Empty Streets & A Second Helping Of Recycled Non-Sequitors

Initially I planned blogging about how Ayala Avenue and Paseo de Roxas were practically a ghost town yesterday, an obvious fact given it being a holiday. While everyone packed their beer coolers, poker cards and mahjong tables and heed towards the cemeteries, I decided to be the lonesome ghoul working at the office. It was kind of freaky when it was so quiet you can practically hear yourself breathing. Add to the fact that the lousy building turned off all the hallway lights and a quick trip to the washroom suddenly have the atmosphere of a horror flick. But the entry didn't materialize because my mind staged an unscheduled blackout so as before, I'd resort to shameless recycling.

love in the time of soap opera
Created on: Jan 09 2006 @ 11:55 AM

another random browser pointed my obvious air of conceit (see previous post). i'm prone to agree if it means i'd get rid of touchy egos and unwanted over-sentimentality. life is peculiar as it is without having to add melodrama into one's existence. don't get me started on having to deal with excessive doses of other people's insecurities. it's staggering, the abundant supply of touchy-feely nancies.

please don't demand an apology from someone who can see through your deficiency.



sunny side pop
Created on: Jan 09 2006 @ 12:09 PM

contrary to popular disbelief i do have a disgusting sunny side. i laugh over silly cracks. i think [as opposed to what other folks consider to be ugly] bulldogs are cuter and much more charming than half of my cousins combined. as a grown man i don't cry in public and will never admit under threat of bodily harm that the movie e.t. had me crying, having watched it at the age twenty four. i do believe in the great hug therapy and considers casablanca and cinema paradiso to be shining examples of what great love is all about. neither will i be shaken off the resolution that humans of any age shouldn't outgrow pillow fights.

stop me before i turn into a quavering jell-o.



instant coffee mates
Created on: Jan 17 2006 @ 08:50 AM

since when did it become trendy to equalize familiarity with a brief encounter over a cup of coffee? i'm wondering because a lot of people seem to have this "getting to know you over a cuppa-o-latte" kind of thing going on. it's amazing. can really gauge a person's worth before the brew loses its heat? essentially, how much self-flattery or self-aggrandizement can you cram in said over-coffee conversation to create a great impression before one of you decides to have another cup to prolong the exchange or put the two-person acquaintance party into a grinding halt with a convenient excuse and leave?

it takes many people a lifetime to know another. so maybe our coffee culture is attempting a shortcut.



mental abortion
Created on: Jan 18 2006 @ 09:48 AM

all of a sudden my mind went blank.

when i went online my mind is whirling with countless ideas but they disappeared like fickle vapors the minute i logged on in (name of website). it's really irritating when that happens. it's like an interrupted orgasm. it's painful, and, understandably, leads you to a very foul mood.

now i'm staring at the blank word processor (not that i'm paranoid, but it's mocking me), absorbing the radioactive glare of my monitor, waiting for the end of the world as we know it.

contrary to the r.e.m song, i don't feel fine.



combustibles
Created on: Jan 20 2006 @ 10:40 AM

work is a female dog. what makes it thankless sometimes is the fact that there are people who harp, whine and moan, making the whole experience less endurable. i am not aspiring to walk the easy street but this is becoming more disheartening everyday. it's steadily becoming a plateau of tedious tasks, a constant tiptoe in a volatile playground seeded with landmines of egos and insecurities.

this used to be fun.



farewell, firecracker
Created on: Jan 20 2006 @ 11:03 AM

look here, i'm quoting a pessimistic royal: "you have too much sincerity; you must be an actress." so do me a favor. enough of the lip service. i am sick of fiction. for once it would be refreshing to see you steering away from this orbit and explode in less genuine places. it doesn't matter where. pick anywhere but here. find a calmness in the far corners to violate. i'll watch the distant flickers and think it's not firecrackers igniting but fireflies dancing.



sugar-coated bile
Created on: Jan 20 2006 @ 11:38 AM

oftentimes you spend excessive whiles obsessing over something. be it a person, a token, a feeling, a dream, a thing, a possibility, a yearning. yes, you are aware of your dishonorable lapse in self-control, but you can't help it. it is as if you are hotwired into being drawn closer towards absolute self-humiliation. you are shamed by the fact that you have allowed yourself to loosen your grip of reality and decline towards helplessness. there is another name for such addiction. but you'd rather not bother finding out. the longer it remains nameless the more excusable the denials would be.

all you need is time. a precise moment to finally arriving at a point of being totally fed up and realize that it was nothing but sugar-coated bile.

if such time will come at all.



fake f*ckers
Created on: Jan 20 2006 @ 12:27 PM

how to spot a fake in (name of website)? no rocket science is required if one is keen. for the slightly dense here's a few screaming clues:

1. in their profile/s they declare to have attended prestigious schools but their sentences have more grammatical fractures than a congressmen. a dead giveaway.

2. they claim to be straight but list queer eye, queer as folk, will and grace and the likes as favorite tv show. more so if all three appear in succession in their list.

3. state they're educated but can't spell for shit. state that they're literate but don't have more than five decent authors as favorites. state that they love rock/alternative music but later on tell you on-chat that they think britney spears is the bomb.

4. declare themselves straighter than an arrow but leave self-affirming, telltale comments on homoerotic journal postings of other (name of website) members.

5. write 'straight' in their profile. then amass a list of buddies whose primary profile pictures are an assortment of penile bulge/crotch shots, magnified abdominals, tight underwear shots, and attractive images of people who belong in the same gender.

6. if s/he uses a picture which is too attractive and polished-beyond-belief chances are those images were lifted from porn sites, stolen from modeling outtakes, or photoshopped like there's no tomorrow. bear in mind that only about 14% of the earth's population are qualified underwear endorsers. (consider yourself lucky if you discover few honest people who post their authentic attractive pictures; don't hope too much though)

7. they are quick to point out/broadcast the deficiencies and misleadings/deceits of others. this act is not really a public service; this is indiscretion. not a very attractive trait.

8. they tell people they are into long-term relationships. then flood the journal section with postings soliciting a quick f*ck.

9. they fill out their profile fields with entries saying they are not in here for sex/good looks/good time but most of their profile's buddies are of those pursuits. you kind of wonder what are they in here for: sharing the good news of salvation?

10. more than those who post images that are not their own, do watch out for those who tell you emphatically that they are very sincere and/or honest. probability is they are not.

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A Month Of Non-Sequitors

November officially arrives boiling over with promise of terrific possibilities. A hasty prediction of my work schedule tells me I won't be blogging rabidly as last month. During these update lapses I'd rummage through one of my early glorious failings at concise blogging. This is when I had a laughable idea that writing in lowercase is the coolest thing since sliced bread. I have forgotten about this alternate (writing) self and idleness prompted me to sift through its cobwebbed beams. All the entries are hysterically insane. And no, I wasn't inhaling prohibited substances at the time I wrote them. This will be a series of non-sequitor-like entries until I've exhausted all the long-forgotten blog. Recycling is not limited to the environment; in blogging it conceals your utter lack of nothing to say.


natural bummed rebel
Created on: Jan 01 2006 @ 11:04 AM

what's more unsettling than hellish boredom? bizarre horoscope predictions, that is. parking in (website name) and idly reading the inane exchanges ever known to online chat i half-consciously hit a link which led me to this odd snippet of astrological forecast:Aquarius. January 01, 2006 > Relationships are a wonderful surprise, whether they come along for platonic, professional or romantic reasons. Someone new, unusual and quite rebellious -- your absolute favorite -- is probably the type of person you should expect. As usual, by the way, running into this person under a highly unusual situation is also what you should expect -- and of course, this will make the encounter even more appealing to you. The heavens obviously arranged for you two to meet. i won't call it heavenly arrangement. i'd call it cosmic meddling.


pit stop
Created on: Jan 01 2006 @ 11:22 AM

sometimes i wonder if there is an immediate cure for sudden inexplicable blues. you know you've hit the basement when nothing interests you enough to make an effort at rising from consentual lethargy. some cheerful-beyond-belief folks may helpfully offer a multiple option of porn, a high-calorie dessert, funny flicks or a warm fuzzy hug. thanks, but i'd take a practical fix: a quick slap.if life is a freaking bowl of cherries, can anyone explain what in hell are we doing in the pits?


brewing murder in our hearts
Created on: Jan 03 2006 @ 07:58 AM

it always happen. whenever i am lining up to pay for something, there's always someone ahead of me that triggers my homicidal tendencies.

this time it's a woman monopolizing the entire starbucks counter. the line behind her keeps getting longer but she couldn't possibly care because she didn't have the courtesy to glance back and check out if she's being an irresponsible wart.

every second seemed like it's high time for my long overdue violent public rampage.

first it took her fifty years to decide whether chocolote cake is good for her butt, which from an objective stand point, is already approaching planetary dimensions. then her semi-retarded son took another fifty fears to decide which flavor of frappuccino to slurp. people were groaning behind her and some were rolling their eyes, exchanging pained looks with each other.

our collective pain didn't end up yet. she rummaged inside her bag for the misplaced coupon stub to claim for her planner (twenty years), tried to locate her credit card (thirty years), decided to pay for cash instead and counted her folded/crumpled bills (100 years). at this point we all felt cannibalism would be appropriate.

just as the counterclerk was punching and totalling her order, three more kids rushed in and argued amongst themselves which item to add up. the whole process was repeated (one thousand years). aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

people glared and fired death rays at her neck, which was useless because she didn't glance back to check if her butt grew another fifty pounds just by inhaling next to a doughnut. as the three hyperactive kids finally settled for an order, her daughter rushed in with an order for her dad and the nanny. we were telekenitically ordering the counterclerk to lace her drink with cyanide through telepathy. genocide's would have been more appropriate and i keep kicking myself for neglecting to bring my uzi.


the cure! the cure!
Created on: Jan 07 2006 @ 11:57 AM

this entry is another lame excuse to get past paralyzing boredom. i would have downloaded smut, but boredom shreds even the boorish interest in sleaze. come to think of it. there's cure to depression, tacky sex diseases, psychosis, but never boredom.maybe is hould start knitting sweatshirts out of dental floss.


willy wanka and the smut factory
Created on: Jan 07 2006 @ 12:14 PM

steamy classy nudes. literate hardcore sex stories. tease-to-the-hilt art direction. arena magazine's (back issue with ewan mcgreggor/hayden christensen alternate star wars covers) dirty thoughts supplement rocks! hard. literally and figuratively.


welcome to cynical county. population: me
Created on: Jan 08 2006 @ 10:38 AM

for one stunning moment i am rendered speechless. i know this is not quite a common condition for me. i always have reason to moan about. more so in the presence of disgusting cuteness, saccharine sentimentality, and perverse optimism. so it bothers me. it bothers me that i totally enjoyed the chronicles of narnia.it bothers me that i allow myself to be charmed out of my socks.on top of it it bothers me to realize there is such a thing as rare species of (website name population) who make sense. who can carry their end of the conversation.give me skepticism anyday and i'll be obliged to embody it. give me a radical twist from my expectations and i reel.give me a few moments to steady myself. it's a bit cold in here i need to adjust.


foul redundancies
Created on: Jan 08 2006 @ 11:02 AM

given the rapid succession of disappointments it makes one wonder why human nature wouldn't just give up. see, sometimes, you allow yourself a little indulgence. a little hope, if you must. that daunting possibility that somewhere in the madness and boredom of daily struggles you'd fall into an accident that is something...nice. then you fall flat in your face. the embarrassment, the self-loathing, the assigning of blame, the humiliation, the excruciating stabs of hurt, the shame. then the rigorous process of self-inflicted torture commence before the numbness sets in.then you wake up the next day and follow the exact same routine.when or where do you stop?is stopping a form of wimping out?is quixotic pursuit a romantic thing and sensible walking out of the game a form of cruel self-sabotage?and how come, it all it takes is one gentle smile to wipe out all pain ever known?no one seems to have a presence of mind to do the accounting.there is no justice in the world.


comical wisdom
Created on: Jan 08 2006 @ 11:10 AM

remember that calvin and hobbes strip? the one where the little raccoon died? it occured to me that even in the lowest moment there is humor.absurd but alarmingly true.


half a chance of a snowball in hell
Created on: Jan 09 2006 @ 11:17 AM

life has a nasty habit of shortchanging you. it has a wicked sense of humor. it will never be apologetic when toying with your grand aspirations. it is cruel. it is democratic.grit your teeth, heave a sigh of defeat. or opt to battle the hopeless odds with sisyphean determination. most annoying of all is a sure fact: when you're aggrieved there will be no open counter for reimbursements.


shallow marshmallow
Created on: Jan 09 2006 @ 11:40 AM

someone pointed out that i'm quite intimidating. i'm prone to disagree but then again it would ruin the whole weeding out process. friendships are not measured in numbers. it is measured in laughter. there will be other required virtues, but i'd pick laughter as a comfortable point of reference.

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Chicken Chic

Gone are the days when I won’t be subjected to the daily torments of hellish traffic en route to work. For a few blissful years our Emerald Avenue office in Ortigas was practically a stone throw away from the building where I live. I can go home après lunch and have a ten minute nap and happily stride back to work, enervated. Since August when I hopscotched into another job and relocated to Paseo de Roxas in Makati my nerves are habitually assaulted by blaring horns and clunky vehicles practically on a standstill along Buendia, just when I’m rushing madly for an appointment. The good thing however is I discovered the best chicken I’ve eaten in years. Nondescriptically tucked in a parking lot structure, Bugong, is my new morphine. Nevermind the gravy, pass me the salsa!

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High School AKA Your Time-warp Portal To Unspeakable Horrors

Grating as Regine Velasquez’ caterwauling my landline hiccupped incessant shrill rings. Which wound me up. I groggily reached out to the floor and fumbled for the blasted cordless phone buried under a glorious mess of magazines, half-read fictions, discarded underwear, strewn shirts, neckties, empty potato chips sack, green tea bottles, and butchered limbs of a hooker. Kidding.

“This had better be good!” I croaked on the phone.

Stunned silence from the other line. I drowsily glanced at the alien green blink of the Oregon Scientific Philippe Starck-designed clock. It read 1:42 PM. Oh, drat! I’m supposed to brief a few people for a project at work by 10 AM! I’m phenomenally late!


“Who is this?” I droned on, annoyance creeping up my nasal chords.

“Leonidas, the Spartan! Remember, your high school classmate?”

I was swiftly sucked into a time-warp. High school! Haha! Zits! Rampaging hormones! Circle jerks! Kidding, again.

“Whoa! Hey! How did you get my landline? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

He mumbled another classmate’s name. “She gave it to (name of another blob of a classmate) who gave it to (another protozoan classmate) who gave it to me.

I’m getting a migraine.

“Neat! How have you been?”

For another thirty minutes he patched me up into a conference call with four other high school gargoyles and we had a blast catching up. A mini reunion dinner slash get together is set.

I’ll bring the year book and make everyone cringe.

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Cream Scream

Hackneyed costumes abound at last night’s Cream Halloween gig at the World Trade Center I was rolling my eyeballs when cutified versions of Dracula, goth angel and boring zombies pass by. I wasn’t keen on going because Psyche wouldn’t be around. Then again I thought the hell with it. Just because she’s stuck elsewhere I should stay home and mope. All my pseudofriends seem to be preoccupied somewhere else so I decided to meet our office assistant Indigo, our intern Mercutio and my intrepid assistant Psylocke. Despite the general languor I felt earlier we had a blast. I was hitting on a very slick chick in a bright cheongsam whom I was grinding with in the VIP booth and given her heavy flirting I was all set of messing my sheets tonight but then the hilariously dorky thing happened. Psylocke got smashed from having too much beer and she was whirling around like the megastar Pole Dancer in a Vegas Revue. Things got thornier when we bumped into the Japanese-Brazilian model that she had a major crush on and she wildly switched from a professional office vixen into a hormone-crazed puma on a prowl. Very rich moment. I wanna cringe but I chuckled at the absurdity of it all. However I ended up babysitting and was muttering foul, obscene oaths in my head for the missed ONS. That did it. From hereon never go out with young assistants with low tolerance for intoxicants if you care deeply about your hormonal well-being. Sad. Very sad.

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Farce You

Dear Piolo Pascual, Don’t lose your sense of humor. Show those dense wags that you are capable of irony. Wear this shirt on your next TV guesting or interview. Your non-fan, Loudcloud.

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Deliverance

Blasé and idle I had a shining idea: why not post neat quotes in pure typographic treatment? After doing multiple cartwheels in self-congratulations for my gleaming genius I started with this favorite nugget by the preeminent postmodern anti-consumerist provocateur, the brilliant, confrontational Ms. Kruger. This maybe a convenient space filler, and, I fear will be a nasty, recurrent habit from time to time when my mental faculties are on astral travel mode. Someone silkscreen this into a shirt. And send me a copy!

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Exhilaration

Tender me the gentleness that I may be able to love you in still spaces. Let you be my camouflage from all the nameless storms, an indulgent interval where I can breathe freely. Touch my nape and words will be needless; your elbows knitted around my neck, your hands nestling on my shoulders will pacify all the impulsive blizzards in my tattered core. Nudge closer, your lovely temperate gaze soothes erratic exhalations evading my blustery eyes. This is where I yearn to wake up. Our adjacent nakedness huddled like sovereign clouds melting into the elation of one intersected quiver.

(for Psyche and her deep beautiful gazes)

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Kindness

Opening YM often brings me neat surprises.

"(10/25/2007 10:59:24 PM) I have not checked your site for a while and when I did today, I was overwhelmed by the number of entries you have put up. Short they may be, yet so rich in content. I do not read Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He is too surreal for me and I do not claim to be well-versed in his style. Yet that is what I feel with your recent compositions. I feel like an unwelcome third wheel who is concerned yet cannot do anything about it. I can only say that I shall lend an ear when summoned :)"

- a kind, comforting assurance extracted from hewhoisnottobenamed's offline YM message, to which I am awed, and truly grateful.

Thank you.

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Translucence

Plausibly, if there are no suitable words, if there are no proper gerunds to isolate this sprouting restlessness it won’t be of any consequence. If there are no fitting clauses to describe its unsolicited advent then I can write off its grey shadows as nameless, uninvited guest. I can deny its arrival. But I cannot wipe away its sweet-tempered trace, embossed like a faultless promise, watermarked like damp kisses descending the slopes of my neck.

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Rubbing Palms And Whispering Lies

Crafting letters is a primitive art. Notwithstanding best attempts we are unable to beckon sense and coherence to articulate all the infinite things we desire to disclose. November is looming and it’s somehow saddening, thinking that we may be incapable of honoring our fervent affections. Apologies are needless; they are but mere words dispelled to cloak our consummate fears. So we decline in secret, warming our hands and whispering lies.

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Send Me A Postcard When You Reach The Peak, Sisyphus

Clarity hit me on my way home, half drunk of laughter, intoxicants and the tender fondness of proverbial friendships. Consequently, apologies will be dispensed sparingly. I’m fatigued, crestfallen, and three measly breaths from sliding into jadedness. Optimism occupies my mornings yet I do not neglect the constellations of emptiness swirling at the far corners of my eyelids where disenchantment dwells. They both populate a genteel place in the infinite, enigmatic terrains of human heart. Such is our private curse to bear.

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Egress

Quit it.

I am declaring a truce. Opposed to my better judgment I’d go the great lengths and fulfill an undesirable act of vulnerability. This is a hesitant admission: you prevail in this brutal battle. I’ve waged far superior wars and this kind of defeat is new-found; I am trying to reconcile with the why, the how and the ways I have yielded. We both know I am not easily perturbed. I hold a steady gaze, and blinking isn’t my characteristic gesture. This defeat, though not fairly won, is another sparkler in your proud laurels. I’ve allowed myself to lose. For the reason that it’s the most clouded way I know into our reciprocally-needed stillness.

Be still. And in the wake of silence bask in your conquest.

I’ll soundlessly fade into the nightfall. Like a muffled gust that was never there.

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Intangible

Curious thing this unpredicted hunger for invisibility. Amidst cyclones of engagements, obligations, and ceaseless rivers of tasks to rise above, this sudden feeling to dissolve like clouds is ever-smoldering like restless ambers in the ecstasy of fury. To be forgotten like creased postcards. To welcome the dawn with complete incomprehension of names and emotions. To walk briskly in crowded streets and not see mirrors of your private voids and starvations. To slide through sunrise and dusk, concealed, voiceless, with nothing but dreams and laughter bouncing off inside like aimless flurry of fireflies in calm fields of drowsy wheat.

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Sweet Is The Sting

Melancholia is a bittersweet affliction. You are very much welcome, Datu, the disheartened wilted prune!

P.S. Odd, that after a brief bout with option paralysis I decided on the inclusion of Dido’s Don’t Think Of Me (which you identified as Hunter) over Here With Me which I felt strongly to be the one in that compilation. Damn accessibility! Haha. Five Years is by Sugar Hiccups, not Sweet Hiccups although they almost mean the same thing. Angel is a fine Mclachlan material and I cannot listen to it without wincing a little. I have it in The City Of Angels Soundtrack. Buy the soundtrack, ignore the groan-and-roll-your-eyeballs sappy-beyond-belief movie.

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Daze Of Our Lives

Happy Mondays at Embassy Cuisine is your roadmap to understanding aspirational dynamics, the inexplicable need for self-validation, social and hormonal powerplay and that inner sadness everyone seems to be subverting with crisp phony laughter. It’s a fertile well of possibilities everyone wants to drown in. Years later we are still drunk on its unfulfilled promise.

Tuesday cocktails at M Café are polite, civilized, sophisticated. Like two contradictions trapped in the binding spell of a decorously lackluster marriage.

Hip Hop Wednesdays at Embassy is when you channel your inner pseudo gansta to surface with laughably ridiculous upshot. Or you’d endure lukewarm conversations with cheerful hounds at Rock Candy’s French Wednesdays. You’d be in either of the places and wish to be in another. Or you can go bisexual on this: prime at Rock Candy, nightcap at Embassy.

Brazilian Thursdays at Rock Candy is a hit and miss thing. At times it’s a massively fun turn out, certain times you’re aching to be home, watching re-runs.

Predictable Fridays at Ponti will make you have that quaint Nabokov’s Lolita sentiment. And you haven’t hit thirty yet.

Driven Saturdays at Warehouse 135 is a demographic fruit salad. A social buffet marinated in sweaty grinding bodies and pretty young things in a hurry to max out their youthful privileges.

Drowsy Sundays are personal. Indulgent, lazy, a breathing legroom for self acquaintance.

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Moments Without Proper Names

Pondering on the past week that flashed before my eyes I think it ushered more discouraging moments than much-needed exhales of relief. My steady resolve was battered by moments of uncertainty and my faith wavered slightly at the flush of unsympathetic circumstances.

I initially deliberated on blogging about the excruciating trip last Saturday, the ongoing ordeal at work, the constant bouts with frustration, the continuing saga of conflicts among two of my married friends who are in the process of rethinking this whole matrimonial mistake, my thoughts on celebrity controversy, the Glorietta blast claiming lives, and somewhere in between pepper my conceited banters with a brief nod to the abrasive potency of enduring discontent.


Writing is easy. What is difficult is trying to make sense of all the differing weights of emotions and their respective significance, substance, implication and urgency.

I may have written about this to a point of redundancy but I think I’d admit this difficulty once again: the most momentous moments in my life remain undocumented. I’d like to think that they are the ones worthy of proper names. Yet they remain unacknowledged. They remain anonymous figments obscured from public intrusion.

One day I’ll come to terms with this dilemma. Meanwhile spare me a moment to flounder in selfishness.

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Sampunglibong Origaming Tinupi Mula Sa Isandaang Guni-Guni Na Pinunit Sa Hibla Ng Isang Hatinggabi *

Maalon ang bawat
panaganip kagabi.
umiikot ang mga sagwan
umiindak, lumulukso
sa bawat hampas
ng mga alon
sa dalampasigan
ng kawalan.
bawat yugto
ng mga kumakawalang
hininga
ay tumatampisaw,
pumapailanlang
tulad ng mga pariralang
hindi maibibigkas,
hindi mabibitiwan.
ang mga tala ang piping tinig
mga tuldok sa ulap na dumidilig
ng kalungkutan sa bawat hinagpis.
sana, sana, ito ang nalalabing awit
ang panghuling bilang
para sa isang gabi
na muling
daraan.

* hindi po ito tula; ito ay pinagtagpi-tagping tilamsik ng isang malikot na isip para kay Toni, bilang patunay na ako ay marunong managalog ;-)

~ ~ ~

Three overdue entries will be posted when the cosmic rocks align well.

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Wish You're NOT Here

Commonly people would wax poetics on the romance and glamour of traveling. Cynic that I am I look at this whole business with a partially jaundiced eye. Having left Manila at an insane wee hour last Saturday, enduring three modes of transportation and do the same thing the next day is something I’d prefer to call a Masochist’s Day Out. Or, how about: Excruciation Excursion? Now I’m back to the insane grind of city living and for the first time finally started to breath steadily again.

P.S. a blog and responses to your comments/offline messages later.

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Humping Irony

Following the recent cyberpoll ruckus my YM banter buddy hewhoisnottobenamed put things into perspective:

hewhoisnottobenamed: i'm reading your blogs now
loud cloud: i only know CD, texting and this thingabob called podcasting
hewhoisnottobenamed: blink, blink
loud cloud: go back to reading
loud cloud: lol
hewhoisnottobenamed: almost finished
hewhoisnottobenamed: wow. talk about achieving world peace
loud cloud: indeed!
loud cloud: bwahahhahah

Irony. Glorious irony.

~ ~ ~

Absorbing the carcinogenic glare of my laptop screen at three in the morning I was pleasantly surprised when my rabid cyberpoll campaign manager, Toni, popped me a YM message! Whoa, wow! Thank you thank you thank you Toni for salvaging me from utter boredom and yawning gaps through a brief chat!

Random messengers are welcome to annoy me through YM. Pop me a message when the YM icon in my blog is blinking it’s cheerful hepatitis yellow skin!

Chats beginning with 'nasl?' will be summarily ignored.

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Smugness

Talk about igniting a heated stomp.

Buzz-er definitely had a lot of people’s garters all bunched up. The once-sedate cyberpoll is suddenly ablaze with people grinding their teeth and spewing eruptive magma of indignation. I try looking at the whole shebang with objective detachment and not let all the negativity inflame my already conceited, swollen ego. This is becoming hysterically comical by the minute.

Here’s the thing: despite all our presumed cleverness we still have cavernous room for misinterpretation. But for the sake of clarification let me state the following:

• 01. I am not saying that I am being accused by anyone of personally rigging the voting process. I am a pathetic technoretard and wouldn’t have a bleeping clue as to what proxies are and if I wanted a migraine I’d dip my hands on their complex technicalities. What I resent is the implication that the only way I can win a poll is if I rely on pumping proxies. (If you have been reading my past entries, winning or losing is irrelevant; finding inexhaustible supply of absurd things to write about is the great deal - it gives this blog an insane rush.) I can say with conviction that I haven't ask anyone to rig the poll in my favor nor will I encourage it. I am confident that the limited number of people actually reading this blog is sufficient to go on blogging than the validation of ten thousand mindless drones. I do not recycle forwarded jokes in my blog. I do not cut and paste other people’s entries. I’d certainly hammer my molars with a mallet than write a tepid entry on how my day went. (If I did/do kick me in the face to remind me.) Now, if it is still not apparent, this is why this blog is unpopular: I write in a certain way—five hundred percent cuteness-free which is quite radioactive for a lot of bloghoppers. My conceit also reigns supreme which is an effective filtering device to weed out cutey-pahootey dorks.

• 02. I do not deny anyone’s right to question the veracity of the voting process: that’s for the cyberpoll founder’s area to defend. However no one can deny that no matter how flawed the system, Filipino Blogger Of The Week provided everyone a convenient online clearing to pry upon each other's thoughts. Through that thriving site we marvel at the volume of mediocrity out there and delight on the occasional gems we stumble upon through its initiatives. So I do not appreciate the mocking manner of generalizing on everyone’s authenticity. I do not look at people to be shining paragons of niceness but there is this little thing called common courtesy. This is a civilization so courtesy is a major proof that we have shed our Neanderthal skins long ago. Or, have we?

• 03. I can handle smug retorts. Hell, I can be a bastard too. I make snide, sniggery, sexist remarks. That ostracizes me among touchy-feely gay people: I am viewed as a pretentious nutsack by proclaiming this muddy business of bisexuality. However, as this quasi-controversy progresses a little nugget of a statement makes me want to chuckle AND launch into channeling Hannibal Lecter: “for loudcloud and everyone else affected including other fags: i am not accusing anyone.” Fags? If that little shining word is used to compartmentalize people because of their personal life choices then I am grossly misinformed: The last time I checked Macho Homophobia was extinct two decades ago. Yes, I have used the word not to put people down but to amplify the absurdity of certain behaviors. I am ready to let the comment slide if that little word is meant to be a wink wink nudge nudge jab, but the more I reread that brilliant line the more it makes me want to giggle like a hormone-crazed schoolgirl. Before I lunge and peg a Mongol No.2 on anyone’s retinas.

Having said all that, I do not change my opinion on iampaperbag’s obvious blogging faculty. He has the gift, the flair, the aptitude. I do not believe in suppressing dissenting opinions. I encourage it as a matter of fact. It’s a democracy; and shedding valid questions is every Joe’s basic rights. What bugs me is when people make nasty, reckless, sweeping generalizations.

We strive to be individualistic, to proclaim to the blogosphere our distinctive self-proclaimed genius. And I do not buy this whole sordid notion that I am comparable to the next random blogger—to be a name filler in the succession of comas in The Great Pigeonholing Method to validate someone's self-satisfied suspicion on the foulness of a certain system.

We can be smart and drive a point without abandoning our manners.

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Acute Cuteness

Cuteness in excessive doses brings out my latent Nazi tendencies to surface.

I have repeatedly written about this: Possessing an uncomplimentary reputation of being openly warped relieves me from all the feeble obligations to logic, level-headedness and sobriety. The downside is it also makes me look at all things candy-coated-fluff as emotional butane to unleash my homicidal streak.

Unbearable Cuteness exploded at Talksmart’s Blogger Of The Week today. I clicked on my blogroll to check who aced the week’s nominations and was delighted that iampaperbag won. The little that I know of the blogger can be summed up through this personal bias: iampaperbag is one of the engaging, articulate blogs out there. So I did what Toni and JoyJoy did: I campaigned. (It’s not everyday you get to rally for one of the refreshing voices out there in the vast wasteland that is the blogosphere.) My elation was cut short, however. Thanks to the übercute antics of hyphenated buzz-er.

Who was so cute I am reaching for a revolver.


7 Oct 07, 15:56
buzz-er: congratulations to all winners! those proxy servers must've pumped up in the past week! Hehehe

7 Oct 07, 16:00
buzz-er: before using proxy servers, make sure to exhaust campaign techniques to make your victory believable for the next week. there's no such thing as INFLUENTIAL BLOGGER when you have PROXY.. good luck!:-D

7 Oct 07, 16:05
ester: to proxy server, ur simply teaching us to cheat? well have fun.. we dont have to do that but thanks for the info..

7 Oct 07, 16:08
ester: to buzz-er i really think iampaperbag deserve to win and not because to cheated

7 Oct 07, 16:11
james: hmm..i think buzz-er opened a can of worms. congrats pinoys and to pacquiao

Now let’s see. I am not one to lose my sense of humor but I fear someone drank expired KoolAid.

Allegation of proxy servers rigging (whatever that is, I’m a technoretard, don’t ask) maybe a rampant practice, and as such, to deny its existence would be simplistic. If people won using this technique are we dense enough not to figure it out especially if his/her blog is as shaky as a cauldron-full of gooey tapioca? Talksmart's rules would have it that winning the popularity poll (proxy-rigged or rightfully-won) is only one part of the process; all nominees would still undergo the weighted evaluation/votation of different judges with the final ten percent weight bestowed by talksmart himself. As I mentioned on the site's message board: I personally fill the quota for scepticism when popularity is invoked, but I would be the last one to campaign for popular mediocrity either.

In a dazzling display of self-convinced cleverness and what can be passed-off as narcissistic levity buzz-er posted something that would make the entire Sanrio Store pale in embarrassment:

7 Oct 07, 19:14
buzz-er: i did and i love it. smart one. can someone nominate loudcloud, nadriamez, cantiilanon, and iampaperbag next week. proxify the votes woohoo!

Buzz-er, Buzz-er, dude, calm down. Stop inhaling paint thinners. Desist using Liquid Sosa as ionizer reagent. And for all our sakes stop confusing mothballs and Tang. Also, it’s high time you layoff the Hello Kitty fetish. It’s corroding your brains. Seriously.

If you step out of your presumed shrewdness a second and actually browsed through my archives you would have noticed that I failed miserably the previous attempts at winning the cyberpoll. I have whined publicly (and shamelessly) on the lack of rabid supporters. But does that give me license to haze with malice the Blogger Of The Week’s aim to bring together a diverse range of bloggers into the one online clearing for everyone to converge in? Insert your vicious innuendo in explaining the reason for my sudden win if you must, but I can safely deduce my blog would be better written than your offensive tirade. (See, I have no problem in the self-esteem department and humility isn't my most sterling virtue. )

But I agree with you on one aspect: Yes, people are delusional (that includes me). They think writing about their ugly pets or breathlessly narrating their daily non-events is worthy of public adulation and support. Yes, there is that tendency to cheat. But who are we fooling here? A gazillion trophies cannot obscure the glaring lack of writing talent. Counterarguments will be viewed moronic and summarily ignored.

So Buzz-er, dude, pare, tsong, isn’t it a tad cute of you to utter such immortal line “can someone nominate loudcloud, nadriamez, cantiilanon, and iampaperbag next week. proxify the votes woohoo!” and not go down blogging history as the most ill-mannered, resentful douchebag version of Jay Leno In Baby Pink?

You have unmasked me! As Julia Phillips would probably write: My Fraudulent Butt Will Never Eat Lunch In This Town Again! I feel sooooo exposed, Oprah! Hu hu hu, hand me the Kleenex, Dr. Phil!

The mere fact that you overlooked the fluid, rhythmical craft cantilangnon infuses in his blog, in a dialect true to his roots as you hopscotch about in self-congratulations for your technical guile horrifies me: ignorance is the common breeder of dismissiveness. Dissmissiveness begets anger. Anger begets suffering. Suffering leads to the darrrrkkk side! Hrrrmmm? No, wait...

So please do us both a favor. Stand on your head and see if brain oxidation is feasible. Or join this semi-clever game I just made up: I’ll give you five dollars. You go away. Everybody wins.

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Fictitious, Fallacious Faith

Regardless of your supreme faith sometimes cosmic forces conspire that you harvest disenchanted scars from abundant hopefulness. This is the price you have to pay for nursing conviction in the eye of ominous challenges. You hold on to that sliver of hopefulness notwithstanding the skin-searing odds because of stubborn belief in the latent goodness of people or the general benevolence of the universe. You struggle hard on tenterhooks of something ideal, something you are passionate about, in that great anticipation that your efforts will grow abundantly into something far greater than yourself. You bargain for another day, another minute, another blink that will alter the course of constant indifference and vindicate you from enduringly demoralizing scepticism. Then you are hit with a sobering realization: Optimism is but a spitting distance from false hope—not dissimilar to a lobster in the restaurant aquarium.

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Peace And Other Self-same Delusions

Conflicts abound lately and not only because CNN thrusts our current affairs binoculars on Darfur. On a personal level it’s getting maddening. In the wake of last week’s feud, things aren’t peachy between PoshyKat and my sometime friend Cretindell. The short of it is PoshyKat wants to fire Cretindell and wanted me to help in the uprooting. Tough shit.

Clicquot, my Francophile colleague slash friend is at odds with our group’s chairman, who happens to be his Dad. His dad is at odds with his fiancée who happens to be another bratty friend. Convoluted.

Another beloved friend plots a Vengeance Date with her ex, who also happens to be a mutual friend. What she really wanted is that I orchestrate a sit down dinner, invite her ex and his wife, then she can size up the girl so she’d have the wicked feeling of supremacy in the end of it all. Insane.

Our image connoisseur is having a stalagmite-calibre legal battle with his mentor who happens to be another friend who happens to be married to PoshyKat. Migraine.

Amidst this whirlwind I stare in awe. My diplomacy level strained to the limits I sometimes get this uncontrollable urge to start yelling at everyone to get a grip and grow up. The problem is they are all grown up, sensible citizens clouded by revulsion and bitter resentments for each other.

There is so much self-expression in the world and brokering peace is discouraging.

Diplomacy is for the quixotic.

And, sadly, Quixotics are a moribund breed.

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Nocturnal Emissions

BMW sponsored 24/7 Nocturnal Navigator’s Awards night last Wednesday and it felt like a premature ejaculation: it was quickly over before you can fully relish its orgasmic pleasure.

I didn’t plan to be there but my annoyingly relentless demiglamourpuss friend PoshyKat bullied me into going with her.

“I’m in a meeting,” I dismissed her invitation. “In fact I’ll be in a meeting till later.”

“Oh come on!” (I can imagine her rolling her eyeballs). “Be my date! I’m actually in the corner of Makati Avenue! Go down na, I’ll pick you up in the Paseo entrance! Won’t stay long in the event myself!”

Let me tell you something about PoshyKat: The word NO is irrelevant as far as she’s concerned.

So I went. To shut her up. Only to want to kick myself later.

Nothing spectacular happened: A snorefest performance by Michelle Branch/Vanessa Carlton wannabe Julianna and handful awards handed out in variety of faux accents I was beginning to suspect I was shoved into Phonetics Class for Illegal Migrants. The usual suspects won, which extracted a loud yawn from a bored guy behind us. A funky/soul performance by SinoSikat was upstaged by Cool Vodka tonics as the highlight of the event for me.

Having exchanged pleasant hellos to acquaintances and random quasifriends present we loitered a bit. We shook our heads every time waiters heave a tray of hors d'oeuvres in our faces. Then we swigged our final cocktail and split, abandoning the post-awards party in the BMW Pavilion.

Congratulations to the winners! Special Merit should be bestowed to 24/7 for pioneering the recognition of various Manila nightlife habitués and establishments who, despite the lack of mind-blowing production/awards show, reminds us to be thankful that we are superiorly advanced in nocturnal verve than, say, antiseptic Singapore!

~ ~ ~

“Wanna drop by RockCandy’s French Wednesdays?” I ask PoshyKat as we navigated our way out of The Fort.

“Only if they serve Cristal.”

“Go home.”

~ ~ ~

After PoshyKat disgorged me in Greenbelt I called my plucky assistant to bring my laptop/bag so I won’t go back to the office to meet Nicodemus, Beowulf and some friends in Embassy.

Upon hitting the bar area they drank a brain-spinning, tourette-inducing assortment of intoxicants while I stuck to beer and a couple of vodka and grenadine. The VIP room’s loaded with gorgeous folks tonight compared to slow Wednesdays in the past.

I was latching my sight on a gorgeous chick on a sea-green little dress who was dancing in sexy abandon. Beguiling. Until her screamy friends emerged from the main hall and started swirling her about in drunken wailfest that I ditched the brewing urge to chat her up.

“I love your shirt!” a foreigner grabbed my shoulders which prompted me to turn around.

(Translation: Hey, wanna fuck?)

“Thanks!” I replied, spewing a casual smile.

(Translation: Fuck off!)

“Where did you buy it?” he went on.

(Translation: Hey, really, seriously, wanna fuck?)

“It’s not from the store. It’s made to measure by a friend who designs clothes.”

(Translation: Hey, no, but let’s improve the chances after my tenth tequila shot.)

He slinked off and focused his hunt for another prospect, a more eager, consensual victim. I later bumped into him in the main hall grinding to hiphop beats . He flashed a shit-eating grin. I nodded and smiled and headed to the bar for another bottle of beer.

Nicodemus and the rest of our retinue were raging drunk. I got drunk but my faculties strangely sober. It’s amazing how my mind still insist on being sober while I marinade myself with alcohol.

A strange thing occurred to me while dancing with the gang and occasional strangers who happen to intrude. Why are we so determined to max out our youthful privileges? Why do we need this frenzied gimmick to assert our childish need for validation?

Before I get philosophical on anyone’s ass I took another swig of lame beer. I oscillated around frantic bodies squirming and yelling amidst thumping beats that camouflage the creeping sadness in everyone’s ecstatic face.

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Eisoptrophobia*

Channelling King Solomon is not an act of just, diplomatic wisdom; it is an amity equivalent of having a raw root canal especially if the opposing camps are mutually beloved feuding friends. You’d want to be open-minded, to be objective, to be impartial but both camps would want your sympathy, your patience, your understanding, your comfort, your support and your bias in their favour. (Despite glaring evidence of prime retardation—and no matter how shocking it may come—I actually have friends. Treasured, cherished, precious friends. Friends who demand to be heard, to be proven right in their arguments). Inasmuch as I want to take the neutral side, or to feign disinterest or declare non-involvement there’s this nagging necessity from within to bridge the communication and resolve things. Why do we engage in such rituals? Why do we want to fix things even when the problem refuses to be fixed? Why do we want peace in the face of proud stubbornness? Shouldn’t we just wave the big fat forefinger and shrug our shoulders off and proceed with our neat lives or choose obliviousness and face our own private chaos? I must ask. Not because I’m playing dumb. It’s because it’s difficult being smart with these things. Even the smart ones are not half as smart than they give themselves credit for. Because in the end, who can really say what’s right? Or what’s wrong? If ever these things exist at all. I am beginning to fear the dawning of a realization that we are all ignorant vagrants in diligent search for elusive truths. And achieving the truth will invalidate our sense of purpose. That’s why it’s stored in a secret vessel beyond our grasp: To give us a bogus sense of understanding. And in our great ignorance we begin to inflict each other our sense of righteousness. And we use what we know, no matter how flawed and fractured, because we look deeper into our inadequacies and summon and use what we suspect to be right. Possibly we are all wrong; but oh, how we ache to be right! Because we are trying to make sense out of our vaporous perception. Because the last thing we want is a mirror of our incomprehension. Because we don’t want to catch a passing glance of ourselves at the store window and see dirt staring back.

(* Eisoptrophobia- Fear of mirrors)

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Meandermonday

Monday finds me like a bomb. That's been left ticking there too long… No, wait. That’s an Annie Lennox song! I should sleep. My mind is working improperly. Will update with a decent entry later when the cosmic rocks align in favorable configuration.

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Freakazoid Grabs The Laurels

Pin your ears back if you must but I feel I must issue this disclosure: I am as stunned as you are! You see I am a Natural Born Loser. I never win anything if the basis of the competition is popularity. I’ll tell you why: I am a highly-opinionated skunk and as you can glean from my previous blog entries there is an opaque likelihood that I will ever be awarded the Mister Congeniality sash anytime soon. Or at all. I have inborn talent for offending pleasant, mild-mannered, touchy folks and I do it with such glee that instantly ranks me up there with Howard Stern in terms of obnoxiousness.

So it came as a shock that I aced the Filipino Blog Of The Week cyberpoll for Week 74. Before that I lost the first nomination, and then to advance my humiliation, I lost the second nomination, too!

How did this sudden winning happen? And why am I writing about it belatedly? (Dirty word: work. Hellish weeks at work.) Shouldn’t I just shut my trap and start gloating around in the same violent delight manifested by Stalin when he got all of Europe in the nuts? (No, but I'd gloat anyway!)

First question is still a mystery. One probable explanation is that majority of cybervoters, having had a steady diet of bland ‘how my day went’ entries, suddenly developed the kind of masochism associated with papercuts and started fingering their way through Merriam Webster’s hollowed leaves. Could be. But I’m a skeptical lot, so my most logical explanation is the manifestation of the screaming color pink in my blog. And of course, there’s my threat of posting Hello Kitty pics to augment my chances in generating more votes.

The idea of multiple Hello Kitties proved to be an effective mode of mental torture and just the mere thought of such rampant evil induced many alert voters to block this initiative by clicking to catapult my blog into the leading front.

All throughout the voting period I am greatly indebted to the furious campaign raid of Toni, Joy Joy and the charming folks in my blogroll who each grudgingly voted under stern threat of bodily harm. I am also in deep gratitude to random voters who, for inexplicable logic, voted for me as well!

Thank you very much!

And to The Composed Gentleman, who upon learning that I’m learning voodoo, made a wise decision to fast-track my deification to the grandest Hall Of Fame before strange lesions start sprouting in areas too embarrassing to describe.

Thank you Eric! (Please continue supporting the fresh crop of weekly nominees and if you want your blog to be in the roster of nominees leave a tag at The Composed Gentleman’s site.)

Finally, THANK YOU to The Academy, my mom, my dad, most ESPECIALLY to MY PARENTS, for all the tuba/banduria lessons when I was six!!!

Now, you ask: Where is this going to lead you? What good will it bring to the general blogging populace? Now that you have achieved open support for your unbridled Narcissism will you (cue Gollum’s voice here) go away and NEVERRRR COME BACK!

Ha ha!

Whew! You’ve got a fine sense of humor, folks.

Now that I am glowing with the patina of newly-vested prestige of a Hall Of Famer I will abuse my power! I now have the clout to buy anyone! Fame! Fortune! Friends! I will blog more!

While you’re gritting your teeth I’m finishing the final stitches of my Hello Kitty Voodoo Doll!

Bwahahahahahaha!

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Deliver Us From Drivel

Clichés tumbled out of his gaping, quivering mouth in such rate that makes me recall the rapids of Niagara.

We were presently celebrating the post-birthday dinner of my adored friend Anthuria and Ligurio, her husband, marinated by a few bottles of fermented intoxicants, began evangelizing like a true blue fundamentalist.

Now it cannot be denied that a couple of beers bring out the philosopher in people. A few swigs and The Very Secret Of The Universe can be summed up in steady doses of slurs. Beer is also the precursor for unspeakable sap to dribble out of normally quiet mouths. Knowing this natural human tendency I generally shut up as to matters of the heart when gargling beer. This serves everyone the mortification and awkward, glacial pauses. This policy also saves me from potential blackmail.

Ligurio is not despised but not well-embraced either. He started as a cocky fiancée into a cocky husband to our beloved friend and save for yours truly nobody in our close circle of brutal twerps have the patience nor the combustible neurosis to put up or argue with him on things that by and large of no interest on anyone but himself. It’s pretty clear to everyone that Ligurio is what we can call The Reverse, The Contrarian, or to put it bluntly, The Recreational Autistic. He is tolerated but fenced and this social viciousness among people is something I do not agree with. Yet I respect my other friends’ coping devices with regards to people.

We were having a hearty discussion on provenances of friendships with correlation to how none of us were mutual friends, yet, eventually, ended thusly. This was Ligurio’s cue to launch into how Finding Jesus Made Him A Better Man. That He Used To Blind And Now The Cataract Is Healed And By Golly He Now Can See! At least he cited the title of the song as reference for this now steady resolve towards eternal salvation.

I would like to flatter myself that I am an open-minded, highly-demented individual with appetite for absurdity and warped humor. Yet at that particular moment, when Ligurio was about to hit the chorus line my ingrown was snoring. My calves lost all sensations and my smile froze like a marionette whose inner strings snapped and for good measure ended up with a perpetually-pasted half-smile.

I could have been a perfect spokesperson for Botox.

Anyway, this got me into thinking. Why is it that people who slid off the sidewalk, hit their cranium on asphalt, emerge with exploding epiphanies that compel them to convert everyone into their newfound beliefs?

The offensive thing is they make it sound like all along everyone else is ignorant that Jesus exists. Like it’s as if it was the first time someone discovered him and it never happened before! It’s as if tribal members in the jungles of Nepal will not an iota of a chance to go near The Pearly Gates because no one had introduced them to Jesus. This air of superiority is masked by zealous enthusiasm delivered in urgent succession like you’re about to miss The Great Big salvation Bargain At Ninety Percent Off The Price Tag If You Sign Or Call Now!!!

People will get upset that I am doing this in somewhat irreverent tone. I am a purebred Catholic, and happen to have very intimate friends coming from various religious denominations. I keep an open mind about philosophy, spirituality and the power of independent choice. God bestowed it to Adam and Eve, and in as much as I share The Word subtly in times that beg for it, I do not buy the rabid fundamentalism that go with the badge of a New Convert. Maybe this is a personal lapse I need to correct. But how dare I assume that because people do not share my beliefs they will be cast in Dante’s Limbo or share Sweetened Peking Duck in Beelzebub’s den?

“You should join our sessions sometime!” Ligurio insisted in breathless perseverance.

This pressure exhumed a very hilarious incident during college. Our classmate, a sweet, good-natured quiet type invited us to a ‘concert.’ Bored, restless and the fact that she’s hot hooked us. We went to the concert venue, my friend Moses, Jonah ( an ex seminarian), Isiah and myself braved a labyrinthine area of the city and finally made it to the venue. Normally this should have triggered the gongs in our heads. This is not London, this is not Soho, This is definitely not Amsterdam where the hot gigs are staged in obscure places. We knocked and were greeted by throngs of people with the enthusiasm of a Kitchen Appliance Demo Man.

Uh, Oh. We gasped. Too late to rotate and flee. We were literally surrounded and ushered into the middle of the court where people were praying over loudly and clapping and singing Alive! Alive! Alive Forevermore!

My three polite friends stifled the snickers while I convulsed like I got the Tourette.

“You know brad (attenuation of brother in thick indeterminate accent),” said a very earnest fourteen year old whom we shall call Mini Elijah (I was six years older than him at that time, yetI'm getting a stern lecture from someone yet to hit puberty), “I used to be bad! I steal! I lie! I (insert a litany of aberrances here to which I spaced out and teleported myself to Mexico)…” When I regained consciousness he’s still droning about it.

“Let’s all pray over you in the middle of the court!”

My three catholic schoolboy buddies followed him like hypnotized frogs. I remained sitting in the bleachers.

This prompted Mini Elijah to come back and fetch me.

“Brad sa gitna tayo, para ma pray over ka.”

Being a natural sport I excitedly replied, “Sure Brad!” Then added, “Dito na lang ako!”

Sensing I’m not a How-To civilian nor a Me-Too society type fueled his resolve all the more to absolve me from my deviant ways. He closed his eyes, and loudly vocalized a wail that can put Gregorian requiems or the solemn dirges of Hildegard von Bingen to pale in comparison.

“LORD!” he yelled raising his hand above my head. “WRITE THE NAME OF LOUDCLOUD IN THE BOOK OF LIFE!”

I was completely awed: A preadolescent commanding The Almighty to save unworthy little monster such as myself!

Rising from this unscheduled reverie I stared at Ligurio who was exhorting everyone to repent or else.

Did Mini Elijah grow up into Ligurio?

I took another swig of bland beer to stifle the shudder creeping up my spine.

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Sounds Of Sadeness

Datu this is for you.

Your present melancholic spell deserves a soundtrack. So I rummaged through mountainous stacks of CDs in my disarrayed flat to compile this belated mixCD in reference to your gnawing sadness. I would have given it last week but I was deported without preamble into Toxicville at work. In fact I just got back from a very herniating five-day work assignment.

I should have compiled something jolly to cheer you up. But I am irresponsible and I figured there is so much poetry within the vast infinity of sadness.

(Leave an offline message through YM as to where the courier will drop off your mixCD.)

Meanwhile I would like to extend my dizzy appreciation for my slavish supporters—the cadre of universal elites who catapulted this insane blog into the forefront of the Filipino Blogger Of The Week cyberpoll. (Toni and JoyJoy I owe you a couple of martinis!)

There will be a proper update later (or tomorrow) when my mental synapses snap from that of a depleted scatterbrained zombie back into a full operational human being. Or something resembling a human being.

Meantime excuse me while I pass out like a sedated parakeet.

~ ~ ~

Welcome home to the third world, Ian! You are such a stubborn lot! You and your quixotic dreams of hearting the Philippines in favor of Finalndia Vodka is both admirable and mind-boggling.

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The Ripple! Look Out For The Ripple!

Skidding out of un-retrievable dream I felt mildly erotic.

My eyes fluttered open and foggy snippets of the past (ultra-tedious) week started flickering at the peripheries of my eyelids. A realization of today being Sunday, ergo, lazy day, sank in such a languid pace. Even in my lethargic half-trance I still had room to get bored with how the dawdling velocity my mental synapses/train of thought slithered into full comprehension. I debated with myself the incentives of sliding out of downy, crisp linens: is it worth it? Should I anticipate the overdue apocalypse, while ecstatically passed out, dreaming of perpetually swigging melon smoothies in Grecian sands? Should I cave in to masochistic streaks and haul my languorous buns out of much-needed indolence and start doing laps in the building’s pool? If I get seduced by delusions of humiliating Ian Thorpe’s bum in the next Olympics would it pose fatal health hazards knowing that since Koreans started occupying our building the pool might as well be considered the Chernobyl of Urea?

What’s with this vile habit of people peeing in a public pool? Yeah, right; like we didn’t notice you letting off a controlled, mild shudder as you expel a beam of yellowish ripple into the transparent water! Koreans, bless their sly hearts, are wizards at this! They have this misinformed insistent belief that the swimming pool is a huge, rectangular crock pot! You need not be an expert on facial expressions deconstruction to detect this: when they start narrowing their eyes with that half-pained, half-blissful, open-lipped quiver start your swift free-styling clamber towards the pool’s rails.

Unless, of course, you have this thing for liquefied Kimchi brewed, organically, urethra-style.

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Stealing Thunders

Angry mobs consisting of The Ex President’s disgruntled devotees staged a rally in Ayala this afternoon which tragically didn’t end in riots, public disorder or peaceful resolutions because rain haemorrhaged and dispersed the loyalists. Pneumonia is scarier than indignant protest for supposed injustice, I gather. The tabloid-centric evening news is the clear loser in this picture. No sensationalistic headlines! No public drama! No teary-eyed snot-nosed Joe decrying the verdicts! Corrupt politicians are not the villain in this case. Bad Weather is! The Nielsen’s Ratings Board is, naturally, not amused.

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Bold Characters

Toss four art directors aka design snobs in a room, mention the words “Helvetica,” “Comic Sans,” “Arial” and “Times New Roman” and watch tantrums explode. You might also want to stand back just in case the impassioned debate tilts toward the physical violence zone and blood starts to spurt. There should be a reality show based on this. TypoLoco? What’s Your Type? Or Fontomania? How about Spread Your Kerning Really Wide? Cattiness, bitchiness, name-calling and tempers flying. All the comedic elements are in place. Shoot the pilot. Just don’t expect an easy deliberation on the typography of the opening credit titles. Anyone who mentions “Avant Garde” will surely get stabbed with a sharp Mongol No. 2 in the eye.

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Apocalyptus Interruptus

Interestingly, I was asked and I quote whatever do you get for winning this blog contest? fame? fortune? bragging rights? are these important to you? unquote.

None of the above. Winning this blog poll is the only way for humanity to finally achieve world peace.

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Achilles’ Hell

Although my admonition to draw the line between professional decorum and personal emotional attachment was articulate and sober, one of our intrepid, ultra-efficient assistants plunged wide-eyed into the unclear possibilities with the model we were working with. Gorgeous people come and go, I warned, but your job is constant. But how can you reason out with the dreaded yet exhilarating four-lettered word? Now she’s scattered. Half-giddy, half-possessed. With a pinch of stupor occasionally creeping in her lovely face. Poor girl. She’s a goner. This is her struggle so I exercised restraint, stood back, wordlessly. Knowing full well everyone was her at one breathing space in a lifetime. She’s a mirror of our inherent humanity. A reminder that despite our jaded resolve, we’re still, essentially, clay.

~ ~ ~

Ok, I'll yell this once but REALLY LOUD: Before you vote for me VOTE FOR CHIKSILOG!

~ ~ ~

hewhoshallnotbenamed (9/11/2007 11:45:39 PM): loud, I ask myself why I have absolutely nothing witty to say to you now. Is it possible that you've flattered me too much by quoting me several times that I have lost it? I offer instead a poor substitute -- I voted for your blog today :)

The vote is appreciated in heaps! We all have momentary moments of void. No worries! Temporary catatonia is excusable. The acting of Mark Herras on the other hand...

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Remote *

tenderness
blooms
between
the creases
of voiceless
sheets.
outside,
the crescent moon
smoulders,
unmindful
of midnight
gasping in
concise
breaths

(*not a poem. for e)

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Withdrawal Syndromes

Shove me in the lethal Manila traffic and I’d be humming a tune. Uproot me into an island so serene and lazy and I’d go bonkers. Days of abstinence from the daily stressful grinds with nothing but symphony of evening crickets droning on the background makes me want to run amok and stab people in the eye with barbecue sticks.

Little did I realize until the inopportune work assignment on another island that I have a stress coping mechanism so high that having breathing gaps will take a while to sink in, will take a while to get used to.

No, I am not whining. I took the assignment with excited anticipation for a break but I strangely felt disoriented when I hit the fine sands and blinding sunlight. Instead of luxuriating, soaking in the sun I fussed over details of the assignment. Now that I’m back to the merciless grind of the metropolis I am breathing steadily.

E (if you are reading this), you are beginning to sound disturbingly right. Now I am asking questions that freak me out:

What have I turned into? An urban-dwelling shark?

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Power Failure Part Deux

Competitions hammer unspeakable tremors of dread in my heart.

Not because I am a wuss. Far from it, as a matter of fact: I am an aggressively bloodthirsty person. See me at work and you’d have a clear idea of what a grotesque mutation would be like if you splice a famished shark, a swarm of piranhas, Anna Wintour, Barry Diller and Michael Ovitz. Contests precipitate such anxiety because I always never gain popular defense. Also, my altitude of conceit makes potential friendly voters dash toward the one-way exit muttering foul oaths. This is a handicap I do not bother concealing because I am a stubborn freak. This also makes me hugely unpopular. So it’s not really a massive shock that I suffer defeat on my second nomination for the Filipino Blogger Of The Week.

This, of course, makes me glum.

Sometimes I find myself with a half-wish to radiate the winsome charm of Joy Joy, the smart surgical wit of Misterhubs, the riotous entertainment glee of Ade, The Noisy, Noisy Man or the sensible optimism of Ian. This is what I know: I am critically warped and it would be a mortal offense to channel another person’s unique qualities and slide into a how-to civilian kind mentality - something I am not inclined to subscribe to. Yet I somehow find a strange streak of unexpected ache to win something and salvage this insane blog from downright obscurity.

I figured it’s high time I retool my cyberimage if I wish to inspire mass support, slavering adulation and people of all persuasions throwing themselves at me like mindlessly-possessed hormonally-crazed penguins. Not to worry. I’ve come up with a few strategies to change my blog’s bearing to attract a rabid legion of cyberpolling thralls:

• 01. Dismiss my anomalous fixation for blue and in a seven hundred twenty degree turn overhaul this page into a superdelicious concoction of pastels, soft hues and candy-colored girly patterns! Yes! This will be my cybermagnet to have girls and guys who are actually girls to vote for me! Branding wisdom has it that when you get the girls and gay demographics you practically own the entire spectrum of marketing! And add Hello Kitty pictures! It never fails!


• 02. Litter my blog with scandal clips, erogenous, titillating images of pretty man-boys in various states of undress! Occasionally I’ll toss in a tit pic of Jessica Alba, Salma Hayek and Scarlett Johansson so as not to alienate the random fundamentalistic heteros who may wander in!


• 03. Recycle jokes and publicly profess respect for Boy Abunda!


• 04. Become a linkslut! Exchange links and open friendster and myspace accounts and bribe potential voters of graphic, unprintable sexual favors!


• 05. Recycle jokes and publicly profess respect for Boy Abunda! No, wait! I’ve already said that!


• 06. When all else fails, beg and grovel shamelessly!
  

On to the next round!

~ ~ ~

Congratulations James for acing the cyberpoll!

Thank you Joy Joy and Toni for the relentless campaign!

Thank you Talksmart for the second round. And the third!

Much thanks to everyone who voted with special shout for the unidentified lovely folks who voted me to the No. 2 spot!

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Marooned

Aliens haven't abducted me.

The reason of my sudden disappearance isn't attributable to inter-galactic green men wishing to lodge anal probes in the almighty name of scientific advancement. Regrettably it's all about that dirty four-lettered word: work.

I am in another island and after three days of uninterrupted bikini and swimmming trunks exposure I'm losing all interest in hormonal pursuits and now contemplate on adopting a vow of celibacy.

I'll be back in the raging metropolis friday to dish out proper blog updates and accordingly thank everyone for salvaging my insanity from total obscurity to be a robust contender in the blog of the week award!

Prevent untimely erosion of mass intelligence! Vote for yours truly!

And watch the mass escalation of my warped conceit!

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Blows & Jabs

Life is easy. Living isn’t.

Life is a given. It’s just…there. Conversely what you make out of such an accident is entirely up to you. To make things tougher you have to deal with horrid realities and devastating existential tribunals that regardless of all external human help, friendly support, random brushes with little miracles, you are exclusively alone in braving the occasional anvils the universe dribble upon your wretched head.

Such is the case last week which culminated into what can be only described as Frenzied Friday. The week had been a steady bout with relentless disputes, multiple deadlines, frustrated expectations, a stressful negotiating duel with the powers that be, logistical mishaps and compound irritations that reduced me into the finest possible endorser for Maalox, Prozac, or if readily available, chainsaws. On hindsight maybe this is what I deserve for refusing to buck under pressure.

It turned out I am not the only one rolling with the punches.

If I had a daunting week, Beauwolf had it rough and Nicodemus had it severe.

Beawoulf not only didn’t get the promotion he diligently labored for in the past two years but his efforts were completely overlooked. To inflame matters, he was offered a much lesser responsibility and an outsider was ushered in to oversee his division. So much for his talent, dedication, and hard work.

Nicodemus on the other hand have it in heaps. He’s not served the cosmic dilemma dish; he’s plied with a whole buffet of creamy crisis. There’s the domestic struggle that will probably end up in convoluted annulment. He got involved in an accident with his car wrecked by a stuck-up loudmouthed elderly lady; his schedules all messed up, and had to sleep in a shoddy lodge while waiting for the matrimonial muddle to clear up.

How dandy: Even in distress we are all gung ho.

Having bartered our overtures of woes we came up with synchronized, unanimous verdict: "Tequila time!”

Our Friday Night Migration commenced at Greenbelt for dinner, Then Shangri-La Plaza, which led to Embassy for a couple of beer, then much later, Embassy Cuisine, for a couple more beers. The crowd started to get dense with hollow twang so we fled and retreated to Piedra.

In Piedra we bumped into few acquaintances, swam in a trickle of omnipresent nocturnals i.e. models, celebrities, band members, the glamour industry and various predators, preys, leeches and assorted shady characters whom I shall not name. Then, of course, there’s us, skunks on the prowl, in quest of shrugging off our personal saddles with the Easy-Fix breadth of intoxicants.

We then moved elsewhere after Piedra, for post-alcohol chill out mix involving…more alcohol. We didn’t feel better. Instead we brace our dopey heads for massive hang-over. Then again the whole week was one expanded hang over distributed in five doses.

If in the end we get something for our resilience I'd hate to be pushy but where’s my reward for having put up with all that?

~ ~ ~

Reprisal from hewhoshallnotbenamed regarding my previous entry:

hewhoshallnotbenamed: Loud! I'm hyperventilating. I've never been quoted in public so much in my entire life :) Just to set the record straight, I do not deal in contraband so your paranoia is unfounded. On the other hand, my paranoia of being found out is increasing. I wonder why . :) I'm just counting the days when I can finally meet you. Please don't have a hidden camera in your bag and photograph me and paste it all over the web along with my by-now infamous quotes . :) By the way, I do appreaciate the well-bred and well-mannered remark :)

~ ~ ~

And her exalted highness addressing her lowly subject:

loud cloud: why, hello, her royal highness!
iam_datu: hello my royal guest. what brings thou to mine regal realm?
loud cloud: boredom, for one
loud cloud: lol
loud cloud: i'm checking mail when i saw you online so i must do the obligatory royalty-imposed bow
loud cloud: now that i have done so, i shall cease from distracting you from anime
iam_datu: ahaha i do no anime for now my royal visitor. but thou art welcome to disturb me.
loud cloud: please do not admit in public, oh exalted one, that presently thine eyes are set on watching boy abunda until thy brains atrophies to oblivion!
loud cloud: hehe
iam_datu: oh nothing like such. i at this time am wandering about my empire, for i seek luxury and good nature before i attend once more to my responsibilities.
loud cloud: how noble and . . . regal
loud cloud: so i presume your constituents are offering you all their gold and precious stones
loud cloud: not to mention their young wards for thy personal harem
iam_datu: i never really had a personal harem, but i took the wards anyway for good company.
loud cloud: hahahahahaha
loud cloud: how strangely ...platonic!
loud cloud: lolz
iam_datu: so, hows ur day?
loud cloud: just woke up
loud cloud: dehydrated from previous night's alcohol gargling
loud cloud: lol
loud cloud: now i am plotting my unimpeachable victory for the blogger of the week thingy
loud cloud: which is unlikely
loud cloud: lol
iam_datu: oh its sad i haven’t been online for quite some time, much as i had wanted to
loud cloud: exams to be blamed
iam_datu: i do assure u my royal assistance should u need it.
iam_datu: well, quite a bit. also i’ve been much preoccupied reading Sandman comics
loud cloud: merci
loud cloud: oooooo a gaiman fan
loud cloud: my college friend is a gaiman nut
loud cloud: he's got everything by him
iam_datu: i bet an autograph too..
loud cloud: i think so, too
loud cloud: i was at a gaiman talk in greenhills before
loud cloud: organized by fullybooked
loud cloud: there's this cute (cute here doesn’t fall on the complimentary) girl who asked: given your popularity how do you use it for the common good? or something along that line
loud cloud: i'm sure she's still suppressing that memory through medications
loud cloud: lol
loud cloud: people laughed but i admire her: she's got balls!
iam_datu: n what did mr gaiman answer?..
loud cloud: he didn't snicker, which was admirable
loud cloud: he rambled about something which now escapes me
loud cloud: in a witty way, of course
iam_datu: well if he's ever to personify the Lord of Dreams himself, he has to.
loud cloud: right
loud cloud: how's your exams btw?
loud cloud: aced them?
iam_datu: i wouldnt say i aced them, but i got through them unscathed
iam_datu: my mext exam is wat worries me
loud cloud: yeah? how so?
iam_datu: it won't be until next wednesday, but my head's still hollow frm lessons
iam_datu: i mean, it didnt matter how much time i spent studying the god-forsaken subject--it just never goes through me. >_<>

~ ~ ~

Prevent unwanted bitterness and the premature precipitation of The Apocalypse! Vote for LoudCloud/Verbosecity!

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The Hannibal Lecter Campaign

Nat King Cole predicted my second nomination, predated gazillion years ago. In his ditty he crooned my sentiments:

I was walking along minding my business,
when out of an orange colored sky
Flash, bam, alakazam,
wonderful you came by,
I was humming a tune,
Drinking in sunshine,
when out of that orange colored view
Wham, bam, alakazam,
I have got to nominate you!

'King' purists will undoubtedly grit their teeth and sheath their samurai given the shameless way I took 'creative liberties' and bastardized the last line to fit my conceited end. The irrepressible Talksmart (aka The Compsed gentleman) is, of course, to be blamed:

"hi. Ur blog is nominated for the Filipino Blog of the Week Award (week 72). Please visit the Composed Gentleman site to vote. :-)"

VOTE FOR ME! Everyday! Till the day the polling closes!

If you want to abort the impending apocalypse!

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