines, three episodes of a favorite TV show on DVD, sped read through several pages of the most delicious hypnotic novel I have read lately and flipped through a trade book on information architecture.

And I'm still awake.

I know what you and your soiled little minds are thinking. And your soiled little mind winks its nasty leer as it mouths off: “Ever thought of doing the thing most guys do when they, ahem, can't sleep?”

Now look at me. Do I came off like an idiot to you? Frankly I am insulted that you have asked me such a question! Of course I have given it a thought! A copious amount of thoughts, as a matter of fact.

But I didn't.

Instead I blogged.

Sublimating is the word.

Blogging, in itself, is a form of public masturbation.

The Home Theater Idiot Stole Our Christmas Cheer

2008-12-14T18:50:00.004+08:00

Imbeciles populate every corner of the universe, this we know. We do not deny their right to inhale our communal supply of (polluted) oxygen but hey, can they at least do everyone a favor by self-detonating at my mere will?

(The Holiday Grouch, is that you? LOL.)

Excuse the outburst/rant in the previous paragraph. I do not intend to dampen your holiday cheer by coming off as a sour bunch of grated nerves hell-bent on swallowing the city whole.

I just can't help but get annoyed at a couple of dolts this afternoon and let me register (again) my pure disgust over people whose idiocy unquestionably qualify them for The Gas Chambers in the event there will be another massive genetic cleansing aimed exclusively at retards.

(Wow, I'm breathless. LOL.)

Here's what happened. After attending church services I hurtled towards the Bestseller's level of Galleria to scour for stuff to buy. Then I heard an unusual melange of instruments producing a very interesting/distinctive symphony. I froze on my tracks and casually peeked down towards the FoodCourt level where the cheerful music was leaking from and beheld a rapt orchestra on full swing.

The ensemble was The Poltytechnic University of the Philippine's (PUP) Banda Kawayan (An Orchestra using Bamboos as instruments.) I haven't attended any of the gig of the famous Las Piñas Bamboo Organ but this PUP troupe was sensational that I discarded the idea of thumbing through racks of books and went to the FoodCourt Level for a closer viewing/listening.

I have repeatedly said in the past that I have dorky tendencies to poke fun on all things cheesy, and the thought of listening to bamboo tubes farting off ballads would obviously qualify for warped hilarity in my book. But I was enraptured instead. The group, clad in in fantastic tribal weavings (but cut/designed in contemporary silhouette) played on with the same rhapsodic enthusiasm of majorettes on caffeine overdose and a toothpaste endorsement.

Did I say the PUP Bamboo Orchestra was sensational? I Did? Yeah, it's worth mentioning twice. They rendered forgotten Kundimans (Filipino traditional ballads/folk/love songs) peppered with exotic/ethnic takes on contemporary musical pieces and Christmas tunes and carols.

The jaded urban crowd who have heard endless loops of say, Jessica Simpson and Paris Hilton, shocked with the newness of of the jubilant sounds, responded with great appreciation.The young toddlers danced at the almost-heathen rendition of Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer while the older member of the gathered onlookers went bananas when Obladi-Oblada and Historia de Un Amor were played.

Heritage sounds like this, and the mere fact that they are brilliant but regrettably consigned to growing obscurity, only casts a glaring light of ineptitude on the Department of Culture's lack of commitment and foresight to preserve and promote ancestral forms of musical expressions.

Anyway before I digress further, let me relate that the whole performance was bordering towards the neighborhood of harmonious awesomeness. Then it happened!

The idiots manning the adjacent LG Collins/Samsung Display Booths cranked the mediocre home theater system's volume all the way up, playing clips from Spiderman, immediately drowning the jovial delights of the Bamboo Ensemble!

Many of us in the crowd of kibitzers turned towards the jerk's direction and glowered at him. Thanks to his impenetrable brains consisting of gravel and ignorance, our collective disgust slid off him like undercooked pasta on Teflon.

I was so aggravated and appalled by the deficiency of courtesy, the absence of sensible manners and the hideous lack of appreciation for good material. I wanted to drop kick his gums in but instead struggle to ignore his mighty insensitivity.

It's sad that those idiots manning the LG Collins/Samsung booths embody the foul realities of this fucked world:

If you can't win throught talent and reason, go for volume!

What total assholes. Heaven help them if I were the one in charged of afterlife dormitory accommodations.

They will be automatically given passports to the limbo with their ears perpetually clamped with humongous (but mediocre-sounding) LG Collins home theater speakers looping the ghoulish Celine Dion caterwauling the equally-hellish Titanic Theme until their brains ooze out of their nostrils.

Serial Killers At Green Papaya

2008-12-02T01:27:00.003+08:00

SERIAL
KILLERS

e x h i b i t

featuring serial/repetitive works by
BeaCAMACHO MarianoCHING LenaCOBANGBANG
LouieCORDERO GastonDAMAG JedESCUETA LyraGARCELLANO
NonaGARCIA DavidGRIGGS GeraldineJAVIER
RomeoLEE PowMARTINEZ DonnaMIRANDA
JonathanOLAZO GaryPASTRANA AngeloSUAREZ
GerardoTAN MariaTANIGUCHI WireTUAZON
GREEN PAPAYA Art Projects. Opens Dec6, closes Dec20.

GREEN PAPAYA ART PROJECTS
Unit 304 Sterten Place Condominium, 116 Maginhawa St., Teacher's Village East, Diliman, Quezon City, Philippines
phone/fax - [63 2] 927 3187
allery hours
9 AM to 5 PM Tuesday to Thursday
10 AM to 6 PM Friday and Saturday
Monday and Sunday by appointment only

Goodbye, November, I Hardly Knew You!

2008-11-23T02:54:00.010+08:00

Neglect has nothing to do with blogging anemia hitting this spot lately.

My inner blogging fiend have attempted, on many occasions, to type several posts but they all instantly got trounced by creeping boredom, mediocrity and the chronic, ominous demands of frantic deadlines, personal life priorities, parental concerns and the pervasive lack of strong motivations and inspirations to commit into coherent paragraphs all those insane thoughts swirling in my head.

November whizzed by and in its gone-too-soon wake settle the dusts of crumpled expectations, a degenerating hopefulness, and that slow burning ache that usually follows sad realizations. It is almost difficult to think clearly and there were moments where I catch myself trailing off to wishful thinking. There were inescapable times when I ponder on the very things that bruise a dream. And try to dig deep into faint flashbacks of events, vainly trying to fish out nuggets of insight that maybe buried in the complexities of persisting on stubborn optimism. I try to rationalize and come up with weak consolations that would somehow distract me from growing weariness.

Simple pleasures have been mislaid if not altogether shoved out the hierarchy of importance. This includes not seeing a single movie, being too tired to sit down and watch television or too riddled with worry to read a book. Listening to an entire album is such a chore. November also saw abstaining from magazines, deprivation of friendly banter over unhurried meals and postponing any inclination of romantic nature.

Subsisting on anxieties that come with the determination to build something (again) from scratch occupied the hours. It has come to a point of barely stopping to catch a breath just to convince myself that life can't be that bleak, especially when reminded of routine obligations, when bills exact attention and assorted urgencies camp by the bedside to greet you in the morning. And please, for respect of everything sacred, don't wander too close for comfort and slide under the clouds of melancholia, or yield to being sorry for skating the fine line between unhappiness and despair.

Even when entrenched in unflattering self-absorption I try to stay sober: I am always aware that I cant afford to drift into over-self-indulgent thoughts, knowing full well that it will lead nowhere near the vicinity of being useful—for one's self or for others.

Maturity is such an affliction and I'm not even quite near as half as good in this aspect.

So I clamber on through the day, struggling to subvert the howls of cynicism and resignation with brave self-assurance that a time will arrive when I could quicken my pace down the street and meet a certain smile to wipe all the dullness away.

Meanwhile I have this to say: Goodbye, November. I hardly knew you.

Escribimus Interruptus

2008-11-12T00:51:00.015+08:00

Survey the shelves of bookstores and meet gazillion decimated trees so some enlightened evangelist can write thick volumes on (take your pick): HOW TO WIN, HOW TO SUCCEED, HOW TO TRIUMPH, HOW TO BE NOT THE UNFORTUNATE EQUIVALENT OF GEORGE BUSH, HOW TO GET YOUR PARTNER TO ORGASM FOR TEN HOURS STRAIGHT WHILE WRITING A BESTSELLER ON HOW TO WIN ETC.

Jack Welch, share those royalties.

Anyway, the rambling first paragraph serves no relevant purpose but prep you, dear loudcloud voyeur, on the subject of utmost importance:IS COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE THE ULTIMATE AUTHORITY ON HOW TO GET YOUR PARTNER TO HAVE THE MOST EXPLOSIVE ORGASM YET?

Ok, no, I got carried away. I just can't help it whenever I glance over Cosmo's profound coverlines: “100 Ways To Bring Out The Ron Jeremy In Him,” “300 Ways To Make Him Lose All Biological Control Of Himself To Writhe In Orgasmic Seizure While You Are Obviously Still On The Flirting Stage By Just Unhooking Your Bra In The Hallway” and equally exciting methods that do not occur on regular mortals such as yourself, but, as yet another proof of Celestial Favoritism, were divinely revealed only to Cosmo Editors by way of Heavenly Heralds and Gorgeous Seraphims on a rebellious streak and hormonal fit.

Ok, I am sorry. I got overboard.

My topic is actually...

Oh, wait. Hewhoisnottobenamed just popped me a YM message, interrupting my enraptured concentration, distracting me from the topic I was about to write.

Paris Hilton, this means: This will be finished later.

Wrath induced by frustration, murderous rage, and general feelings of annoyance (and possibly, voodoo spells) are all suggested to be directed his way.

Or Cosmo Editors.

This might lead to: “How to Convert Vengeful Voodoo Shamans Into Orlando Bloom On Viagra In Ten Easy Steps!

/////////////

Here's THE proof that I WAS interrupted AND blueballed. What can I say: Karma is quicker than Sarah Palin's brain neurons:

Hewhoisnottobenamed: hi, are you there?
loud cloud: no
Hewhoisnottobenamed: ok, bye
loud cloud: it's actually Johnny Depp talking to you
Hewhoisnottobenamed: really now
loud cloud: skeptics don't amount to anything but missed opportunities
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i'd prefer if it was orlando bloom
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i'm a missed opportunity then
loud cloud: johrich: i'd prefer if it was orlando bloom<--no wonder he filed for restraining orders
Hewhoisnottobenamed: he did?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i didn't get a copy
Hewhoisnottobenamed: anyway, i was just checking my ym
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i'm using ym through yahoo mail
loud cloud: hahaha
loud cloud: wait im posting an entry
loud cloud: and you'll be sorry
loud cloud: >:)
Hewhoisnottobenamed: my direct ym doesn't seem to be working or something
Hewhoisnottobenamed: because?
loud cloud: you just wait
loud cloud: hahahha
loud cloud: posting in 10 sec
Hewhoisnottobenamed: harumph
loud cloud: hahahhaha
loud cloud: wait wait
Hewhoisnottobenamed: what am I supposed to be reading? the sick infant?
loud cloud: nooooooooooooooooooo
loud cloud: and YES! you should GIVE!
Hewhoisnottobenamed: ok
loud cloud: you lousy selfish snot
loud cloud: hahhaa
Hewhoisnottobenamed: you don't have to shout :)
loud cloud: niyahahha
loud cloud: what's the latin word for write/writing?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: hmmm
Hewhoisnottobenamed: escribimus?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i don't know
loud cloud: that'd do
loud cloud: thankees
Hewhoisnottobenamed: is it up yet?
loud cloud: yes
loud cloud: niyahahhaha
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i have people to see
loud cloud: people will cry for your blood
loud cloud: >:)
Hewhoisnottobenamed: no they won't
loud cloud: u speak with such finality
loud cloud: tsk
Hewhoisnottobenamed: hahaha
Hewhoisnottobenamed: just for today :)
loud cloud: read na
loud cloud: you had another cameo
loud cloud: >:)
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i'm reading now
Hewhoisnottobenamed: ho-hum, i shall await the wrath of your millions of readers then
Hewhoisnottobenamed: hahaha
loud cloud: hahhahha
loud cloud: so tell me
Hewhoisnottobenamed: what?
loud cloud: why did you interrupt my precious blogging?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i was being truthful. i wanted to test my ym
loud cloud: oh
Hewhoisnottobenamed: so i don't understand why it works through yahoo and not directly through ym
loud cloud: so you are more inclined to check some technical mishap than the excitement generated by chatting to his most emminent blogger, loudcloud, aka me?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: the chatting part is a perk, oh eminence
loud cloud: awww, u just deflated my huge
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i find that extremely hard to believe
loud cloud: ego
Hewhoisnottobenamed: what does it mean when the computer says, the computer couldn't connect to messenger servers?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: sorry, the application couldn't connect to messenger servers
loud cloud: you have just asked the most accomplished technoretard in the history of humankind
loud cloud: :))
Hewhoisnottobenamed: you really want to be competitive even with that? I believe I hold that distinction
loud cloud: lol
loud cloud: will i dont remember you laying a claim on technoretardation
loud cloud: well
loud cloud: not will :))
Hewhoisnottobenamed: ok lang, dong
loud cloud: LOLOLOL
Hewhoisnottobenamed: to be read: ooki lang doong
loud cloud: hindi man ko bisaya uy, wala ka man ibidinsya
loud cloud:
Hewhoisnottobenamed: 1:03 AM will i dont remember you laying a claim on technoretardation
Hewhoisnottobenamed: isn't this evidence enough?
loud cloud: ah basta
loud cloud: hahhahaha
loud cloud: :))
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i'm such a technoretard, i copied even the time
Hewhoisnottobenamed: since we're chatting...
Hewhoisnottobenamed: i might as well ask
loud cloud: so explain to me: why are u awake at this unholy hour, interrupting my blogging mode, and out-retardating me from my sole claim at technical inadequacy, huh, einstein?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: why the chris tiu article?
loud cloud: huh? what about it?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: why write about him?
loud cloud: to annoy Q
Hewhoisnottobenamed: ah yes Q
loud cloud: him an his Tiu-phile tendencies
loud cloud: :))
Hewhoisnottobenamed: hahaha
Hewhoisnottobenamed: He drools over him?
loud cloud: yes
loud cloud: he pervs him
Hewhoisnottobenamed: and of course, you don't see why
loud cloud: nope
loud cloud: why do people find Tiu exciting?
loud cloud: enlighten me
Hewhoisnottobenamed: well, he does meet the minimum standards, doesn't he?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: in all aspects
loud cloud: such as?
Hewhoisnottobenamed: that's something
loud cloud: wow that was illuminating
loud cloud: thanks
loud cloud: "that's something"

[insert silence here]

loud cloud: kidding :P
loud cloud: anyway
loud cloud: what's wrong with the tiu article?

[more silence]

loud cloud: are u objecting to it?
loud cloud: are u a-gasp!-disgruntled tiuphile too?!!

[painful silence]

loud cloud: are u there?

[glacial silence]

Karma, you bitch.

Feed The Infant

2008-11-10T01:49:00.012+08:00

Lurkers and accidental readers of this blog please help a very poor helpless HIV positive infant and an abandoned very sick guy of the same affliction. Thanks to Chronicles of E for spearheading the drive to donate stuff. I texted my doctor buddy Ian and he said he'd send some stuff they need (or the possibility of dropping in himself) and I will be bullying people to donate various stuff (food, toiletries, diapers and unused shirts for Steve) tomorrow and messenger over what we can gather. Forward the link to people you know who might be willing to help out. Postpone buying that obscenely-priced Balenciaga shirt and for one moment in your life be a blessing and a miracle to those two souls in desperate need of your unexpected generosity. Thank you and may you will be blessed more.

Schindlers' Lisp

2008-11-07T05:48:00.011+08:00

Apart from being possessed of a defective gaydar I have another handicap: I am a big louse in the cruising department that I often have suspicions that I maybe a closeted heterosexual after all.

Ok, hold that groan, the rolling eyeballs and the judgmental monologue.

I entered the lift, lost in storms of thoughts that circle around unnerving keywords like pressing work, personal life, familial anxieties, ominous deadlines. Add to this the occasional grip of inadequacy that paralyzes you with terror; that despite your can-do confidence and past accomplishments you're not really up to the job and responsibilities that are shoved upon your face. So your mind races ahead to Kazakhstan while your facial expression is still boarding somewhere in Botswana.

When I am in this state of partial autism I generally have no regard for anything or anyone, and in this particular incident, a guy in muscle shirt at least a size smaller than his gym-welded physique.

“Nice tie!” he suddenly blurted out that I jumped a little.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, struggling to hide the flush of embarrassment that's starting to race across my face for being jolted out of reverie.

The elevator hummed. Dinged as we passed several floors.

“I love the fabric and the pattern.” He added, unblinking, looking at me straight, hell-bent to make an eye contact.

“Oh, glad you like it.” I stammered, getting queasy from the steady gaze.

Moments passed in silence. I avoided staring back, at the same time starting to feel guilty for being rude. Normally I don't have problems with random compliments but this one is starting to freak me out. For the record the dude is cute and I am wondering if it was a harmless attempt at small talk when it was apparent in my laconic response that I am not in the running for the Congeniality Sash for Mr. Undas 2008. And here's the clincher: I am not exactly a David Beckham deadringer to adopt the aloof snootiness at all. Under different circumstances I would have enjoyed an aimless good-natured banter with a stranger in an elevator. It's just that my thoughts at that particular hour were all coiled like Bob Marley's dreadlocks to respond enthusiastically to the casual conversation.

“Where did you buy it?” he asked again, volunteering to keep the dialogue going.

“Oh, I'm sorry I have no idea. A friend bought it for me.” I forced a tepid smile, then stared at the project dossier I was holding to abstain from the drilling look the other dude is casting towards my neckline. He didn't blink nor did the prankish curve of a smile dissolve from the corners of his mouth.

The elevator dinged open and we both spilled out of Schindlers' box onto the building's lobby. Him smiling like a mischievous cheshire cat, me having the vacuous look of Paris Hilton before a double trinomial equation.

He nodded at me and walked off happilly, probably singing Barbra Streissand songs in his head.

Then it hit me: He was flirting!

Kick me for being a dense dolt. Kick me twice for being a dopey chicken.

Another October Drifting By

2008-11-02T19:47:00.010+08:00

Orange intersecting with pale blue is the color of late October mornings. I would divide from fragments of last night's forgotten dream, draw the canvass curtains and behold the vista of dawn cracking—echoed like smoldering clones in glass windows of neighboring skyscrapers. A spectacle like that makes your heart soar. It makes you feel like anything is possible, that goodness can happen. Cynic that you are, you still partake in the cosmic trickery, a painted charade brimming with hopefulness and enthusiasm. Later in the day your optimism will be clouded over, your heart would sink, your spirits dampened like expectation of homecoming presents wrapped in fancy trimmings that will never arrive. Then you realize that you've been had. Again. You try and brush off the lingering lints of sadness, smarten up, and embrace realities that ground you from your most fervent aspirations. Tomorrow, you console yourself, tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow the sky will be a more luminous intersection of orange and blue and time will be my ally. Then you fade in the evening crowd of pedestrians hurrying up to get home to the nighttime reprieve, cloaked in the warmth of someone else's love. You smile at the thought of it. Time. Only time can tell. But it never lets you in the concealed promise. Time is full of beauty and malice. Time is an untameable beast.

(Yeah, that's an old illustration I recycled because I am not yet home and cannot make a new one to go with this entry. Will replace it later.)

Scentiments

2008-10-20T00:13:00.014+08:00

Unexpectedly
everything smells
delicious. I steer the
crowded streets
nameless
breathing in
the thoughts of pedestrians -
their soundless musings
fragrant
like the wafting foam
of hot cappuccinos
on damp afternoons.
I navigate busy concrete
wet with the soft shimmer of sundown,
the loam underneath
dreaming of potpourri
and freshly-cut grass.
Counting every measured step
this is where I remember you
and my spirit climbs the ladders
of unseen joy—every dull thud
of my feet
melts slowly
like scented weekends
reeking of sun and salt.

Or something
equally comforting,
for instance,
the rinsed whiff of dusk
rising from the pavements
after the rain.

[this is NOT a poem]
- for T
30.10.2008

[btw, thanks to Q for making this messy drivel make sense]

Breaking Dispatch From Warpedville

2008-10-18T02:37:00.005+08:00

Returning home I was greeted by this fabricated press, courtesy of the hyperwarped mind of Q The Conqueror. I find it ridiculously funny and suggest that Q be disbarred from approaching the keyboard.

Report:

Obnoxiously Loud Blogger Missing; Foul Play Suspected

After gathering other bloggers for late-night conferences continuously for the past few weeks, blogger and fifty-something advertising guru LoudCloud has suddenly gone missing after exposing his face and several other bodily parts to fellow bloggers during these said conferences. Datu, the transvestite prune-like blogger of iamdatu, commented on how good LoudCloud looks for his age and says "Where is he anyway?". Another blogger, who refused to divulge his identity, said "LoudCloud's prolly out in Thailand again, changing his sex finally, or something like that." Blogger, Q the Conqueror said to this reporter that Mr. Cloud is "Probably in Burgos, getting a few STD's, the damned traitor."

Regardless of their opinions, The Gay LoudCloud Chatters Association (G-LOCA) is prepared to give awards to those who are able to locate or give information with regard to the whereabouts of LoudCloud such as blowjobs and a chance to go T/HERE and dance the night away with Mr. Cloud. AP

Fifty-something!!! Niyahahahaha! What a scream! Now I wonder which equally-demented media outlet will run this shit! LOL.

Missing Melody

2008-10-13T00:33:00.014+08:00

But (S)he will never be baaaaaaaaaaaackkk!

(more after the jump)

God, I miss Sugar Hiccups!

Also, Badly Drawn Boy:

And btw Mugen, since you're into chill out stuff, here's a melancholic one for you. Not really a perfect soundtrack to those "emancipation" entries in your blog but this might be useful for those moments of sudden remembrance:

Ignore the dripping sadness of the songs and have Happy New Week people!

The Raging Rambutans

2008-10-09T23:33:00.008+08:00

Rant time around here, LoudCloud voyeurs and before you scroll down I suggest you inhale copious amounts of sedatives. This will make you resist crafting combative, snarky retorts or similar indignant attempt to prove your elevated intelligence and more enlightened grasp on everything. It will all be futile, to put it rather dismissively. Because you and I know that your righteous fury will slide off like scandal flung upon Ruffa Gutierrez’s Botoxed face. Now that we have established that all dissenting opinions or livid responses will be summarily ignored we can proceed on this week’s bullets of bile.

01. Who was THE brilliant spark who enthroned Apples Aberin Sadhwani as foremost authority of Philippine fashion? Every time she opens her vocal orifice I brace myself for something ignorant or idiotic to gush out and she consistently never disappoints. It’s plain to anyone with a total of ten brain cells that in terms of fashion knowledge, taste levels, and keenness to grasp new ideas she’s five notches below an atrophied starfish. Her understanding of fashion is comparable to reading the nutritional data of a stale box of Rice-A-Roni. Her judging skills can be compared to that of a comatose weasel and let’s not get started on how she farts through her mouth the most inane, recycled comments she stayed up late to memorize from the US version of Project Runway. Invariably her critiques can be summed up by the following general categories “You have to step up,” “I’m confused by your design/dress/ideas,” “I don’t like it” and “I’d rather be home masturbating with dynamites than feign trying to understand your rags but this show will give me free clothes and a Ponds endorsement so I might as well get comfortable regurgitating the most bland lines since Maid In Manhattan.” (Ok, I made that last one up.)

02. Why is Senator Villar so hell-bent to wipe out pornography? Is he denying the fact that people have hormones and would rather safely enjoy the pleasures of simulated sex in the privacy of their homes instead of going out on a maniacal sexual rampage? Is this part of his moralistic agenda to clone Chris Tiu? Is he bidding for instant canonization? Who appointed him as the High Lord of Morality who saw it fit to sanitize the world because we are all incapable of mature, responsible sexual behavior? Piss off, senator. Censorship has no place in a generation who has seen everything from Britney Spears shaved vagina to headline featuring Clinton getting a head job. This generation is much smarter than your fossilized stance for saintliness. Suggestion: censor your mismanagement of public trust and public resources. That is much more obscene than Jenna Jameson screwing appreciative dudes. (Thanks EfBee for inspiring this rant. Hehe.)

03. Why is Cristy Fermin such a dilated labia? And why is ABS-CBN cheering her by still allowing her to infect the airwaves with her stink?

04. Why am I being wrathful? Did I miss my valium fix?

Keanu Would Be Delighted

2008-10-07T15:50:00.011+08:00

Chris Tiu, all I can say is: Be careful with line breaks. Hehe. This is just for humor's sake, hope you're a sport. I heart you, Chris Tiu! I'd love to 'interview' you ;-)

(The Original Pic after the jump)

Dipping

2008-10-07T14:18:00.010+08:00

Scavenging through forgotten folders of my abandoned old laptop I stumbled upon entries I did for a previous blog and I shrivel in horror. Who wrote all these insane twaddle? I cannot believe I was reading hysterical entries that provoke pure mortification. Good thing I shed the dang thing. Ugh. If ever someone I know in real life find all these sentimental tripe (I blogged in the past) I’ll never live to hear the end of it. “Some things are better off buried for good,” My aunt used to declare. I knew there was more to that pronouncement than her husband’s bell bottom pants.

~ ~ ~

Emo Alert: Avoid reading further if you’re not in the mood for downers.

~ ~ ~

Human habit would have it to cling stubbornly to a good feeling. You dwell on it, refusing to discard, lingering its welcome, outstaying its passing, intentionally swimming in the last shimmering slivers of warmth.

Eventually you smarten up. You wake up buoyant, assured of newfound resolve never to be vulnerable again. But for now, just for a little longer, your heart sinks, you throb in delicious agony, fluctuating between nostalgia and despair.

They Blogged.We Laughed. Then They Bitch-Slapped The Bejeesus Out Of The Competitors.

2008-09-30T22:57:00.002+08:00

Splash Of Second Stink

2008-09-30T01:39:00.008+08:00

Success of yesterday's scentsational perfume launch is not reason for us here at LoudCloud Agency to sit idly on our laurels and bask at the glory of our dazzling genius. No, No, No. It only inflames us to push the bar higher. So: How do you shove the benchmark into loftier peaks? By collaborating with equally-gifted sparks, of course. And what better opportunity to follow up the first aromatic endeavor than to plot a follow up product with the very prolific Mugen of Pulsar? And when we thought we already hit our creative ceiling another overpowering accomplishment blinked upon us. Ladies, Gentlemen, Gays, Lesbian and Hulk Hogan, may we present the worthy follow up to Nostrils...

[CLICK TO ENLARGE]

Inhale This

2008-09-29T05:24:00.016+08:00

Creditworthy Branding calls for appropriateness and here at LoudCloud Agency we take our jobs very seriously. Not only do we lose sleep conferencing friends over at YahooMessenger but we never rest our creative butts until The Work feels authentic. As part of our ongoing pro bono work we feel we owe the general populace an apt, honest product, branding and advertising design for a groundbreaking scent. We hope our efforts will garner effective response and demand for the product to shoot off the roof (and possibly a chance to be rewarded brownie points by “The Muse” and get invited to a—ahem—certain TV show). Ladies and gentlemen, presenting a new scent that will put an end to the entire Perfume industry. Bring out your gas masks!

[ CLICK 2 ENLARGE ]

Nostrils. The New Fragrance from Bhoy Abunda. Inhale it. Love it.

Naagpabango ka na ba, kaibigan?! Subukan mo! Now na!

Naming Sundays

2008-09-28T23:50:00.002+08:00

Propose some other name for Sunday. Take inspiration from what an author (I can't exactly recall who) once said: “Fridays are sheer anticipation but Saturdays are pure joy!” What does that make of Sundays then? Joy elongated or Joy abbreviated? How about bliss? Will indulgence be more appropriate? Or, perhaps, a compound of exhilaration dissolving into growing sadness of knowing that where Sunday ends, Monday is upon its heels scheming assorted grievances to dislodge your way? Maybe it's just what it is: a simple day devoid of complications. Like a familiar friend: easy, placid, the kind of day that makes your heart soar with possibilities.

Book Me for TBAC

2008-09-24T02:44:00.006+08:00

Conceived with one goal in mind The Blog Award Challenge wants to encourage good writing and recognize distinctive voices floating in the overwhelming expanse of the blogosphere.

It is envisioned to be a convenient place for bloggers to discover each other, linked together by pleasure for well-penned entries that feature strong points of view, style, humor, arguments or sheer entertainment value.

However there is one significant detail we haven't openly disclosed: Since the very moment of conception of The Blog Award Challenge we were already thinking of publishing a book*. Yes a book compiling the best written submissions in TBAC. We feel that this book project will be a worthwhile documentation of the pioneering bloggers whose creative talents outshine the flash of new technology. Besides, cash prizes are easily spent but being included in the TBAC book project is a tangible testament of talent that no passing technology and glitzy events can effectively capture.

More details at TBAC site.

Requiem To A Dream

2008-09-22T22:25:00.001+08:00

Chase More Windmills, Doc Quixote!

2008-09-22T12:38:00.002+08:00

Cheers on your second blogging year, Dr. Quixote!

Planet Of The Weirds

2008-09-21T20:49:00.004+08:00

Freaky things happen when you're oblivious to the moment. This week I had a couple doses of Salvador Dali episodes that are quite hysterical.

Scene 01: I was waiting to cross a busy, congested street, totally absorbed with mindless thoughts whizzing like wild Frisbees tossed by The Flash. Out of nowhere a J-Lo bus conductor sprung out of nowhere and planted himself in front of me, and, before I could register my surprise he uttered “I love you!” I was flabbergasted. Then he grinned insanely and offered a goofy alibi to a another conductor standing next to us who saw the bizarre hoo-ha and was as speechless as I was. “Malay mo makabola!” (“Who knows, flattery might work!”) he chuckled and walked off to bark for passengers. I turned around to check if he meant the startling expression of love for some lady standing behind me only to behold three guys trying to contain an outburst of the giggles. I laughed and we all laughed. I shook my head, crossed the street thinking of the amorous ticket dispenser. For all our sakes he needs to have his eyes checked. Ditto his head.

Scene 02: I was sitting in the plant box in front of the building where I live waiting for my Portuguese friend to pick me up for volunteer work. This cute lanky guy who used to live in the building sat in the same plant box, an arm-length from where I was sitting. Not in the mood for small talk I began fiddling with my iPod, pretending to scan for tracks to play while observing him with my peripheral vision. Some ten minutes later he rolled up the sleeve of his plain white T-shirt, revealing his moderately defined biceps, flexing a little. I acted nonchalant though in my head I was going “Whoa!” Is he trying to make me envious? Is he flirting? I have no idea. I used to eye this dude in the lift but being a dork that I am I follow a stern “Don't shit on your own backyard” policy. Now here he is showing off his muscular protrusions. I would say weirdo had it not for the fact that he's quite edible.

These two surreal episodes had me puzzled. Whatever possessed those two oddballs to act like that? Though the megalomaniac in me will declare that I don't look horrific I am hardly dreamboat material either. I do not inspire spontaneous orgasms nor will I be cast as Jude Law's body double anytime soon. So my suspicion goes: Do I have a neon blinking sign in my forehead that says “Oddball Magnet”?

Or it's just that the world is full of creepy characters.

If that's the case then, to some degree, it's a relief. I have something to blog about and there will be no space for boredom to drive me bonkers.

Life Is [A Hysterical] Box Of Shit Sandwich

2008-09-19T04:16:00.016+08:00

Disturbances are abundant these days. Pap is progressing slowly, work is a plateu of hopelessness, friends are equally miserable and for months now I have completely forgotten how to wake up capable of humming a tune. Shaking off the greyness that usually postdate a depressive turns of events is a herculean chore. So I consciously tried not to swim in alternating waves of resentment, self-doubt, anger and paralyzing sadness. I went to catch a couple of screenings at Cinema Europa at The Shang and got another helping of what could be viewed as a vicious cosmic joke: the one I was lining up was the British film And When Did You Last See Your Father? I immediately wanted to reread The Book Of Job in the same breath as wanting to laugh at the absurdity of how things hover from misery to comedy.

“Life is like a box of chocolate,” a friend attempts to comfort me over dinner, quoting from the movie I haven't seen.“You never know what you're gonna get.”

Let it be said that I am fond of this friend of mine and I would unhesitatingly dig a grave at three in the morning for someone she just had murdered. But that quote just made me want to peg her eyeball with a dull steak knife.

“Huh?” I say.

“Huh what?” she replies, furrowing her brows.

“How can you not know what you're gonna get? You're getting chocolates!”

She stares at me, incredulous. The kind of concerned look for my very own welfare.

“You said Life is a box of chocolates.” I push the issue a bit too far, teasing, enjoying the unplanned repartee with mad glee. “Unless someone is pulling a prank and packed goat droppings, you're getting the freaking chocolates!”

She tilts her chin inward, and looks at me like she's peering from imaginary spectacles, in complete disbelief of my perceived ignorance.

“Hmpf!” she scoffs. “You just don't get it.”

“I don't. What am I supposed to get from a box of chocolates aside from chocolates?”

“Give it a rest, genius.”

“If you said 'life is like a lidded jar in a Pharaoh's tomb' I will surely not know whether I'd fish out rubies or a live cobra. But a box of chocolates...”

“Next time I'd quote from Bride Of Chuckie!”

“Chuckie says, Life is a Box of...”

“Oh shut it.”

“For dessert I'd like to have a slice from a boxed chocolate cake. I wonder what I'd get.”

“Jerk.”

I laugh. She stabs her plate of linguini with a fork, and finishes her lunch grimly.

I feel slightly better.

Sir Stubborn

2008-09-16T13:05:00.001+08:00

Misalignments run thick this past few days. I keep missing a call/calling my mother who is in the hospital looking after Pap. (I finally talked to her awhile ago and it seems Pap was recovering slowly and was looking for me and my brother and sister and I am quite anxious, ok, scared that he is gaining slow pace towards wellness.) Come on Pap, you're made of tougher stuff. You are my mentor in the school of tenaciousness. Stubbornness is our steely armor in the face of great odds and I am looking forward to your birthday this November. I need you to kick some sense on my resigned face because these days I'm almost five breaths away from abandoning all thoughts that a significant good turn will meet me work-wise. I love you. Not because I have no choice but love you. I love you because you are irreplaceable. And that scares me more than anything I can ever imagine.

Prodigal Son Here's Your Postcard From Home

2008-09-10T01:30:00.008+08:00

Sent by my Portuguese friend this video stirred me. Agnostics, atheists AND Marilyn Manson, here's your last chance to hit the X button on the upper right hand side of the browser. You, Ian, on the other hand, listen well! :)

Stand Back, Barack

2008-09-04T00:43:00.011+08:00

All right folks! High time to band together and oppose the dark force that is Blog Ni Inday! I have previously admonished that voting for Chiksilog will usher a utopian universe of beauty, humor and world peace while voting for Inday’s blog will make your puny skull implode.

Now is the time to repeat that cyberpolitical cue: Catapult Chiksilog on top of Project Lafftrip Laffapalooza 2008!

Of all my previous nominees she stands as the strongest contender to squash the bid of the thesaurus-chomping nanny. So we might as well reinforce chiksilog’s bid to blog stardom and show the dollah-spokening, floor-vacuuming, neighbor-quarrelling hag that disgorging big words liberally will not necessarily translate to big votes!

Vote for Chiksilog!

And the rest of my nominees!

Or you might want to consider Mariano Huwantso too! AND Dear Diarya!

For all our sanity’s sake! For our children! And our children's children! For Inner peace! Prosperity! And Love For All mankind!

And while we’re at it, let’s link arms and sing It’s A Small World After All till we pass out.

~ ~ ~

P.S. I must admit that laziness bit my ass as far as illustrating this entry is concerned. Those red Chiksilog "posters" and the succeeding image were designs for customized shirts I sent Chiksilog for her birthday. But they look apt here, so I’m spared of another 20 minutes designing from scratch. Complaints, protests and dissenting reactions will be summarily ignored.

See You Soon, Ban Ki Moon

2008-09-03T12:23:00.003+08:00

Silje Nergaard awakened me, purring in breathy melody of The Waltz in my stereo, and I mumbled drowsily “This is going to be a neat day!”and immediately regressed back to sleep. Then my phone rang. All at once my blood circulation went berserk: work trouble!

This apathetic, irresponsible, crackbrained client justifies my homicidal streaks.

So much about world peace. Hand me a loaded Uzi!

Adieu, August

2008-08-31T22:55:00.002+08:00

Disarming Gestures

2008-08-29T19:16:00.013+08:00

Stop rolling your eyeballs. I know I should cease slobbering like an idiot but for now, humor me. I'll see to it that I will--from hereon--curb the number of postings regarding my embarrassing fan-hood. Meantime you have no choice but endure my fevered/fanatic spree.

As you know Eric Kraft left a gracious comment on my previous post. In shocked disbelief I followed the link that was left on my comment box and discovered it was indeed his official website. Discarding my timidity I left him an email/comment/message in the site and posted a thank you entry later.

Lo and behold, when I opened my email inbox today this message flashed before my overjoyed eyes:

From: "Reader Comments"
To: aloudcloud@yahoo.com

Loudcloud,

Thank you again. Your comment and blog post made my day. (Actually
they made my day when it arrived on Tuesday, but I've been working on
two new books and didn't take the time to reply.)

All the best,

Eric

On Aug 26, 2008, at 4:51 PM, aloudcloud@yahoo.com wrote:
>It was submitted by aloudcloud@yahoo.com on: Tuesday, August, 26,
> 2008 at 16:51:24
> name: loudcloud
>
> comments: Your works are inspired, beguiling, awe-inspiring. Thank
> you for leaving a comment in my blog. I am still speechless! (Though
> I made a 'thank you' post.)
>
> A grateful admirer of your books,
> Loudcloud

All lingering skepticism melted and a wave of warmth gushed all over me. How very neat of Mr. Kraft to volley back a pleasant message! Other authors of his fame and stature would just dismiss my kind as yet another excitable fan. Worse I would be taken for as an obsessive freak latching on his fame in the hope that osmosis will rub off and lend my negligible/obscure self his luminous sheen. In a world teeming with overinflated and exploding literary egos his very laidback, down-to-earth gesture is a welcome lungful of fresh air.

His disarming graciousness motivated me to rip off the House Of Holland statement tees and create two for the The Beguiling Mr. Kraft:

Thank you muchly Eric Kraft. I have bullied a friend in New York to go hoard books by you that I do not have and ship it to me pronto. Also, dear voyeurs of this blog: Abort the decline of Literacy! Snatch copies of Eric Kraft books for yourselves.

And meet your new friend Peter Leroy.

~ ~ ~

Watch out, Misterhubs. When mean streaks hit me one of these days I will make that overdue post that has something to do with these:

While you're grinding your teeth I will be fixing myself another cup of coffee.

Hahahahahaha.

Enjoy the weekend folks!

Pump Up The Volumes

2008-08-28T23:48:00.026+08:00

I can't die now-I'm booked! - GEORGE BURNS

Earlier I promised to identify the titles on the second stack. Here goes:

From top to bottom:

The Afterword - Mike Bryan
Marrow – Tiffanie Darke
Model Behavior – Jay McInerney
Vile Bodies – Evelyn Waugh
A Star Called Henry – Roddy Doyle
How To Travel With A Salmon – Umberto Eco
Story Of My Life – Jay McInerney
The Fermata – Nicholson Baker
Everything Is Illuminated – Jonathan Safran Foer
Children Of God Go Bowling – Shannon Olson
Book Of Writers Talking To Writers – Believer Magazine
Dance Dance Dance - Haruki Murakami
Brideshead Revisited – Evelyn Waugh

Soumchi – Amos Oz
Ignorance – Milan Kundera
Stones From The River – Ursula Hegi
Intrusions – Ursula Hegi
Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha – Roddy Doyle
The Year Of The Zinc Penny – Rick DeMarinis
U2 At The End Of The Wprld – Bill Flanagan
V – Thomas Pynchon
The Prince Of West End Avenue – Alan Isler
Genuine Authentic: The Real Life Of Ralph Lauren – Michael Gross
Eating Mammals – John barlow
Fair Warning – Robert Olen Butler

Life And Love, Such As They Are – Anna Shapiro
The Mezzanine – Nicholson Baker
Bright Lights, Big City - Jay McInerney
Mr. Spaceman – Robert Olen Butler
Glamorama – Bret Easton Ellis
Maybe The Moon – Armistead Maupin
The Night Listener – Armistead Maupin
The Complete Cartoons Of The New Yorker edited by Robert Mankoff

Etc.: The Garbino trash can by Karim Rashid for Umbra and my soccer bean bag that has to do with this entry.

You. What are you reading?

Dear Eric Kraft

2008-08-27T04:27:00.012+08:00

“I'm delighted to see my work in your stack—and two books at that!” - ERIC KRAFT

Dear Eric Kraft,

Speechless would be putting it mildly. I was stunned! I stared at your comment far longer than necessary, unblinking, like a comatose lizard! I was trying to convince myself that it was some prank employed by one of my insane friends. Then I clicked the link on my blog's comment box and it led me to your website, which legitimizes the message. (Unless, of course, I hear otherwise from your lawyers :-) )

Please excuse me if I'm slobbering like retard. I'm having a René Magritte moment! It's so surreal. I'm still in shock that someone whose amazing works I sincerely admire would be gracious enough to leave a note in my embarrassing blog!

Where Do You Stop was my first discovery of your engaging works (this happened many many years ago). I enjoyed it so much, enough for me to look up your other titles. (I live in the cesspit of civilization where good reading materials are scarce, or arrive in limited stock.) Then I got hold of At Home with the Glynns and after reading it I resolved to seek more of your work.

So imagine how thrilled I was when I finally saw the last remaining copies of Herb N' Lorna and Inflating A Dog. (The latter is lush with beguiling charms and comic bursts that makes me deliberately delay finishing it.)

Taking cue from your book title, this is where I stop. I have already been blabbering like an idiot and I will spare you of further embarrassments.

However, I will persist in looking for your other titles and remain as a grateful reader whom you have have given pleasure through your inspired books!

Truly yours,
LoudCloud

~ ~ ~

I was to write a post on this:

But I got so excited I made the above entry instead (Hahaha. excuse the teenybopper giddiness. It's not everyday a writer you admire would leave a comment in your unworthy blog :P). I'll identify the books on the new stack, later. And yeah, misterhubs, you'd hate me for what I'm gonna post next.

Narcissus Builds A Hall Of Mirrors

2008-08-27T02:23:00.009+08:00

(More after the jump. Click the image to enlarge.)

Evidence For Cretins

2008-08-26T00:03:00.020+08:00

Idiots are everywhere. They incubate rapidly in cyberspace. They are inescapable like the probability of another Kris Aquino billboard to glare back at you in EDSA (or the prime time airwaves getting swamped with close up shots of Boy Abunda's nostrils.) Yet I am an equal-opportunity dork so I recognize their right to exist so long as they restrain inflicting their stupidity my way (or towards the general populace at large). Normally I have a habit of ignoring pests but this one audacious commenter challenged my two previous posts (Here and here ). “It” alleged that 01: “You can’t possibly own or have read all of those books and you are just providing Amazon links so you’ll come off well-read.” and 02: “You’re a fake lover of design. You have no proof!” Or something (dim-witted tirade) like it (I'm translating from Filipino). Steady your breath, cretin; I’m posting my “proof” in the hope that your disbelieving sorry self will slink off and self-combust elsewhere.

I took the above picture when I got home but my lameass phone's camera cannot capture a clearer image. For now this will do. I’ll take another photo when I get hold of a sharper camera.

Suspicious snots, may I photographically present the stuff I am currently re/reading:

On my knockoff chair (yes, a crossover of Arne Jacobsen’s Ant Chair And the now ubiquitous Series 7 Chair) from top to bottom:

01. Drop by Mat Johnson
02. The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers
03. Swagbelly by David Levien
04. A Million Little Pieces by James Frey
05. The Astrological Diary of God by Bo Fowler
06. Herb N' Lorna by Eric Kraft
07. They Whisper by Robert Olen Butler
08. Inflating A Dog by Eric Kraft
09. Chump Change by David Eddie
10. Martin Sloane by Michael Redhill
11. Bite by C.J. Tosh
12. Gilligan's Wake by Tom Carson
13. The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
14. Critical Care by Richard Dooling
15. Frost On My Moustache by Tim Moore
16. Unlubricated by Arthur Nersesian

Under the chair (from top to bottom):

01. Fear Of Flying by Erica Jong
02. Dissonant Umbrellas by Angelo Suarez
03. R.E.M. Fiction: An Alternative Biography by David Buckley
04. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers
05. The Tapestries by Kien Nguyen
06. Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon
07. Turn Of The Century by Kurt Andersen
08. $ellebrity by George Lois
09. (David Carson And) The End Of Print by David Carson & Lewis Blackwell
10. The Graphic Language Of Neville Brody by Jon Wozencroft
11. Covering the 60's by George Lois
12. American Music by Annie Leibovitz

On the fore/back/ground:

The Berenice Lamp
One unfinished painting I did and one blank canvass
On top of the pile of books: Philippe Starck's Oregon Scientific Clock

There. Now let us see you self-destruct.

The Madness of King Don

2008-08-25T01:40:00.035+08:00

George Lois is one of my creative gods because, as a legendary virtuoso, he can distill complex issues into clear-cut creative iterations that are full of impact and wit. His illustrious career saw exceptional covers for Esquire Magazine and that epic “I want my MTv!” campaign. My friend Nicodemus, proving his capacity to surprise and endear himself to friends gifted me with Sellebrity: My Angling and Tangling With Famous People after I raved to no end over a book I bought, Covering the '60s: George Lois-The Esquire Era.

So when it was announced that a TV series called Mad Men is being launched I was excited. Its THE Lois era. In fact, George Lois is an original member of the Mad Men. The show's very premise (i.e. the partners, suits, creative legends like Lois, politics and exploding egos) is a blueprint of the mad creative rush of the (late 50s and) 60s where agencies like Drentell Doyle Partners and Papert Koenig Lois are infamous not just for groundbreaking creative outputs but equally for their flair for glib pitches and insane boardroom antics.

(Bonus: Because I am into design porn, the constant sight of mid-century classic furniture -I’ve spotted swan chairs, the Barcelona Bed by Mies van der Rohe. And, oh, the dapper suits and skinny ties! - made me semi turgid all the time. Add to that the opening sequence that’s giving a nod to Saul Bass.)

I missed most of Mad Men's local 2nd Avenue run, which annoyed me a lot. So imagine my utter joy when I finally got hold of the DVD of the First Season. I can barely contain a hard on! I had a viewing spree that made me forget meals, lose sleep and ignore deadlines.

My own mentor, the legendary advertising bitch who migrated to North America, used to whine to me: “These clueless kids! They think they know advertising! They are all about glamour but can’t even tell shit from gold, and don't get me started on how to sell it to a client!” (Ouch. I was a kid when she said it.)

That hoity-toity declaration still rings in my ears these days. Especially now that I got confronted with how Don Draper, Mad Men's leading protagonist, fiercely defended the “Big Idea” written by lowly office secretary turned newbie copywriter Peggy Olsen.

During the "brainstorming session" in which the office girls “test-drive” hundreds of shades of Belle Jolie lipsticks she blurted out something along the line of "not being one of those in a basket of kisses." (She's referring to a waste basket filled with Kleenex that the girls pressed their lips to remove the lipstick, leaving behind kiss marks.)

This led into a campaign where a “Mark Your Man” headline runs along a portrait of a woman and a man. It's fresh take on cosmetics marketing but the crabby client isn’t sold.

Crabby Client: I only see one lipstick in your drawing. Women want colors. Lots and lots of colors.

Client2: "Mark Your Man." It's pretty cute.

Crabby Client: Oh, you like this? Well, maybe we should cut down to five shades, or one.

Agency Account Executive: I'm not telling you to listen to anyone, but this is a very fresh approach.

Don Draper: It's okay, Kenny. I don't think there's much else to do here but call it a day. *Stands. Extends his hand for a handshake* Gentlemen, thank you for your time.

Confounded Crabby Client: Is that all?!

Don: You're a nonbeliever. Why should we waste time on kabuki?

Crabby Client: I don't know what that means.

Don: It means that you've already tried your plan, and you're number four. You've enlisted my expertise and you've rejected it to go on the way you've been going. I'm not interested in that. You can understand.

Crabby Client: I don't think your three months or however many thousands of dollars entitles you to refocus the core of our business —

Don: Listen. I'm not here to tell you about Jesus. You already know about Jesus. He either lives in your heart or He doesn't. Every woman wants choices. But in the end, none wants to be one of a hundred in a box. She's unique. She makes the choices and she's chosen him. She wants to tell the world, he's mine. He belongs to me, not you. She marks her man with her lips. He is her possession. You've given every girl that wears your lipstick the gift of total ownership.

* The client looks at Don, then at the ads, then yielding, at Don again.*

Client: Sit down.

Don: No. Not until I know I'm not wasting my time.

Client *defeated voice*: Sit down.

Mad Men! It's insane! Men with real balls!

The series is nothing short of brilliant. It's a multilayered cross section of creativity, morality and the warped tendencies of people (take note of the thick sexism that plagues the series). From the creators of The Sopranos, this series is very rich with textures and intelligence spanning advertising, history, commerce and ethical issues. Somewhere in the 8th episode Don Draper tossed out the line “No, The Universe is indifferent!” and I leaped out of my comfy bean bag and gave him a standing ovation in behalf of cynics everywhere.

But if there is one valuable insight one can glean from Mad Men it’s learning the skill and competence to sell ideas. Season 1 has terrific episodes on how great ideas are pushed by spot on pitches.

Don Draper, in an attempt to salvage the account from discontented client (check out the pilot episode) impressed everyone. Here he asserts his genius and growing reputation as Madison Avenue’s blue chip creative director. In this particular episode we witness the invention of “differentiation” and “Value Proposition.”

*Discontented Clients rise to leave the unproductive meeting.*

Don Draper: Gentlemen, before you leave, can I just say something? The Federal Trade Commission and Readers Digest have done you a favor. They've let you know that any ad that brings up the concept of cigarettes and health together...well, it's just going to make people think of cancer.

Senior Client (full of irony): Yes, and we are grateful to them.

Don: But what Lee Jr. said is right. You can't make those health claims. Neither can your competitors.

Senior Client: So...we got a lotta people not sayin' anything that sells cigarettes.

Don: Not exactly. This is the greatest advertising opportunity since the invention of cereal. We have six identical companies making six identical products. We can say anything we want. How do you make your cigarettes?

Junior Client: I don't know.

Senior Client: Shame on you. We breed insect-repellant tobacco seeds. Plant 'em in the North Carolina sunshine. Grow it, cut it, cure it, toast it —

Don: There you go. *He writes "It's Toasted" on the blackboard.*

Junior Client: But everybody else's tobacco is toasted.

Don: No. Everybody else's tobacco is poisonous. Lucky Strike's is toasted.

Roger Sterling *jubilant*: Well, gentlemen, I don't think I have to tell you what you just witnessed here.

Junior Client: I think you do.

Don: Advertising is based on one thing: happiness. And you know what happiness is? Happiness is the smell of a new car. It's freedom from fear. It's a billboard on the side of the road that screams with reassurance: whatever you're doing, it's okay. You...are...okay.

Senior Client: "It's toasted." I get it.

The season finale is the most dazzling pitch I’ve known. Kodak is bringing out a new product, a slide projector they nicknamed “The Wheel.” A rabid competition among agencies to name and position it ensues and they came to Don’s Sterling Cooper Agency to find out what they can whip up. There was a proposition to emphasize the technology and Don, genius that he is had other plans.

Don: Well, technology is a glittering lure. But there is the rare occasion when the public can be engaged on a level beyond flash, if they have a sentimental bond with the product. My first job, I was in house, at a fur company. This old pro copywriter, Greek, named Teddy. And Teddy told me the most important idea in advertising is "new." It creates an itch. You simply put your product in there as a kind of calamine lotion. But he also talked about a deeper bond with the product: nostalgia. It's delicate. But potent.

*lights are put out, projector turned on, Click and whirring sounds as the slides are projected onscreen*

Teddy told me that in Greek, nostalgia literally means "the pain of an old wound." It's a twinge in your heart, far more powerful than memory alone.

*slides of Don’s wife, children, slices of family moments*

This device isn't a spaceship. It's a time machine. It goes backwards. Forwards. It takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It's not called The Wheel. It's called The Carousel. It lets us travel the way a child travels, around and around, and back home again, to a place where we know we are loved.

*Slide flicks "Kodak introduces Carousel."*

I was stunned. It's Poetry! I wanted to cry.

Advertising, branding and design agency upstarts, pay attention!

The United States Of Inebriation

2008-08-21T11:06:00.004+08:00

Alibis are not necessarily required to get smashed but lately a thick funk hovers over my head. All the more reason to commune with trusty buddies and abuse alcohol in such a rate that would make AA hotlines rattle.

I'm kidding over the exaggeration, of course.

Monday night Mapplethorpe and Saville decided to have impromptu get-together at Mapplethorpe's house. We were joined by Holden, a senior designer for a hip publishing firm who tagged along at Mapplethorpe's behest. I was glum over the fact that my so-called life is becoming a redundant series of blah-ness. So inebriation is in order.

We discovered later that Mapplethorpe's domestic front is having a few crimps. In fact his beloved wifey and their little princess (our godchild) stormed off to his in-laws a few days ago. Red horse+lemon wedges kept us company till three in the morning. I got off Shaw Boulevard and staggered a few blocks, dodging the amused glances of call center folks chain smoking outside the buildings. “Fuck you and your fried lungs!” I muttered laughing under my breath. For some cosmic miracle I got to my flat's lobby in one piece, giving the guard on duty a knowing grin. He courteously opened the elevator for me. Neat dude.

Wednesday night I gargled white wine at our friend Helios' business expansion opening at The Fort. I was with Mapplethorpe, Saville, Nicodemus, Nicodemus' intern and his equally-cute sibling, and later we were joined by my best friend Aoki, who leapfrogged from their office's product launch, dragging along her funky marketing assistant.

Later that night Mapplethorpe, being a spoiled brat that he is, demanded we come with him to Sorrenti's birthday bash at a swanky hotel's bar in Makati. Saville and I, having already had our beer and wine fix declined but he threw a fit so we relented like headless idiots.

The bar was fogged with dense smoke puffing from the twanged lips of sophisticated cats and trendy dorks. Cool acquaintances and casual friends mingle with a dubious bevy of foreign models, the bored fashion pack, creative types, advertising folks, publishing hacks and assorted society page royalettes and wannabes.

“Glad you made it, bastardos!” Sorrenti threw us big hugs.

We zeroed in towards the bar like preprogrammed missiles.

Rushing to the washroom I bumped into a Japanese-Brazilian model we have collaborated with long ago. We swapped quick updates. He looked like his head is hovering somewhere in Pluto and his eyes were indicating he took something that would make Robert Downey beam. What a waste. This guy used to be a stunner and now he looked like a wreck. He asked me to keep in touch. I was tempted to suggest rehab.

While Mapplethorpe was introducing me to a booker of Brazilian models someone slapped my back and when I turned, my beaming protégée, Beirut, shoved a swirling glass of Hennessy on the rocks upon my face. Ugh. I hate cognac. I've always found cognac to be the favored drink of anyone hitting midlife crisis and contemplating on buying a Ferrari and a mistress.

“Son of a gun!” I hugged him. “What are you doing here?!”

“I'm now working for an affiliate firm owned by Sorrenti!” he shot back.

“Are you going to Embassy tomorrow?” Mapplethorpe piped in.

“What's at Embassy tomorrow?” Beirut and I chorused.

“Nicodemus is inviting us to some trendy gig.”

I rolled my eyes. Beirut laughed.

“He said he reserved a table” Mapplethorpe droned on, unperturbed, ignoring my retinal calisthenics.

Heaven help my liver.

Opening Scene Straight Out Of A Badly-Lit Porn Video

2008-08-19T14:54:00.007+08:00

Loud knocks - no, scratch that. The manic poundings sounded like a demented mule, raging on Ketamines, decided to practice cha cha moves using all four hoofs on my defenseless door.

I drowsily reached out for my mobile phone on the floor and jolted out of unconsciousness. Holy crap! Almost lunch time!

My woozy brains tried to dredge up foggy details from last night's Red Horse+Lemon Wedges incident and staggering towards the door my groggy head half-ly imagines that the poundings (both on the door and the inner linings of my skull) are nothing but a vivid bad dream and I'm nothing short of a hung-over sleepwalking skunk.

Annoyed I opened the door. Outside stood the Building's Officer In Charge of Security accompanied by two Meralco technicians.

Oh, drat! I forgot to pay my electric bill again! Bleep! Bleep! Bleep!

This is where residues of last night's beer dissipated and my full mortification came crashing like a grand piano being dropped from the penthouse unto my half-conscious head:

Fuck a duck! I opened the door dressed in nothing but white boxer briefs!

I immediately slammed the door, ran back to the shower, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around my hips and reopened the door and beheld the amused half-smirk of the three guys in the hallway.

I tried to carry out a straight face.

Then I cracked. Acknowledging my utter humiliation with a blushing laugh. Then everyone cracked.

I apologized for forgetting the payment, got the disconnection notice from the technician, closed the door, hurriedly grabbed a toothbrush, washed my face and slipped into sneakers, denim and shirt and hurtled towards the Meralco branch in blasted Pasig.

Then I remembered the looks on their faces. I let out another hearty chuckle, dousing my lingering mortification.

Also, regretting the fact that I failed to wink at the cute moreno technician.

Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!

Invocation

2008-08-13T23:56:00.004+08:00

Peel me off the blankness that cloud the day.

I Swear IT Almost Had A Trace Of Human Expression

2008-08-12T21:54:00.005+08:00

Without as much as throwing me a split-second glance my sister compassed her index finger towards the crowded shelf. I was trying to find a classic book I'm borrowing for reference and her eyes were freakishly peeled, riveted towards the idiot box. She's enraptured like a stunned frog whose retinas were directly beamed by UFO lights.

“What are you watching?” I asked.

“Asero.”

“What's it about?”

Pregnant silence.

“What's it about?” I repeated, not letting her off easy.

Her forehead furrowed, indicating annoyance. More silence.

Intrigued I sat on the couch next to her. I didn't figure out a single shit watching the crackbrained teletravesty for fifteen minutes. Philip K. Dick must be pealing with ludicrous howls in the Grand Afterlife Space Colony In The Sky.

Richard Gutierrez as a comatose android of subnormal intelligence running on Botox?

Pure casting genius!

Words Are Things

2008-08-12T14:45:00.005+08:00

WORDS ARE THINGS
Intermedia poetics and language-based works.
Wednesdays at the new GREEN PAPAYA Art Projects.
#41 T. Gener St. corner Kamuning Rd., QC, 8:30pm.
This week (August 13):Raya Martin,Bea Camacho,Khavn de la Cruz,Mark Salvatus, and special guest Angelo Vermeulen.

(Last week featured Vermeulen, Adam David, Pocholo Goitia vs. John Torres, Vim Nadera w/ Mike Coroza & Teo Antonio.) Curated by Angelo V. Suarez.

The Memo From Hell

2008-08-12T13:04:00.011+08:00

Mariano posted this inter-office memo in his blog.

From: Ms. HR
To: Mariano Juancho
Cc: Big Brother Boss
Subject: FW: SCJP REtake[Scanned]
Date: Thu, 7 Aug 2008 17:06:35 +0800

Hi Huwantso,

Please be advised that you are scheduled for a retake of the SCJP exam on August 20. The following time slots are still open – 9am, 11am and 1pm. You may coordinate with Ms. Front Desk regarding your preferred time slot.

Let me know if you have questions.

Good luck in the exam!

Regards,
Ms. HR

Being a freakazoid that I am I offered unsolicited help, took the—ahem—creative liberty and crafted this opus as possible response:

From: Huwantso
To: Ms. HR aka Satan's Agent
Cc: Big Brother Boss
Subject: FW: SCJP REtake[Scanned]

Hola,Succubus!

I spit on your dopey questionnaire, you corporate ass-kissing maggot. I hope you froze from paralyzing brain aneurysm, you bureaucratic freak. I'll dance on your tomb and hope you grow old and die a fucking virgin.

See you at your funeral.

All the best!
Huwantso

~ ~ ~

loud cloud: hola!
loud cloud: hehe
loud cloud: good luck sa exams!
uliratnimariano: loud
uliratnimariano: haha
uliratnimariano: salamat
uliratnimariano: thanks for that comment
loud cloud: hehehe
uliratnimariano: hanep talaga
uliratnimariano: ahahah
uliratnimariano: muntik ko nang isend
loud cloud: dapat sinisindak ang HR
loud cloud: LOL
uliratnimariano: so yung email na yun is used in real life situation?
loud cloud: minsan nag Christmas party (in our office). eh pakana nila (the Human Retards Department) costume party daw. gaaaaaaaah. so i told them: "since you are all women come as a congregation of pregnant nuns with a cardboard around your necks that says 'the devil made me do it!'"
loud cloud: they were not amused
uliratnimariano: hahaha
uliratnimariano: ang gandang idea
uliratnimariano: ang gandang suggestion eh
loud cloud: no i always make it a point to 'anotate' their memos and mock them
loud cloud: lol
uliratnimariano: ahaha
uliratnimariano: maganda yan
loud cloud: or i post 'fake' memos
loud cloud: LOL
uliratnimariano: so far wala naman akong issue na mabigat
loud cloud: gumagawa kami ng fake memos na parang totoo
loud cloud: prank sa opis
loud cloud: LOL
uliratnimariano: wow
uliratnimariano: nakapost yon?
uliratnimariano: hanep
uliratnimariano: di ko naman kayang gawin yon
uliratnimariano: hahaha
loud cloud: "Dear employees: management is hereby directing everyone to do compulsory exercise to test productivity. When you reach the office in the morning please stand on your head and see if oxygen reaches your brains."
loud cloud: may gumawa
loud cloud: LOLOL
loud cloud: siyempre di ka dapat nagpapahuli
uliratnimariano: taena
uliratnimariano: may gumawa pa non?
uliratnimariano: shet
loud cloud: hahahhaha
loud cloud: you wont believe how gullible some people can be
loud cloud: LOL
uliratnimariano: ano ba naman yon
loud cloud: syempre kaming mga henyo ang suspects
loud cloud: hahahah
uliratnimariano: ahaha
uliratnimariano: mga pasimuno ng lagim
uliratnimariano: masyadong maliit ang opisina
uliratnimariano: saka walang natingin sa memo
loud cloud: "dear employees. Recent studies have shown that good sleep increases productivity at work. 2 hour post-lunch nap is now compulsory"
loud cloud: that one was so believed by everyone
loud cloud: LOL
uliratnimariano: puta
uliratnimariano: hahahaha
loud cloud: hahahaha
uliratnimariano: ahahahahahaha
loud cloud: dami natulog!
loud cloud: hahhahahahaha
uliratnimariano: hahahaha
uliratnimariano: kahit ako pabor ako dun!
uliratnimariano: kahit joke o hindi
loud cloud: dami nga natuwa except the HR
loud cloud: LOL
uliratnimariano: via email kasi ang mga general memos dito
uliratnimariano: kaya walang lusot
loud cloud: hack their emails!
loud cloud: LOL
uliratnimariano: negatib
uliratnimariano: ahaha
loud cloud: di pa xerox ka tapos distribute mo lunch break pag walang tao
loud cloud: LOL
uliratnimariano: ahaha
uliratnimariano: oo nga eh
uliratnimariano: magandang prank
uliratnimariano: pati sa general manager's office
loud cloud: i cant stand HR
loud cloud: and their lameass corporate policies
uliratnimariano: wala namang masyadong brutality on my part
loud cloud: dapat may suwail sa company ninyo. pwede mag apply dyan? LOL
uliratnimariano: kung pwede lang
uliratnimariano: why not
loud cloud: hahhaah
uliratnimariano: kaso close masyado mga tao dito
loud cloud: ma terrorize ko yung HR ninyo
uliratnimariano: ahahaha
uliratnimariano: oo
uliratnimariano: hawak ko nga yung application nila ngayon
uliratnimariano: kame ang gumagawa
uliratnimariano: parang gusto kong singitan ng kung ano
uliratnimariano: ahahaha
uliratnimariano: ayos!
loud cloud: application form?
uliratnimariano: sige
uliratnimariano: maghahanap pa ako
uliratnimariano: haha
uliratnimariano: parang seryoso ka ah
loud cloud: lagyan mo!
uliratnimariano: haha
uliratnimariano: wag naman, joke lang yon
uliratnimariano: application sa website
uliratnimariano: web based computer application
uliratnimariano: lalagyan ko ng kalokohan
uliratnimariano: ahaha
uliratnimariano: teka lang ha
loud cloud: "By signing the dotted line you commit to let go of your independence, bestow your full obedience, your first-born and your kidneys to the company."
loud cloud: singit mo dali!
loud cloud: LOL
loud cloud: "and you waive all your legal rights and allow management to slap your buttocks with a frying fan"
loud cloud: brb
uliratnimariano's status is now "Idle". (8/12/2008 5:08 PM)

Tapping Morse Codes On Tan Lines

2008-08-09T22:17:00.015+08:00

Saville and Tibor insisted I join them.

“I can't,” I yawned over the phone. “Ive got volunteer work tomorrow.”
Though I wasn't lying about the volunteer work bit, I was actually using it as a valid excuse to not go carousing Friday night.

“Mapplethorpe is already on his way” Tibor replied, ignoring what I just said. “Meet us at Some-Negligible-Watering-Hole-Frequented-By-Construction-Workers in an hour.”

“Did you hear what I just said? I cant.”

“Shaddap. Beer's on me. Happiness on Saville.”

Happiness being young giggly strippers blessed with racks that would make fruit stands proud.

Why in hell not.

After downing a couple of Red Horse with lemon wedges off we barged in a sleazy joint. The doorman met Mapplethorpe with a Cheshire grin that would make Garfield look grim.

Onstage a foxy chick's writhing like a caterpillar on speed. Or a crazed Olympic Gymnast discovering she's got hormones during a Floor Exercise routine in the competition. We settled in one booth, Mapplethorpe barking beer order to the deaf busboy. Four nymphets joined us.

“Lets get a private room!” Saville brightly declared.

Demented nods erupted all around.

The minute we plopped our semi-drunk carcasses on the ramshackled cushions of the dark private room conversations halted.

My hands automatically switched to Braille mode. Sultry Nymphet was game so we censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored.

Censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored .

About five o'clock in the morning we dragged our smashed selves out and hit the road home. I flicked my iPod on and The Rollingstones belched an apt tune. We sang along at the top of our lungs.

I can't get NO!
I can't get NO!
I can't get NO!
Satisfactioooooooooooooooon!

Reaching my flat I dived in bed, woozy, blissfully drunk. I drowsily realized I'm reeking of Marlboro Reds* and the girl's cheap perfume. Then everything faded into the gravity of much-needed sleep.

(* I'm a chronic second-hand smoker. Ugh)

~ ~ ~

Post scriptum:

I was conferencing with Datu and Q at YM when this popped:

Q the Conqueror: eeeeeeeeeeewww.. cheap female perfume. eeeeeeeeeeeeew--> just read loudcloud's blog
loud cloud: LOL
Q the Conqueror: hahahahahahahhaha. let me be with your friends saville and mapplethhorpe instead
Q the Conqueror: hahahaha

Artistic Arousals

2008-08-07T23:26:00.014+08:00

(Being a thief that I am, I incorporated in the above illustration the works of Rachel Rillo from her "Manila" series; Mark Salvatus' "Wrapped" and Electrolychee's fantastic graphics as drop down banner slash backdraft for the awards event.)

Glamour, talent and ambition collide at this year's Ateneo Art Awards, an event I attended at the The Shang earlier. Cute people, talented people, artsy people, fashionable people, smart people all converged to toast the 2008 winners. I wasn't planning of attending but my friend Dundee Warhol sulked and threatened to self-destruct so I went. I said hello to a few young contemporary artists I know, a couple of friends working in publishing and random dorks I am fond of.

I was rooting for Mark Salvatus, Rachel Rillo and Christina Dy to bag the awards but the grand prizes were snagged by (2008 Philipp Morris Art Awards Grand Prize winner) Marina Cruz-Garcia (a well-deserved win), Kawayan de Guia and Poklong Anading. Interestingly a brief hush crashed on the wine-sipping crowd and eyebrows arched when Poklong was announced winner. Don't get me wrong; Poklong is a spectacular force in local contemporary art but there seems to be dissenting opinions on the award bestowed.

While I was busy figuring out the extraordinary identity/graphics of this year's award (designed by hip, dynamic, talented duo, Electrolychee) a friend working for a retail group sidled up to me.

“The garbs!” Swastika whispered. “So extreme!”

I look at her Jill Sander/Tyler clad self and let out a soft chuckle.

Swastika is uninitiated to the quirks of the art circuit. In an artsy event like this it is de riguer to expect a clash not only of demographics, bank accounts, sexual leanings but also of fashion sense.

While the tony philanthropic and patron set clutch on obscenely-priced "It" bags and accessory-for-murder stilettos, some of the artsy crowd arrives like they just have been playing rugby with hobos and winos at the wet market.

My chuckle got cut short when, true to form, ruggedly hot artist and this year's award finalist Robert Langenegger walked by. He's sporting a loose old T-shirt. Tattoos peek out of his sleeve and he seemed to have been lifting baskets of produce, ignored the shower and rushed to the ceremony to accept his finalist citation. Yet he's oozing that edgy, raw sexuality: every pore of his body vibrates with unsanded, pulsating animal appeal.

“Who that?” Swastika asked, probably already raping Langenegger in her hyperhormonal mind.

“Langenegger. One of the finalists.”

“Extreme” she pants, latching coital stares upon the unsuspecting artist. “But I'd do him.”

I laughed with her.

She's not alone in thinking it.

~ ~ ~

Zones Of Influence the Ateneo Art Awards 2008 runs August 1-11, Grand Atrium, Shangri-la Plaza Mall.

Liquid Dreams

2008-08-07T02:56:00.005+08:00

Spaces spread out like breathing continents in my mind. Everywhere I look I see ceaseless echoes of white walls, unfettered of smudges, distractions or meaning. It’s not as separate as a kiss that seeks to reinvent itself. Or a certain yearning that, by virtue of duplication, validates itself into a tactile reality. I walk the streets silhouetted by constellations of vacancies—clouds bereft of consequence shadow every weightless step. Even sleep descends evenly, self-assured, like a summer afternoon that refuses to yield to any shape of interruptions. Somewhere down the hall tonight, a karaoke shrieks off key self-affirmations of love penned by drugged up rockers trying to make sense of fame and pain. I twist the knob, dissolve into my unlit apartment, slide into linens, and, lulled by sentimental screams of lyrics flooding the hallways, I drift into unconsciousness, murmuring a name. Its syllables ripple like liquid dreams, half-whispered pirouettes trapped in momentary coals of midnight.

Blog Challenge: The Virtual Vice

2008-08-06T19:13:00.004+08:00

Lurker, yes you, the one reading my blog. Take time to write and compete in this round of The Blog Awards Challenge.

Our generation is progressively becoming more and more virtual; Even our friendships and relationships are defined by Friendster, MySpace, and Facebook. Twitter is increasingly substituting physical interactions and 'catching up' moments are better served online. We would rather "YM or GTalk" chat revelatory details about our lives than confide with offline friends.

Did Cyberlife Kill Real Life Intimacy?

Sound of Languor

2008-08-04T16:26:00.006+08:00

Downcast weather is perfect to listen to the languid melancholy of this song I discovered recently:

Reminds me of Catpower's The Greatest, Lunik, Leona Naess and Vienna Teng.I'm looping it, idling at work, wishing I'm in bed.

(p.s. thankees misterhubs for helping in embedding/converting the audiofile!)

Murder By Cuteness

2008-08-04T00:32:00.010+08:00

Allergy is the word that pops in my mind every time someone mentions anything cutey-pahootey. So when I read Ian's review of Star Cinema's major production titled A Very Special Love, blisters and rashes started to sprout in my neck.

However I am the kind of Grinch that refuses to be one-upped so I took the bait and decided to watch the flick.

Listen. I am as shocked as you are. Cuteness overload isn't my idea of a Masochist's Sunday. (Dropping hollow blocks on my own foot would have been more fun.) This is compounded by the fact that this is a local movie and we all know homemade flicks are a ticket to mush/cheesepit where any given moment the cast will burst into a song and dance number. Or a kidnapping.

I had a plan: Here is my chance to gloat over Ian and Xienah. Ian, because he did that glowing review. Xienah, because, for some insane, incompressible reason, has this delirious girly crush on John Lloyd Cruz. Whatever she inhaled I'm not having some.

I dashed to the nearby Galleria and with a straight face gingerly whispered to the leery ticket booth clerk that, yes, I am buying a ticket to A Very Special Love. I feared she'd burst into maniacal laughter and slide off her seat in convulsions. My paranoia is heightened by the psychotic fear that anyone I might know will show up behind, armed with a digital camera and nursing blackmail in his heart. If that happened I won't live to hear the end of the tauntings and sniggery jokes. None of such misfortune transpired so I sneaked in the theater, avoiding faces as if I'm about to screen the updated version of Debbie Does Dallas.

Determined to shred the movie and lord over Ian and Xienah with smug satisfaction of having poked fun at its stars I planted my butt somewhere in the middle. Somewhere darker, to avoid being recognized.

Then the movie gut-punched me.

All the nasty lines I was crafting in my head for this blog melted along the breezy cadence of the movie. I was giggling like a fucking schoolgirl. I kicked myself three times in the dark to slap some Grinchness back to no avail. So excuse the drippy moment. Regular Grinch programming will resume as soon as I wipe the mocking grin off the face of Ian. And Xienah, if she starts making a jab at me.

A Very Special Love is not special if you take the plot. It's a formulaic mash with traces of Ugly Betty, Two Weeks Notice meeting The Devil Wears Prada. But it's a very good mash and at risk of being discovered and mocked by real life colleagues, I will dare say it's well-crafted mash: it is romantic, comedic, dramatic without murdering the audience with cuteness overkill. It has many swoon worthy moments without inundating with cloying drivels. Even clichés are given sincere treatments and you believe it without cringing. It is a compact, well developed flick and it's refreshing to note that there seems to be no superfluous or unnecessary scenes. Pruning the excess, it lets the characters shine with less to close to nil goofy gimmicks, which is a welcome treat.

A dopey premise like A Very Special Love in capable hands can come off surprisingly good and the movie is hell-bent to redeem itself with spectacular acting from the lead characters. And I am saying this with cautious conviction because I cannot stand the cute antics of John Lloyd Cruz outside this movie nor can I endure the chorus lines of Sarah Geronimo's ballads. So imagine my dazed experience when these two yanked the carpet off my cynical feet. Maybe it's too soon to say but Cruz and Geronimo are credible talents in search of great materials and roles to inhabit. Here they are palpable, real and - I'll go out on a limb here - radiant.

Cruz essays the tempestuous Magazine Publisher who is unshakably desperate to prove his worth to his clan. He storms with imperturbable ability and evil glee. He is Anna Wintour minus the tits but on perpetual PMS. At one point I was half-expecting for a dream sequence where it is finally revealed why he is such a crabby grouch: aliens have abducted him and forgot to remove his anal probe, ergo justifying his being a tyrannical sourpuss. The real reason of course is that he is an illegitimate child and is under tremendous pressure in buying the respect and acceptance of his father and half siblings. For a moment I was afraid that all his menacing fury is due to the fact that he is made to wear leather shoes sans the socks.

I can't stand too much perkiness but Geronimo dared not become Mary Poppins on steroids. Her cheerfulness is calculated, giving a billowy command on the role and the lines she's tossing. Lesser talents might have converted her role into a talking cheesecake but Geronimo dazzles even in her clichéd lines and syrupy moments. She's equally as surprising as Cruz performance-wise. Together they can make a toothache bearable and cheesy plots decent and enjoyable. (She fixes him coffee with Post-It notes containing smiley faces stuck to the mug, he retaliates fixing her coffee with a flower stuck to the mug. Under different circumstances I'd launch into projectile barfing. Instead, I giggled like I am yet to hit my first menstrual moment. Ugh.)

Maybe the Powers That Be of Star Cinema should pay heed to these two and shower them with more abundant opportunities than pumping the attention to the Sam Milby and Whatsherface tandem.

Everyone in the cast delivered. Zingers are tossed with aplomb and touchy moments are lent with such humanity that you can't contain a burst of recognition.

Aside from competent acting, well-assembled cast and a very crisp, well-paced script my biggest pleasure is the art direction. Mother Lily (aka King Midas In Reverse. “Everything she touches turns to shit.”) pay attention: This is why the movie is a visual experience! Make it look good as the case here in A Very Special Love. It appeared like no expense is spared on the set, designs, styling and locations and it pays off handsomely.

The sets are well-lighted, apt and tastefully put together. This is the first local movie I have seen in ages that looked sleek, modern, clean. Mid century classic chairs and lamps, check. (I let out a weak whistle when I saw John Lloyd's half brother's desk lamp, because I own the exact same thing plus the floor lamp version of the same design. Artemide would be proud.) Elegant and streamlined interiors, check. Fashionable wardrobes, check. (Kudos to the stylists for making the cast look so chic. Even the locations are bursting with cool factor.)

So there I was enjoying the hell out of the movie, leaving the theater with newfound respect for Cruz and Geronimo.

And yes, Ian and Xienah. Wipe out those mocking wacky smiles off your faces.

Before I do it for you.

With a mallet.

Loitering In the Threshold Between Words And Images

2008-08-02T16:16:00.008+08:00

Threat of impoverishment be damned I hoarded the stacks of bargain books being ignored by passersby along the connecting bridge deck of SM Makati and the MRT-Ayala station. At ninety nine bucks buy one take one, books by contemporary fiction authors I am familiar with (and some neat new discoveries) were remaindered. The thought of multiple mental orgasms had my nipples assuming the tautness of rubber erasers. So I grabbed stuff left and right in a frantic spree of a bingo player who got too many cards to blot. That or an amphetamined Hagar The Horrible looting a Balkan village. An amused clerk, seeing me clumsily juggling the titles in my arms helpfully offered a plastic basket. How very helpful. Then again, maybe he looked at me and the favorable word flashed in his head: Quota.

Of the twenty plus books I seized I am now starting reading eight—welcome additions to the two books I am simultaneously trying to finish: Robert Olen Butler's They Whisper , and Eric Kraft's Inflating A Dog.

Here's the list of the first eight I am devouring like a rabid glutton:

01. Drop by Mat Johnson – Elegant and beguiling with pretty succinct language reminding me of the previously mentioned Butler, Kraft and (at times very) Milan Kundera only more hip and current. It's possessed of rhythm that makes you want to read it out loud. Plus it's a novel about making a cut in a cutthroat professional whoring known as advertising, so it definitely got me hooked.

02. Critical Care by Richard Dooling – I remember laughing out loud on his antics in White Man's Grave. In that novel he rhapsodized about making a dump with graphic descriptions that will make Misterhubs perk up.

03. Chump Change by David Eddie

04. Swagbelly by DJ Levien

05. Martin Sloane by Michael Redhill

06. The Tapestries by Kien Nguyen

07. The Astrological Diary Of God by Bo Fowler and

08. Frost On My Moustache by Tim Moore

Enthralling fictions are escapists' convenient vehicle to mill about at the threshold of words and mental universes. You swim in brilliant imaginings, you drown in dialogues, your heart ignited, aflutter.

~ ~ ~

Because my friend Kandinsky is based in Prague and there is no way he can dash to Powerbooks to get Gelo Suarez' Dissonant Umbrellas, I am hereby pilfering bits from the book as literary hors de ouvres for my exiled friend. (If the author is reading this, please don't sue me of copyright infringement! I swear Kandinsky is buying the book through me which I am going to Fedex next week.)

Here's a sampling from Part One: Faux Dada Locomotive

In its paradigm of fins
who knows what lurks
behind the darkness? What trap
awaits the unsuspecting shadow?
A mug filled with toenails
more ghastly than spitoons
emits
the scent of jasmine
& the radiance of severed shoulders:

there are deaths more penetrating

than a bullet thru
the heart, risks more dangerous
than a fork in the lung:
it's the hung air
of venturing into the void,
of language becoming
the jaws of a shark whose
teeth
are shards of a broken
lightbulb. A hieroglyph etches itself
on the scalp of a cat whose paw is a bone
lodged in my throat,
& the sun
is a woman
growing heavy
w/ salt
in the skylit belly of the earth: levitating
leaves in the bushfire
of your brow, pillow-soft rocks in the sack
of your chin—
MEMORY IS A CROCODILE TRICKIER THAN DESIRE:
ITS TAIL COVERED W/ LEMONGRASS, ITS LENGTH

LIKE THAT OF A
LOCOMOTIVE, IT URGES
YOU TO CHANT W/ ME
THE BEGINNING
SYLLABLES OF A SONG: DADA—DADA—
DADA—DADA—

Reading through that my pulse's rapid, my head reeling with pictorial explosions. Angelo Suarez, hope you won't be lazy and come up with another collaboration to ignite the waning interest in wordplay!

Notes On Project Roadkill

2008-07-31T00:14:00.009+08:00

Designers of Project Runway Philippines should all gang up and bitchslap the bejeesus out of the goshdarn producers. I am not necessarily Stephen Gan, Isabella Blow or Suzy Menkes in fashion cognition but from a production and art direction's point of view the contestants should file class action suit. Sure, there is palpable promise of talent among the contenders; Given the limitations and the frenzy surrounding time constraints and pressure to deliver I must say the show is off to a decent start. So I smack all the blame to the production and editing for a lackluster pilot.

I was not a follower of Project Runway until recently. I was however a rabid follower of Project Catwalk, something I stumbled upon reading Mich Dulce's blog a couple of years ago and got instantly hooked. (I cheered Jasper Garvida right from the start - I only knew he was Pinoy was when I saw his family during the season finale. I thought he was Chinese or Cambodian or Thai!)

None of the production values of Runway and Catwalk is visible in Runway Philippines. Sitting through the entire pilot episode just intensified my urge to sue for damages. I get the feeling that the filming and the whole production was done by interns on a deadline for the graduation thesis.

Lighting is garish. Sometimes dark. Then garish again. I thought I tuned in to a badly-filmed murder thriller. Or a documentary involving cocaine dealing bust. Colors and fabric details are washed out and large pores and pimples are gaudily highlighted.

Buko instead of Moët et Chandon for the season toast? Good thing I wasn't eating polvoron while watching it. I am all for injecting Filipino-ness to the franchise but it was a scream watching everyone raise coconuts in the air and awkwardly sipping from the straw like it's a radioactive cocktail. A handful of contestants visibly winced. The fantastic back draft of Manila's Central Post Office dissolved into a close up of striped table cloth that would sit well in either Red Ribbon or Lydia's Lechon.

Someone should tell Rajo Laurel that a bow tie looked cute on Alber Elbaz and wearing one in powder blue made him (Rajo not Alber) look like a bearded schoolboy en route to a first communion in McDonald's.

Sound editing was horrendous. Teresa Herrera came off like she inhaled helium and Jojie Lloren registered like a steel wool being dragged across the hood of a Nissan FX.

The hosts dialogs were unblushingly recycled and they deliver them like they are reading the nutritional contents of a creal box.

If you get past the tackiness of low production values and nerve-grating sound editing, it is worthwhile to mention that the choices of outdoor location showcases Manila's cosmopolitan side.

The kids however are brimming with talent, panache and guts. The kind of competitive hunger, optimism and determination that is worth applauding.

The frumpy design of the most senior competing designer was ultimately eliminated.

My vote for elimination, however, goes to the mediocre execution of the whole show.

P.S. I'm waiting for misterhubs' take on the Project Roadkill pilot episode. I am so sure it's going to be a riot. Hehe.

Raw, As It Should Be

2008-07-29T00:02:00.018+08:00

Chancing upon the poetry of Angelo Suarez was a favorable byproduct of an unpleasant accident. I was loitering in Powerbooks waiting for a perpetually tardy pseudofriend. Instead of hyperventilating like a maniac I wandered aimlessly among the shelves and asked the store clerk for a copy of a book on Alexey Brodovitch. I was speaking to her mid-sentence when a snooty society matron, towing her colegiala daughter like a sulking shitzu, interrupted our conversation with a loud inquiry: “MISS! ASAN ANG MGA LIBRO NI BOB ONG?!!” (Miss! Where can I find Bob Ong's books?!)

Before the clerk could reply I deadpanned:“There. Good Manners and Right Conduct section.”

The daughter and the clerk blushed. Ivana Tramp shot me dagger looks. Lucky her I was in combative, annoyed mood. I stared back vacantly at her.

She harrumphed, made a sharp about face, bumped the high case of neatly stacked books and jolted Angelo Suarez' Else It Was Purely Girls from the shelf, sending it flying, hitting my shoulder and landing on the floor in front of me. I picked it up, leafed through it while speed reading like a cannibal after weeks of tofu and bean sprouts.

The compact book of poetry instantly reeled me in. I forgot about the crass old hag, my Late Beyond Endurance friend and the book I was asking for. I sat at a nearby couch and finished it in one sitting. Yes, I bought the book and asked for a copy of The Nymph of MTV. Only to be told of its unavailability.

I dashed to National Bookstore and got a copy, and pleasantly surprised to discover along with it the new book Dissonant Umbrellas, a collaboration with equally-ingenious minds including Constantino Zicarelli and Mark Salvatus. (I have been to Mark Salvatus' art exhibit in Cubao Expo before and I loved what I saw.)

Reading through Dissonant Umbrellas gave me the feeling of leaping out of a Gulfsteam, free falling blindfolded and colliding on a tent in a jungle clearing where Gary Larson, Hunter S. Thompson, Joan Miró, Allen Ginsberg and Michel Gondry were camped out, inhaling weed.

I will not synthesise Suarez' poetry as I am unimpeachably convinced that my best attempt at critiquing the imperious streams of incitive wordplay will come off fumbling, sophomoric and will - beyond question - embarrass me to no end. This is one of those instances when I would discard shamelessness and own up to the painful fact that the author is giving me multiple-yet-to-be-identified deep insecurity complexes. Yes, Suarez' poetic manipulations are very contemporary, inventive, provocative, witty and compelling and let's leave it at that. I will refuse to rhapsodize them with foamy adjectives because you and I know that he is a gung-ho creative renegade who deserve proper critiques from legitimate, enlightened persons of letters.

However I will rattle on the presentation of this fantastic book. Dissonant Umbrellas casually flirts with illegibility and consciously composed chaos innovated early on by David Carson in Beach Culture, Raygun and Blue (the travel+adventure title and NOT the gay) magazines. Texts, lines, sentences and paragraphs are fractured, randomly tossed out of grid and order, and oftentimes aimlessly mixed and scrawled that makes me recall the low-fi anti-designs of Tibor Kalman, Stefan Sagmeister and the raw typographic jungle of the now deceased Emigre Magazine.

The mix of helter-skelter graphics, low-fi production techniques and the compellingly raw words of Suarez elicits an urgent, almost confrontational nature to the collaboration, thereby catapulting poetry presentation into a hip, attractive dynamic that will sit well with kids weaned on MTv and prevalent attention deficit disorders. If this is a radical wave to lag the absolute demise of the love for words, then hell be frozen for all I care, I'll sign up for a megaphone-wielding volunteer brigade for its assertion and rampant use.

If you love vivid words, buy Dissonant Umbrellas. If you are a fan of maximalistic design and art direction, you should own this book. If you love both words and design, leave me your mobile number let's have coffee. Kidding. Don't.

But if you are like the snooty old hag in search of pastel, peachy Hallmark sap, buy a lifetime membership to Readers From Hell.

Also known as The Book Club of Oprah and Dr. Phil.

~~~

Recently, blogfriend Misterhubs facilitated the existence of a new blog that bills itself The Chronicles of E - a searing, raw confessional streaming on drug abuse, wanton sex, guilty musings, angry outbursts, mindless debauchery, and lucid, tender intervals. I am reminded of Jim Caroll's The Basketball Diaries, Bret Easton Ellis' American Psycho/Glamorama/The Rules Of Attraction, James Frey's A Million Little Pieces, JT Leroy's The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things, Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City and Patricia Highsmith's sociapathic antihero if he were on Ketamines and hormone overload.

Absolutely not for wimps.

Homecoming Grinch Walk This Way

2008-07-27T23:50:00.004+08:00

Barely able to breath a lungful of polluted Manila air I was instantly assaulted by two frantic calls. One coming from a friend wishing to discharge some domestic woes and my other friend who wanted to drag me to a horrendous event. All the enervating fresh air I inhaled instantaneously vanished. Welcome home to Stress Street. Speed limit Full throttle Ahead. Oh, Drat. I'm back. Dreadfully back.