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......

Another October Drifting By

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



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

Read More......

Scentiments

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

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

[this is NOT a poem]
- for T
30.10.2008

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

Read More......

Breaking Dispatch From Warpedville

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Read More......

Missing Melody

But (S)he will never be baaaaaaaaaaaackkk!



(more after the jump)

God, I miss Sugar Hiccups!

Also, Badly Drawn Boy:



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



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

Read More......

The Raging Rambutans

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

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

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

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

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

Read More......

Keanu Would Be Delighted

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

(The Original Pic after the jump)

Read More......

Dipping

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

~ ~ ~

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

~ ~ ~

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

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

Read More......

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

Read More......

Splash Of Second Stink

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

[CLICK TO ENLARGE]

Read More......

Inhale This

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

[ CLICK 2 ENLARGE ]

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

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

Read More......

Naming Sundays

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

Read More......

Book Me for TBAC

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

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

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

More details at TBAC site.

Read More......

Requiem To A Dream

Read More......

Chase More Windmills, Doc Quixote!

Cheers on your second blogging year, Dr. Quixote!

Read More......

Planet Of The Weirds

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read More......

Life Is [A Hysterical] Box Of Shit Sandwich

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

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

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

“Huh?” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give it a rest, genius.”

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

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

“Chuckie says, Life is a Box of...”

“Oh shut it.”

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

“Jerk.”

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

I feel slightly better.

Read More......

Sir Stubborn

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

Read More......

Prodigal Son Here's Your Postcard From Home

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

Read More......

Stand Back, Barack

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

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

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

Vote for Chiksilog!



And the rest of my nominees!

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

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

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

~ ~ ~

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

Read More......

See You Soon, Ban Ki Moon

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

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

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

Read More......

Adieu, August

Read More......

Disarming Gestures

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

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

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

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

Loudcloud,

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

All the best,

Eric

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

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

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



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

And meet your new friend Peter Leroy.

~ ~ ~

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


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

Hahahahahaha.

Enjoy the weekend folks!

Read More......

Pump Up The Volumes

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

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


From top to bottom:


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


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


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


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

You. What are you reading?

Read More......

Dear Eric Kraft

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

Dear Eric Kraft,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Truly yours,
LoudCloud


~ ~ ~

I was to write a post on this:

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

Read More......

Narcissus Builds A Hall Of Mirrors

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

Read More......

Evidence For Cretins

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


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

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

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

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

Under the chair (from top to bottom):


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

On the fore/back/ground:

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

There. Now let us see you self-destruct.

Read More......