Last night, ViCe held a despedida for dear J Voltaire at the House of Decadence, our high school batch’s headquarters-cum-shack o’ love. JV’s jetting off to LA for good. Of course, we weren’t going to let the boy leave without one last round of complete disregard for decency, although the party was planned as a civil little dinner, wine clinky clinky and all. (A plan made in earnest, although the day we pull that off is probably still several years and several tranquilizer darts into the future.)
I’d been running on empty the time I arrived, having woken up at dawn that day to take care of some TIN and passport crap which, of course, led to naught, as facing the glaze and daze of government drones is wont to do. It was the pangs of nostalgia that kept me up, as always. The best privilege of studying in Makiling is the staggering slew of stories you get to accumulate. Fortunately, my Makiling hang-ups and overall hangover have been put to bed for quite a while now, so I can bring these stories up from a safer, less begrudging, less giddy distance. Still, my trap was shut for the most part last night, mainly because everyone else’s were open enough.
The only thing that upset me during the party was news of the current directress in Makiling. She’s turning the place into a fucking convent. The school has made a turn for the ridiculous with all her prudish new policies—from denying an exclusive grant to perform Rhinoceros in Edinburgh (most likely due to its being Rhinoceros), to pushing for a bahag ban in folk dance performances, to bastardizing un-stuffy, time-honored Makiling rites like the Alpha-Omega by making the kids wear fucking blazers and ternos. Mother of god. The mountain’s eroding. Aling Maria ought to have a bitch fit.
Spent the rest of the night sleeping, then reading, then sleeping again on the armchair, Philip’s chainsaw snores and the fresh memory of Buen’s vomit being swabbed off of the floor lending to the after-party ambience. I then headed straight to Katipunan upon waking, drawn here to Sweet Inspi’s Holy Smoking Area after months of being a no-show. The last time I was here was graduation day. Met up with Pumpkin for our last few hissy fits before the march.
Coincidentally, Pumpkin’s jetting off to Canada for good in a few months. Pubey Boy to New York, too. My dastardly, bastardly brothers are going bye-bye one by one. Oh, oh, what’s a girl to do?
posted by marguerite @ 5:42 PM
The Body Annoying
Monday, July 23, 2007
Nothing’s more enervating than a blog template spruce-up. With my scant knowledge of HTML, I’m pretty much some blind girl in rubber gloves groping around for a grain of salt. In the middle of a freeway. In India. And she has Parkinson’s. But at least I got the work done, though it took me 2+ days. And look! Each entry is open for comments now, hurrah hurrah.
My current concerns merit me a spot in the Starting Over house, which is why I haven’t posted anything in a while. And I didn’t want to harp on and on about one concern in particular since, despite my being an unabashed patron of whiny online self-publishing, I’ve been harping on and on about this in public for the past year and a half. I’m sure the few friends I have have tired of it. I’m sick of it too, yet the issue has already burrowed itself too deeply (into my thighs, mostly) that it has become this natural, instantaneous kink within me.
What’s worse than weighing 165 lbs. is losing 60 and gaining 5. I submit myself to the purest bouts of guilt each and every day, for this stupid, shallow snag has become too dire to me. And I will stop blogging about this now before I sound like a Meg feature.
Fish and fruits, fish and fruits. And bad stuff only on Sundays. Sabbath rules.
posted by marguerite @ 12:33 PM
I Wants Me Some Slice and Dice
Saturday, July 07, 2007
One phenomenon I had been meaning to blog about is the Construction Worker Cat Call. I am subject to these hey babes’s and kissy faces on my daily walk to the MRT, when I pass by the construction site for this call center. Yet I realized that there isn’t much to say about this, considering that verbal molestation is something I can numb out, something whose psychological damage I can delude myself into minimizing.
Riding in some jizzwad’s taxicab like I did tonight is another deal altogether.
Now, it is common knowledge amongst my friends that I have had my share of scumbag cabbies, the most celebrated one being that guy who was apparently jacking off the whole ride home. I’m not sure if tonight’s incident was a rung above or below that. Something awful could have happened, but I’m not sure if this is just a spell of paranoia on my end. Regardless, tonight’s cabbie really was a douche. And he had really bad sideburns.
The little Q&A—with him smoking a cigarette all the while—was tolerable. Which province I was from, what I did for a living, how old I was. Conversational fare, although the tone he used was already smarmily suspect. And then—
Cabbie Douche: Ang swerte naman ng mga tinututor mo.
Margie remains silent, the Putang Ina Alarm going off in her head.
Cabbie Douche: At ang swerte naman ng magiging asawa mo.
Margie stares out of the window longingly, gauging her ability to jump out into C-5 traffic.
Cabbie Douche: Siya nga pala, anong pangalan mo?
Margie tries to think of the most un-Margie-like name possible.
Cabbie Douche extends his grimy hand.
Cabbie Douche: Nestor.
Margie touches Cabbie Douche’s hand for a nanosecond, kicking herself for not investing in a bolo.
He maintained the scuzziness the rest of the way, prodding me for more biodata, and I continued to humor him, chucking un-truths at him as I took solace in the fact that we were en route, at the very least. I was very wary the whole time, though. I had the strongest feeling that something was going to happen in the last few meters of that stupid trip. And something could have happened. I think.
We reached the house, and I told the douche in a nice but strident tone to pull to the side. And, as lovely luck would have it, he didn’t. He kept driving onwards, speeding the cab up, this strange, strange look in his eyes. That’s when my fear kicked in—a sheet of ice setting quickly across my chest, the exact same panic I felt during last year’s tricycle mugging (I’m a blessed commuter, fuck it). So I screamed at him, telling him to turn the fucking cab around. It took several more blocks and a few more of my screeches before he finally snapped out of whatever the hell that stupor was. And then he turned the cab around, apologizing, and dropped me off at my house. And the harrowing thing was, I didn’t have to tell him which exact lamp post to pull up to. The douche knew, although he did a poor job of pretending to be a little lost on the way back. The cab even lingered for a while after I had slammed the gate. I could hear its engine rumbling for much longer than it would take for the driver to count out the fare or whatever that typical pause is for.
There is that chance that I was paranoid, that the past bad trips I’ve had did leave me more traumatized than I thought I was. (I mean, ever since the jack off incident, I have been double-checking cabbies’ crotches.) There is that chance that the bastard did just miss my house, that he did get all deaf and dumb just for those few crucial moments. But then again, I don’t know if that last statement was borne out of some real sense of benevolence or out of being a goddamn doormat. As I’ve said, he was a smarmy son of a bitch in the first place. He was not nice to me. He made me want to wash my hands.
I have no concrete knowledge of any theories on gender politics, but I’m pretty damn sure there’s one out there stating how men have the upper hand due to their raping capabilities. Granted that women can rape men too, of course, but I don’t think I’m that wrong in saying that men hold the clout in that department. I suppose what happened a few hours ago was an apt, albeit phobic, illustration.
I propose cabbie community-wide castration. I would like to see pain, please. And plenty of it. It’s only fair, my dear dickwad drivers, for my own numbness has worn thin.
posted by marguerite @ 2:14 AM
Thursday, July 05, 2007
My short story “Super Vision” is out in the July 7 issue of the Philippines Free Press!
Aside from that hooraywoohoo, my days have been pretty decent. My screenwriting job has evolved into a full-blown film prod stint and possible assistant director-ship, and I would like to see this as a step in a good direction. And I think most other aspects of my little life have reached a comfortable, non-threatening buzz. And the rain. I like rain.
As for the past week’s events, which I had promised myself to elucidate here before, I think I’ll just let them curdle into that creamy block of cheese my subconscious likes to gorge on.
I shall take a hot bath now.
posted by marguerite @ 6:02 PM
Sunday, July 01, 2007
I’ve been meaning to inject a considerable amount of text into this blog. Have to air the stench of the past two video entries—the reek of lousy shots, lazy editing, and the inexistence of story—right out of this baby, and replace them with the lousy, lazy, story-sapped drivel by which I am less annoyed.
Been preoccupied with varying degrees of human contact the past few days. Below is a part of the backlog. Will blog about the other days when I have the nerve.
[Wednesday] Yet again, in the spirit of the dastardly and bastardly, I went with Pubey Boy to the special screening of Transformers + launch of Mac Tonight, the campaign for McDonald’s 24-hour branches. Apparently, a toy-based movie and a fast food chain are grounds enough to hold a high-profile society event—celebrities, models, Tim Yap and all.
Before the movie, waiters served quartered, tooth-picked McCheeseburgers and McNuggets on silver platters. That the Pretty People there were off carbs and grease made these whored d’oeuvres all the more hilarious.
I liked Transformers, and I’m not into action movies, cars, or anything else that sounds good with the word octane. I had to bury my head in my hands because of some cheeseball scenes, but it was wonderfully, mindlessly entertaining on the whole. No particular emotional attachment to any of the robots, no particular endearment with Shia LaBeouf’s wide nostrils, no particular appreciation for the basic political commentary. I just sat down, ate my free apple pies, yielded myself to the blockbuster blitz, and liked it. Although Megan Fox’s tiny waist did spurn such black, black envy.
Pubey and I got into such a tizzy after the screening, because we realized how great it would be if the exploitation of 80’s toons continued and someone made a live-action Jem and the Holograms movie.
Jerica Benton! Eric! Synergy! Aja! Shana! Kimber! Pizzazz! Roxy! Stormer! Rio! All those orphans with side ponytails! I get into a Flashdance fit just thinking about it!