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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.)

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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]

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Breaking Dispatch From Warpedville

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

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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!

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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?

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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)

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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.

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

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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]

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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!

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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.

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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.

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Requiem To A Dream

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