Fallacious

telenovela

2007-04-01T07:47:00.000+08:00

One cannot ignore that I have been neglecting my blog. I have been busy with work, reading fiction and writing essays about them, and necking with SB (the significance of that statement will make itself apparent in a different blog entry). And because I no longer have an outlet, words reserved for narrative telling discovered a new escape route – email correspondence.

Since the invention of boundaries and air travel, the world’s population has been divided into two: 1) those who leave and 2) those who are left behind. Tricia, who’s a good friend of mine from high school, is part of that first group and is now residing in The Big Apple (I’m trying to revive the use of US city monikers. Watch out, Grossy – the Windy City is next.). This is my response to an email she sent me a few months back:

how are things? malamang masaya ka diyan. kwento ka na lang kung Mrs Bare ka na. two minutes na akong nakatitig sa monitor and i can't think of what to write. it's hard to recover the pieces of the lives we once knew - where does one start? we were used to having each other around, just a phone call or text away. now, we're just one ocean away. what do you say to someone who lives beyond your own milieu? whose voice and writing seem unfamiliar, alien to you as a result of chosen paths no longer diverging in a common tract of land called friendship? i can just imagine meeting you in a cafe after years of not seeing each other, and after the surge of excitement subsides we will find ourselves fiddling with the nearest utensil, staring blankly at the bottom of the empty coffee mug thinking why have i ran out of things to say. i don't mean to sound depressing, i'm just trying to address the inevitable.

first of all, who uses "milieu?"

and "second of all," I’m such a girl (and apparently a misogynist, too). Never knew I had a flair for the dramatic. I sound like Camille from Sana Maulit Muli – "Traydor ka, Jasmine! Traydor ka! Bakit mo inahas sa ‘kin si Travis? Bakit?" We know the repetition is for emphasis but I’d rather she translated the reiteration –

Bakit mo inahas sa ‘kin si Travis?

[pause]

Why?

(and to those who are wondering – this is not an embittered attempt to discourage any correspondence between the two groups mentioned. I welcome any queries regarding how I’m doing, etc. “Recovering the pieces of the lives we once knew” is as easy as writing in one’s blog. Wow. Fropound.)

dance of the dunces 2

2006-10-02T20:38:00.000+08:00

SB has this nasty habit of channel jetskiing – covering everything from the domain of the kapamilya to the jihad channel (77, reference sky cable silver) in just under ten seconds. the rate of flipping differs depending on the channel groupings; news, animation, and sports suffering the most in this exercise. she kicks it up a notch when she hits the set of sports channels, knowing it’s one of the few things besides Conan and Jojo A that generates enough electric current in my budget-siopao-sized brain to keep me from losing all cognitive faculties and just start drooling and saying incoherent things like I must blog everyday so people will know how interesting my trudge to fulfilling my entropic destiny is. it becomes slightly disorienting seeing footballs, Nascar decals, and Sharapova’s panties in a single sequence (puwedeng lyrics). she lingers occasionally to make sure that the girl eliminated in Tyra’s America’s Next Top Model is the one she read about in one of those “not porn” sites (aside from Wikipedia, I can’t comprehend why people bother with “not porn” sites. “not porn” – ugh, the profanity!); or to bear witness to the latest news update in the only show that champions credibility and prides itself as the hallmark of investigative Philippine journalism – The Buzz.

i must admit, watching the shows SB approves of is a welcome reprieve to monitoring the rise and fall of the index in Bloomberg. especially when we hit the couch potato jackpot - that elusive, unadulterated form of entertainment otherwise known as Pinoy Reality TV.

and we’re not talking about Pinoy Big Brother, Pinoy Dream Academy, or Pinoy “Philippine” Idol (pinilit yung parallelism, parang Rudy “DaBoy” Fernandez or Krustico “Krusty” The Clown). rather, this is a look into the complex dialogue incorporated in ABC 5’s Shall We Dance with your host Lucy “Klepto” Torres-Gomez.

in no way comparable to Hollywood’s own Dancing with the Stars, Shall We Dance showcases the various talents of local celebrities (showbiz personalities, professional athletes, Jueteng Kubradors, etc.). and, contrary to the show’s title, it’s not dancing that’s being referred to when I say talent. it’s more on these entertainers’ innate wit that kept both SB and I temporarily immobilized in front of the tube. Arnel Ignacio’s hair is more than enough to make one suffer an aneurysm from laughing too hard, but it’s his comment on Alex Crisano’s dance instructor and partner’s communication skills that did it for me – “Bakit ka ganyan mag-English. Para kang taga-Guam.” the judges don’t hold back either (I don’t really know which is more distracting – Audie Gemora’s fashion sense or Regine Tolentino’s nose which, depending on the angle, is clearly an 8-seater powered at least by a 3.0L diesel engine.). Edna Ledesma’s (judge and grand prize winner in the Latin Dance Senior Category held in Blackpool, England) comment on Archie Alemanya’s partner’s performance (“You’re so full of energy. You’re like an Energizer.”) was a TV first – it’s the first time an ellipsis was actually manifested beyond the two-dimensional plane.

but it’s Alex Crisano’s explanation of why he was taunting his ex-girlfriend and fellow participant, Ethel Booba, that made me a believer once again of the entertainment value of local TV. he said, “You have to be competitive. You have to get in the mind of your component.”

this goes beyond any conflict ever discussed in scholastic circles: Man versus Promac. it does make a good tagline - i bet it would sound funnier with Aga's lisp.

what.

2006-08-06T15:00:00.000+08:00

this might be a regular thing i'll be doing - going over books that i haven't read in ages. i've read only a handful of books more than once; Eco's Foucault's Pendulum, all three of Zahn's post-Return of the Jedi novels, Polotan-Tuvera's Hand of the Enemy (read this skillfully crafted novel three times but still no final paper for Manalo, hence no diploma, hence UP undergrad, hence still a jackass loser, hence potapakshetnaman alma get off my back i am graduating soon), Lightman's Einstein's Dreams, and quite shamefully, Brown's Da Vinci Code (aka DVC - use in a sentence: bro, i read the DVC na after chilling at Emba where Jay-R made upak the Borgy.). don’t ask what I’m doing reading an old college text book (next on the list is Leithold's TC7), but this is what I found in one of the pages of Acuna’s Philosophical Analysis:

“If we accept that an A-form statement is true: All A are B then you know that an O-form is false: Some A are not B and an E-form is also false: All A are not B. In contrast, if you accept that an E-form is true All A are not B, we can say that the A-form All A are B and I-form Some A are B are false. However if we accept that the I-form is true: Some A are B. We can immediately reject the contradictory statement E-form All A are not B as false. The truth of an I-form has no consequence on the A or O-form. If we assume that and O-form is true: Some A are not B, immediately, the A-form is false, but it has no effect on the I and E-form. The bare minimum requirement to falsify an A or E-form is a single counter example. This insight has tremendous consequences in our study of inductive reasoning in Unit IV.”1

it wasn’t the unintelligible text that got my attention. it was the sentence I scribbled on that page’s margin:

"In the immortal words of the Blessed Virgin Mary - Come again?"2

1 - Acuna, Andresito E. Philosophical Analysis Fourth Edition. (Quezon City: UP Department of Philosopy, 1998), 93.

2 - obviously borrowed from Snatch, a 2000 film directed by Guy Ritchie. it was Brick Top (brilliantly played by English actor, Alan Ford) who said it.3

3 - and yes, i am addicted to wikipedia.

busted

2005-10-22T00:41:00.001+08:00

alma (i never found "mom" endearing) was searching the net for the best mobile phone to get my dad (his name is edrie. we don't want to piss off the breadwinner.). naturally, she had to type the word nokia on google's search field. after hitting the "n" key, google - never trust anything named by a 3-year-old - volunteered a couple of keywords that i've used in the past (ignore the use of the present perfect tense - a recently completed action). this is how it went down:

alma: pj, ano itong non-nude teen lesbians kissing?

busted raver: don't look at me.

alma: gago, sino pa kaya?

busted raver [unblinking]: i need to tell you something.

a: ano?

br [without batting an eyelash]: your daughter is gay.

a [doubtful]: si zag, masaya?

br [stoic still]: she's happy all right. strap-on happy.

that is how you worm your way out of a potentially awkward situation. don't think twice. just flat-out lie. listen to Darwin. it's eat or be eaten (that sounded dirty).

and, no. this isn't a dream, kid. daddy's back.

time space warp

2005-04-30T19:40:00.000+08:00

there are days when you just don't know where you are. take the enterprise for example (wrong blog, trekkie. get lost. play with your action figures or something. "play.") - i've been working there for almost 4 months now, but i still find myself baffled by the design of its lobby. it must be the constant change in cabin pressure inside my head that's causing me to lose all sense of direction (i work in the 31st flr). especially when getting off the elevators, figuring out whether to make a right or a left is such a task. segue: i remember alighting from one of the lifts here in our building and i made a hard left only to change my mind in mid-stride. i quickly turned to the opposite direction. everyone knows that there are only a few things that still surprise me - let's just say that having a young woman, whom i hardly know, smothering herself against my chiseled (or cheeseled) pecs comprises one of those few things.

i'm not entirely sure if it's the altitude adjustment that's throwing me off kilter (or out of kilter. kilter-kilter pa kasi.). it doesn't help either that my working hours are not to be envied (9pm-6am). and here's the clincher: try to imagine my situation wherein i have to get up the same time you guys are about to have dinner - enduring the heat and mom's cackle while watching bulagaan in the afternoon - my whole world topsy turvy as it already is, i turn on the tv and i find myself wondering whether i am the victim of an elaborate practical joke, that the year isn't really 2005. what i saw on the tube disturbed me a little.

it was the making of Men in Black 2 on AXN.

someone tell me what year it really is. ngayon din. (shigi-shigi...)

overachievers

2005-03-31T17:18:00.000+08:00

i took a total of 12 units of german, during the last of my college years (7th and 9th year). it would've been great if i was able to laugh at a german joke. well, i still laugh every time i hear the word weinerschnitzel - but that's just me. what i'm trying to say is that for a student of any foreign language to really say that he has mastered the tongue that he's mastering (ignore that), he should be able to appreciate the humor vehicled in the language. this might seem that one is going above and beyond with this criterion of language assimilation, when all one merely desires is the ability to say "you have nice feet" in japanese (where am i going with this...?). but that's just me.

i have a question (stated with a poor tolits from bulagaan impression): how old were you when you first laughed at an american joke? i bet it had something to do with a jaywalking chicken (i never got that joke). next question: did you find john cleese funny back in his Python days? brit humor is a different thing altogether; some people like it dry (we are still talking about humor). i prefer mine wet - tearjerkers. nothing beats old fashioned pinoy humor:

tatlong nagyayabangan na daga...

daga1: kakain ako ng keso na may rat killer!
daga2: ha! kakain ako ng keso sa mouse trap!!
daga3: tsk! tsk! tsk! manood kayo! manrereyp ako ng pusa!!!

some things are best told in the vernacular. or is that just me?

drop it like it's hot

2005-02-14T08:22:00.000+08:00

i've added e.b. white to my list of favorite authors but i've yet to read the works he's known for (charlotte's web and stuart little). instead, i've become a fan because of his nonfiction work. white used words sparsely (plural form of the herb), but he is still able to get his point across (garnished with his sharp wit). take this excerpt from his revision of strunk's ELEMENTS OF STYLE -

Flammable. An oddity, chiefly useful in saving lives. The common word meaning “combustible” is inflammable. But some people are thrown off by the in- and think inflammable means “not combustible.” For this reason, trucks carrying gasoline or explosives are now marked FLAMMABLE. Unless you are operating such a truck and hence are concerned with the safety of children and illiterates, use inflammable.*

with a first name like ELWYN, i guess you have to be funny.

* - Strunk, W., E.B. White. The Elements of Style. Longman: New York, 2000.

Portent*

2005-01-16T03:40:00.000+08:00

everyone's writing about the tsunami or series of tsunamis that hit south asia last december. the highly ominous nature of that event was even suggested - the sky is falling, or whatnot. they could be right. life on earth, as we know it, is coming to an end.

i submitted my CW199 (research) critical paper, the intro to my thesis, last monday. that paper was long overdue, the deadline our professor, Paolo Manalo, gave us was almost a year ago - March 2004. he gave me an INC (as long as your grades are good enough, the department gives you a year to complete that subject) and the same greeting each and everytime we ran into each other ("O, Patrick, paper mo?"). this went on for the whole semester (1st AY 04-05), with my ubiquitous reply - blink-free, of course - "Sir, next week." i texted (an accepted verb, i believe) him after dropping my paper off at DECL, informing him of my completion. to which he replied:

[Oh no, may tsunami ba today? Lilindol ba ngayon? Tatama ba ako sa lotto? Himala! Walang himala!]

asar talo \'a-ser 'ta-loh\ n 1 : one who is made to feel like a jackass and has no one to blame but himself 2 : UNGAS

he is right. the sky is falling.

* - alternative title: "To Sir, with Love"

fallacious defined 2

2004-12-20T15:10:00.000+08:00

i’m giving my usual fecal-material-related posts a rest (cue collective sigh…of relief, I hope), to give way to a more inspired, a more relevant, and – brace yourselves for some brilliant use of pun – a more intellectually digested topic: suicide-inducing blunders.

(commercial: talking about feces - can’t help myself – I’m about to get a physical and I’m pretty sure that everyone is familiar with fecalysis. They give you this plastic condiment cup – pray that it comes with a cover – kind of like the ones they use to serve ketchup in Wendy’s, and they ask you to give your “freshest” stool specimen, collected from your bum 2-3 hours before your check-up. now, the thing is, when you look at the plastic cup, you’re confronted with the question of quantity. Zag told me that it should just be a “kurot” – as in a “pinch” of salt. first of all, who pinches shit? - don’t answer that. second, if they only need a “kurot ng tae,” then why the plastic cup that suggests generous serving? it’s probably cheaper than those cotton buds with plastic cover used by CSI’s. you’re probably thinking what i’m thinking – i’m going to saunter into the examination room, whip out my stool specimen, and give those doctors the surprise of their life – cherry-topped macaroon ala turd.)

on to my blunders. just one, for this post. i was hanging out the other day with Grossy and Sponge Booba (my SO’s new alias. Don’t ask, won’t tell.) in our favorite haunt, Double Deck. they have cheap beer and great Anyhows (grilled livestock entrails, in particular), excellent for those who rarely use their liver and arteries. the place’s design concept resembles that of PierOne, with its multi-tiered approach to “dining & wining.” like icing, we prefer to be on the topmost layer, exposing ourselves to the elements and Double Deck’s infamous sound system (which their waitress proudly claims to be “sadyang basag”). unlike Grossy’s Makati hotspots (V bar, Azzurro, Capone’s), Double Deck boasts of a crowd of seasoned beer-guzzlers, which includes your over-30 demographic - this means that people pretty much will leave you alone. except when you do something remarkably stupid. there are times when I feel that my statuesque frame does more harm than good – riding in jeepneys, shopping for pants and shoes in greenhills (apparently, the knock-off industry caters to midgets and dyslexics – saw a football jersey in Market! Market! that has the word “Protugal” strewn across its left shoulder). that time, it definitely did me some harm – just add two klutzes into the mix and we will be called the “harmed ones.” (caught yourself smirking to a corny joke, eh?) moving on, given that it was cold and i’ve had a couple of bottles already, i needed a piss. nothing beats a good piss when you’re solb (tipsy), few people will argue the fact that it’s nearly orgasmic. the restrooms in Double Deck are located on all floors except the roof deck, so i had to go down a flight of stairs, and enter a glass enclosure for private functions before i got to the men’s room. it was no trouble really, i still could see straight – meaning i wasn’t hitting on any MILF’s yet, maybe if it were someone like Cristina Gonzales, now that’s a fine looking ermats. as i was saying, my depth perception was still okay, i didn’t perform any of my gymnastic routines while traversing the steps of Double Deck, so i was confident that getting out of the rest room doesn’t need my full concentration. if you’ve ever seen me walk, especially if i’m alone, you’d notice that i walk with my chin down. not that i’ve ever been humble or meek, but i just don’t like it when i make eye contact with strangers, especially old men who tend to stare a bit longer than what is deemed decent. i find it violating, being ogled at. so, as i headed out of the enclosure, i failed to notice the glass partition that people don’t normally run into. i have to thank the maintenance staff of Double Deck for keeping things pristine, that glass and its existential presence was indeed a piece of work. good thing I had my hands in front of me that prevented me from giving the glass a good smooching. as i calmly tapped the glass with my right hand while shaking my head thinking, “great, just great,” i realized that i had an audience on the other side of the glass – around four badminton enthusiasts, out for a night cap. what’s truly remarkable about the whole incident is how those four people composed themselves, giving me ample time to run up to the roof deck before they laughed their bladders and tear ducts out. all i could tell Grossy and Sponge Booba when i got back to our table was, “Uwian na tayo.”

and that, my friends, is another definition of the word “fallacious.” you guys can laugh now.

2004-12-19T22:43:00.000+08:00

after you compose yourself from rolling on the floor, laughing your ass off, understand that this isn't a commissioned portrait. i kid you not.

so, what's for breakfast?

2004-12-02T02:08:00.000+08:00

(this is probably one of the all-time best wake up calls a decent person can and will get in his tenure on this wretched rock)

alma (drama empress, also from whose loins i sprang forth): " PJ, dadaan yung sipsip tae bukas ng umaga. Pabukas mo yung pozo negro sa garahe sa kabila."

hijos and hijas, my spanish isn't muy bueno, but i know for a fact that the literal english translation of pozo negro is "black well." A black well full of shit that came from alma's ass, zag's ass, my aunt's ass, my own ass, and the asses of our guests who had enough audacity to GO and violate the sanctity of our toilet, to be exact. i think this sentence begs the question, "Who would want to collect fecal material and place them inside a well?" (there must be someone out there who would answer this question with, "Well, actually, my cousin Otis..." - what's with the name?)

the pozo negro, or septic tank, is your household's very own sewage treatment center (by "sewage" we mean anything that plummets into the reekful abyss of your indoor plumbing). usually a large steel or concrete tank located within one's lot, the septic tank segregates sewage, with the help of gravity, according to the states of matter: arranged vertically beginning with the least dense is the gaseous material (three-year-old farts preserved in a ziploc), water found in your sinks pipes and your toilets prevents harmful fumes from backwashing into your dining area; next on our septic tank hierarchy is the scum, solids that are less dense than liquid (soap suds, tissue paper, Globe prepaid simcards); followed by relatively clear water containing bacteria, nitrogen and phosphorous (third world "mineral" water), this is the only component of sewage that is periodically expelled from the septic tank and absorbed by the surrounding soil; and last, but not the least, we find sludge settling at the bottom of the tank (the real deal, The Shit).

(Tae, why was i gifted with a vivid imagination? i bet you could smell it, too.)

i couldn't remember the last time our pozo negro was cleaned or if it was ever cleaned at all. after visiting a couple of sites that promoted the regular purgation of septic tanks, i found out that solid material escaping through the tank outlet caused by the absence of tank maintenance (translation: sa dami na ng duming tao sa pozo negro, dahil nakaligtaan itong linisin, umapaw na yung tae mo sa karatig lupa ng iyong bahay. hindi na tae ng aso yung naaamoy mo sa labas, yun yung hapunan mo kagabi na nakaranas na ng maraming pagbabago sa iyong lamang loob at siya namang iniluwal ng iyong mabuhok na tumbong.) will damage the surrounding ecosystem and eventually end all life on earth.

it makes you wonder why Malabanan doesn't advertise as often as it should.

septic-info.com gives us the best advice when it comes to the scouring of our pozo negros, "As tempting as it may be (!), don't consider pumping your septic tank yourself!" couldn't have shet it better.

(aren't you glad that i don't know how to upload images in my blog?)

the price of fame (may sukli pa)

2004-11-19T16:58:00.000+08:00

the challenge in composing yearbook writeups lies in the selection of relevant details. your writeup should be able to describe who you were when you were in college, not just the snot-nosed juvenile in your ID pic, not just the 7-digit student number you include in all the forms and papers you filled out or submitted. you should think about your target audience, the people who will waste their time reading your writeup. and these are your batchmates, or in my case, classmates young enough to view me as a father figure. they should be able to recognize the person they're reading about. there should be a familiarity with the subject, the contents of your writeup should ring a couple of bells. the real you. the you you. before i totally regress and describe myself in a series of grunts and snorts, here is my writeup:

Patrick Justin J. Laqui
DECL BA English Studies – Creative Writing

has been known to respond to the following names: Patrick, PJ, Pip, Pat, and Pats (there’s too much of him for a singular proper name to handle); makes it a point to get an INC or two every semester; is constantly hounded by a toothless lunatic - FC’s fabled parking attendant – who is the very definition of the word “extortion;” is usually found in one of two places: sitting on a stool beside Manang Caring’s photocopier, flirting with everything in a skirt that comes within spitting radius; or pretending to read in the Main Library’s Humanities section, Nietzche and Derrida are his pillows; is offended by two things – old people who take their sweet time crossing national roads, and body odor.

relevant details. i would've included the fight i started with an AS custodian - all because i refuse to wash my feet in the area built for washing mops, settling instead for the whiteness of the restroom's sink - but, i was out of space.

then again, i think it would be easier or it is the preferred choice of many to have their writeups written by a close college friend. i had people lining up for this privelege, i chose to write it myself to be fair to all. composing your own writeup is nothing to be ashamed of - it just means that you're too popular for your own good.

i will post the map to loserville soon.

guffaw, guffaw

2004-11-07T04:14:00.000+08:00

this is my answer (maximum of 2000 characters) to the compulsory question - "What types of people do you get along with and why." [sic] - in my job application (proofreader, Manpower Outsourcing Services, Inc.* - apparently, the asterisk is part of the company's name. and I know what you're thinking, it is the gayest company name ever.)

"I believe that I get along with most types of people (The term "most" is used loosely. Rest assured, those who end their questions with periods - "What types of people do you get along with and why." - would still fall under that category of "people whom I get along with." Why not.). Given a certain situation, working with a group, for example, regardless of the recalcitrant nature of a group member or two, I would still have managed to foster an atmosphere conducive to the completion of the task at hand. I'd have gotten the job done. But, if this question were asked to determine my character in terms of the people I associate myself with (birds of the same feather...), then I would have to say that I get along with people who have a great sense of humor. I consider myself to be in possession of a good sense of humor, so, in order for one to be in my good graces, one must be funnier than I am. My definition of funny will lead to an understanding of the type or types of people I enjoy the company of. Funny, to me, has to do with being witty. One must be quick and sharp to understand my quips; and to counter/reply with one's own. Funny is not only suggestive of intellectual prowess, but also of the person's general attitude or outlook in life. The humor I usually enjoy is of the self-deprecating kind; and for one to pull this off must mean that the person is sensible enough to make fun of himself. Also, that the person is honest and mature enough to admit his faults, and clever enough to translate these admissions of inadequacy to jokes or witticisms. Those whom I get along with share these traits (they are all funny = smart, honest, mature, cool), and I am in good terms with them because they bring out the "funny" guy in me. And that's always a good thing. Isn't it. (Please laugh.)" (qtd. in jobstreet.com)

stop reading if you're not funny. it means that we wouldn't get along with each other. i'll call you "recalcitrant" if you persist. i'll call the doctor if you persist.

(malulungkot ako ng husto kung walang nakaintindi ng huling pangungusap.)

where this apple came from

2004-10-22T05:13:00.000+08:00

(to those who don't know my mom, let's just say that she could be verbally challenged. she was the one who came up with such terms as "wash ashboards" (washboard abs) and "hamster, hamster jenny from the block" (won't even try to explain). and i don't write fiction, the decision to stick to nonfiction came after anonymous referred to my first short story (resurrected and given the title "running home" for my fiction class) as "kabaduyang my green sky." ah, to be young and in love... i digress, yet again. the following is just one of many accounts of her zany vocal misadventures.)

just a while ago, after watching oprah (she was watching oprah), mom looked at me and said, "pj, may sitio na si tita kaydee." (tita kaydee is her widowed cousin, known for throwing money, gas money usually, in my general direction. she funded the recent addition to my wardrobe - a Ninoy-note worth of jeans. thanks, tita, for keeping the tim yap in me alive.)

"ano?!" - the exclamation point is a necessity in this interrogative, this is how i usually react to my mother's statements - the annoyed deaf person's reaction.

"meron nga. seven thousand bili niya," she said.

"ha?!" - i really couldn't understand what she was saying. is my tita a haciendera all of a sudden? is she really a proud new owner of a municipality or a barangay?

"ang cute nga, e. mabuhok daw yung aso."

tapos ang usapan. nadali nanaman tayo ni alma (my mother's name: alma concepcion juan laqui. remember, i only write nonfiction.).

"ginagago mo nanaman ako, alma." she doesn't mind the expletive or two now and then, and that i call her by her first name. at this point, she is caught in a fit of aneurysm-developing laughter. how diffictult is it to pronounce two words made familiar by daily use (fecal material, yes. used as an invective. who uses "zoo" on a daily basis? my life is one, so i do.)? it is entirely in vain, we both know it, but she tries anyway -

"tama diba? shih tsio... shih stu..."

it never really falls far away from the tree, does it?

dance of the dunces

2004-10-18T04:13:00.000+08:00

(from the title of De Quiros' compilation of essays. i have memorized the steps to his ballet of buffoons, his foxtrot of fools, and my favorite, tango of tangas.)

"fool me once, shame on you. but fool me twice, shame on me."

a couple of days ago, marvi, friend and fellow CW major, told me that she got her remuneration (you have to love that thesaurus) from the UP Press bookstore already and that i should get mine, too. we both worked as student assistants there and were promised compensation for service(s) rendered with books of our choice (they pay P25 worth of UP Press published books an hour). brimming (not a typo, the 'b' was placed there intentionally) with excitement, i gleefully texted our boss, ate shie (pronounced, shyeh) that i would be there the next day to collect. her reply came swiftly, an acknowledgement of my message and the appropriate "see you then" closing. her message ended with a strange request:

[favor naman, palodan (sic) mo naman me 100. bayaran kta tom] [parentheses mine]

to which i should've immediately replied with:

[gago ba u? la pera me.]

but i didn't. ate shie and i were okay, but not really close. she was fairly reasonable as a boss - she didn't go postal on me when i signed O.R.'s (i was practicing for my fans' day). so, i gave her the benefit of the doubt - it must be an emergency, she had her hands full, she couldn't get out of the press to buy load, aliens abducted her wallet. still, the expression on my face as i read this part of ate shie's message was the same look i had on while reading derrida ("the center is not the center"). i was baffled. flabbergasted, even. being the nice guy that i am (i think i'd make a cute doormat), i pasaload-ed her P50 worth of load (i had 60 at the time) and figured that was the end of it. a few hours later, just as i was about to pop an art film in our dvd player (two episodes of a hentai series entitled New Angel, if you must know), i received another text message from her. this time, things were fishier than usual:

[patrick, favor ulit. palod (sic) 300 naman me. kelangan q talagang tawagan si sir rhoneil] [parentheses still mine]

aside from the name "sir rhoneil," i didn't understand why i was being pestered with these requests. as if i had unlimited amount of load at my disposal. it hadn't occurred to me, at this point, to stop and ask myself, "what the hell is going on here?" i did find it strange that ate shie, knowing that we weren't close or anything, was suddenly asking for favors that would have me go out of my way (nothing should come between man and his porn. that just ain't right.) to purchase 300 pesos worth of load. but did that deter me from granting her request? nope. i put down the dvd player remote i had in my other hand, collected all the loose change littered around our house, and headed straight to the video shop beside mang bart's. the place was only a couple of blocks away, it takes one around 10 minutes to travel twice that distance. i had one foot out the gate when my phone let out a familiar krek-krek - 1 message received:

[nasan na? pasensya na, nagmamadali kasi me]

the nerves (plural. sobra na siya, pre. nagmamadali me? inamo ka u.). it's not my fault that time is linear, and my sexy gait generates a delayed ETA. got the card for P285, texted her the card and PIN, and headed for home. then all of a sudden, a pebble gets wedged between sole and slipper. i never knew that pebbles nowadays looked a lot like 10mm-long shards of broken glass that buries itself in one's flesh. i had blood spurting all over the place. querentino had something like this in mind when he filmed kill bill. this is what i get for helping someone out. talk about karma. i knew i shouldn't have made fun of that kid with polio back in my high school - mimicking his john wayne walk. now, it was my turn to saunter home like a jackass, a jackass with one good leg.

am i done? nope. the next day, i received the now all too familiar demand:

[pwde k p bng bumili ng 300 lod (sic) 4 me, mayng gabi me daan jan k?bale 650 ang utang q sau but 750 ang iba2yad q] [why bother?]

i've never been much of a super sleuth, but there are a couple of things in this text message that imply the actions of a fiend - 1) given that ate shie and i are not really close... simply put: who asks for load worth 100 and above for three straight days from a not-really-close friend? and 2) ate shie doesn't know where i live ("mayng gabi me daan jan k?"). something is clearly amuck here.

true enough, i went to kalinaw yesterday and asked ate shie what happened to her the past couple of days. her reply was, "pili ka na ng mga libro mo." heart skipped a beat. did she just dodge my query? after executing her command, i asked about sir rhoneil. she just gave me this are-you-even-from-this-planet look. heart skipped two beats. that was it, i thought. this was when i told her to pay up - i might have been a little bit vague and a tad bit indirect. i was thinking, "you fugly skank bitch, where's the money you owe me?" but instead, i said, "ate shie, ikaw ba 'to?" - showing her the text message i got the day before, "her" text message asking for more "lod." (sic of this)

"hindi ako ito. pareho yung number except dun sa una - 0920 ako. 0927 yung nandito. sino 'to? ay, baket mo siya binigyan ng load?" heart stopped altogether.

fool me THRICE, i'll be your bitch and call you, "daddy."

kitty litter: just desserts for wanting to write

2004-10-07T19:10:00.000+08:00

(inspired, no less, by the title of my thesis adviser's blog. i had two choices, really: the other one was pussy poo. i'm not sure.)

commercial: just two seconds ago, i was subjected to the vilest form of torture known to younger brothers who have older sisters - a used (operative word) bra was placed on top of my head. this needs no further explanation.

there have been countless of times when i've been faced with moments of uncertainty, especially when it comes to writing. i can't exactly recall who said it, must be Gay Talese or John McPhee, that writing, for him, is a painful process. it should hurt. imagine mutilating yourself, taking a big chunk out of your cerebrum, running it through a food processor, picking up the clumps of chunky-guisado brain tissue, and garnishing them on a blank sheet of bond paper.

am i exaggerating? yes. but, the transubstantiation of ideas to words on a page, though less graphic, is an experience that exemplifies that very violence i described in the previous paragraph. there's something masochistic about writing (especially memoirs), reliving experiences best kept in the cobwebbed corners of the forgotten. writing is an arduous task. even thinking up words like "arduous", and wondering if you spelled and used it right, is, in itself, arduous. This explains why most people, myself included, find writing difficult. nay. absolutely excruciating.

is it the anxiety we are subjected to when confronted with the whiteness of MS Word's blank document that prevents us from transcribing our thoughts? or is it the pressure we succumb to when threatened with the inevitability of our deadlines looming just beyond the horizon (read too many Choose Your Own Adventure books). in my case, i think it's much simpler - i've got nothing to write about.

you can say, "hey, beefcake, sure you do. everyone does." and this is proven by the proliferation of the ubiquitous carlo-sat-beside-me-today blogs, ceaseless musings on trivialities otherwise known as "my life." they usually begin with "you won't believe what happened to me today."

what? you got abducted by aliens in Von Dutch t-shirts? or did you meet your longtime idol, pinoy action star legend, Roi Vinzon?

"i sneezed..."

and your medulla oblongata came out your nose?

"...and i forgot to say 'excuse.'"

you mean, "excuse me."

"no, 'excuse' lang. i am pinoy after all."

let me quote anonymous - "what's the fuck?" unlike the blogs i read diligently (grossy's, orange's, matabangpusa's, faustus's - naks, faustus level), the ones that thrive in the internet's "midwest" often assume that the detailing of one's colorful burgis life deserves a Pulitzer. well, it's not the alleged colorful burgis life that annoys me, but the manner of telling. before i totally regress and sound like an anglo-am new critic, it's best that i move on to my point - although everyone is gifted with enough material (one's life) to draw from, i don't believe i am a skilled enough writer to make my dull and uneventful life appear mildly entertaining in print.

so, that brings me back to my initial problem - i have nothing to write about. but, as always, there is that silver lining that one eventually sees. the solution to my problem lies in Thoreau and every boy scout who found living in the great outdoors and being a human beef jerky to an angry grizzly a fascinating experience. i can write about the natural world. about butterflies and shit.

and that's what i did, i sought for inspiration in mother nature's bosom (not the only thing i sought, believe that). i went out our front door and allowed myself to experience nature, at its finest - even though we're only talking about my front yard. well, it's not as breathtaking as Thailand's jungle tour, but i did see (or suffer) a couple of interesting things in that tiny patch of Kakarong1 paradise. there were the two malunggay tree stumps and the little green branches sprouting from where i hacked off the tree's upper torso. it kind of reminded me of Trolls, those mad-looking dolls suffering from the ephemeral bad-hair day, we all had in the early 90's - the little green branches, with the tiny yellow-green malunggay leaves, looked like the stump's gravity defying hair. there were also the scattered leguminous herbs made famous by leprechauns and all things Irish, that disturbed the homogeneity of the carabao grass. i also noticed the beauty of our decaying house, hairline cracks that climb the length of our white stone walls. and lastly, the roof that covers the car port and its wooden beams hollowed by the insatiable appetite of termites.

nice, i thought. contrasting the serenity of our lawn and the dilapidated state of our fifty year-old house is enough for one good blog entry. but as i turned towards the front door, a familiar smell caught my attention.

the thing with cat turd is that it seldom manifests itself in our presence. it lurks in some ingenious hiding place - cats are known to be discreet and subtle, even in their fecal activities (those who don't cover their "mess" with litter box dirt is shunned in the cat community, like the way we hang those who fail to flush). unlike the smell of dog shit, which is often anticipated because we see the freshly digested sculpture sun-baked in the middle of the street, pussy poo (there, i used it. this is an NC-17 website.), mimicking the predatory instinct of the wildcat, sneaks up on its prey, and without warning, pounces on the unassuming victim. nothing prepares one for the reek of kitty litter.

at this point, the parallel can't be more obvious. writing can be quite the olfactory experience. sometimes, it really stinks.

1 - the name of our street. had a tough time telling my classmates back in third grade where i lived. they were all like, "Chicharong?"

national pornographic

2004-09-20T22:25:00.000+08:00

i have heard a number of descriptions pertaining to the male genitalia, descriptions ranging from the fictive (hanggang tuhod) to the downright absurd (may ngipin). men tend to exaggerate when it comes to the "tool of their trade" or the "male equipment". but when women describe what they have seen, all hell (bowel control, in this case) breaks loose.

zag and i were channel surfing the other day, desperate for some quality tv. i usually flip from USA (ultimate in sports and action) to MTV, so we get to see all the channels in between (including the highly riveting Bloomberg and Moneyindex). there was a special, i think, about aborigines on national geographic that day. there's something clearly (or queerly) homo-erotic about scantily-clad men blowing on what appears to be a 4-foot long aboriginal woodwind instrument. i digress, like i usually do.

upon seeing what remains of Australia's first settlers, zag muttered something moderately shocking - "nakita ko kaya yung thing nila, once." note the use of the more appropriate term for the word penis. i don't particularly remember asking for details of what my sister had previously gawked upon; call me retarded, but the discussion of things other than my own have never interested me.

what i do remember is zag giving an acutely vivid detailing of an aboriginal "fifth limb". incapacitated by a fit of hysterical laughing, she was barely able to get the words out -

"mukha kayang pupu na nakalawit sa harap."

National Geographic Channel. Dare to explore?

fallacious defined

2004-09-14T03:42:00.000+08:00

how many times have we encountered those laptop-lugging losers in Starbucks, typing what appears to be the screenplay of the movie version of the afternoon serial Daisy Siete, and sipping ice water served in 3-ounce white paper cups? most of them are not-so-young uppies, grown ass men who find those boy abunda eyeglasses sexy and sport hairlines that recede all the way to the back of their necks. the lot of us aren't sure what annoys us more: the whirring and beeping of their laptops that can be heard, albeit faintly, in Guadalajara; or the smug expression on their faces after everyone - including the toothless yosi vendor outside the coffee shop - had turned their heads in the direction of the source of that noise.

i'm not sure which smug expression i should employ: i could be like Wendell Ramos in Gamitan, in that scene where he had just ravished the virginal Maui Taylor (referred to in our batch as Maureen Fainsan) and was now in the company of his amoeba-brained posse giving them a whiff of her vaginal secretions reeking from both his middle and index fingers. his was the triumph of the everyman (or the purple lace Triumph of Maui. more of conan-tongue-in-cheek humor in just a sec.) - the claiming of the prude schoolgirl's shame gives hope to the middle-aged pedophile in all of us. but i digress.

okay. the cocksure-wendell expression will do. but for what purpose?

this will be my facial attire when i'm initiated to that elite club i mentioned in the beginning of this entry, for i am now the proud owner of an Efio!P22T. if you haven't heard of the new DVD-CDRW Slimline series from Twinhead, then you must be living under a rock somewhere (7 Bato-balani St.). The P22T carries a Mobile AMD Athlon XP 1400+ processor with 128 MB DDRAM1; this badboy can go toe-to-toe with your Wordstar equipped 386 anyday. one of the more interesting aspects of my laptop (like this baby will ever rest on my clumsy-ass lap) is its touchpad. instead of those mongol erasers that one toggles in regular laptops, i had to get a high-maintenance, dust-sensitive touchpad; which has predictably affected my nosepicking pastime. the delicate nature of the touchpad becomes problematic when my mother, armed with swiss army nails , "borrows" (synonymous with "wala kang choice, boy.") my laptop.

the institution of private property has been around for centuries. in my family, this idea was never fully comprehended. the only thing you can really own is something you bought using money from your own pocket. if something was given to you, as a gift for example, then you can be certain that this thing isn't fully yours. case in point: my laptop. it took ten crispy benjamins from my dad's pocket to purchase this beautiful piece of machinery, a much-deserved reward for breezing through college - being the doogie-howser-promil-prodigy that i am (those six years went by so fast). it's mine, as far as i can tell. wrong. the back of the LCD has a thin plastic film statically adhered to its silver speckled surface2, and in the tradition of the illogical and utterly pointless pinoy paradigm, my mother decreed, "Hindi mo tatanggalin yan. Magagasgas. Sino bang bumili niyan?" in three relatively short sentences my freedom was shackled by autocracy's stainless steel chains.

fucker.com

it's not the presence of the plastic film that irks me (although it reminds me of that tacky pinoy habit of keeping furniture, particularly the sofa, in its freshly sealed state. remember Abangan Ang Susunod na Kabanata?); but it's the helplessness that engulfs my being when faced with three completely logical sentences. the first one (hindi mo tatanggalin yan.), an imperative sentence, is justified by the third sentence (sino bang bumili niyan?), which isn't really an interrogative sentence (the question stands in place of its answer/reply - the declarative, "ako ang bumili niyan."). sentence number two (magagasgas.) describes what will happen if the plastic film is removed. taken as a collective, this three-sentence combo illustrates the command-justification correlation - the command (sent. 1) is given not one, but two justifications, the first (sent. 2) is a description of the effect of non-compliance with the initial imperative, the second (sent. 3) renders the command unchallengeable. my mom's no rocket scientist, but her argument is brilliant. when faced with three verifiable truths, one is left with no choice but to comply with mommy's demands.

the matriarch has also decreed that the laptop will not leave the confines of this house. that means my Starbucks Laptop-Toting Gloaters application is deferred indefinitely. look on the bright side, i will be left with more time to rehearse my smug-wendell expression, or i can review possible alternative looks in Sabel or in Bubble Gang reruns.

1 - this has to be the sexiest clause in the english language.
2 - one of two alliterations in this entry. where's waldo the other one.

two stupid dogs: a one act play

2004-08-27T22:43:00.000+08:00

SCENE

Quezon Avenue Station's southbound platform.

[Two young men are seated on a yellow plastic bench. BOY IN YELLOW SHIRT gives his ponytail a zhuzhing. BOY IN GRAY SHIRT adjusts his lightly tinted aviators.]

BOY IN GRAY SHIRT: Dude, have you seen MI:2? I have it on DVD.
BOY IN YELLOW SHIRT: Mission in Black? Yeah, saw it na. The action scenes are good ha.
BOY IN GRAY SHIRT: No, not that one. I'm talking about the sequel.

CURTAIN

ube, anyone?

2004-08-21T18:28:00.000+08:00

zag (my older sister) was asked to buy ice cream a week ago. mom and i preferred selecta's version of chocnut ice cream or their super chocolate, or both in a half-gallon tub. when she came back with a bright yellow tub instead of the familiar gold-ish hue of selecta's premium ice cream, i knew something was up. and when she said that there wasn't much to choose from, i melted into the driver's seat and braced myself for what would come out of her mouth next.

"ito lang ang meron: 3-in-1 na ube, mango, and chocolate."

it sounded like a punch line to a bad gary lising joke. all i could say at that time was,

"ang third world naman ng ice cream na yan!"

being the be-seen-at-peligro burgis that i am, these flavors just won't do. they taste superb as dirty ice cream (why it's called "dirty" and why we still eat it are two questions i am not willing to go into) profusely licked and generously, albeit inadvertently applied to one's face and shirt under the afternoon sun. the last time these three flavors invaded the sanctity of our home was nearly two decades ago, during the only "official" birthday party i ever had.

it was my 7th birthday, and as a rule, my sister and i were accorded a "party" each when we reached the ripe old age of seven. our playmates celebrated lavishly every year - clowns (who were neither funny nor entertaining, partly because of their chilling disposition - marked by those horrible red eyes ), parlor games (pasabit, palayok, etc.), and of course, your regular children's party staples marlboro reds and pale pilsen. zag and i only had one said celebration each. and for a good reason - she spent her whole birthday telling everyone to sod off because she was pissed that mom won't let her open her gift: an illuminated-earrings-clad JemTM ("Jem is my name, no one else is the same!") doll. after blowing out seven "magic" candles (those that don't go out easily - which resulted in a saliva drenched birthday cake) perched around a 5-inch tall superman on my Goldilocks sponge cake, dessert was served.

you haven't lived in the 80's if you never tried magnolia's party serving ice cream. they're usually ordered in boxes; the number of kids in a children's party ranged from 20 to 800, a time when all married couples wanted a child to love for each day of the week (it's not yet jun-jun's turn to be breastfed, it's only tuesday). kids would jostle for position around the box, keen on getting the highly-coveted chocolate ice cream - it's chocolate or bust, the other choices were mocha, mango, and the why-do-all-lolas-love-this flavor: ube. after prying the white ridged plastic cup from a dead boy's cold fingers, one checks the color of the scoop of ice cream printed on the cardboard cover before peeling it. being the illiterate that i was, it was the only way i could be certain that what i got was indeed chocolate. every time i got mocha instead, i always thought that there was something amuck with the chocolate.

on that day, i got the last piece on the box - the cup looked lonely and unwanted inside its corrugated board cage. i think this was the first time i said the word "shit" - it had to be ube. shit. how does one begin to describe ube flavored ice cream? first, i must say that violet, plum, purple, or lilac isn't a very appetizing color. the color suggests inedible things - McDonald's Grimace or a day old bruise. and the taste. don't get me wrong, i like halaya (or mashed ube). but we have to admit that there are certain tubers and other subterranean vegetation that are not meant to be ice cream flavors. the day nestle or selecta produces potato or kamote ice cream is the day i will hang myself using my own colon.

and who could forget those little flat wooden spoons that came with the ice cream? those spoons were practically useless when it came to scooping out melted ice cream. good thing kids were smart then; the ice cream was in a cup, so bottoms up was the only way to go. kids were smart, but their aim was poor. ice cream stain was every mother's or yaya's (or the mother-yaya hybrid, when daddy is quite friendly with the help) nightmare during this pre-Ariel era.

ube. this was all that was left in the third world trio zag bought a week ago. the first to go was the super chocolate. all three of us (mom, zag, and i) worked hand in hand to get most of the chocolate out of the tub. the ice cream was frozen solid, and our spoons could only do so much - we ended up with ice cream shavings that night ("pangkayod ng melon, kelangan niyo?"). i have no idea who massacred the mango portion. but it was clear why a half-gallon tub of ice cream lasted a week in our freezer. no one wanted what remained in that yellow plastic container. but i ate it, all of it. certain sacrifices must be made. i've made my family proud. i stood up against this adversary of all things delicious, this four-letter word seldom uttered for its universal inappropriateness and despicability.

kinain ko ang ubeh. i thank you. bow.

full cavity search: kwentong komyut

2004-08-12T08:40:00.001+08:00

almost every full-blooded male has fantasized about being frisked and handcuffed by a playmate of the year (this year's winner - Carmela DeCesare. and i know this because...) in a police officer's uniform while being read a distortion of one's rights ("you have the right to remain horny..."). those delicate hands, always too small to hide the shame of areola and silicone, deftly exploring the unconquered regions of the body in search of a concealed weapon. my batuta perhaps? the operative word here is almost - i say this because i no longer share this fantasy with my playboy mag toting fellows. those who take the mrt would know what i'm talking about.

case in point - the mrt bag inspector. be wary of the tall security guard in the mrt's guadalupe station. he's the one with the sunglasses -those aviator rayban's made popular in the 80's, a universal symbol of authority (top gun's maverick, sgt. slaughter, john regala) - and he's quite a handful. or he gives quite a handful. their search routine is quite simple: the ladies' bags are checked for dangerous paraphernalia (weapons, explosives, a can of spray net), but they are never frisked even by female guards. it's a bit more complicated with us guys - our bags are opened, its insides tossed with what looks like the missing half of a pair of chopsticks. those without carry-all gear are given the simultaneous-belly-back-pat - both palms are used to gently massage both sides of the lower torso. and there are the lucky ones - those who look suspicious enough to be given both the garden-salad-bag-toss, and the back-and-up-the-wazoo-pat. this variation entails the patting of the lumbar region, technically. but for those taller than average blokes (such as myself), their butt-cheek (pick one) gets delicately caressed, with Officer Frisky's hand gliding towards butt-cleavage, and with a swift upward motion, one's hapless ass is given the grocery-atm-card-swipe. transaction approved.

i wouldn't be complaining if Officer Frisky had asked me out first. they don't call me man-slut for nothing.

whodunit

2004-08-07T15:30:00.000+08:00

jod was laughing the whole time. there's nothing funny about turning shell select inside out, at four in the morning, hoping that no one has taken it while we weren't looking. it wasn't funny either how jc was pretty sure that one of us had it. the chief, tago mo 'to routine has always been an adolescent prank, the perpetrator enjoying the sight of his friend fussing over the loss of a valuable item. the said item is returned only after tears had been shed and the words "papagalitan ako ng nanay ko kapag nalaman niyang nawala ko yon" had been uttered in between sobs. what was remotely funny in the situation we found ourselves in was jc's unfrantic demeanor, displayed by his eloquence and his calm tone -

"pare, okay lang. di ako magagalit kung tinago niyo nga. pero uuwi na kasi ako. halika na."

we were looking for his car keys - the keys to his corolla and steering wheel lock. ah, losing one's car keys - one of two things that can make grown men cry (the other one is getting kicked in the nuts - why they are referred to as such will be the subject of another entry). jod was still laughing, unconvincingly defending his innocence. i was explaining to the poor guy that it wasn't our style to regress and act like a couple of 14 year olds taking pleasure in tormenting their peers (there is a time and a place for this). he wasn't convinced and i was coming close to being exasperated. it was four a.m. we just had breakfast at the adjacent jollibee. our tummies filled, everyone was anxious for a good night's sleep or even a crack at bangungot while we're at it. i was saying things like, "empty the contents of your pockets" - the effect of a healthy overdose of cop shows. it was probably jod's laughter that was keeping him doubtful of our credibility.

"hindi, okay lang. ilabas niyo na lang."

he wasn't pleading with us. he assumed that sooner or later we would hand it to him, have a good laugh, then bring our asses home. it's like, "okay, i get the joke, haha, cough it up para makauwi na." even if he did, what could we have done? we really didn't have it. it's our own time that we were wasting. i was checking my own pockets to see if i had inadvertently pocketed the damn thing. found nothing but the three pesos i had left, keys to my house, and my phone. we went to his car, peered into his tintless windows, making sure he didn't leave them in the ignition. hindi puede, he said, he clearly remembers setting it down at our table in select.

this is where my little story ends. we are all aware of the fallibility of memory. and this is a clear illustration of it. just for kicks, we decided to go back to jollibee and ask the manager whether we left something or not.

"dalawang susi?"

bingo. case closed.

ipis and butthead

2004-07-28T03:21:00.000+08:00

i can name only two things that scare the shit out of me (once i think, literally).  MMDA traffic enforcers - i become tense and restless just thinking about those sky blue uniforms. one has yet to manifest itself in my presence. rest assured, i will never bring the truck out without my "bwing bwing" (bawang necklace) around my neck and wooden stake (no, i'm just happy to see you.) in my pocket.  the other thing would be cockroaches.

the ipis, as it is known in the vernacular, is treated like any regular rent-paying bedspacer in my home. it is free to help itself with the food unprotected by the "frigidaire's" cold door. it loiters around the house, especially in the living room and kitchen, not forgetting to greet our guests with a slight nod. the lucky ones get a hand shake, or a bristle-covered leg shake.

the World Book Encyclopedia identifies 20 species of the ipis residing in human dwellings (the other 3,480 or so are the more outdoorsy type, genus gala-mazhadus). three have staked their claim right here, this shithole i fondly call home. there's the run-forrest-run ipis, notorious for scuttling over tsinelas and feet at breakneck speeds. then there's the pilates freak ipis, those little buggers who find themselves on their backs, all six legs flailing violently, unable to get back on their feet - doomed to be munched on by a platoon of red ants.

and then, there's the luke skywalker. guided by the force, these winged pestilence rule my house's airspace, flying with jedi precision from wall to wall, leaving in its wake a variety of bloodcurdling screams (yung sigaw mo sa Shake, Rattle and Roll IV).  they differ in size and posture from the two previously mentioned, they're armed with more heft and their backs are arched not unlike that of a cat making itself seem bigger. it strikes terror into the hearts of many, the soft crackle of its beating wings announces its presence and foretells of impending catastrophe.

and of course, hounded by chivalric duty, men are supposed to slay these pint-sized dragons. it is the soles of our islanders and duralites that are preordained to suffer the fate of icky roach carcass. killing them is futile. one, they are tough as hell (a slipper landed squarely on one's head. upon inspection, the little guy stood up, muttered something inappropriate, then stormed off. as if nothing happened. juicy fruit wala lang.). and two, their number is legion.  count how many roachies you see in a day, those outnumber even our bumbay brethren in magallanes.

and there lies my predicament. i can't kill them. i can't grab the nearest alfombra and go postal on the little pricks. it will ruin my chances of survival. the way i see it, i'd rather be their pet than be their next meal.  by sheer number and resiliency, they own this planet.

my fear of cockraches consumes me. even a night's sleep no longer offers solace and comfort. all i have left is a healthy dose of paranoia, dreams filled with a belly full of eggs and six tiny legs traipsing over my thighs, onto my back, passing my shoulder, on my neck, heading straight for my left ear. you know what happens next.

bandwagon

2004-07-25T02:25:00.000+08:00

i've finally made that leap. yes, that big leap that hurls one into the realm of internet notoriety. that big step that defines one's existence and purpose on this godforsaken planet.  (and no, i did not open a friendster account.)

writing in my own blogspot isn't as bad as i thought it'd be.

i once had an online journal, as it was called, that held a number of pretentious musings. topics in that journal ranged from alcoholism to a discourse on millennium female aesthetics. from shooting hoops to a study of the effects of sound in the Philippine context, most of them were essays which eventually found their way to my CW professor's lap and Youngblood editors' Pulitzer worthy pile.  all i had to show for that journal were a couple of posted comments ("a couple" literally means two or more-ish. in my case, i could have said "two" instead.) and a bruised ego. there was a clear attempt to be profound and/or philosophical in that journal. i ended up being profoundly (or philosophically) pa-cool - delicately put by my girlfriend (shall we name names?). my problem was instead of writing about the 'actual' - what i actually think or experience - i chose to write about the things i wanted my readers (both of them) to believe i actually1 thought and experienced. much emphasis was given on the impression i wanted to make of myself, forgetting that i didn't have my name anywhere in that journal. i wasn't aware of the nature of online journals then - that they should be spontaneous and honest. they are also two things essential to good writing. although most of what i said there was true, it took me a number of days to finish one entry - not including the number of times i edited what i already posted. after recognizing the error of my ways (expect more cliche's to come), i decided to junk the whole thing and save myself the trouble of pretending to write.

that is until i discovered how blogs should2 be written.

so, expect unprofound and unphilosophical gibberish in this blog.  this is, after all, an in-depth analysis of the inner workings of a troubled mind (or a spotless mind3). you must have read the disclaimer on top - i wasn't kidding. my condition is contagious. soon you will find yourself using the word "fallacious" to describe someone who says something untrue. or something that resembles algae or moss foliage will appear under your computer chair (where the computer sits?), also known as "my own kulangot collection". pretty soon you will be my minion. pawn to my cross-crowned king. vilmanian to my vilma (or noranian to my nora, it's up to you.). or not - the zafra "world domination" spiel is a bit overused. but there is still that matter of contagion. pray that it's my good looks that you catch. (i am good looking. ask my mom.)

this feels right. this relatively unstructured genre of writing and its illusion of anonymity, though in vogue, gives me much pleasure and satisfaction. and, honestly, this is probably the only time i'll ever find myself jumping on the bandwagon (cliche number two) and not regret doing it.  (i hope i will never be forced to open a friendster account, i hate eating my words. daming carbs.)

1 note to public speakers and call center personnel: this is actually how the word is to be used. "actually" describes, obviously, what is actual.  it is not the the first word of every sentence uttered in english (the same with basically and supposedly). use sparingly, unless you're actually British.

2 coming soon: blog poetics.

3 note to the clueless - malinis kasi walang laman. laugh like you get the joke.