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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Almost

Harken back to ancient summers the sinuous tapering of your earlobe dwelled in the parallel edges of my teeth. There, amidst down and linens, I ached to say something but my awkward words sunk, eclipsed by froths of your weightless titters. Those words never floated since, wisely opting to colonize the obscure spaces of Never Been Said. I lacked of something clever to say; they were of no credence or consequence—nothing but jumbles of a cancelled declarative that have lost its peal: You made me grasp the exhilaration of Soumchi. Oh, the elation! Of writing the alphabets of your name! On a lake in a sink! To cup them into a pool in my hands and splash it upon my face! Pedalling downhill on a bike, muttering your name, my heartbeat racing with the wind!

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Oddness

Mozilla Firefox loads my blog all right but whenever I open it using Internet Explorer only partial content of my most entry shows up. My sidebars, blogroll and older entries fail to load too. Is IE possessed by Beelzebub in technoviral incarnation, or I fucked something up in the posting/coding ergo the inexplicable amputation of my entries.

I'd hate to think Boy Abunda read my most recent entry, sneezed a wicked hoodoo in my blog's direction and in what can only be hypothesized as potent synthesis of malice, telekinetic willpower, and horrid apemanship, succeeded to obliterate my blog into an embrassing journal castrato.

Someone, send me an antidote!

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Telebobo

Quite recently I had an insane banter with a cyberbuddy.

This smart-Alecky chatter have been quoted in my past entries under the stern condition that he shouldn’t be identified in my blog as the source of disparaging and snide remarks. Actually he didn’t mention anything disparaging or offensive but knowing the nature of this blog he might as well take extreme precautions.

Which boggles me: This particular cyberbuddy, an interior design professional, is well-brought-up, well-mannered, and very urbane so this incognito clause is beginning to hit my paranoia meter into an all-time high. Is it possible that instead of trading rug swatches he’s trafficking contraband?

Kidding.

During the course of our aimless repartee he exhumed one of my semi-forgotten mortifying memories. All at once it dug itself out from the graveyard of embarrassments and ricochet into my brain’s frontal lobe. And that involved the blasted television!

• loud cloud: whose house are you doing now?
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: hmmm... a cousin's, an aunt's, another aunt's, an uncle's mother-in-law's.
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: (insert smiley face here)
• loud cloud: stylish clan then
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: oh i wouldn't say that
• loud cloud: i mean they hired an interior designer instead of doing it themselves
• loud cloud: that's stylish
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: hahahah
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: interior designers are pretty uso na
• loud cloud: if they did it themselves, well that's what i’d call running away from good taste
• loud cloud: ricky reyes is a prime example of the case
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: much like pre-school teachers, chefs, and bag makers
• loud cloud: and april boy
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: mother knows best
• loud cloud: nope
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: hahhaha
• loud cloud: to quote karen from will and grace: he's as dumb as a box of hair
• loud cloud: hehehe
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: to be read in that same teenie weenie voice?
• loud cloud: yes
• loud cloud: lol
• loud cloud: “i am grateful for having a pharmacologist who's as dumb as a box of hair”
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: hahaha
• loud cloud: i think it went that way
• loud cloud: lol
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: is jack gay in real life?
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: i don't remember
• loud cloud: i dunno
• loud cloud: i don’t follow celebrity gossip
• loud cloud: i was the last person on the planet to know who sam milby was
• loud cloud: what a painful, humiliating experience
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: what? with all the mona-lisa smiling posters in the city?
• loud cloud: no no
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: hahahahah
• loud cloud: that was when he was in big brother or something
• loud cloud: so one day over lunch they were all talking about him
• loud cloud: so i piped in my ignorance
• loud cloud: "who is sam milby?"
• loud cloud: silence. glacial silence
• loud cloud: eyes turned my way in shocked disbelief
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: how come i never read about this in the blog?
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: or did i?
• loud cloud: i blogged about it before
• loud cloud: i think in another site
• loud cloud: maybe i should recycle that entry
• loud cloud: lol
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: maybe
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: so who was the good samaritan who patiently explained who he was?
• loud cloud: it was hilarious how the agent looked at me like i was a fungal growth when i said that
• loud cloud: lol
• loud cloud: my assistant groaned, rolled her eyeballs and said he's a pbb contestant
• loud cloud: since i havent seen any tv in years i flippantly shrugged
• loud cloud: thereby confirming my status as a celebrity gossip pariah
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: hahahah
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: i'm not really into these things but somehow my radar's working well
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: i just know these things
• loud cloud: the agent thought i was a pretentious shit
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: hahhaaha
• loud cloud: she even lectured me
• loud cloud: "you know, sometimes you should have a fan in you" or something along that crap
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: sounds like crap
• loud cloud: i coolly met her eye and said, "no, i’ve been hit by a meteor in kindergarten and being starstruck unearths deep seated horrors in me"
• loud cloud: she fled
• loud cloud: fun messing with dumb people's head
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: hahahah
• hewhoshallnotbenamed: you have to teach me someday
• loud cloud: lol

I have written about it in the past and in the interest of public curiosity I am recycling it here:

People look at me in equal parts disbelief, disgust and disdain when I say I don't watch television. This is very shocking, if not mildly disturbing bit of information and was very unsettling for a starstruck Pinoy Big Brother fan when I nonchalantly asked over lunch many moons ago, "Who IS Sam Milby?"

Silence. Glacial silence.

Someone coughed, another suppressed a giggle, and my best friend chuckled with the same glee and decibel Stalin did before he enslaved Europe. The star-obsessed gal, well, she thought I was a snooty, pretentious schmuck who leapt out of a petri dish in a lab experiment gone haywire.

This is baffling for some people, that someone presumably evolved as I am is immune to the influence the television. Growing up I was imposed with a daily regimen of reading at least two major broadsheets and an alert but critical absorption of the daily news telecast. That was when intelligence plague the screen and the murky daily pulps.

For the past six years I avoided headlines and I suspect I am the only resident in our building who owns an obscenely-priced plasma screen and not subscribe to cable TV, nor have I had a TV antenna installed. This earns me brownie points among DVD-toting friends and certify my being a complete retard when it comes to the trivialities of say, Desperate Housefucksor the larynx-bursting proceedings of American Idol

Apparently this is a state of devolution for majority of people. For a cynical few it's a desirable thing. Being free from the plague of idiocy, be it in print or in broacast is not a democracy. It's a choice. Depending on which IQ level you fall in: It could be an apathetic one. Or a smart one. Considering the virulent political circus streaming recently the TV comes in handy: As a surefire gauge of your threshold for insanity.

Being constantly mocked for my idiotic lack of knowledge on what’s brewing around me I caved in and begrudgingly had cable service installed in my flat recently. The very second the connection was installed I maniacally channel-surfed like an ampethamined geek.

I clicked through scenes of Babe, or Charlotte’s Web, I am not sure. All I know is it’s about a talking pig who isn’t Cristy Fermin. Then my pop culture ignorance screeched to a crashing halt when I snapped my thumb on the clicker and beheld the magnified nostrils of Boy Abunda.

National Geographic Meets E! Channel.

It's Planet Of The Apes all over again.

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Dunces With Wolves

Nothing triggers heartbreak and condolences easily than a gorgeous dunce.

Part of my work would have it that I have to deal with a lot of them on a regular basis. It’s fascinating. It’s quite moving. The fundamental dynamics of ambition, ravenousness, determination and steady resolve stand side by side with conceit, narcissism, egotistical tantrums and divaesque bearing among these folks. They all feed the cannibalistic frenzy grinding the incestuous business of selling a product, an emotion, an aspiration, a dream or simply the sexuality of a brand. They are aware and unmindful of this harsh reality and bless their overeager selves who consent for exploitation in the almighty name of fame, fortune and public lust.

My semi-warped friend once whined about gorgeous folks populating the tony nightspots and the probability of them treading the lowly loams of the earth seems nil. If it makes you feel any better, Ian, I have news for you: Having worked with these attractive aberrations it is unbelievably ironic to know that they are the most insecure folks around. Despite their anomalously gorgeous genes their anxiety meter is so high. And they have very low threshold for rejection. Turn them down for a plum project and their depression hits far lower than the Bermuda Triangle. Measly citizens should be comforted that, to a degree, these demigods/demigoddesses come with a stamp of relief: save for a handful, majority of them are not the sharpest tool in the shed. It’s enough to restore a regular Joe’s sense of self-worth.

Oftentimes I feel awful. I maybe detached when I toss a model’s set card off the shortlist bin but inside I feel terrible having to play god and decline anyone an opportunity. A huge part of me wants to help some of the lesser mortals but professionalism dictates I should stick to the ideals set by a creative brief. Having a conscience is a setback in this case.

This gets worse during casting calls. People will stand in the rain for two hours to get a stab at an assignment, and the sheer amount of determination would melt your glacial resolve. Then there’s an annoying cabal of opportunistic agents who would ply talents like slabs of meat. Lovely dunces dangled among a pack of exploitative wolves. Not a pretty business.

I am writing about this because in the past week my hypercalories got depleted from a casting frenzy that spanned a couple of days. My friend Nicodemus and his equally-gorgeous platoon of stylemeisters did the preliminary screenings. Hordes of beautiful potentials and countless delusionals streamed to the office for the go-see.

I actively participated in the first few batches of screenings but after a while everyone started to look the same. See, this is my problem: I easily knock the boredom ceiling. And when I’m bored I grab a magazine, a tabloid, a copious volume of say Marcel Proust’s Remembrance Of Things Past or Leo Tolstoy’s War And Peace, or anything to read and all the commotion will be shut out like unwanted blurs of voices and shadows.

“I’m sorry, I’m late. My photo shoot earlier got delayed.” came a crisp voice which registered like alchemy of semi-husky purr and the mineralized register of Russel Watson belting Neesun Dorma. I can’t be plied off an article in a magazine at hand.

“Are you of mixed race?” Nicodemus monotonously inquired.

“Half Brazilian, half Japanese.” came the nippy reply.

My head reflexively jerked up from being latched on the magazine. I swiveled my chair towards the breathy voice and got confronted by one of the most appealing manboys my cynical, jaded eyes have laid on. Taking cue from my sudden interest Nicodemus casually slid his folio towards the end of the conference desk where I am staring like a stunned tarsier. He’s not automatically androgynous but is surely possessed of a cherubic gaze of a polished European/Latin American and a glint of mischief of a Japanese rogue. He has just the right amount of edge in his features to keep him from looking like a generic attractive foreigner. He’s a bombshell yet exudes approachability. Though he comes off not very threatening to the egos of plain humans he’s several ladders above the caste of meager mortals.

Nicodemus and the ladies in the team continued the interview while I scanned his book for flaws to arrest my escalating inferiority. This guy can easily make anyone with shaky self-esteem feel like a rag. All his angles are photogenic and he has that noble air of a sophisticated Prada boy: slick, exquisite, expensive-looking. I slid back the book towards the beautiful assistants.

Empathy crept up my spine for the thirty more hopefuls who will no doubt get trumped by this very striking, racially blended demigod.

The wolves howled an unanimous cry of approval.

~ ~ ~

Being a dense technoretard I was wandering about blissfully unaware that my yahoo link in the sidebar isn’t working because of a fucked up code that escapes me. Much thanks to the wilted prune for her technological wizardry. Now people can leave me offline death threats, voodoo spells and proposals of the indecent kind.

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Countless Disregards

Bizarre things frequently ricochet in my head like wicked Frisbees hurled with mad glee by deeply crazed Olympic javelin throw athletes. Today one of these insane thoughts circled on my sudden realization that most of the crucial, life altering moments in my life slid off to oblivion undocumented in any of my blogs. The most euphoric moments, the most devastating, the most triumphant, the most heartbreaking, the most tender, the most touching, the things that really matter passed into the great beyond like spectres drifting into the far recesses of remembrances with no tombstones erected in their wake. There are no verbose manuscripts inked in their honor. Yet they are not completely gone. When I unintentionally fix my gaze towards the windowsills and see smudges of rain my thoughts float into splintered pieces of recollection and I smile. Their once brief visit is remembered. In equal measure of welcome and regret.

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Maturity Is A Foul Word

Paranoia ranks high in my anthology of distorted leisures. I always suspect the Universe will drop anvils upon my head, especially when I’m not looking.

Sneaky slut.

Anyway this is one of those wadding entries which have no significance or purpose but to calm a couple of identical paranoiacs who follow this virtual insanity to such alarming compulsiveness. No, I’m not decomposing. No, I’m not shipped without preamble straight to Alcatraz. No, I am not convalescing from gender reassignment.

Yes, I’m busy as hell and it’s grating my nerves to no end.

These past few weeks have been a constant struggle. Things didn’t turn out efficiently as I giddily anticipated, thanks to the warped sense of humor of the ironic cosmic powers that be. At times my faith in people and the general goodness and benevolence of the universe fluctuates. Yet the annoying thing is I can’t seem to shake off that infinitesimal sliver of hopefulness clinging like fungal growth that refuses to go away at the back of my head. I should have thrown a tantrum. I should have exploded into wrathful fits. I should have shrugged off my shoulders and plot retributions with glacial howls of fury.

Strangely, I’m calm. Strangely I’m patient, pragmatic…restrained.

When did I ever grow old?

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Scenes Of Omission*

Clutter plagues my floor. Half-read quarterlies heave, face down, abiding the cruelty of parquet. Their spines angle—beckoning, echoing the paleness of the ceiling. I remain ignorant; oblivious to their grudges and mournings. They are silent mirrors, jumbled pyramids loitering in disarray - squadrons of cumbersome paper hills, hoarding dusts, noiselessly. Even empty bottles, dwellers of random corners, remain dormant—their embarrassments concealed by creased underwears; their apologies veiled by blemished shirts carrying pristine memories of former holidays. This is where I remember you. You, and your fictions of seahorses that dream eternally. I would repeat to such abundant, aching redundancy your breathless, restless narratives, aquatic fables and drifting reveries. We shall dance, tonight, in my sleep. Our steps floating casually; our whispers melting, like mislaid echoes, dissipating faraway.

( * remembering E )

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