Bobby Eusebio! You Naughty, Naughty Boy!

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)

Read More......

Summer Flyer Designed During An Eclipse

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).

Read More......

Dialogue Straight Out Of A Gosengfiao Script

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.

Read More......

So It’s No Longer A Dirty Word?

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?

Read More......

Oral Pleasure Awaits A Zac Efron Clone!

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)

Read More......

Yet Another Dispatch From The Limbo

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.

Read More......

Strangely Sterile Thoughts At Jesus’ Funeral

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.

Read More......

Neglect

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

Read More......

Crater

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.

Read More......

Hello stranger, I got no minute to spare

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.

Read More......

Paalam

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.

Read More......

Ahem

Read More......

Delayed Telecast Hits The Loud Cloud

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.

Read More......

Sublimating

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.

Read More......

The Home Theater Idiot Stole Our Christmas Cheer

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.

Read More......

Serial Killers At Green Papaya

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

Read More......

Goodbye, November, I Hardly Knew You!

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.

Read More......

Escribimus Interruptus

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.

Read More......

Feed The Infant

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.

Read More......

Schindlers' Lisp

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.

Read More......