The Girl in the Dirty Shirt

Hustle

2009-05-21T00:47:00.000+08:00

Aba Ginanahang Magblog Ang Gaga

2009-05-07T15:36:00.001+08:00

Being that my daily commute has swerved abruptly from EDSA to its far more sinister cousin Commonwealth in recent weeks, I have suddenly become privy to far more crimes and near-death experiences. (The avenue, in fact, has always been cloaked in Creepy ever since I could remember, and belongs to my personal list of Inexplicably Evil-Seeming Places, which also includes the other side of Shaw Boulevard [yung may PureGold], Quiapo, and most exclusive schools.)

There is a lot I can gripe about Commonwealth--St. Peter's Parish a.k.a. Rasputin's Playpen, Litex a.k.a. The Most Literal Shithole in Quezon City, the profusion of goat corpses and budget funerarias--but I just wanted to point an unwarranted and accusing finger at Those Morons Who Run Across Commonwealth.

You know how you can pick a Filipino jaywalker/runner out from a frantic, multinational, lawbreaking crowd? Find the asshole with a smile on his face.

Drives me nuts, these grins--apologetic but not really, a show of pure, twinkly happiness at the thought of cheating death in the most idiotic way possible. I used to think some of them were actually grimaces, as if the jaywalker/runner suddenly realized mid-half-assed-stunt that he should, uh, want to live. But the constancy of these Morons have ascertained that these expressions are, in fact, displays of true glee.

I know this is a pretty hackneyed observation in the end. Yes, yes, Filipinos laugh at and through their hardships. Yes, yes, Filipinos laugh in the face of corruption and disease and squalor because they don't really know what fuck-else to do. Yes, yes, (more of my middle-class brat whining). But I just wanted to point it out because, well, I am just fulfilling my role as humble cyberspace filler like most everyone else is. I am just helping make the world go 'round as it has deigned itself to. I am not a kibitzer; I am the fucking She-Ra of the status quo. God I'm hopeless. Let's all hold hands.

Go Adam!

2009-05-06T15:38:00.004+08:00

It's been difficult to speak up these past few weeks, most especially because it has been exactly a year since my Iyas-Dumaguete Workshop/Bakasyon Grande Extravaganza and the subsequent rebooting of pretty much my whole life. My gratitude towards that month, its high-jinks, and its motley crew of newfound friends + 1 man whore is staggering, and I have no idea how to commemorate this time without sapping it of its mojo, so, no. Senting-senti na ako offline.

It is also difficult to speak of my first ever company outing with the BlackInk folk in Baguio because the entry would be rife with my usual Baguio banter (ube ukay ube lamig misskonamakiling ube ube lamig), but it was, of course, a naturally good vacation, Baguio being one of my default Places of Happiness.

So what gives? What must I blog about save for Tunay na Lalake, the sexiest (and most male, so male the stench of sweat and Tiger Balm and sisig and the faintest zing of shit will push through your monitor like a needy [and respectably proportioned] cock) blog in the universe?

Not much. I'm just waiting for AI. It's rock week today. I'm rooting for the tranny.

I'm Very Chatty

2009-03-31T07:59:00.001+08:00

+ I'm looking for a 1-bedroom/studio type apartment in the QC-Diliman area for around 5K. Help a homeless harlot out!

+ My short story "Hunters" is out in this week's Philippines Free Press. Yeehaw!

+ That is all.

Untog

2009-03-20T12:43:00.002+08:00

In my long-standing tradition to rehash piddling opinions about me, I would just like to announce that a tricycle ride and my mortality have, yet again, held hands pa-sway-sway pa. Kind of. Some people are convinced that I’m going to die in either a taxi or a tricycle and, considering that their opinions are based on my eerily consistent ability to be physically injured/verbally molested by drivers of said vehicles, I’m sure as hell convinced of that, too. Last night added a new dimension to my fatal affair with The Commute. Kind of.

I hit my head fucking hard on a trike’s ceiling (?) yesterday. Was on my way to EDSA Central when the driver decided to take a speed bump on like a motocross moron. Just made the trike fly in the air ‘cause it’s like, you know, astig. Because I do not normally ride tricycles with 50-pound bags of grain tied to my ankles, my head slammed against the trike’s ceiling (?) so hard, I felt an intense rush of blood to the head not unlike the one you get when you fall down a flight of stairs. There was a bit of smarting and wooziness for a while, but it died down after a few minutes. No bumps, no bleeding.

So what’s the deal? Why have I suddenly resurrected my blogging habit after a month of happy silence to do some long-winded narrative on an untog? And why can’t I just get straight to the point in any of my entries instead of paving my hell-bound road with adjectives?

The latter, I don’t want to answer ‘cause it’s like, you know, astig. As for the former, well, ever since Natasha Richardson’s freakish untog of a death, I would like to think that I have every right to be paranoid. It’s been almost 24 hours since the big, bad bump, though, and my normal bodily functions have yet to be hindered by any mouth-frothing or speaking in tongues. In fact, seconds after the bump, I started asking myself standard me-specific questions such as Quick! Where are you headed tonight? and Quick! What’s your password to the company e-mail? and Quick! Remember that thwarted Chuck Bass sex dream a few nights ago? Where did you almost do it?, and I think I answered them quickly and accurately enough. And I have been able to get my ass to the office all the same today. It’s just that I still think there’s the eensy weensy chance that medics will find me face down in my plate of Mexican later tonight.

Let’s just hope for the best. Or, fine, at least I will. But just in case I do conk out for real, it was Trike # 43, part of the fleet of lime green trikes allowed to bring Kapitolyans to EDSA Central, and it happened yesterday, March 19, at around 5:10 in the afternoon. And the driver? Well, I never really got a good look at him. I don’t have time to look people in the eye when I’m busy formulating links between myself and sufficiently successful dead actresses as blog content. Timely blog content. I should get a medal.

Ang Enet

2009-02-20T11:13:00.000+08:00

There’s this scene in the film version of The Secret Garden (which, incidentally, happens to be a novel I’d read a gabizijillion times when I was a kid; isolated brats do like to read about themselves) wherein Colin, the snotty Victorian hypochondriac lad, is immersed in a tub of ice cubes. I used to love watching that scene, because it made me feel lucky not to be a snotty Victorian hypochondriac lad trapped in a manor in the nippy moors and, instead, be a snotty Ramos brownout-era wench trapped in a cramped compound in the scorching tropics. An ice bath, therefore, would actually be something I could look forward to, would be something that would not cause intense physical and psychological backlash but, on the other hand, would be just damn good.

Why am I writing this? Because I am no fan of summer, and it is summer, and it is HOT, Satan’s armpit HOT, and I have not had a bath since yesterday, and I am most likely teeming with gabizijillions of tiny Warm Gremlins of Filth, and oh god oh god a bath a bath a bath an ice cube bath with soap and shampoo and an indefinite stretch of evening please god help me it’s so so WARM.

The Heck of It

2009-02-13T07:42:00.000+08:00

BANG!

+ Found myself at the Martin-Pops concert at Araneta with D and his folks at the last-est minute. Went on major blackout when the uncouple brought out their "now vows" and read them out loud to each other. All in all, have decided that Pops has low self esteem, and that Martin is a douche. But I'm sure most people already know that; I'm just very behind on my OPM larnin'.

+ Went to an honest-to-goodness tgsk tgsk club all dolled up and shit with D and his brothers. All tgsk tgsk club stereotypes were fulfilled: long, antsy lines, hordes of hipons, unabashed grinding and sucking face.

And the funny thing is -- I think I get it.

That was the best night of Empty I've had in a while. Of course, you can take the kupaw out of Kupawland, but you can't take Kupawland out of the kupaw.

+ My short story "Cross" is out in the latest issue of Story Philippines. Yeehaw.

2009-01-27T14:50:00.001+08:00

I miss my friends.

Poppin'

2009-01-07T16:14:00.001+08:00

If that goddamn Abu Sayyaf scarf was the source of sartorial sore eyes last year, methinks this year’s fashion fuck up (among our native jologs, anyway) is that goddamn un-worn baseball cap. You’ve seen this at least once on the street—a mesh baseball cap set precariously on top of some semi-kal skull. Not fixed safely onto the skull, as anyone with a smidge of logic would wear a cap. Just on top of it, the edges of the cap barely clinging on to the curvature of someone’s head (which, I would naturally assume, is empty).

Just as the Abu Sayyaf scarf taunts me to grab it and wring its wearer’s neck, the un-worn cap goads me to slap my palm down on its wearer’s head, placing it on properly myself. I know hiphop has a lot to do with excess, but this has to be the dolt-iest trend it’s come up with thus far. Yes, grills and shutter shades are pretty stupid, too, but at least you actually wear them. This cap thing is really retarded in comparison. It’s like pulling your shirt over your head and not putting its sleeves on, letting it stay there on your shoulders like a rag around your neck (scarf, much?).

I guess the only good thing that may just come out of this is better posture. Which totally negates the overall ghetto disposition, but I don’t know. I wear hoodies in the scorching heat, so who am I to diss.

BUT REALLY! The logistics of this cap thing is beyond me. Unless you use glue or double-sided tape, can you really commute with peace of mind? Can you keep small pets in the resulting hollow?

This may very well be another phallus-related cry for help among the male population. Nigga ain’t hung, so he might as well make up for it by being (metaphorically and costume-ily) dickheaded?

Mandatory Second Day of the New Year I-Need-to-Make-Habol-My-Feelings Blog Entry

2009-01-02T12:34:00.001+08:00

I realize, heating up bathwater and checking my mail and bracing myself for this afternoon’s ear examination (something nasty has blocked up my hearing; I’ve been listening to the world the past month behind what is most likely a thick, shifting wall of pus), that I have abandoned my blog during those last, crucial moments of 2008, when I would usually participate quite enthusiastically in the starry-eyed schmaltz-fest of personal journal-ists. I do have a lot to be thankful for. I do have things to look forward to. And while I will not publicly announce a strict set of resolutions for this new year, I am, indeed, resolved. Ayoko lang mag-share, bakit ba.

But I will say this: 2008 was the year that—slowly, surely, pain- and blissfully—coaxed me to be better. And I mean it. If I’ve mentioned this before in previous years (and, knowing my younger, considerably more shit-filled self, I probably have), those past remarks don’t mean squat in comparison. It took an awesome person to very patiently bring me to this point, and I am very glad and very thankful for that.

So there. Hi, New Year. *waves*

Dead On

2008-12-18T00:06:00.000+08:00

Ang saya-saya.

Ya, Who Be Dat?

2008-12-03T23:34:00.006+08:00

In keeping with blogging’s mission to saturate humanity with self-serving un-information, behold my physical evolution just this year as rendered by those DIY avatars (yes, those DIY avatars).

There was no Smaller Boobies option during the construction of these cartoons, so I'm just going to have to live with these knockers.

Sucks

2008-11-28T13:41:00.002+08:00

Twilight is a colossal load of crap. Not that I had any lofty expectations for it to begin with, mind, having flipped through a stray copy of Breaking Dawn and realizing that the Francine Pascal school of dilute kilig is still in practice. So it’s a colossal load of crap, but it’s not like I’m mad at it or anything (okay, maybe a little, only because Stephanie Meyer’s given tasteless people some weird license to be called ‘voracious readers,’ but let’s not get into that really, really, really, really, really old Harry Potter tirade right now). So it is what it is.

It’s easier to lambast films that have apparent flaws amidst otherwise tolerable elements. Twilight, however, is just two hours of Stupid. I do understand why many Filipinos enjoy it, though. The book and its subsequent unwieldy film translation cater to the Catholic school kid set and its penchant for ineffectual overromanticism. Mired as many young Pinoys are in Victorian notions of romance (yihee, nagholding hands sila; kasal, here they come), it’s very easy for them to fall for this drivel.

GRABE, ANG PANGIT NG TWILIGHT.

You have to see it.

We Love You Long Time

2008-11-24T15:02:00.005+08:00

Doing squat this Wednesday night? Jonesing for major sexy time? Enjoy the occasional car crash? If you happen to fall under any or all of these, drop by Green Papaya this Hump Day at 8. Hubba Hubba Man-Beast Yol and I will get all literary on your asses as part of the art space’s on-going Monthly Period readings and open mic. If the raw, gummy, wait-wait-let-me-process-this sexuality Yol and I possess is just not your thing, our tandem interview will be hosted by the unambiguously lovely Andrea Teran (so you can just stare at her while Yol and I dry-hump and ask for each other's influences, yes?).

Green Papaya’s moved to 41B T. Gener St., Kamuning. Just look for the patch of sidewalk where I’m naked and shivering, and Yol’s zipping himself up with equal parts shame and aplomb.

Little Red Rambo

2008-11-17T22:44:00.007+08:00

My uterus is strife, solidified.

Now, I’m not as keen on blogging about my consistently horrid dysmenorrhea as I was when I was younger and a tad (just a tad) less aware of how trite and futile my blog entries are, but I am a tad (just a tad) bedridden right now, so you can suck it.

What else, what else.

Well, I am 23. Which means I have a little less than twenty years to go before these monthly massacres cease. You’d think I’d get used to it by now, but I suppose the desire to hack my lower body off is something I was just meant to feel again and again. A brief note, though, to whatever or whoever designed me this way: if this was meant to teach me some dire lesson, like about the fragility of human life or some other staggering truth, it isn’t working.

You know how the more prudish, Anglo-Saxon set calls periods the “visit from Aunt Flo?” My Aunt Flo has uzis, camos, and a thirst for vengeance.

I’m sleepy! Finally.

Teka Lang Ha, Ilalabas Ko Muna Ang Pagkabakla Ko

2008-11-12T23:39:00.000+08:00

POTANGINA, BA’T NANALO SI ARIES SA PROJECT RUNWAY?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Because he pulled that Voltes 5/Transformers trick at the end? Because he had a specfic storyline to back it up? Because when the judges said they wanted to see the “future” of Philippine fashion, he rendered it literally?!?!?

This is an insult to fag hags the world over! That is IT! I’m calling a meeting!

Philipp should have won. Every one of his dresses was the shiz.

Grabe, ang chachaka-chaka ng mga judges for choosing those sophomoric, silver-specked swatches of bleh. You throw some glitter around and *poof!*, they’re on their knees?!? HUWHAT?!

Ayoko na mag-rant. Pagoda tragedy na ako.

Byebye Freelance Ho World

2008-11-05T13:16:00.002+08:00

Formally employed again after a year, it’s a miracle I found this swatch of time to put something in here. Not that I’m complaining; work as an editor at this nifty writers’ pool, however tedious, is a comfort compared to what had become a quite hollow stint in Freelance Ho World. My being a Grammar Nazi is keeping me paid and my days tolerably busy, which is a step up from whole days of sitting on my ass and trying to stop myself from cracking.

+++

The Alcazaren clan spent the weekend at Casa San Pablo, this awesome resort in Laguna. The cottages are like something out of a subversive British children’s book, or are Tim Burton-esque, or whatever pretense-laden comparison you prefer, though the place is actually of pure, artsy heart. My brother’s room, for instance, was filled with vintage mirrors, including this retractable barbershop mirror I had half a mind to nick, while my own room was an attic lined with old Matchbox cars in their original packaging. The spigots on the bathroom faucets were made of unfinished stone shells, man. If you could die from quaintness, then Casa San Pablo is the creaking, wrought-iron gate of the netherworld, and I was happy to have been on the edge.

It's Hurltastic

2008-10-20T22:30:00.000+08:00

Foolishly assuming that this blog used to have some semblance of quality in the first place, I have come to realize the rapid deterioration, content-wise, of my Dirty Shirt. Then again, I didn’t put this thing up in order to be an actual decent blogger, to be the type who’d punch something of import out, which is what quite a few of my friends actually do, and do very well.

And again, I have no point to this entry, really, as with all of my other entries as of late. This is just my attempt to center myself while still reeling from a particularly ridiculous hangover, one which made me spew out the pitiable entry just before this one and filled me with (whodathunk?) an extra ounce of shame.

But I do want to share, for the benefit of my beloved Dumag duckies, that I had a pretty nifty afternoon. After the job interview (whose details I will not divulge because god I don’t want to jinx it), Tokwa, his officemate Loi, and I were smoking on the sidewalk at Maginhawa when who should pass by but Lambert and his cozy monkey headphones. It was a nice little reunion, a serendipitous follow-up to the larger reunion last Friday at Greenbelt, wherein Dustin, Banana Man Lawrence, Leslie, Carmela, Leeza Sexpot and I caught the performance of Tokwa’s play. It was just one of those times when the world’s smallness works in your favor. (Mga katsubong, buhay pa si Lamberto!) It helped tide my hangover for a bit, anyway.

And there you go. Swinging right back into the sophomoric blogging device that is the hangover reference. I will stop now. I will go lie down and try to be less of a goddamn formula.

Hurl (A Few Sentiments)

2008-10-20T13:08:00.003+08:00

1) One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.
2) Am in a netshop in Philcoa an hour before a job interview.
3) The monitor is quaking. The mouse too, although it doesn't look like it's quaking. I can only tell because the cursor is crawling across the screen every which way of its own accord.
4) Whattahangover.
5) According to Weird Fact of the Day, there are more chickens in the world than people, and that is just awesome.
6) I want to take a dump, but that would require me skulking into the McDonald's downstairs, and I'm too lazy.
7) I will get my resume printed out in 15 minutes.
8) YES! The haze is clearing. Suck it, Jose Cuervo.
9) I really hope I get this job.
10) I should get my hair trimmed.
11) O siya, magpapaprint na ako.
12) Bye for now, blog! Yehey!

Sore Throat, Part 2 3 Germs Suck Ass

2008-10-16T18:14:00.005+08:00

Never step into a supermarket sick; everything there will swear to cure you. It doesn’t matter what section you’re in—Fresh Produce, Facial Care, Tuna, Hardware. Anything shelved seems to promise some strange brand of glory, calling out to you (yes, you, the hot mess popping Strepsils on Aisle 5), telling you that, with it, alleviation is nigh. Pick me, Sick Girl. Eat/drink/apply/spray/assemble/employ me and all your bacterial boohoos will be gone. Just like that. What an empty basket you have.

Any actual, significant changes are relegated to my ATM account.

YES NAMAAAANNNNNNNN

2008-10-06T14:04:00.002+08:00

ULTRA WON! Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay!

My Cousin Whammy’s experimental short film placed 2nd in the .MOV International Digital Film Fest’s Silvershorts Competition, and I’m ridiculously proud of him. Dustin and I are stoked to be part of it as well, serving as the proverbial actors-alalays in the one-day shoot, but it was a one-man crew deal, ultimately. Whammy pulled the whole gig off all on his lonesome, and he deserves every cent of his tasty cash prize.

Congratulations and advanced Happy Happy Birthday, Favoritest Cousin in the Whole Wide Universe! :)

The Big Hurt

2008-09-30T20:01:00.004+08:00

Just got past the most awful stint of tonsillitis. Kicked it into gear by smoking with a sore throat all weekend. It isn’t the kind of sick you can snub, willpower willing. It’s the kind of sick that latches onto you like a monkey, shrieking and clawing and quaking with fleas, making pretty damn sure that you know that it’s there oh yes it is. My monkey held on for a whole day—24 hours of flaming skin, superfluous eyecrust, a seemingly squeamish skeleton and, of course, a throat whose condition has gone far beyond that puny, pathetic term that is sore. My throat was an open wound. My throat was disagreeable the way an epileptic elephant set in a cramped electrified cage on a bed of live mice is disagreeable. If I tried to swallow my own spit, my whole upper body would try to heave it back out, having understood that I was a functioning organism no longer. I struggled with my monkey in bed for the most part, just sleeping and writhing and feeling shit-sorry for myself up until my significant other, as such creatures are wont to do, came back with the most glorious antibiotics and a mission to get me fed.

This entry has no point other than to announce the fact that I have been very, very, sick, for people who have been very, very sick would very much like their having been very, very sick to be known to as great a population as possible, because no way in hell would they just let this piece of information pass without having it sit in other people’s minds for just a second, even, without letting it become this conspicuous snatch of thought, because they had to fucking suffer in ways no one can possibly understand to earn that stupid mental tidbit, so everyone else had better soak this information in oh they'd better. Damn straight.

EDIT: And vote for us, demmet!

A Lighter Head

2008-09-15T19:08:00.001+08:00

This photograph depicts:

a) a Northern-Chinese refugee
b) a Kill Bill stand-in
c) me on a vendetta to look like a more passable, non-yagit-like human being
d) all of the above

I say D, please.

I am also on a mission to get a job/more regularized stream of rackets. Let’s just call this my staunch attempt at self-respect. But yes, because I am announcing this through the otherwise insolent medium that is the blog, I might as well tap my scum side and say: if anyone has something up my alley, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Dustin helped heaps by getting me spankin’ new evil nurse threads to complement my new ‘do (my shortest cut in 7 years), consequently boosting my general resolve. I look so different, but I don’t feel different in a detrimental way. I do, however, feel fucking determined. (And like a dress-up doll; I had to become female sometime this century.)

Hands Away

2008-09-14T23:21:00.001+08:00

Directed by Cousin Whammy.

Mandatory Pre-Birthday Blog Entry

2008-09-07T18:25:00.003+08:00

Last year, on the morning of September 5th, I woke up to find myself robbed of every crucial material possession I had. Akyat-bahay kids had climbed into my bedroom window, gassed me to make sure I wouldn’t wake up, and took off with my laptop, iPod, wallet, IDs, passport, passbook, and cellphone. Capitalist scum that I am, I felt barren because of it. Stripped of an identity, scrubbed until I was red, raw, and far too clean just five days before I turned 22.

Suffice it to say that last year’s birthday sucked hard. Spent most of it alone in the mall, buying whatever the hell I wanted in some reckless, hapless attempt to appease myself, then took my mom to dinner wherein I eventually crumbled into a clod of pure, sniveling self-pity. I felt like a mess. I was just scared shitless.

It is a whole year later and, without a shred of a doubt, things have gotten better. My life is probably still as much of a haze as it was before, but there are chunks of it that I know have improved. And despite being capitalist scum, it has nothing to do with any of that purchase power crap I hold so dear (read: my sense of abandon towards disposable income is still quite unhealthy and deserves to be frowned upon).

On my birthday this Wednesday, I know that I will spend it well. It will unfold at a steady, decadent pace, and in the company of a guy who is, in the most solid of terms, awesome. No niggling sense of unease. No troubling over having to be happy on this one day, because I know for a fact that I am.

Provided, of course, that I get in some rabid solo shopping time. Scum does get scummier by the year.

Flick Hicks

2008-09-03T17:18:00.004+08:00

Cousin Whammy, who is, bar none, my Favoritest Cousin in the Whole Wide Universe, is a finalist in this year’s .MOV International Digital Film Festival. His short film entry "Ultra" will be screened with the rest of the contenders in Robinsons cinemas from Sep. 24 to Oct. 7.

Delight in Dustin’s and my gullibility, magnified for your ridiculing pleasure on the silverscreen! Yay! Yay! Vote for Team Whammy!

Retreat!

2008-08-24T15:33:00.003+08:00

Spent the weekend at a resort in Lake Caliraya, Laguna with some of the Mabuhay staff. A trip to check out the digs, so we had access to pretty much all of their amenities. Thus, in a single day I had (in chronological order):

+ set foot in Los Baños after several years. The place has been significantly Koreanized, no duh.
+ fished for hito at a pond (or at least tried for an hour, the fish having gotten too smart for our bread-laden hooks)
+ my very first wall-climbing experience, which I had particularly enjoyed. I may have found (at last! at last! ‘tis never too late!) a sport I can be adept in. Anyone recommend a good wall-climbing facility in the Shaw-Ortigas area?
+ careened through the air on a very high, very long zipline
+ careened on my butt with three other people down a steep, hillside soap/mud-slide (soapy, muddy, tarpaulin slide + short shorts = skinning off of thighs)
+ videoke’d
+ played a grossly outdated version of Outburst, lost, and conked out.

This morning’s rain, unfortunately, prohibited us from riding the horses. Sayang yung Victorian boldstar from the moor moment ko.

It was a nice little overnight stay, all told. But what I really wanted to share was a pretty fucked up discovery I’d made right before our departure.

The resort, apparently, caters to the Christian retreat crowd (hence all the group dynamics-related facilities which we abused in a perfectly selfish, non-denominational kind of way), so it has this quite pious gift shop I couldn’t help but inspect. There were Bible verse-inscribed paperweights, copies of A Purpose-Driven Life, and all those other devout doohickeys typical of such a store. So far, so saintly.

And then I saw The Rod.

(It's not a dick.)

It was this long, heavy plastic paddle with the saying “Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child” stickered onto its surface. I thought it was a joke, at first. I mean, for whatever it’s worth, I still have some smidge of faith in humanity, after all. But, in all seriousness, the thing really was manufactured for exacting corporal punishment on young’uns. Besides the saying, there were other heinous bits of text slapped all over it. “Made for Preschool/Elementary Age.” “Researched and Approved by Dr. __________.” A whole guide on “How to Spank,” which then provided a step-by-step procedure on hurting tiny behinds.

At a hundred bucks a rod, I was discouraged from buying it. Even so, I normally would; the sheer horror I felt could’ve been motivation enough. But then I realized that I didn’t want to give the nutsacks who made this wretched contraption any of my money. I blow my cash on lots of horrendously useless crap, yes, but the Rod was something else. It was evil. Heaven’s Gate evil. L. Ron Hubbard evil. Jim Jones Kool-Aid evil. It was Just. Not. Good.

Spent my money instead on buko pies, kesong puti and pastillas. Call it a rare glimpse into my morality.

Bollocks

2008-08-22T00:22:00.004+08:00

Here is a recent YM conversation between myself and Pumpkin, a friend sequestered in cold, cold Canada (and thus, butt of my many moose and Mountie jokes). We are both rabid Oasis fans.

pumpkin: hey whats the name of that album with lyla/mucky fingers/let there be love?
pumpkin: ive been trying to remember that for days just too laze to look for the album
Marguerite de Leon: shit, why can't i remember it...
Marguerite de Leon: teka...im not googling...
pumpkin: i remember the cover
Marguerite de Leon: paunahan tayo
pumpkin: like black
pumpkin: and
pumpkin: it came with the dvd hahaha
pumpkin: useless mga naaalala ko
Marguerite de Leon: after heathen chemistry, it was....................................................................
pumpkin: blank
Marguerite de Leon: that's it. im googling.
pumpkin: no!
pumpkin: dooon't!
Marguerite de Leon: fine.
pumpkin: metaphysical unease
pumpkin: eh?
Marguerite de Leon: YES.
Marguerite de Leon: im an ass. i googled. it's fucking DONT BELIEVE THE TRUTH.
pumpkin: oh.. right
Marguerite de Leon: i don't believe in metaphysical unease. i believe in online search engines.
pumpkin: gabriel marcel would be very hurt
Marguerite de Leon: he's used to it.

Besides this telling lapse in memory, a crushing sense of disappointment after hearing Oasis’ latest single “The Shock of the Lightning,” as well as the utter terror I felt upon learning that Dig Out Your Soul, the album in which this monstrosity can be found, will carry the same half-assed sound, has ascertained that I am only an Oasis circa 90’s fan and not much else.

This is a gargantuan step down for me. As any friend of mine worth his friendship-ness-ity should know, the Brothers Gallagher are my gods. But it seems that I’ve only been forcing myself to like—not even love, really—the albums they’ve put out in the past decade with their newer line-up. And this grin-and-bear-it disposition of mine, I realize, has got to stop now, for if I don’t, I’m pretty sure I’m setting myself up for future years of griping.

Thus, I hereby herewith heretofore announce (wow, I’ve been doing this a lot lately) that while I am still a rabid Oasis fan, I shall only be fiercely loyal to Definitely Maybe, (What’s the Story) Morning Glory, Be Here Now, and The Masterplan. Any albums beyond these shall be subject to my general indifference. My annual Margie’s Oasis Day will continue to be celebrated, of course, but I will only have to listen to the above albums on that lovely day (thank god, you have no idea how taxing it’s been since 2000).

Noel Gallagher himself has stated recently that Oasis is no longer Britpop. Well then, there you go. It was fated to be. (And no "Don't Look Back in Anger" quips. God. Be nice.)

I Have My Concerns

2008-08-17T00:04:00.000+08:00

One fascinating little function that the blog serves, spawned alongside blogging’s vanity-driven evolution, is the Blog Oath—announcing the start of a personal feat of willpower online. This is done not only to immortalize this difficult point in one’s life, but also to make sure, since everyone becomes informed of said feat, that you stick to the fucking plan, motherfucker, mahiya ka sa sarili mo pakingshet. I think it’s genius, really, this form of publicized self-blackmail, and thus, I hereby herewith heretofore announce the oath that I have imposed on myself:

Marguerite, from this point forward, you shall not partake of any desserts or succumb to any avenue for ingesting sugary foodstuffs so help you god. You have developed too much flab, too intrusive a gut, and an overall lax disposition towards your body and its mass index. You will eat healthy. You will stick to fish and chicken for your proteins, whole grains for your carbs, and fruits to just plain keep you from dying. Your large coffee in the afternoon shall be your only opportunity for sweetness. That’s it. THAT’S IT. Dammet, woman, get your shit together LARD ASS LARD ASS LARD ASS LARD ASS LARD ASS LARD ASS STICK TO THE PLAN OR JIGGLE YOUR WAY TO HEEEELLLLLLL.

I’m such a role model. Yun lang po. Putang ina.

Bukingan Na

2008-08-09T20:44:00.004+08:00

To my indescribable relief, the keffiyeh, otherwise known as That Matherfakkking Abu Sayyaf Scarf, has been getting a lot of flak online. While scarves in general are fine by me (even in the tropics, being that yours truly is clad in hoodies rain or shine), I just can’t wrap my head around this particular piece of alternative fashion-turned-vile vogue. Even the cheap pun in the previous sentence is no match for it. My cousin Whammy and I even play Spot the Scarf whenever we’re out. Our most thrilling round of competition thus far was held at Cinemalaya a few weeks ago, CCP swarming as it was with unnecessarily neck-sweaty people.

This just got me thinking about the more odious little trends we’ve had the past decade or so. We’ve all fallen prey to these for even the briefest of blips, and I just felt like listing a few of them down for kicks, maybe in the hopes of triggering a shared sense of shame among us.

Body bags
Extra-long garrison belts
Nylon “tattoo” bracelets and chokers
Quivering butterfly hairclips
Hair mascara
Platform rubber shoes
Baby-G wristwatches
Bubble bags
Accordion headbands
Headbands that look like shades

It has suddenly occurred to me that almost all of the items listed above were late 90’s trends, the ones I had been exposed to during my last few years at an exclusive girl’s grade school where desperation was as common as a pleated checkered skirt.

Grapevine

2008-08-07T19:59:00.004+08:00

It’s Palanca Hullaballoo Week, and I’m stoked to know that (so far, since this period is a slow striptease Filipino writers shell out their hard-earned works to ogle) two of my friends have won the medal. Major props (at pisil sa pwet) go to Mikael “Taba” Co, 1^st place in Filipino poetry, and Marie La Viña, 3^rd in English poetry. Kael is pretty much a historical figure at this point, having won 1^st place last year in the English category which, if I’m not mistaken, is the first time this double-whammy has been accomplished. Naka namaaaannnnn. They are two good persons who have pure spots in their hearts for the written word, and I’m very happy for them. Let this season’s boozing commence!

+++

On my walk home this evening, I saw a repairman traversing a tangle of electric wires stretched across a busy street, like one of those tightrope daredevil types from the 1920s who do the deed sans safety net in highly public places.

I don’t have any insightful commentary on this, really. No tie-ups with Man and somersaulting past urban decay or whatever. It was pretty cool shit, that’s all.

Shameless Shameful Shameless Shameful Shameless Plug

2008-08-03T10:48:00.002+08:00

Was featured in today's Sunday Inquirer Magazine. An excerpt of "The Liasion Manager" can also be found here. Huwhat.

Ginormous thanks to Sir Ruey de Vera, and to my ever-vivacious, sex-on-a-stick co-fellow Liza, whose text message about the piece slapped me out of a sleepy, cold n' rainy Sunday morning stupor.

Still half-asleep. I will bathe now.

Cut Here

2008-07-31T14:09:00.009+08:00

I am now officially inked. A pair of left-handed scissors in shades of black and gun metal gray over my left shoulder blade.

I am, like, so kupaw.

The sordid details of my first tattoo experience will come out in the next issue of Fudge magazine (and on this blog, in due time). An x-deal, if you will. Fudge has this section called “I’ll Do Anything Once,” wherein a person undergoes a particular ordeal for free and then writes about it, so I pitched the tat idea a few months ago, having jonesed for a pretty needle-point piece on my hide for the longest time. Karl DM then pulled some strings with Slapshock’s Jamir Garcia who, with his bandmates and friends, just opened the tat parlor House of Pain, leading me to visit said House yesterday with Dustin, Bastion of Moral Support and Sick Secret Glee and, well, the rest, as they whose backs are currently too sore to continue blogging say, is history. A little bzzt bzzt and I’ve been happily branded.

A few photos are in order:

This is (seriously) shit-scared little me trying to quell my fears by pretending to be shit-scared.

This is me stalling for time, interviewing Lee and Jamir for a House of Pain piece.

This is resident tat artist Pat Julian in the process of branding my back.

Finishing stabs.

This photo works on so many levels.

And there! A nifty pair of shears after an hour's worth of knifing. I wasn't a bleeder. Nor was I a wincer, fidgeter or yipper. I am, instead, one very happy trooper.

More photos of my trip to the House of Pain may be perused here. All shots are c/o Philip Zayco. Rock and roll.

You Try Na Now Na

2008-07-15T20:57:00.001+08:00

Ateneo writers’ workshop offers fellowships

The Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices (AILAP) is accepting applications for the 8th Ateneo National Writers Workshop (ANWW) to be held on 20-25 Oct. 2008.

Each applicant should submit a portfolio in triplicate of any of the following works: five poems, three short stories, written in Filipino or English, with a title page bearing the author’s pseudonym and a table of contents. The 8th ANWW will not be accepting portfolios for one-act plays as a separate workshop will be conducted for this. Details will be announced later this year.

The portfolio must also be accompanied by a diskette containing a file of the documents saved in Rich Text Format.

All submissions must include a sealed envelope containing the author’s name, address, contact numbers, e-mail address, and a one-page resume including a literary curriculum vitae with a 1x1 ID picture.

Twelve fellows will be chosen from all over the country. Food and accomodations will be provided.

Please address entries to: Alvin B. Yapan, acting director, AILAP c/o Department of Filipino, 3F Horacio de la Costa Hall, Ateneo de Manila University, Loyola Heights, Quezon City.

Deadline of submissions is on 8 September 2008. For inquiries, please call 426-6001 local 5320-21 or e-mail ayapan@ateneo.edu.

Margie’s Sexiest Blog Entry Ever Seeeeex Seeeeex Seeeeex

2008-07-09T17:11:00.000+08:00

So I have this gigantic boil on my hip. It used to be this marble-sized cyst that my grandparents—doctors both—have told me to ignore for more than a year now, but it got infected and has morphed into something far more freakish. It has subsided somewhat thanks to antibiotics, but you should have seen it this morning, when it was still this huge, squashy lump in gradating shades of purple. A frightening, fascinating thing to wake up to, really. Fortunately, I took medication just before it could reach that pus-filled Mount Kilimanjaro state it was threatening to become, and went to the hospital to have it checked. Its sentence: more pills and an excision in the near future.

I can’t wait for the excision. Besides the fact that it sounds really cool (So what did I do today? Oh, well, I had the cyst on my hip excised. *sabay sandal sa pader at sindi ng yosi*), I have actually never been operated on in my whole life thus far. It’s just a minor, outpatient procedure, but it’s still this experience I have yet to undergo, anyway.

The last few times I went to the hospital were both ridiculous emergency room situations. There was that time I was fixed up with artificial skin after my leg was deliberately run over by a tricycle (was mugged by a stoned tricycle driver in broad daylight). And then there was that time Javs brought my unconscious slab over after a particularly heinous dysmenorrhea attack. Neither episode required sharp utensils, though, so this excision should be a pretty fun first for me.

This entry reeks of updating for updating’s sake, I know, but just don’t tell my boil that. Let it possess a sense of purpose for as long as it can.

Bomba Radyo

2008-06-24T22:47:00.001+08:00

A few of us perverts from the FHM Erotica antho will be grilled on RX 93.1 this Thursday at 9 PM. Having a story out there on head is one thing; an on-air lobotomy is a different (and, at my expense, assuredly amusing) case altogether. I can hear the questions already. Like long, low blasts from a fog horn, alerting my messy attempt to juggle candor, propriety, and a pleasant radio voice. I should probably make someone record the interview; I would very much like my grandchildren to hear Lola struggle to explain to the public that just because her fictional character has sucked off hundreds of cocks doesn’t mean she’s done the same. Yeehaw.

+++

Caught Be Kind Rewind with Dustin yesterday. Like anything else from Michel Gondry, the film’s visual gimmicks are way worth the watch. His simplistic plot and loopy dialogue, though, are just not my bag. Gondry undoubtedly lives in his own quaint little world, where people act and talk so flakily, they’re adorable. And while I suppose it’s refreshing to see adult humans behave like cartoons so unapologetically, I couldn’t help but feel a bit antsy. There’s Surreal, which is fine, and then there’s Real But Let’s Just Look the Other Way at Opportune Plot Points, which may test your patience. Gondry requires a good writer. He pulled Eternal Sunshine off because Charlie Kaufman has the same incredible sense of novelty and the storytelling skill. Regardless, watch Be Kind anyway. If not for the gimmicks, at least for Mos Def. Crush ko siya, bakit ba.

Hilarious. Sort of.

2008-06-21T06:41:00.004+08:00

It is 6-something in the morning. I am half-awake. I have just flooded my house. Accidentally; I'm not that loony. Turned the faucet open in my bathroom last night, found no water coming out of it, and plumb forgot to close it. My brain does bad things. Now, since the water came back this morning, the whole downstairs is all drippy, like we're in a fucking redneck shack in Iowa. My grandfather is livid and has been calling me a sannavabitch since I woke up. I am too groggy and sorry and perturbed to remind him that I am a bitch, and not a sannavabitch. Kept apologizing, but the vocal admission of my culpability isn't exactly going to fix the fact that we are currently mired in Waterworld. I hate Kevin Costner. My brain does bad things. I have some students to tutor in a few hours. I should go have breakfast now. (If I'm lucky, I think, they will let me take bath.)

Tagged by Camille "Bruha Bruha" Banzon

2008-06-11T22:33:00.005+08:00

No. At this point tonight, and in a room whose clime is not unlike that of a hothouse smack-fucking-dab in the Kalahari, I do not have better things to do.

1. This game starts with 6 weird things about you.

2. People who got tagged need to write a blog entry of their own 6 weird things.

3. They should state this rule clearly as well.

4. At the end of the list, tag 6 people.

5. Don't forget to inform each newly-tagged person by posting a comment on his own blog.

6 Ineffectual Things about Margie

[1] Ever since I saw that wondrous turkey-basting scene in The Big Hit, where his hands take a standard Butterball to impossibly sensual heights, I have had the major hots for Mr. Mark Wahlberg.

[2] If I had to slip into someone else’s skin and live out the rest of his or her life, I would pick Sophie Ellis-Bextor. In no other way could schlumpy ol’ me set my inner Disco Vamp free, free, free.

[3] My rage over grammatically-incorrect/awkward advertising copy on billboards will stay with me for years. (Have you MET? Have you MET??!?!! Have you MET??!?!!)

[4] My current idea of Personal Hell would be waking up in between Sean Kingston and Soulja Boy again and again and again and again for all eternity. (Open eyes. Let moment of pure, palpable horror sink in. Rewind. Open eyes. Let moment…)

[5] When I was six years old, I was made to dress as a nun, ride a motorized plywood bus and wave at people. I also used to be a Bead in a Living Rosary. Something tells me I’ve been paying dearly for these through the years.

[6] I really, really, really like waffle dogs.

I am tagging Yol (ayan kasi), Depra, Bullfrog Baby Jordan, Dustin, Siquey, and Mitch. Screw the 5^th instruction. Decide whether or not to feel a pressing obligation.

Zwei

2008-06-05T22:29:00.008+08:00

[1]

(Butt)Plug:

My short story “The Liaison Manager” is out in Playboy Philippines’ June ish. Yeehaw.

There’s something to be said here about my recent brush with girlie mags (I didn’t expect the FHM Erotica thing, for instance, to be this, um, available, and this has led to some people [non-relatives] giving me high-fives, and to some [relatives] giving me very long, perturbed, and categorically fearful looks), but I’m fine with saying squat.

Oh, but I really just have to say, the mock cum in my story’s photos? That was freaking cool.

What? Me big girl now.

EDIT:
Pahabol Plug: "Yaya," another piece, will be out this coming week in Philippines Free Press. Woohoo!

[2]

These are a couple of stills from Ultra, Cousin Whammy’s latest experimental film endeavor/Cinemanila entry, with me and Dustin as the Token Pair of Amateurs Willing to Act for Food.

During last Monday’s shoot, we were made to run through a very lush, unwieldy field, sit impossibly still for 15 minutes and, in my case, wear a Flower Monster suit.

I shall not deign to elaborate further.

Mandatory Post-47th National Writers Workshop Blog Post a.k.a. Tangina, Pics at Minor Commentary Na Nga Lang

2008-05-25T10:27:00.023+08:00

I’m back.

I have no proper capacity to recap my stay in Dumaguete. Three of the most glorious weeks of my little life, really. But for posterity’s and my overwhelming sense of sentimentality’s sake, here are just a few photos nicked from the staggering collections of my trigger happy co-fellow friends. (Click to enlarge, doi, and more stuff here, here and here, thanks to bullfrog baby Jordan.)

At our panel session at Antulang Resort. Bottom row, L-R: Leslie dela Cruz, Igor dela Peña, Tokwa So, Elena Paulma, Dustin Celestino, Arlene Yandug. Middle row, L-R: Lawrence Bernabe, Carmela Tolentino (in black), Celeste Fusilero, Marguerite de Leon, Jordan Carnice, Liza Baccay, Lambert Varias. Top row, L-R: Bron Teves, Myrna Peña- Reyes, Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas, Butch Dalisay, Beng Dalisay.

Ryan Agoncillo had, apparently, proposed to Juday while we were there. Don't believe me?

Stolen starstruck snapshot. Saan ka pa.

At Mom Edith's lecture in a country club chapel. Fortunately, this great privilege overpowered the fact that our hallowed venue could have burnt several of us to a crisp, considering our many varied shenanigans at Davao Cottage (homestead for most fellows and, thus, the ultimate House of Decadence).

This is us about to murderlize Lambert who, despite (or maybe due to) his constant sleepiness, is a fucking genius at panel.

This is us at Country Gents, our suking videoke hole, where Tokwa always gets his Total Eclipse of the Heart on with a most suspect gusto.

This is Igor and me at the first week's poetry reading, the first of many unfortunately memorable duets. Igor had planned to dance while I sang "Criminal," but, as can be gathered from his starting position, our attempt ended in pure chaos. But it was fabuloush, nonetheless.

This is me, Tokwa, Lambert and Dustin at Cafe Antonio. The four of us, plus Banana Man Lawrence, served as the mandatory relentless smoking constituent of our batch.

Speaking of which, this is Lawrence and me having a post-coital smoke on our first weekend getaway to Lake Balinsasayao. Yeah, baby. It was fucking freezing.

This is us taking a breather on our Balinsasayao trek, taken by Dakilang Yaya Mo. The fact that we were still able to pose despite said trek's "The Biggest Loser"-brand of physical exertion is beyond me.

Coincidentally, this is our Dakilang Yaya about to stab Carmela with a cake knife.

This is us staring off into a slab of sea at Siquijor, our second weekend's getaway. Wushu.

This is us at Chantilly during one of many bouts of gluttony. Dumaguete's cheap and ridiculously decadent sweets larded us up real good.

This is us at Davao Cottage looking decidedly normal. And what were we all bunched up in the sala for, pray tell?

This is the cover art of Sea[sic], the anthology we fellows took upon ourselves to produce during our stay. We unveiled it to the panelists and the rest of the Silliman/Dumaguete faction on Fellows Night. Concept, coordination and over-all spearheading by Dustin, layout and associate administration duties by yours truly, cover art and photo supplementation by Jordan, and works by all 14 of us. Written during our many free periods in Dumaguete, workshopped one evening (hence the photo above), and sent to the printers in due time, this antho (consisting of prose and poetry set in Dumaguete) is our way of saying that we feel strongly about what we do. Yes, we got fucking drunk and all those other Dumaguete-based spells of debauchery expected of us, but we decided to do a little something-something beyond that.

Suffice it to say that Dumaguete was way, way, way more than worth it. To everyone: thank you, thank you, thank you.

Thank you. You know what I mean.

Okay.

2008-05-03T10:02:00.008+08:00

This is me on a tumba-tumba at Balay Negrense, one of the stops at our cultural tour last week. Was tempted to put my feet up on the especially elongated, uh, limb rests, but I feared the wrath of Chaka Doll, who was watching me from its high chair in a room across the hall, saddled with the shi-shi ghosts of the hacienda. (Piping! Ang kape! Ngayon din!)

This is Chaka Doll.

While my mandatory post-workshop blog entry did no justice whatsoever to last week’s lushness (key word: lush), En did a bang-up job recounting the details here. Masipag na bata.

So.

I shall be off to Dumaguete tomorrow. Three whole weeks of I Have No Idea. Then again, my little life thus far has been day after day of I Have No Idea as well, an arbitrariness that, I repeat, has far more concrete backing than one could ever imagine.

On the plane back to Manila, teary-eyed amongst a whole cabin full of post-convention Masons and a really creepy Indian woman, I had the strongest feeling that this was going to be one Limbo of a week. My gut was right. And very much so.

I feel very, very strange. Strange. The past couple of days seemed like a dream. Eyes closed. Taken back. Shifting in and out of curious, curious Sleep. But it was all real.

I have ended this entry with a photo of people looking off cheesily into some unidentified point (well, except for Jessel, but what can you do). We were probably just looking at Bardem or Kris or something, but let’s pretend that whatever it was was a notch less harrowing, okay?

Okay.

Mandatory Post-Iyas Workshop Blog Entry a.k.a. Hi. My name is Marguerite, and I am an alcoholic. (Hi, Marguerite.)

2008-04-29T12:26:00.003+08:00

Carlo, Mitch, En and me outside Balay Kalinungan pre-panel. More (and far more incriminating) snapshots at Carlo’s Multiply here and here. Feigning sobriety is an art like any other.

As with any attempt to write a mandatory post-workshop blog entry three days after the fact, it’s hard to put anything down without sounding giddy or vague, bogged down as you are with many fresh, express memories and a body on major alcohol withdrawal. So the best I can say is that I had a very good week. I had great co-fellows (special shout out to Ida, Carlo, En, Charles and Mitch), great panelists, and a great over-all environment. I learned much, be it during the actual panel or during our nightly load* sessions at Balay Kalinungan’s dining hall, and I will always be grateful for every conversation, inebriated or otherwise.

Damn, that was fun. Yeehaw.

*The term “load” was our batch’s term for booze, since we didn’t want the authorities to wonder too much about our frequent trips to the alkie store a few blocks away. It has since spawned an entire definitive (and surprisingly coherent) lexicon of cellphone-related code words, which Mitch has so graciously posted here. We are creative, and we are desperate.

Plop

2008-04-16T21:21:00.002+08:00

Warning: Major cheese ahead. Hold your breath.

Despite the number of times I’ve typed the word “doody” down on this blog, or posted about events that suggest a day to day existence of utter arbitrariness, I am one of those people who really and truly believe that things happen because they need to happen. Not because you want to or even deserve to (asa ka pa), but because you need to, because whatever force it is that’s greater than us just wants you to make better sense of who and why the hell you are. (I obviously can’t write self-help. I’m sorry.) Opportunities plop down from the sky all the time, and whether or not you end up their target is, I think, not as erratic a matter as it would seem. Things both shitty and glorious happen because they will be good for you in the end.

So what the fuck am I referring to that’s taking up a whole, ham-fisted paragraph even though common decency says it shouldn’t?

I just got word that I’m going to Dumaguete, too. And I am so fucking pumped and so fucking scared and so going to pass out now.

Bakasyon grande, ika nga ni Kael. But far beyond that, this will help me get my shit together a little better. Will help clear my head and calm me down and dump me back in Manila not only as someone with a more lucid disposition towards writing, but as a more functional Human Bean.

When I found out that I got in, I couldn’t even squeal out or do a little happy dance or anything like that. I just stared at my computer screen and pondered over how I was going to get through the next few days without bursting into flame. The security guard in front of me was probably wondering why my face was twitching the way it did, with equal parts joy and pure, helpmehelpmehelpme alarm.

If I was stoked before, then I am way, way, way stoked now. That’s the only thing I can say for certain and boy, I sure do like it that way yeehaw.

Now lemme at ‘em grits.

1Two3

2008-04-13T00:02:00.000+08:00

[1]
It’s April 13 again! Today marks the 13th Annual Margie Celebrates Oasis Day! The 13th on the 13th! Yaaaaaay! Yaaaaaaay! Happy Oasis Daaaaaay!

For a backgrounder, check out last year’s little expository post. (Really, there’s only so many ways I can narrate the moment I became Mad for It, so that shoddy old primer should suffice.)

If you’re an Oasis fan in any way, give your favorite album a spin on this very special (albeit manufactured by a queasy, whiny 9-year-old more than a decade ago) day and try to forget that the band’s more recent fare pretty much sucks. Or if you’re as mad for it as I am, then do the whole discography along with me. On this day of days, through the good (Definitely Maybe) and the bad (Heathen Chemistry whatthehellwasthatiknowright), we shall drown in our respective bedrooms together.

[2]
I never would’ve thought that I’d do erotica in my lifetime, being that I have the compassion and maturity of an adolescent male, but:

In the next week or so, FHM Philippines will release their first-ever erotica anthology in bookstores and rag stands throughout the metro. What makes this collection extra-tasty is that each writer was delegated a particular genre. A nifty sex story sampler, if you will. The round-up is as follows: Carljoe Javier for sci-fi, Karl de Mesa for horror, Anna Sanchez for mainstream erotica, Norman Wilwayco for transgressive fic in Filipino, me for transgressive fic in English, Joey Nacino for fantasy, and Lourd de Veyra and Ramil Digal Gulle for poetry. Go grab a copy, you sick fucks.

[3]
And for this post’s last woohoo:

I’m off to Bacolod next week for the Iyas Writers Workshop!

yeeeeeeeeehaaaaawwww!!!

And Mister Earnest Mitch too, so we’ll be co-fellows for the third time in a row. Pretty cool.

I am so stoked I could pee. Yeheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey. :)

Y’All Simmer Down Now

2008-04-06T13:15:00.003+08:00

Things I Learned from This Good N’ Random Weekend (Fudge Mag Workshop + Band Practice + Nice Ol’ Night of Debauchery):

+ Tenacious D: The Pick of Destiny RULES.

+ Trix, the baby amp Karl got for the band, is a downright purdy piece of equipment, gademmet.

+ With the right company, the 90’s is still alive and well.

+ It is common knowledge that each person is blessed with a special yet stereotypical ability when drunk, be it the knack to get laid, speak in an impeccable Irish brogue, etc., yet I hadn’t really settled on my own faculty until last night. Thus, I hereby herewith heretofore declare that my official stereotypical drunken mutant superpower is the ability to get free beer from strangers.

+ In order to hold one’s own against pervert beer benefactors who just happen to be musicians from Hyderabad, grill them about their faith. They will stop talking to you in (give or take) 15 minutes, or when it dawns on them that they’ve been way too bullshitty even for people who try to ply random girls with booze.

+ I think I get Sikhism now.

+ I lie down on the sidewalk more often than I thought.

+ This will be fun.

+ I’m going to be okay.

+ No. You know what? Screw it. I am.

Post

2008-04-02T21:49:00.006+08:00

The more recent batch of musical genres makes use of the word “post.” Post-punk, post-grunge, post-pop, post-hardcore, and my personal favorite due to its utterly apocalyptic flavor, post-rock. (Post-rock. Post-rock! How cool does that sound?! Right? Right?! It’s so freaking tasteh!) But it makes me wonder about the next round of genres in the coming decades. What comes after something that’s come after everything? I know that how a song is tagged doesn’t matter a smidge, just as long as it gets you off, but it’s something nice and pointless to ponder over on a sticky summer night such as this.

The floor for pretense is hereby* open.

And that’s another pointless puzzler right there! Hereby. Herewith. Heretofore.* Curse these disposable terms! The AD in the design agency I worked for last year (a.k.a. Blip No. 1 on my stunning job track record…seriously, I didn’t think I’d end up such a fucking vagrant job-wise, though I would like to think I’m finally getting my act together after a year’s worth of occupational misfires, I swear, I swear I am, but I digress) used these throwaways at every conceivable opportunity, though it didn’t make her any more classy than her closet of gauzy, rhinestone-studded blouses would so desperately like you to believe.

Mandatory Margie is Scared of Good Friday Blog Entry

2008-03-21T15:20:00.001+08:00

Well hello, Deadest Day of the Year.

I understand the solemnity of this day, I do. I understand that, even if you do not subscribe to a particular faith as is the case with me, there is a need to hush up and think about certain things. But this hasn’t stopped me from dreading Good Friday. I’m the type who needs a live city, who finds comfort in the knowledge that all this artifice is functioning as it should. That, and memories of Good Fridays past, especially those during the early 90s, have continued to lend a special lethargy to this day that’s just plain hard for me to stomach each and every time.

One particularly bothersome Good Friday always comes to mind. I was around nine or ten, an age that my grandparents felt gave them license to spook me with those you are a sinner, you will go to hell, look straight into the eyes of that man bleeding on the cross and feel the licks of flame you so obviously deserve kinds of sermons. And as if I wasn’t harrowed enough, this was the Ramos brownout era, which made that sense of gloom and doom far more palpable. The shadows. The hot, flat summer air, the equally stifling silence. There was no juice to run the Family Computer, the one true object of my salvation in those days. And if the power did happen to flicker back for a while, the only thing on TV were end-of-the-world documentaries, or consciously creepy features on miracles, the ones where the image of Jesus slowly surfaces on photos developing in darkrooms, or blood starts trickling from the eyes of countless plaster Marys. I was a kid. Of course it was hell.

Fortunately, Good Friday is a tad more tolerable now, what with dibidis and better cable fare and the fact that, as announced in part by a superbly sacrilegious print ad of the McDo façade gleaming from outside a church window, more commercial establishments stay open the hour Christ conks out. It is 3:07 as I type this sentence, and I hear tricycles sputtering outside all the same. The only regrettable thing about the latter is that I can’t lie down in the middle of our street like I used to in recent Good Fridays. Can’t bake myself on the asphalt anymore, can’t relish the fact that everyone else has locked themselves in, mumbling from frayed prayer books, sluggishly feeling sorry for things, while I’m outside having my own little blip of reflection. But I’ll live.

Here Goes Nothing (Part 2)

2008-03-07T22:07:00.003+08:00

Aaaand we’re back.

Having graduated from Makiling as a Creative Writing major, the following sentiments may apply more to my fellow major-mates, though I’m sure those from the other fields have similar nits to pick.

So what happens next? You’ve graduated. You are told to continue with your field (or any art-related field, like my own Communication degree in Ateneo) upon entering college. And then suddenly, the second you step off that incline, it hits you that pursuing what you love is far more difficult than you had ever imagined.

Yes, this is how it has always been for anyone who wants to follow their passion. It is all up to you and nobody else. You have to get off your ass, find the right avenues, assert yourself not only by having concrete output, but by getting this output published and read, and all on your lonesome. You have to have gumption, a shitload of self-confidence, and a sense of independence. If you love what you do, you have to actually go out there and continue to do it, no matter how many times you get dissuaded or rejected. It will take great effort, maybe even great pain, but it is beyond worth it. Common. Fucking. Sense. There are enough Disney movies and creepy self-help books about this.

The thing is, Makiling can warp your judgment. On the obvious end, there is that culture shock in retrograde. Life after Makiling, especially the first year or two, can seem horrendously dull and constricting in comparison. God knows how many times I’ve spaced out in class wondering what the hell had happened to me. After four years of Crazy in high school, college—which to others might seem so fantastically fresh and freeing—appears bland. Makiling is a purposefully strange and over-overromanticized alternate dimension, where tourists in buses come to gawk at you like you were some three-headed woodland creature, where long exams in Math require dancing or filmmaking or acting instead of sitting in front of a piece of paper, where your dorm-mate plays a mean violin solo while you’re busy by the washing machine, and where you’ve seen more guy classmates in bahag walking around casually than most people would their whole lives (hahaha, sorry, I just had to add that). Thus, in college, you can end up feeling very lost. But this reverse culture shock is actually just a teensy backlash.

There are more harrowing issues here. First of all, you’ve gotten so used to having opportunities handed to you all the time. That’s where post-Makiling life really gets tricky. When before contests, trips, festivals, and many other great opportunities were things you were practically required to experience, this proverbial spoon-feeding vanishes after grad. And while it is certainly your responsibility to try for these things from that point forward, the sense of urgency needed for this has yet to truly develop in you. You can’t help but feel intimidated all of a sudden. All this freedom to assert yourself purely on your own terms can be very, very daunting. Like you’ve been derailed, and all that baggage you’ve accumulated from high school has made it a bitch to get back on track.

Secondly, there is something I will now call the Where Are They Now? syndrome. Makiling expects you to be very active in your field after grad. Having had such a unique time growing up, you can’t help but feel immense, and at times soul-crushing, pressure because of this. True, you didn’t spend four precious years of adolescence concentrating on your craft only to get lazy after. If you love what you do, then that shouldn’t be a problem. Nonetheless, a paranoia can surface. You start to stress over what you have or haven’t accomplished, start to wonder if who you’re becoming is someone your snot-nosed art school teen self would’ve been proud of. This is ridiculously unhealthy. You shouldn’t judge yourself in that way; it is the wrong way to take yourself seriously. Being good in what you do not only takes maturity and experience (especially with creative writers), but takes a self-respect that should’ve been there from the start, that isn’t something you have yet to earn. But while you shouldn’t be beating yourself up over so many little things, you can’t help but do so due to your stint on the mountain. Makiling can loom over you that way. Menacingly so.

And this, whoever was bored enough to read this humongous load o’tripe, is why I have qualms about my alma mater. Bow.

There is certainly much, much more to be said about this. I think this entry has taken enough out of me, though, and the topics that can branch off from my argument deserve their own grueling discussion. But finally, to end what is the longest entry I’ve ever done in my seven years of blogging, I will say this:

I know I’m doing the best that I can. I have loved to write for as long as I can remember, and this has kept me from letting my high school anxiety swallow me whole. It is workshop season now, for instance, and I have been happily busying myself because of it. Makiling has taught me to work hard. But not working to the point of getting mad at myself, that I had to learn on my lonesome. And I will stop typing now because, gademmet woman, this is too much schmaltz than even I can take.

Here Goes Nothing (Part 1)

2008-03-06T23:05:00.001+08:00

I suppose this is for my own convenience. This should be something I can link to in future blog entries to save myself from redundancy. Besides, I’ve been asked recently to write something about this, I’m bored out of my butt, and there’s a certain, inexplicable funk to this day that’s been keeping me on edge. Thus, once and for all, I will post That One Makiling Entry I’ve Been Meaning to Chuck Up Since Forever. I’ll try to make this short. Or not.

It’s no secret that I have qualms about my alma mater. I love the place, don’t get me wrong. I still stand by the notion that my four years there were the craziest in my little life so far, and I remain very grateful and lucky to have been granted all that bedlam. The Philippine High School for the Arts, a government-run boarding school whose thrust is to hone the skills of a bunch of kids in their chosen art fields (theater, music, dance, visual arts, or creative writing) right smack in the middle of Mount Makiling, is bound to offer that sack of Crazy in the first place. Yet I feel that the reason why it’s such a wonderful, unforgettable place is the very same reason why it can be a source of anxiety later on.

You’re this young, naïve, highly hormonal human being dropped off in the boondocks. Tuition, board and lodging are free. There are roughly only 120 students and a handful of faculty there at any given year, so it really is this close-knit community. This little world, rife with customs apt only for such a queer environment, grows on you. Gets under your skin. Any bright-eyed teen who deems creative expression a priority will feel invincible there, in a way. You take academics in the morning, and then art classes in the afternoon and well into the evening. Dorm high-jinks (and then some) are standard. You are reminded everyday that you are special, be it by your teachers or by the fact that trees, boulders, hills and cliffs greet you at your cottage veranda every single, nippy morning and not the bland streets of your hometown. Moreover, as an iskolar ng bayan, you have been made to understand that excellence is key to who you are, that you must render a service to this thing called Philippine Art for the rest of your life. Thus, you get to take trips all around the country and abroad to help prove this. You get to perform onstage, or exhibit your works at galleries, or have a collection of your written works published. You have the time of your life in more ways than one. You graduate feeling mighty damn proud of your ass.

And then what? Aye, there’s the rub.

Being in an art school has its trials, definitely. But the overwhelming pressure to excel, the vicious student-teacher favoritism, the stress on your body and brain from an unconventional workload, the fact that classmates drop out or get kicked out more frequently than in other schools, and the rest of that hackneyed art school drama (not to mention raging hormones and classic teenage angst) are par for the course. It’s what you have to go through next that can prove a mite hellish. You’ve had too singular a time there on the mountain, and therein lies the flaw.

Okay, I’ve run out of steam. I’ll punch out the rest of this rant soon. (Dear god, this is my first two-part blog entry ever; I really am that bored.) Cheers.

Falafel for Brains

2008-03-04T18:30:00.002+08:00

It’s been a while since I saw The Kite Runner, but thanks to Pubey Boy, who had just seen the film a few hours ago and got so perturbed that griping over Hassan’s fate to me over text and YM was the only conceivable way to go, I started tearing up over that servile, sexually-violated little Afghan boy all over again. Some critics feel that the film had taken too cloying an approach to telling the tale, but I think that everyone needs that simplistic, fail-safe reason to feel like pure doody every now and then.

Pubey Boy: we should have a celebrate hassan day
Pubey Boy:for all the good in the world
Pubey Boy: he makes me wanna be a better person

Milkmaid: yes. we'll wear visors with his face on it and feast on pulpy fruit
Milkmaid: he makes me feel like shit
Milkmaid: when they showed the pic of him as a dad, that's when i REALLY started bawling

Pubey Boy: you're right!
Pubey Boy: i know
Pubey Boy: 'cause it really looked like him!
Pubey Boy: wait i need to be consoled!
Pubey Boy: i want hassan to be alright!!!
Pubey Boy: hahaha

Milkmaid: he is! he is! his son will warm up to his new american family! they will persevere! his new dad will run for his kite forever and ever and ever!!!!

Pubey Boy: i love that line: "a thousand times...blahblah"
Pubey Boy: ano uli yun?
Pubey Boy: SHET
Pubey Boy: it's like a metaphor for jesus
Pubey Boy: or goodness

Milkmaid: for you, a thousand times!

Pubey Boy: or God

Milkmaid: WAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Milkmaid: stop it!!!!!!!!!1

Pubey Boy: are you crying?

Milkmaid: tearing up

Pubey Boy: marge its okay
Pubey Boy: hassan is in a better place now

Milkmaid: *twitches*

Pubey Boy: btw is this a true story

Milkmaid: based on a, anyway.
Milkmaid: *twitches harder*

Pubey Boy: OMIGOD
Pubey Boy: AAAAAHHHHHHH
Pubey Boy: *convulses*

Milkmaid: *enters a nunnery*
Milkmaid: *leaves nunnery after five minutes, realizing that that was too drastic*

Pubey Boy: *meets marge at nunnery entrance and takes her to a branch where there's farsi written on it*
Pubey Boy: *they cry some more*
Pubey Boy: *bawl, actually*
Pubey Boy: *but what difference does it make? Hassan is still dead*

Milkmaid: *they eat moussaka mixed with tears*

Pubey Boy: yeah

Milkmaid: uh.

You know it’s hit him when Pubey Boy can actually manage to type “it’s like a metaphor for Jesus” down and go from there.

We also saw Dan in Real Life together last week, and we pretty much left the cinema near-weepy and utterly bowled over. We couldn't really manage to say anything else after that, being the impressionable, feeling-forlorn fucks that we are, so we went our separate ways. Dazedly. The two of us should really stop getting so affected.

Yeesh

2008-02-29T17:32:00.002+08:00

Am I the only one who feels RIDICULOUSLY uncomfortable when watching Sean Kingston videos? He looks like a giant baby. Who wants to have sex. Really filthy giant baby sex. He has that oily, smarmy R. Kelly vibe. Only he looks like a giant baby.

That’s all for now. I was supposed to post this lengthy entry on Pisay. Having come from its art school counterpoint, dropped off in the middle of the mountain along with other pre-teens who, just like the ones in the film, had no idea what they were getting themselves into (plus the fact that I’m a sack of sap and can never seem to get my alma mater off of my chest), I had a lot to say. But the thought of all my Makiling posts in blog and LJ entries past, all of which harbored the exact same mix of angst and admiration, just makes me plain queasy. Do you see what’s happening here? If I type one more sentence about this, I’ll end up with that irksome, pining for/moping over-high school blog post I’ve been avoiding in the first place. Ugh.

And really! Like a giant, lecherous baby! It is so upsetting.

Sludge Lite

2008-02-23T22:28:00.004+08:00

Driver:Down a.k.a. The Little Sludge Metal Band That Could, will be playing an acoustic set at Mag:Net Katips this Monday, Feb. 25, 9:30 p.m. We’ll be having TJ Dimacali, my bandmates’ bandmate from their other band, Biskochong Halimaw, on violin because we’re fancy that way. Entrance’s 150 bucks with one bottle of happy juice. Come, come, come. We’re doing 3 originals and 2 covers, and no, “Dragula” is not one of the latter. We try that one unplugged, we get stoned to death. So come! Come, come, come, come, come, come, come. Come. Yehey.

V-Day Reprezent, Yo

2008-02-14T22:42:00.003+08:00

I spent Valentine’s Day dressed as a man. I spent Valentine’s Day dressed as a man because if I weren’t, there was a greater chance of me getting arrested. Although the fact that I was dressed as a particularly devious-looking, aspiring-ghetto-thug of a man couldn’t have helped. In any case, today’s Hare-Brained Scheme didn’t pan out the way Pubey Boy and I had planned. Not like we had done a lot of strategizing and blueprint-pondering beforehand, anyway. We did at least achieve the goal our sloppy shenanigans were meant for, but that was only because we managed to whip up a Plan B at the very last second. So I looked like part of Akon’s entourage for nothing.

Sadly, I can’t give away the decent details. I know it’s very, very highly unlikely that the concerned building’s security will come across this piddling swatch of cyberspace, but I’ve had my fill of risk-taking for the day. To get it out of the way, this gimmick was purely harmless. In no way was the plan about hurting anyone, and the deed couldn’t have been that real, you-will-go-to-hell-for-this kind of bad even if it tried, and tried hard. At best, what we performed was something along the lines of an annoying inconvenience. If I wrote here the exact act committed, in fact, I bet you’d want to smack me in the head for being so fucking secretive and histrionic about it in the first place. And really, I was only in on the deal as the photographer.

I will say, though, that I was made to dress as a man because the deed I had to shoot was in a men’s restroom. And no, whatever sick, most likely sexual, shit it is you’re thinking, that wasn’t it. The reason why our original plan fell flat was because we grossly underestimated my aptitude for androgyny. Those janitors knew I was a scared little girl the moment I and my pitiful excuse for a manly aura swaggered towards those stalls. They even sniggered and tried to stare at me directly, swooping their faces down to meet mine, even though I had tried to cloak my mug with my hoodie hood as nonchalantly as I could.

The photos were eventually taken by Pubey’s male friend who just happened to be in the area. We got a hold of him a little bit after I had scurried out of that restroom all ovaries-on-legs. I know you’re wondering why we hadn’t thought of dragging someone with an actual penis to wield the cam from the beginning, and believe me, we had thought of that, too. We had. We can recognize and generate logic, we can. But then where’s the fun in that?

Hanging Out the 15th Floor

2008-02-11T19:30:00.000+08:00

WE NEED A DRUMMER FOR DRIVER DOWN. SOON. NOW.

If you or anyone you know is interested in being the final, crucial component of our little sludge metal band (although we are not limiting ourselves to that one subgenre; to give you an idea, our sound leans more towards the semi-hard to hard stuff in general), please don’t hesitate to message me here, on YM (YM ID: the_urgency), or through email or SMS (weepy.devotchka@gmail.com; 0915-710-4641) for the details. This call is pretty damn urgent, being that we are slated to play at Mag:Net Katips this coming Feb. 25. (O diba, kasasali mo pa lang, may gig ka na. Exciting yan.) Hurry hurry hurry, honey. And if it makes even a lick of difference, our bassist makes killer tinola. Killer. Killer. Tara.

+++

In less panicked news, I have quite a bone to pick with Mark Ronson. This guy has gotten plenty of attention as of late thanks to Versions, his album in which he collaborates with current music acts on remakes of slightly older songs. I’m not apprehensive towards the concept, really; it’s just that some of the tracks he’s produced do not do much justice to the originals. His effort with Amy Winehouse on The Zuton’s “Valerie” is pretty damn good, though I feel that this is only because the song was already nice and bouncy to begin with (Ronson has a penchant for the brassy and upbeat). The recreation he and Lily Allen did for the Kaiser Chiefs’ “Oh My God,” for instance, has completely done away with the delightfully menacing feel of the original, replacing it with something that just sounds cartoonish at best.

The track I really want to bewail right now, however, is his alliance with Phantom Planet’s Alex Greenwald on Radiohead’s “Just.”

Say it with me, everybodeh: …HUWHAT.

While the lounge-y, almost Maroon 5-ish treatment of this incredible Generation Whine anthem is more than enough to induce this hissy fit, the corresponding video just dragged things down to a level beyond despicable. That’s right, kiddies. It has a video.

Now, those who have seen the original “Just” viddy will fully understand all my melodrama. This is not just because it happens to be my favorite music viddy of all time, giving me license to ride on the rage of my personal sentiments. Directed by Jamie Thraves, the “Just” video is a mindfuck of an example of good visual storytelling. It is glorious and harrowing and all those other adjectives I use on all brilliant bits of media. I got the heebie-jeebies the first time I saw it. I was ten then. Twelve years later and it still blows my mind, is still one of those I could die happy if I’d directed that deals.

Observe:

(NOTE: I do suggest, though, that you watch both viddies on Youtube itself, since these smaller, blog-friendly versions sport poor subtitles, and the subtitles are highly instrumental to the whole deal. Ridiculously so.)

And then here comes a viddy that serves as the perfect parallel to the rehashed song: a lame parody of the original, an attempt to be a chirpy, tongue-in-cheek version that, to my oh-so-apparent remorse, does not succeed at proper self-deprecation.

Here, gademmet:

You can’t dance your way out of this, you evil, evil viddy. You are nothing more than a bastardization, and baby, I am livid.

Burn Baby

2008-02-05T02:00:00.000+08:00

Cool freaking beans.

Driver Down had its debut performance at Mag:Net Katips a few hours ago and I am still fucking stoked from it. My lovely bandmates—Papas Karl and Poldo—and I did five songs, with our version of Rob Zombie’s “Dragula” as my fave for the night. (Burn through the witches.) I have only the haziest idea of how things went down overall, but I’m very happy for us regardless. We had a good time. The boys predicted that I would laugh off the fact that I had a major anxiety attack the week past, and that I would get addicted to being onstage, and they were right right, of course of course. And I will do better. The cigarette burn on my thumb, whose pain was completely lost on me due to the adrenaline rush (I have no clue when I burned myself), shall serve as my red, round reminder. And special thanks to Kael, Marie and Wench Carl for calming me down and giving us a listen.

I will go to bed now. I am a good kind of tired.

Wary Dairy

2008-01-31T21:31:00.000+08:00

Everyone probably takes the same route once they go online. They check their mail, first off. Then, since their inbox has been mostly flooded with oh-so-imperative social networking updates, they go through an obligatory round of Superpoke!-ing (I personally prefer the throwing of sheep), bemoaning the fresh batch of perverts (hi poh.. musta poh.. wats ur cp?.. pnx nt ded \m/..) who’ve checked their Friendster profile, reading friends’ blog entries (or people with whom they’d want to be friends because everyone’s a pervert in their own way anyhow), articulating their irreverence on tagboards and comment boxes, etc. And then, finally, right before doing something with their computer for actual monetary compensation, they visit certain non-friend-related sites, the themes of which vary from person to person.

One of my guiltiest pleasures can be found in this last pocket of Happy Internet Time. I go to Hollywood gossip blogs like any other sad sack. Hollywood Rag, Perez Hilton, What Would Tyler Durden Do?, etc. And I am not going to cloak my fondness for this drivel by calling it “research” or whatever else academic enrichment/come-on-I-have-a-Comm-degree-related excuse I can think up of (though it does come in handy sometimes, wushu). I like dirt. I like seeing celebrities morph into twigs or fat cows. I like being informed of who got pregnant or served. I like watching Amy Winehouse smoke crack. I like all that crap. I like it as much as I am ashamed of doing so. I am typical. And I have forced myself to admit to this reprehensible behavior because of one very short article. Came across it during this morning’s round at the rumor mill, and it has pretty much unhinged me from any sense of normalcy I thought I’d have today.

HUWHAT.

That article stuck out like anything. Not only were the involved parties relevant oh, say, in the latter half of the nineties, which makes their presence in these very timely websites flat-out weird, but they happen to be two of my most favorite bands in the universe (I don’t care much for their rivalry, although it’s pretty obvious I love one more than the other). It was so strange to find any sort of news about them there, not to mention that said news was, well, surreal in its uselessness. Is this a jab at the fact that their significance has dwindled down, still deemed potent only to their hardcore fans? Don’t these sites have anything better to post about? Oh, wait.

It’s nice that they have a chance to bond now, I guess. But really, waking up only to be informed of that was fucking wonky. Wonky, funny, and stupid enough to put me into such a hopeless tizzy. And there are more important things for me to feel weird about right now. Anxious about. Like the fact that I am slated to embarrass myself in a few days. Let’s see if I have the stomach to write about it then.

Move Me

2008-01-25T23:53:00.000+08:00

Over the past two weeks, I’ve seen The Kite Runner, American Gangster, Juno, and Atonement (the latter just a few minutes ago, hence my drive to get certain film-related sentiments out of my system) on dibidi, all five of which have earned Oscar nominations in varied categories. Money well spent on stolen goods, I have to admit, though I do think seeing them in a proper cinema is also a very worthwhile effort.

Of the five, American Gangster was the least impressive, however. Probably only liked it because I’m physically attracted to black men and loved seeing Russell Crowe’s attempt at some sort of American accent. I do have a Last Shot Syndrome as well, wherein a film, no matter how trite or dragging (which this one was at certain points), can still win me over with its very final scene. Gangster’s last shot was fucking priceless.

The Kite Runner I loved mainly for the acting. The little boy who played the title role, this little amateur Afghan, if I’m not mistaken, gave such a harrowing performance that I felt just plain harassed the rest of the time. If a film can make me feel perturbed for no good reason, make me hug my knees to my chest and bawl like an idiot, then I consider it of worth. This is not necessarily a requirement for me, though it must be said that anything that can reduce me to a runny lump of snot has its charms.

Atonement made the best use of the medium. If it doesn’t bag Best Cinematography (especially considering this single, incredibly pretty, 4 minute-long tracking shot on the beach with hundreds of actors and set obstacles, the difficulty of its filming I can’t even begin to imagine), I’m going to hug my knees to my chest and bawl like an idiot. I have my patterns. And if The Kite Runner starred a most pitiable little boy, Atonement had a piece of prime, 13-year-old bitch. Downtrodden Afghan boy needed a hug. Willowy Brit brat needed a stake through the heart. Plus, Keira Knightly’s skinniness is just so apparent in the film, it's riveting, really. Remember: the more harrowed I feel, the better I believe the film to be.

Which brings me to Juno. Last year, people demanded that I watch Little Miss Sunshine because they thought I was Olive Hoover-incarnate. This year, I had been told by my friends that Juno MacGuff reminded them much too much of me, and when I finally saw the film last night, I knew what they meant. Neither Juno nor Olive actually do mirror me. I believe they are far nicer, kinder people. But I knew what my friends meant. Regardless, these films’ screenplays were reason enough for me to slobber all over both. But the ego trip’s a plus.

My guess for Best Pic: Atonement. Good filmmaking in all respects. (And Best Actress must go to Keira Knightly, if only because her ribcage was so expressive, so moving, so...I can't put my finger on it. Oh wait, I can. Literally. I think it's a method thing.)

Shame, Shame

2008-01-23T01:31:00.000+08:00

It took a night like that one.

I have a friendship with a particular person that is as powerful as it is fragile. This contradiction, in fact, may even be the reason why we get along so fucking swimmingly in the first place. He has his own social sphere in which he thrives very naturally, and I have mine, and when we meet up, a special setting surfaces for us to bounce around in—seemingly impenetrable and substantially indifferent to our differences, especially when it comes to who we are publicly. A tit for tat deal, really. I am nothing like his other friends and he is nothing like mine, and I would like to think we each complement our personalities in a way nobody else can, hence the great value we place in our friendship. (Vague, much? Well, what can you do.)

Having said this, it is thus very difficult—maybe impossible—to introduce each other to our respective home turfs. It had always been understood between us that if we were to take each other to places we as individuals usually go to, were to let each other hang out with our other friends, were to show each other who we technically are as social beings, the one who’d be subject to the different environment was bound to break out in hives.

Last night was an attempt to challenge this curse, with me as the inductee into a strange new world (a club/café at a high-end district, basically), but it just didn’t work. I kept an open mind, I did. Hyped myself up, put on a chirpy, devil-may-care disposition. But I still cared. Or, rather, couldn’t care less about the great mass of pretty people I was idling on the fringes of, couldn’t care less about their version of nightlife—one in which you couldn’t really sit still and talk decently, in which a drink or five was absolutely imperative to appreciate each other, in which chaos was king. Not to say that I don’t like noise. I do. Very much so. But it is still a different cacophony I crave.

Okay, I’ll say it. I don’t like having to be brainless to party. I don’t like having to shout into people’s ears to give piddling commentary. I don’t like needing to be intimidatingly gorgeous to look like I belong even remotely. I don’t like having to prove to others that I’m ridiculously hot and you are sooooo freaking not. So I told my friend that I was going to leave. Shouted into his ear that I just wasn’t feeling it. He understood.

Am I being insecure? Immature? I don’t know. But I felt like pure shit last night. Like a troll. Like no single sliver of my body nor speck of my personality was worthy of registering in that room. That I can say for certain. And it was such an unnecessary feeling.

My friend and I met up again this afternoon, had lunch and coffee at our usual dive. We were okay. Still, there was a certain muck lining our meeting that we just couldn’t ignore, one quite possibly of embarrassment. On both our ends.

Dear god. There is surely something to be said here about caution.

Thailanders

2008-01-13T20:46:00.000+08:00

UPDATE: The shots are up!

+++

Nante and I embarked on a classic Let’s Get Lost in Manila and Take Photographs day today. Our ~~gumption~~ endurance made up for shoddy navigational skills, and I think we did a good job kibitzing in the area. Photos from my Oktomat (provided that something half-decent came out of my roll) will follow. For now, a few highlights in bullets shall suffice since I am dead-tired and in need of a shower.

+ Took the ferry to Escolta because we’re giddy little tourists that way. One of the ferry personnel mistook us for Thai. Thailanders, he called us. Our faces, apparently, are too warped for the motherland.

+ Walked all over Chinatown. Eng Bee Tin appears to have imposed a Fascist regime, their trademark ube color the paintjob of choice for the district’s fire trucks. Bought hopia later on that afternoon to pay our respects.

+ Wound up in Divisoria for some reason. Dumbasses that we are, we had no idea that certain places were that near to each other (oo na, oo na). Similar revelations occurred later on as we stumbled around the Intramuros area.

+ Had noodles and dumplings for lunch. Encountered the World’s Most Harried Waitress, who screwed up our orders with such fantastic ineptitude that we could only feel sorry for her. Her fuck-ups made perfect sense, however, since we shared the restaurant with one long table of famished Chinese, and it looked like she had no idea what the hell they were saying. (It must be noted that the Chinese owner, who looked every bit Miss Chin Chun Su, mistook Nante for Chinese as well. Hah! Incapacity to Look Pinoy: Nante-2, Margie-1.)

+ Attempted to get to Luneta but were a hair too stupid to actually find it. Demmet. I could have brought Nante to the middle of the park where the speakers blast Akon all through the day. Would have filled his heart with the hope of (someday, someday) finding true love.

+ Entered Intramuros and had sampaguita ice cream at Ilustrados. I highly recommend it. Tasted like church.

It was a good little outing, I have to say. It’s nice to get better bearings in a place so charming in its bedlam. Will help us look less bewildered should we end up there again, although Nante might have a slightly harder time. Since he looks a race more exotic and all.

Desperada

2008-01-07T02:05:00.000+08:00

Spent the weekend watching Desperadas and Resiklo with Cousin Whammy, who, like every other college student in Manila, was required to write film reviews on the current, vainglorious batch of MMFF entries. I’d end up an echo if I blog my own detailed assessment. Haven’t written anything yet, but already I find that sense of redundancy flitting around my keyboard, the buzz of its stunted vocabulary ringing in my head. Loopholes (holes…holes…). Melodrama (ma…ma…). Budget (dget…dget…). Weak attempt (tempt…tempt…). And the dialogue! (ogue!...ogue!...). My god! (od!...od!...) Bong Revilla’s so fat (fat…fat…).

And let us not forget the most employed reverberation of all: For a Filipino film (ilm…ilm…).

For a Filipino film, the lighting wasn’t bad.
For a Filipino film, they used good angles.
For a Filipino film, that robot looked pretty agile. I guess.
For a Filipino film, it was funny. (“I say, I quite fancy that part when Miss Ruffa Mae Quinto waved those dildos around in the lobby of 8 Waves Waterpark. Yes, yes. Quite, quite,” says the bajillionth film blog critic as he holds his monocle and strokes his shaft with aplomb.)

I won’t be able to laud either flick without seeing them as earnest yet poor ventures into Hollywood-style filmmaking. And this fact sucks eggs. And I am quickly beginning to regret my use of the word “earnest.” And god, do you see what’s happening here? My sentiments can’t help but resonate what’s already been said not just about this season’s batch, but about each and every batch since this “fete” began. A complete waste of space, this.

But I really can’t say anything good about Desperadas even within this context of consolation. Resiklo, however, did deserve a smidge of approval. It had set-ups and pay-offs that were executed smoothly. For a Filipino film, this modest employment of screenplay structuring skills was pleasantly satisfying, and I left that cinema without feeling all that ticked. Not as livid as I was after Desperadas, anyway. What a load of doody that was.

Nonetheless, sexual tension between Bong Revilla and Jennylyn Mercado? Holy hell. For an MMFF film, even that was retarded.

Mandatory 2007 Retrospective Blog Entry

2007-12-31T22:17:00.000+08:00

You can’t really write an end-of-year blog post without sounding hokey, can you?

Well, it has been a year well-lived. That much I can say without risking perjury. A break-up, college graduation, more short stories, landing jobs, walking out of jobs, losing friends, gaining friends, a robbery, a handful of flings, a handful of false serious relationship alarms because I’m retarded that way, and the many, many varied degrees of beauty and idiocy bouncing around in between. (Can you tell that I added that last part because I’m too lazy to look back on all the crap that’s happened? ‘Cause I sure can, yeehaw.)

And yes, I am keyed up for 2008. This year—as can be discerned so effortlessly from the chestnuts listed above—was for testing waters. For transitions. For getting used to myself. For ending up with an end-of-year blog entry that is so archetypal I can’t stand it. This has made me glad, for it has opened me up to new shenanigans for the next twelve months and I am mad for it, baby. And one thing I am happily bracing myself for is my very, very new stint as lead vox of Driver Down.

I’ll be pitifully, pitifully honest here. This is monumental for me. It is one of the things I’ve been yearning for since forever. Besides getting a respectable short fiction collection published, learning to ride a bike, and bearing a son, singing for a rock band (Karl on guitar, Poldo on bass, and Mimie on drums) has always been a long-term goal of mine. Call me an impressionable little 90’s-bred snot all you want. Because I am. And since last night’s official declaration of my position as sludge-metal frontman, I am also one squishy ball of glee glee glee. Tee hee. Yihee.

Enough of this. I have twelve more months ahead for embarrassing myself. There are less than two hours to go before the rest of my random little life. I will do my darndest to be good to myself. This is not a resolution.

Somewhere out there, at this exact moment, some moron has fired a gun at the sky.

Mad for it. Sock it to me.

Merry Merry

2007-12-23T21:35:00.000+08:00

Why yes, I do feel the Christmas-ness of this year’s holidays. Probably as it is my first one as a non-child, non-student blessed with total purchase power. Or at the rate my wallet is thinning out, fleeting purchase power. But it is still there, nonetheless, and I have been a good little capitalist ho-ho ho, spending with the abandon of a Santa flying through fog without dear Rudolph, his headlight of a deer.

Oh baby, no one’s guiding my sleigh tonight.

Okay.

The above was just my poor attempt at not reminiscing about the Yule past. Around this time last year, I had (in order of urgency) a boyfriend, a badass toothache and a sense that everything in my life was up in the air. Only one of these has reared its pretty mug again. Which is probably why I feel the season this time around. Being neither in love nor physical pain, I require more to keep me from floating around too arbitrarily. Hence my sincere appreciation for gingerbread men, peppermint-flavored foodstuffs and any and all versions of Laaast Christmas, I gave you my heeeart. But the very next daaay, you gave it awaaaaaay (gave it awaaaaay).

This year, to save me from tears, I will feign decadence. Because really, while I do adhere to the season’s sense of sharing and togetherness, I am a province-less, non-Christian lass and therefore cannot really be committed in all earnestness to the stereotypical Filipino Christmas displayed in every other TV advertisement. But I will do my best.

Below is one of my humble efforts. Inspired by the meme in K’s blog, here are ten songs that automatically make me happy, all good and ready for download. Hope these get you off, too.

Music That Automatically Makes Me Happy
What, no Wham?!

P.S.
The versions of "Glory Box" and "Cut Your Ribbon" featured in this playlist are live and thus of extra laglag-panty quality. Also of note is The Ting Ting's "That's Not My Name," a ridiculously extra-happy track that's keeping me up and wired these days.

The Parable of the Prosti

2007-12-14T03:38:00.000+08:00

The previous week was a lesson on hype. I have been taught well, for my mentors are a distinguished lot. I have learned many, many things. Now, permit me a moment with this wall. My head needs much banging against it.

+++

Come, kiddies. I fancy a short illustrated tale. I have more pressing things I wish to say, but neither drive nor license to say them, so the following digression should suffice for this week’s blog entry.

*ahem*

There was once a boy named Carl. Carl was a bewildered boy. Very bewildered, indeed. What he was bewildered about, however, was unknown to anyone, including himself.

Fearing that this emotional ambiguity may prove detrimental to his hotness, Carl called on his two Sentinels of Smarm—Peachy the Prosti and Bardot the Harlot—to help him gain better focus.

Getting down on her knees (a position she was rather known for amongst the more sinewy lads in the village), Peachy the Prosti began to pray. Please, please, O Mighty Phallus, Peachy the Prosti prayed. Please help Carl achieve the enlightenment for which he yearns ever-so-deeply!

And suddenly, in a flash of the brightest, most dazzling white, the white of a most inconceivable benevolence…

…Bardot the Harlot turned into a bundt cake.

Oh my shooting stars! Peachy the Prosti exclaimed, glee coursing through her soul and down her inner thighs. I have rid the village of one harlot! If prayer is all that it takes to dispose of them, then I must pray a few dozen times more, so that I can be the only Woman of "Leisure" left in the village and accumulate an income far more appropriate for the special services I so skillfully impart!

And pray the Prosti did.

At last, I have mmmmmmonopoly!!! Peachy the Prosti declared with much cacophonous cackling (as Peachy the Prosti was wont to do).

Peachy the Prosti left Carl soon after this bout of rejoicing, her Prosti Pager having begun to beep incessantly with so many, many new clients.

Miffed by Peachy the Prosti’s betrayal, Carl sat down before the sea of fresh bundt cakes and sighed. His bewilderment, however, did gain better focus somewhat, for a sea of fresh bundt cakes is always quite a bewildering thing. (There is, after all, only so much one can do with a load of bundt.) And this development in the boy's dilemma was able to please him slightly. It was, at least for the time being, enough.

FIN.

Locked and Loaded

2007-12-07T16:30:00.000+08:00

The book launch for the third Philippine Speculative Fiction Anthology is tomorrow, Dec. 8, 4 pm at Fully Booked High Street. Come, baby. Click here for the table of contents.

The cover’s pretty endearing. It would be nice to walk down the street and find a tiny human heart with a top hat and alibata tattoo just standing by the curb, looking both dignified and forlorn. I would pet it. I would run off with its hat and see if it tries to schlump after me.

+++

I loathe the Christian Bautista Oishi Potato Chips ad. The copy goes something like What Christian’s been waiting for so long. Puki mo. It’s waiting for for so long. Pakyu.

+++

What a week this has been. I need to sit down.

Casual Wear

2007-11-30T20:49:00.001+08:00

The statement tee has given me much happiness, for its proliferation in others’ closets has blessed my daily skulk around the city with a tad more amusement. Most of those who wear these things do not give justice to the haughty declarations crying from their chests. I have yet to see a man wearing an FBI: Female Body Inspector tee (or some such cheap shirt boasting their superiority in the sack) who didn’t look like gangrene-on-a-stick, or a woman wearing a Bitch Goddess or Pour Me Rum and Here I Come tee who didn’t look like she’d never seen real cock before (and was very much afraid to). Every single time I see text on fabric, I make sure to read it. And then laugh. And then marvel at the city as it basks—nay, smolders—in the warm, warm rays of Irony.

Biding my time at good ol’ EDSA Central one evening, I saw a woman wearing a black tee with the words I Am The Reason! printed on it in bright yellow. As she crossed the street to my stretch of sidewalk, I took a good look at her face and dismissed her as yet another tee casualty. Mousy, for the most part. Didn’t seem at all like The Reason for anything worth all that silk-screened swagger. Naturally, though, a few moments after she left, I started to wonder what The Outcome was in the first place. And got bothered by it. She was The Reason for what? What? What was this end-result that Mousy over there was hinting about? Though I knew it was probably some I Am A Good Little Gerbil in This Multi-National Corporation/Call Center/Pyramid Scheme and That Means I Matter, Fuck It kind of deal, it still tried to sound apocalyptic. And being that I had not much else to invest my emotions in, I forced myself to feel great concern.

What? What?!?! The Reason for whaaaaaaat?!?!?!??!!!

A few minutes later, a guy wearing the same shroud of mystery crossed the street. He looked pretty plain; didn’t seem like The Reason, either. And then another unremarkable guy with the same threads followed close behind. And then a girl. And then two guys. And then another girl. And then another guy. And another. And another. And then, suddenly, it seemed that every other person crossing the street—none of whom looked a notch beyond Puwede Na-brand pogi or basta hindi ako mukhang paa—was The Reason. And on The Reasons surged, their collective nondescript-ness oozing menace, however muted, along that chunk of city, and then went their separate ways. It was after six. They were off to their respective evening haunts, most likely, to announce their newfound importance to friends and loved ones. Or fight crime. Like Batman.

I never figured out what The Outcome was, or even which rinky-dink conference or mass wedding these people came from. I didn’t bother to ask because I’m hopeless that way. That, and I would rather not know, despite going mad from all that wondering. Part of the statement tee’s irreverence, I suppose. Because no matter how striking the mismatch, I wouldn’t really ask Inspector Gangrene for the basis of his pekpek-prodding prowess. Even if he’d looked way too thankful or surprised that I, a random human of the opposite gender, was speaking to him. For he might really be an ace in the sack despite everything, just as those Reasons might really be the, um, Cause. Or not. Guess I like to keep guessing. Or at least pretend that certain people have a few bombshells left for me.

Watering Holes

2007-11-24T11:26:00.000+08:00

Wrote this two days ago. Was supposed to blog it, but the futility of doing so was still ever-so-slightly apparent to me then.

I have tired myself through boredom. It’s the most unnerving feeling, bogged down in the massive, murky caverns of the restless. I have this incredible desire to explode, but my body doesn’t have enough energy to ball up, much less detonate.

Work has fallen dormant. The TV show’s been put on hold ever since our banned episode and will only air again once we have everything reformatted. Not much being asked of me from my other rackets, either. Was plagued by so much free time today that I went to Megamall to get some trivial bank business over and done with, and that took all of five minutes. Then went to a café to supposedly eat and read at a leisurely pace, but only found myself ordering more and more shit to preoccupy myself, and since I felt so bad about gorging, I walked the whole length of each of Megamall’s five floors and then footed it home. Passed out on the couch. Woke up at dinnertime feeling bloated and annoyed. Tried sprucing up my blog template for an hour or so only to go back to the old one.

I am so tired and bored. Whine, whine, whine.

I have decided to post that sad-sack soliloquy above because, a few days later, it’s all still the same damn thing. It’s funny how bored I am, gravely preoccupying myself with the most inane tasks—such as trying to figure out how to burn these goddamn BIN files onto DVD-Rs (motherfucker, I can’t watch half of what I’ve torrented)—although I’m afraid the hilarity is starting to get lost on me.

The most interesting—and by interesting, I mean bodily-movement-related—event I’d undergone recently happened the night of that original blog post. Having decided not to post the tripe anymore, I was squirming around in bed, feeling sooooo faaaakkking useleeeeesssssss, when Carl called. His car had gotten all wonky and overheated somewhere along EDSA, and if I could please meet him at EDSA Central to help him out.

And off I went. I, Margie, Un-Knower of All Vehicle-Associated Concerns, Kibitzer in Any and All Possible Incidents Open for Kibitzing, She Who Shall Squirm (squirm! squirm! squirm!) for All Useless Folk in the Shaw-Ortigas Area.

When I got to Carl and his fevered little ride, Carl instructed me to go inside the Starbucks right next to us and ask for a gallon of water. And off I went. I, Margie, The Pushover. The barista manning the place was a sour-faced little bitch, and the fact that I looked every bit a girl who had just stumbled out of bed, thrown a hoodie on, and was just too eager for some action, did not help. She eventually handed me a jug with traces of non-fat milk in it and pointed to the washroom. But the jug did not fit in the sink, much too bulky for its mouth to reach the faucet, so I had to go back out and ask SourPuss for a spare cup. Finally, stocked with passable paraphernalia and wrung dry of every single drop of shame, I made like an urchin and filched the place of its agua. Trooped back and forth between washroom and car with my fat little jug, trying very hard to believe that this was quite the worthy task, a task that would properly validate my barren, barren day.

And then, once the car was cured, Carl passed by my place and we played with my webcam. The End.

I think I’ll wrap this entry up now, before I embarrass myself any further. Have finally dug a friend up to hang out with this afternoon, anyway. Woohoo. Oh, and by the by, another reason why my days have been pretty drained is because of that stupid Ad Congress. Everyone’s in Subic having sex but me. Copywriting bastards.

Demmet, Woman!

2007-11-17T16:42:00.001+08:00

Above is a screenshot from the latest episode of the particular talk/comedy show—on the particular new cable channel that caters to one particular gender—of which I am a segment producer. (I am in no mood for a lawsuit.) The shot’s from a gag we did where the show’s production team pretended to be that night’s musical guest, renegade rakstars Baste and The Mastards. From L-R: me (The Girl in the Dirty Trench), Pancho (The New Pancho Villa), psycho-guest Oz (who went apeshit on the show’s host during his origami demonstration because the host wasn’t capable of making a flawless flapping paper crane), Tengal (as his alter-ego Baste G’azin, the recurring irate misogynist character we’re grooming for total cult status), and our bad-ass exec prod/demigod Karl.

The episode also featured a whole slew of swearing in the opening spiel (bleeped out, which upped the hilarity as all censorship is wont to do), a comedy skit on the porno industry, an interview with Kael a.k.a. Taba, a welga scene out on the studio sidewalk, etc. It was our best episode yet. It was banned. The powers-that-be refused to air it due to all the profanity and visual humping references. (Don’t fret, Taba, your segment was relatively the most family-friendly.)

Now, considering that it is our thrust to assimilate a (hopefully) funny brand of deviance into this show, our getting censored can be considered some sort of achievement. I suppose it’s a sign that we’re doing something right. All we have to do now is not to temper it, but to let the craptasticness wriggle into the segments with a tad more subtlety. Our request for a later timeslot should also work in our favor (we used to be on primetime, kamusta naman).

It’s good fun working for a chauvinist network, being someone who has more empathy for the dumbass philosophies of the opposite sex than for her own. It is ironic that these very philosophies have placed me in many a damned taxi-riding situation, but still. Can’t fucking help it. But I am, and always will be, a cunt—every inch female, mind and body forever pestered by the fascinating phallus. Yet, judging by my need for self-preservation, I do find it far more constructive to be in the company of men.

There’s a father issue here somewhere.

Pussy Galore

2007-11-04T02:37:00.000+08:00

My grandmother had a stroke Friday morning. I woke up a few hours after the fact, just barely able to absorb my mother’s harried text message through the murk lent by the previous night and its stimuli. I then spent most of that day fluctuating between fatigue and fright, skulking around the emptied house, unsure of what to think and how to feel. I had been updated that she was alright, but such information hardly ever dispels thoughts that have already begun to dog you.

She’s still in the hospital, and the house still feels very vacant. She has gotten better and is supposed to return tomorrow, but that’s tomorrow, and there is nothing tangible— or downright real—about that term. For now, there is an off-kilter, near-menacing mood to this place, and it’s making me all weary and wary.

Now, as with my stance towards astrology, my belief in the supernatural and its irrational ilk is flimsy at best. Regardless, there are some coincidences that the Overromanticizer in me can’t help but mull over. Case in point: the demise of my cousin’s cats.

My aunt believes, after having read of such a phenomenon, that pet cats die in order to dampen the bad shit that happens to their owners and their families. They kick the bucket just prior to someone’s misfortune, both a buffer and an omen. The night before I was robbed, for instance, Skipper the Cat died. (He was then thrown a Happy Death party—yes, with balloons—and now rests in supposed peace beneath a potted plant in the backyard—and no, I don’t know which one.) After my brush with the thieving bastards, my aunt was convinced that Skipper’s lot was meant to soften the blow, that his death may possibly have prevented my own. I, of course, didn’t know what to believe and wasn’t bothered by this indecision.

Then a morning or two before my grandmother’s stroke, just as I was about to jet for work, I came across a kitty carcass next to our gate. It was yet another member of my cousin’s extensive, tamed menagerie, albeit dim-eyed, rock-stiff and an ant-and-worm free-for-all.

It really is tempting to put two and two together, especially considering that my grandmother is said to be doing alright. I probably have the urge to do so only because it provides this strange sense of safety, this possible karmic web sturdy enough for all slip-ups. True, a large part of me is disapproving of this, ashamed that I could even regard something so seemingly hokey as a security resource. Then again, there is still that smidgen of me that knows safety isn’t certain. There is nothing tangible—or downright real—about that term. Thus, in that sense, I should be given leeway to value a few delusions. Moreover, there’s not much else to count on in such a hollow house.

Reprieve

2007-10-27T18:11:00.000+08:00

Am back from the just-concluded 7th Ateneo National Writers Workshop at good ol’ Sacred Heart Novitiate, where I kibitzed as an alumna of the previous year’s workshop. I wish my other fellow former fellows could have been there. I miss the whole Dyogastis League and was dying to see as many of them as possible, but only Mitch, Cady and I were able to make it.

Despite the many absences, however, I had a good two days there. Managed to wrench myself away from Work’s clammy grip for just a little while. It helped that the woods beyond Sacred Heart’s gates is an altogether different dimension, a mini-limbo with swings on every other balete, goats and carabaos grazing on random knolls, and an overall aura of Fak-Dis-Shit-Relax-Shhhh-Meme-Na-Margie-Meme-Na. After several weeks of skittering around the metro as a girl too employed for her own good, SHN’s vacuum was apt alleviation.

Apart from spacing out a lot, I also floundered around in the AILAP folk’s great company, sitting in on the workshop sessions, snarfing down ChocNut, challenging the tenets of sexual harassment with Sexy Man-Beast Yol, and, as every self-respecting workshop kibitzer is wont to do, getting nice and blasted on Fellows Night. I’m as typical a drunk as they come, really, so this entry is being typed with a very queasy tummy and the haziest sense of embarrassment.

Now I’m back home, oh-so-slowly crawling back to the fucking dramedy that is Work. I have a lot of straightening out to do in that department, specifically regarding my role in the film prod outfit, and know that there will be a lot of wonkiness to be had in the coming week.

So I am beyond thankful to have had that break in such a good environment. Last year’s workshop and all its glorious aspects have been revisited (though, fortunately, its impact has never really waned all this time), and I am glad to have been reminded of who I am and why I write. Time has flown fucking fast, events happy and horrid have flooded the past twelve months, and I’ve been trying to function as best as I can. I did need a different kind of limbo, if only for two days.

Now for a nap. And then Work. I swear.

No Go, Retro

2007-10-20T12:37:00.000+08:00

My boss had warned me of the whole mercury in retrograde deal a few days back. Supposedly, the planet Mercury’s trip across our solar system gets a bit wonky this time of year, leading to much wonkiness in terms of communication—a screwing up of schedules, a warping of words, etc. Since I only have a half-assed regard for astrology and the like, I let his speech of caution slide, or at least yielded myself to the universe’s hare-brained schemes with zero resistance. Oh, Force-Greater-Than-I, (that is, if You are out there), hit me (but only if You want to).

Below are just some of yesterday’s occurrences:
6:15 am: An actor slated for a screentest is outside our office, mistaking the 6 pm call-time for 6 am. I wake up to his phone call.

10:00 am My friend Hunter S and I arrive at a café for breakfast. Hunter S forgets his wallet.

1:00 pm Hunter S and I arrive at a police station for Hunter S’s journalistic kibitizing (after getting lost), and miss the interviewee by minutes.

10:00 pm After whiling away the afternoon and early evening, Hunter S and I arrive at a university’s department (after getting lost) for more journalistic kibitzing, only to find out that Hunter S’s interview was scheduled for 10 am, and not 10 pm.

11:00 pm Hunter S drops me home. I haul myself up to my bedroom, fish around my black hole of a bag for my cellphone, and realize I had left it in Hunter S’s car. Sweet.

And apart from the above, I had also experienced much wonkiness with cellphones, the Internet, and ATM machines—a bout of techno-stress just a hair more frazzling than usual.

Regardless, I did have a good day yesterday, one comprised mostly of waiting and wondering and wandering. Hunter S was certain that the day’s events were part of some calculated glitch, just as the both of us were calculated glitches ourselves. Yet, now that I had typed down the supposed symptoms of this retrograde, the wonkiness doesn’t come off as that great of a cosmic conk-out, if it even was one. Not to say that I didn’t appreciate my license to read too much into that wild goose chase of a day. A good day in a curious way, neither milestone-laden nor desperately dull. I suppose I just don’t know what to believe. Just in case some otherworldly ploy had been pulled, though, I would have to applaud the Force-Greater-Than-I. Has quite a bit of spunk, that One.

Bullets: Tired Skank Edition

2007-10-18T23:15:00.000+08:00

+ Woohoo!

+ Ordered one of these purdy, purdy babies:

Can't waiiiiit!

+ I am typing this in a supine position. (Did everyone take that PE test back in grade school where you had to draw stick figures in supine, prone, and other full-body positions? That was fun.) The number of jobs one has is indirectly proportional to his back's ability for torso support. And I'm flat as a tween's chest, baby.

+ I chanced upon the most disconcerting toys a few days ago. They were those gummy thingummies you "grow" by placing them in a jar of water for a few days. I had a dinosaur one of those. He was known as Albert. The ones I saw recently, though, were targeted for little girls. The first was a Grow Your Own Credit Card, which even I, capitalist scum that I am, was offended by. The second one, though, was a notch more ludicrous: Grow Your Own Best Friend, a little pink gummy girl in a jumper dress and pigtails. The packaging featured the following manifesto:

I'll be your best friend FOREVER!
I'm a good listener!
I'll always be there for you!
I'll never tell your secrets! I promise!
I won't let boys get in the way of our friendship! (I'm not kidding. That was on the box.)

Sounds like a lying ho-bag to me.

Taste

2007-10-07T00:48:00.000+08:00

With my home so near to motel country, these dens of debauchery natural, almost imperceptible elements of my landscape, I don’t usually hold much fascination for these places when I pass by them. The first of the two instances when I actually did find pure novelty in them was when I was around seven. I was dead curious as to what Victoria, the pale, oval-faced, hush-hush motel maven, finger forever pressed to invisible lips, was telling motorists to keep mum about, being that her mug was everywhere I went. Unable to suppress my interest one evening, I asked my mom about her as we drove past the tall, imposing white bulk on Canley Road on which her largest visage could be found.

Margie: (pointing) Who’s that woman? What does she mean? What’s her secret? Do you know her secret?
Mom looks at Victoria and takes a long pause before answering.
Mom: That’s Victoria. She works for a motel.
Margie: A motel? What’s a motel? Is that like a hotel?
Mom: Yes. It’s like a hotel.
Margie: Why is it different?
Mom: Well, um. Well, a motel is smaller. And people don’t stay very long.
Margie: Wooooooowwww. Okay. So it’s like a mini-hotel? Mini-hotel? Motel?
Mom: Um, yes.
Margie:: (eyes growing larger) Woooooowwww. Okay.
A few moments of silence ensue.
Margie: (with tingling, tight-fisted resolve) One day, I’m going to stay at a motel.

After that magical mother-daughter moment, the only other time I felt that same pure sense of fascination was around two months ago, as I passed the same branch on the way to work. While the building maintained its height, bulk, pallor, and air of secrecy, it now has a billboard on which its latest features are advertised. Everyone already knows of the Matrix Room, the Austin Powers Party Room, the Oval Office Room, etc. and has remarked on them with that mixture of fear and delight characteristic of motel-related commentary. So I won’t go into those anymore. What I will bring up—with unadulterated admiration—is its latest ad.

It is for their Plain White Rice. It is quite minimalist, with a picture of plain white rice in a black lacquer bowl. I can’t remember the exact copy on it, but it’s something like Victoria Court’s Plain White Rice. Taste the Distinction.

Now, I have never been big on plain white rice and, until I saw this genius of a billboard, thought that I never will. But that ad is mesmerizing, damn it. How can anyone not desire a taste of this wondrous enigma? No other food enterprise, let alone motel chain, has dared to extol the excellence—the plainness! the whiteness!—of this modest, ubiquitous, staple tummy-filler! Dear god! It boggles my mind and my palate! Even though I’m pretty damn sure it’ll taste as inconsequential as any other bowl of plain white rice anywhere else, I still can’t help but play the impressionable consumer. To call attention to something so laughably unworthy of attention is brilliant. It makes you wonder what the whole deal is, makes you want to drive all the way up that steep ramp, slip into the next room, grab the phone and scream for A BOWL OF YOUR PLAIN WHITE RICE, PLEASE, YES, THANK YOU AND HURRY, DAMN IT, HURRY. HURRY. (Who has time to fuck, honey, when this establishment offers the most unbelievably distinct bowls of Plain White Rice in the known universe? So stop whining. Get off me. The rice is coming. Go play with the light knobs.)

So thank you, Victoria, for giving my sense of inquisitiveness some exercise. It has been a pleasure pondering over you and the highlights of your business, and I look forward to more of your splendor in future encounters.

This is Sad

2007-09-24T22:56:00.000+08:00

Nearing completion, the call center at EDSA Central no longer teems with my topless, hard-hatted, bigotilyo adversaries and now gives shelter to throngs of technical supportlings. As their ilk is wont to do, they crowd outside the length of their building in their thick jacket-I.D. strap combos, perfecting their ritual of smoking with baggy-eyed wistfulness. Their presence makes me no longer dread going down that particular sidewalk. In fact, I sort of look forward to it. They are fascinating creatures, and I harbor clean, equal parts of pity and envy towards them.

On one hand, I am more than glad to have the jobs that I have. They interest me, require good bouts of lunacy and the skills my Comm education has tried its best to equip me with, and pay pretty damn well, all told. Plus, my stint of a stint as a corporate communications copywriting cocksucker a few months ago has ascertained my inability to do monotonous, set-scheduled work. I am happy not to be a drone, happy that I am not bolted to such precise clockwork just to earn a living. And dear god, my nights are mine. Since I can’t say the same for the supportlings, I am thankful for the distance.

Now that I’ve stated the obvious—

On the other hand (and the following statement has annihilated many a sap), I want to know what it’s like. Goshdarnit, mister, i sure as heck do. It’s not just their opportunity to make inane phone conversations with harried Americans that I am jealous of, though I admit that trying to be eloquent to a mouthpiece is a sincere dream of mine. Seriously. But anyway, it’s also the said smoking ritual that I have a hankering to try out. I want to trudge out of the building with the same degree of lethargy, want to join a cluster of kids billowing smoke and bitter commentary about the pointlessness of their profession, understanding that the breaths between each lament signal thoughts of all the useless crap their salaries will so graciously provide.

Key word: kids. I suppose my moronic envy lies in the fact that these technical supportlings are mostly my age. That that sidewalk is pretty much a college hallway, although more smattered with the kind of people I can get along with. In terms of their scruffiness and palpable sense of irony, anyway. When I pass them on my way to and from the MRT, that scrap of sardine steel that takes me from one beloved, nutty job to the next, I always think that I look just like one of them. My daily tasks are quite different from theirs, yet if I pause amongst them and light one of my own cigarettes, nobody’s going to wonder. This thought, for some reason, can comfort me for some time. And will then dissipate when I recall that I am not part of this specific faction of the young and the weary.

I believe this is my long-winded way of saying that I need to start dating again. (Of course it is, Margie. You didn’t think you could inject enough relevance into this tripe, did you?) A warm body is all I need to keep me from overromanticizing socio-economic phenomena. Or at least stop me from eyeing that hot, scruffy, endearingly tired-looking call center guy and asking him out for breakfast.

Matter Over Mind

2007-09-20T18:43:00.000+08:00

Saving this blog from atrophy, one naive observation at a time!

When a blog goes dormant, it is due usually to one of two things—a dearth of things to say, or a goddamn glut. Currently, I fall under the latter, far too busy picking bits of my brain off the floor from the past few weeks’ events. This morning, for instance, I learned that thieves (the same group or brand new bastards, we can’t tell) had paid us a visit yet again and, their pickings limited by the new iron grills and alarms clamping our house down, made off with my cousin’s bicycle. The Bicycle Thief, you say? Hah-hah. Hah. Now go jack off, film freak. (But please, please, give me your number before you go.) This latest theft has brought on another round of fear and frustration for the household, obviously. Now watch me scurry off for that bit of brain. It has slid to a corner and is wriggling with glee.

But I am generally fine. In between this month’s mindfucks and their corresponding aftermaths, I am able to write, read, and work as usual. It’s just really difficult or inappropriate for me to make my thoughts public recently. But I knew I’d have to put something in here eventually.

Hence, a song!

This baby has gotten me through a good deal of shit the past two years. One of those remedial “speeding down the highway after a particularly strange night/hideously early morning” songs, because I’m such a cliché that way. Download and enjoy.

Forget Myself
Elbow

They're pacing Piccadilly in packs again
And moaning for the mercy of a never come rain
The suns had enough and the simmering sky
Has the heave and the hue of a woman on fire

Shop shutters rattle down and I'm cutting the crowd
All scented and descending from the satellite towns
The neon is graffiti singing make a new start
So I look for a plot where I can bury my broken heart

No, I know I won't forget you
But I'll forget myself, if the city will forgive me

The man on the door has a head like Mars
Like a baby born to the doors of the bars
And surrounded by steam with his folded arms
He's got that urban genie thing going on

He's so mercifully free of the pressures of grace
Saint Peter in satin, he's like Buddha with mace
He's so mercifully free of the pressures of grace
Saint Peter in satin, he's like Buddha with mace

No, I know I won't forget you
But I'll forget myself, if the city will forgive me
No, I know I won't forget you
But I'll forget myself, if the city will forgive me

Do you move through the room with a glass in your hand
Thinking too hard about the way you stand
Are you watching them pair off and drinking them long
Are you falling in love every second song

Do you move through the room with a glass in your hand
Thinking too hard about the way you stand
Are you watching them pair off and drinking them long
Are you falling in love...
Are you falling in love...
Are you falling in love every second song

URGENT

2007-09-05T09:08:00.000+08:00

Thieves broke into our house, gassed me while asleep, and took off with my laptop, cellphone, iPod, and wallet, among other things. Please delete my cellphone number (0926-673-8388), and if you could message me your own number, I'd appreciate it. You can contact me at weepy.devotchka@gmail.com or YM me (the_urgency) for the time being. Thanks.

Art Appreciation

2007-08-28T11:10:00.000+08:00

It took a while for the PHSA alumni assembly to start, Silangan Hall speckled with the few Ibarangs who had willed themselves awake on a nice, nippy Saturday morning, so I decided to pass the time stumbling around the 5th floor of CCP. I only had the nerve to thanks to the high school tour group a floor below, whose din echoed just enough to keep me company down those dark, carpeted halls.

(I hate that paragraph. It’s so R.L. Stein I could fart.)

Anyway, that’s when I saw the Painting again, which I first encountered when I was around 9, and was the reason for quite a few nightmares since. This piece spanned the whole wall across from the little girls’ room, so I had to run past that thing with my hands over my eyes every time I needed to pee. Before last Saturday, I only knew that it featured some sort of horrid humanoid, a part-man, part-beast deal rendered with as much gloom as possible. I had sworn to myself that I would never, ever look at it again; there was something far too sinister about it, something that I felt would fuck me up for good if I braved another peek.

Having seen it again at an age and mindset more impervious to scary shit in all its ways and forms, I still have to agree with that stupid little girl from over a decade ago. The smidge of sunlight available did lend the Painting a more mundane quality—clumpy brushstrokes instead of shadows, a Funny Eagle Man with wings spread all wide and gay in place of the monster in my head—but there was one thing in it that was, really and truly, the stuff of all tortured dreams.

Funny Eagle Man had a huge cock. Huge. Ginormous. Unwieldy, even.

How my exposure to this beast at an early stage of development has affected me is anyone’s guess.

Or not. Who am I kidding.

The Fruit Shoot

2007-08-23T00:48:00.000+08:00

In adherence to the pact between us cousins and our happy triggers, I let Whammy exploit my shamelessness with his Nikon, a Fuji apple, an orange, and a mango. Picking out the juicy darlings at the supermarket was half the fun of the whole deal. There’s nothing like standing before piles and piles of fruit in all their fluorescence. (The dragonfruit and its Petals of Flame was another option, but one piece was just too damn expensive.) Of course, there’s also nothing like screaming at fruit, biting into fruit with rage, letting fruit pulp squelch and slobber all over your fingers, and kissing fruit, among other fruit-related possibilities. A reconnection with all that is organic, perhaps?

Not really. I just like making a mess of myself.

Origin

2007-08-19T18:51:00.000+08:00

“Hay, salamat Lord, at nakarating kami ng maluwalhati!”
- Old Man Cabbie, who sang praise songs throughout last night’s ride home

Hallelujah!

Besides katas, whose crispylicious, juicylicious quality gets me all hot and bothered, two other Filipino words I love are luwalhati and dalamhati. La Belly Labella told us of their etymology back in freshman year, and I haven’t gotten over it. If I remember correctly, the root word for both is ati, a tribal term that refers to the juices stored in our livers (hence the word atay, by the by). And ati is some really bad shit, pretty much the liquid manifestation of all things negative. Thus, the more ati we have, the sadder we are. Dalamhati, which we know as “extreme sorrow,” is the bringing of the ati wherever we go (dala + ati), while luwalhati, which we know as “extreme joy,” is the vomiting of the ati from our system (luwa + ati). Happiness, then, is a matter of how much negativity our bodies allow or reject. Tadaaaaa.

+++

My uncle has moved back into the house as of late, so I am no longer alone on the second floor. It’s been a comforting change. Any energy left in this house used to tucker out by 8 PM, when my grandparents go to bed, so I often go home to a dead zone each night. Now that my uncle’s in the other room, contributing extra sound with his Xbox and DVDs, I feel less alone. Almost like having a big brother around, even though we don’t talk much or do whatever else it is that siblings do.

When I got home last night and heard a bit of movie dialogue from his room, I decided to knock on his door, not exactly sure of why I was doing so, but nonetheless pleased that I was going to see another conscious being on the second floor at that hour. He opened the door a crack, pissed.

“Uh, wala lang,” I said, and smiled like a moron.

He shut the door. I headed for my own room, warm from human contact.

Damage Control

2007-08-17T13:32:00.000+08:00

Had a pretty bad fall last Wednesday, an accident I would’ve found hilarious had I not been the sad sack. It was down a whole flight of stairs outside the Shaw MRT, that flimsy metal bridge/stairway leading to the market on the South-bound side of EDSA. Four reasons for the hilarity:

1) I had walked all the way from Metrowalk to the station, enjoying that afternoon’s harsh rain and wind. I have this thing for going down whole lengths of City in horrid weather, and was seriously feeling good about harassing myself.

2) It was just seconds away from the building I was headed for. Was already a tad late to begin with, and had to meet my boss mud-splattered and aching like hell. And where did I ache, pray tell?

3) My ass. I was going down the last flight of stairs right before the sidewalk, when I slipped on the top narrow, slimy metal step, slammed onto my butt, and staggered all the way down to the street as if on a playground slide. That, by the by, hurts.

4) And the best part about the whole deal was that I was wearing a nice little dress. I swore to myself I wasn’t going to blog about the maddening crowd anymore, but, well, there you go. It was far beyond a little upskirt action. Those smarmy pricks had their field day.

A few good-lings did help me up. One particularly distraught old lady even offered to accompany me to wherever I had to go. But since my meeting place was just a few meters away, I just winced for a minute, thanked her and the other good-lings, and stumbled into the conference room all Yagit Chic. My ass was a bitch.

Of course, I got really paranoid that something had happened to the base of my spine, so I had myself checked that evening. But it was just one big, bad butt bruise, apparently. Had to stand in place at home for a while since I couldn’t bring myself to sit or walk. And while I can move around now, the fall had also resulted in some muscle trauma, so my neck and abdomen are smarting as I type.

It’s all mind over matter, anyway. Like everything else.

Alert the Armory

2007-08-15T01:35:00.000+08:00

As posted by other Ibarangs:

I-ba-rang’ (noun)
Definition: Isang mag-aaral ng sining na nag-aaral o nakapag-aral sa Makiling (Philippine High School for the Arts).

PHSA Alumni General Assembly
August 25, 2007
9 am – 4 pm
Silangan Hall, CCP

Bring P150 for food and registration.

Please confirm attendance through rosariobelinda@yahoo.com

+++

And:

The Philippine High School for the Arts (PHSA) on Mt Makiling in Laguna, through its Annual Nationwide Search for Young Arts Scholars (ANSYAS 2008), is now accepting applications for a full special secondary education scholarship for the School Year 2008-2009. PHSA conducts a screening of applicants yearly to identify artistically talented children who will be given special training in their chosen art field.

The successful applicant is awarded free tuition, free board and lodging, a monthly stipend, classes with master teachers, plus the chance to represent the country in local and international competitions and exchange programs. The grant is renewable every year for four consecutive school years upon satisfaction of academic and non-academic requirements.

Applicants must be Filipino citizens with outstanding ability in an art discipline, i.e. Music (instrument and voice), Dance (ballet and folk), Theater Arts, Visual Arts, and Creative Writing; graduating from Grade VI or VII this School Year 2007-2008; of above-average intelligence; proficient in oral and written Filipino and English; without any debilitating illnesses; willing to study in a residential school; and determined to pursue a college degree in Architecture, Fine Arts, Music, Dance, Theater Arts, Journalism or any related courses upon graduation from PHSA.

Application forms are downloadable from the PHSA website www.phsa.edu.ph or the DepED website www.deped.gov.ph. Fully accomplished application forms must be sent directly to ANSYAS 2008 Chair Mr. Reynaldo O. Wong at Philippine High School for the Arts, Mt Makiling, Los Baños, Laguna 4030. Otherwise, applicants are advised to proceed directly and hand-in their application at any of the following Regional Test and Audition Centers (RTAC) on specified date:

RTAC 1 – Misamis Occidental National High School, Bernard St., Poblacion 1, Oroquieta City
Friday, August 17

RTAC 2 – Zamboanga City National High School, Don Alfaro St., Tetuan, Zamboanga City
Sunday, August 19

RTAC 3 – Pigcawayan National High School, Poblacion 2, Pigcawayan, Cotabato City
Thursday, August 23

RTAC 4 – Digos City National High School, Davao City
Friday, August 24

RTAC 5 – Agusan National High School, AD Curato, Butuan City
Wednesday, August 29

RTAC 6 – Iloilo National High School, Luna St., La Paz, Iloilo City
Friday, September 14

RTAC 7 – Mandaue School for the Arts, Mandaue City, Cebu
Sunday, September 16

RTAC 8 – Leyte National High School, Ninoy Aquino Ave., Tacloban City
Wednesday, September 19

RTAC 9 – Ilocos Norte National High School, Ablan Ave., Laoag City
Friday, October 12

RTAC 10 – Isabela National High School, Ilagan, Isabela
Monday, October 15

RTAC 11 – Muñoz National High School, Muñoz, Nueva Ecija
Wednesday, October 17

RTAC 12 – Pacita Abad Center for the Arts, Basco, Batanes
Wednesday, October 24

RTAC 13 – Bacacay East Central Elementary School, Bacacay, Albay
Monday, October 29

RTAC 14 – University of Sto. Tomas, España, Manila
Monday, November 5

RTAC 15 – Mariano Marcos Memorial High School, 2090 Carreon St., Sta. Ana, Manila
Tuesday, November 6

RTAC 16 – Philippine High School for the Arts, Mt Makiling, Los Baños, Laguna
Wednesday, November 7

For inquiries, please email Mr Reynaldo O. Wong at yergnow@yahoo.com or call 09175456653 or 09175440013.

+++

This calls for schmaltz!

Of course I had more pressing things to do than make the mini-mini-scrapbook below. But I don't know. A bit of detox was in order.

Photos nicked from Te Di, I think.

Okay, That's It.

2007-08-07T19:40:00.000+08:00

It’s beyond logic now. I’m chalking all of this up to the faint idea that the Force Greater than We Are has decided to make a mockery out of me. Yun na. I’ll just have to resort to that explanation for the rest of my life so I can stop mulling over this in cyberspace. Because, really, I fear that this blog has taken up a tiring theme.

As I’ve mentioned too many times before, the past few years as a walker/commuter/taxi patron have rendered me as prey to cat calls and wolf whistles, a masturbator, and what could possibly be a rapist. Because of this, I turn my iPod up to max volume to drown out the sleaze, as well as wear more jeans, sneakers, t-shirts, and jackets in lieu of tanks, skirts, and sandals as some sort of preventative measure. My eyes are fixed on the sidewalk at all times. I have done all I could to be nondescript and dead-focused on going from Point A to Point B. And still, I find myself the target of scum.

I talked to someone about this recently, and was told it was most likely because I looked every bit the middle-class Filipina that I am. Because I don't look threateningly beautiful--tall, mestiza, refined, gym-toned--to the blue-collar crowd. Because, that person told me, I looked, well, a tad more accessible to them, as opposed to the said knock-out mestiza who’d be too out of their league to be harassed any further.

What that person told me was pretty much racist, sexist, class-ist, etc. and can be disproved. It doesn’t have to be a reason for all of this shit, much less the only one. What that person said had enough loopholes to appease me. I like my Filipina features, and would like to think that having them does not make me or anyone else with a similar look eligible for verbal harassment. Plus, while it's true that I’m not some shapeless, buttoned-up frump, I know I don’t dress like the street corner skank, either.

Still, political correctness aside, I can't shake the feeling that that person had some sort of point. Because of some features of mine (though I'm not sure which in particular), I unwittingly toot some sort of whore horn when walking past certain kinds of men. And, at the risk of sounding like a Starting Over housemate, it makes me feel bad about myself. It makes me feel horrible, though I know it shouldn't.

Take this afternoon, for instance. Besides the random cat call and up-front ogles (their lascivious, grinning faces swoop literally inches from mine), there was this one guy from this large group of construction workers who actually yanked at my hoodie to expose my shoulder while I was walking past. This was in broad daylight along Shaw Boulevard, amongst crowds of other people. The baggy hoodie was zipped up over my chest, and was paired with normal jeans and normal sneakers. I was walking normally, a tote bag on one shoulder and a plastic grocery bag in one hand. I wasn’t looking at his group. I wasn’t doing anything. I never do. But that happened, and all these guys hooted and laughed right after.

I don’t know why I’m subject to this, considering that I’ve done everything to ward any attention off myself. And the fact that these guys aren’t just some sad saps flirting--that they try to get a rise out of me, that they hound me, that they basically make fun of me--makes me feel a hundred times worse. They are lewd and mean, and I can’t figure out why.

Character-wise, I’m no nun. But I’m far, far away from being some shabu-snorting, VD-ridden, ambition-less humanoid clump, either, and don’t go out in public with a For Lease sign tacked to my ass. But since I can’t seem to fathom why all this is happening, and am getting way too tired of trying to understand and dispel it, I will just deem myself a victim of the universe. My, such convenience.

A Cookie

2007-08-04T01:39:00.000+08:00

Taken by Cousin Whammy during our field day at the Ajax ruins. Note how his photographic prowess is indirectly proportional to that of my modeling skills.

Now, it shall complement my entry with all the best pretensions a moody, badly-posed, pa-Goth photograph can offer...

Around 1 this morning, I was in the middle of a YM conversation with a friend (who insisted on the oh-so-odious handle of "Jheremee" for the purpose of this entry) and, as most YM conversations past midnight penetrate the dank, self-indulgent, and altogether hokey regions of our being, the following words were exchanged--

Milkmaid: question: do you get panic attacks sometimes about dying? like when you're reading a story about death, and it suddenly hits you that you're going to die one day, and you suddenly feel claustrophobic and scared shitless?

Jheremee: hahaha
Jheremee: hmm

Milkmaid: shit ako lang ba to?

Jheremee: more of, parang existentialist thingy lang sa akin.
Jheremee: mas tangina isang araw mawawala ako tapos mawawala lanat ng nakaalala sa akin tas walang makakakita ng kahit anong bakas na naiwan ko at potah so bakit pa ako nabubuhay?!
Jheremee: pero scared, di naman. mas takot ako sa multo.

Milkmaid: well, i get that, too. but the more primal fear is what gets to me more often.
Milkmaid: and i start looking for my mommy.

Jheremee: awww.

Milkmaid: as in bata pa ako ganun na ako. id be sitting alone at any given time tapos magpapanic attack na lang ako.
Milkmaid: shit

Jheremee: because of the thought of dying?
Jheremee: maaga ka bang nakaexperience ng kamatayan?

Milkmaid: yeah. the thought that one day, i will no longer be conscious. as in TAPOS.

Jheremee: i mean, sa family ganun?
Jheremee: at di ka napukpukan ng religious shit dati?

Milkmaid: im not sure. i remember going to a funeral or two when i was young, pero parang walang impact naman sa akin.

Jheremee: kasi its a security blanket, a necessary one, i think, the religion thing when you're young.
Jheremee: how's a 10 year old to handle the thought that someday basta tapos na?

Milkmaid: i was bombarded with religious shit from my grandparents. siguro yun.

Jheremee: pag may god, anchor yun, e. okey lang pupunta naman ako sa heaven
Jheremee: or hell.
Jheremee: basta di pa tapos.
Jheremee: so you simply didnt believe them?

Milkmaid: dati, i used to fear hell. bata pa lang ako, i was certain i was going there. tapos suddenly nag-shift to: e ano kung walang hell? ano kung wala, tapos, nothing, you won't be conscious anymore? gademmet.

Jheremee: hmm. i guess panay negative reinforcement ang nangyari sa iyo--
Jheremee: pupunta ka sa hell pag gumawa ka ng bad,
Jheremee: tas kulang sa sabing,
Jheremee: pupunta ka sa heaven pag good ka?

Milkmaid: probably. i mean, my grandmother used to kneel before me, grasp at the edge of my shirt, wield a rosary, and go, "oh god! oh god! margie! ba't ka ganyan! oh please god forgive her!"
Milkmaid: i remember her doing that when i was around 8. the last time she did that, i was 20.

Jheremee: wow.
Jheremee: trippy shit, marge.

Milkmaid: well, um, yun.
Milkmaid: guess that answers my question.

+++

I had that exact panic attack a couple of days ago, one of many various blips of distress felt in the past week. The best I can make of it is that I am lonely. Aside from these online exchanges and the rare hour or two with a friend in the flesh, the most warmth I've received recently was from the staff of the coffee place I frequent. They know my name now, as I always hole myself up in their establishment to read and to drool.

This afternoon, I retreated to this coffee place after one long drift around Ortigas. One staff member suggested that I eat. I bought a cookie. It was delicious.

Oh, capitalism. Your faith in me never wavers.

Written at Sweet Inspi Too Early in the Morning

2007-07-27T17:42:00.000+08:00

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?

The Body Annoying

2007-07-23T12:33:00.000+08:00

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.

I Wants Me Some Slice and Dice

2007-07-07T02:14:00.000+08:00

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.

Margie: Sandra.

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.

Yay Yay

2007-07-05T18:02:00.000+08:00

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.

Decepticon

2007-07-01T18:54:00.000+08:00

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!

Now that is a car wreck. I can't wait!

With Egg

2007-06-29T00:01:00.000+08:00

I will do actual blogging one of these days. For now, however, allow me to tread other realms of exploitation.

Ajax

2007-06-24T23:39:00.000+08:00

Whammy, Ninong Poy, and I spent the afternoon taking photos and viddy at the ruins of the Ajax building along Shaw Blvd. Lived near it all my life and never knew the place was such a prime location for kibbutzing. The weather made for really shoddy lighting, though. If the sun had been better, the place would’ve been glorious. It was fun all the same. Crappy shots, crappy editing (done in an hour with me flat on the bed, watching Louis Theroux in another window), crappy crappy crappy, but I was at least able to snap Diego, my viddycam, out of a two-year-long stupor.

Tgsk

2007-06-17T01:16:00.000+08:00

So I was lying in bed, laptop on tummy, mulling over which episode of Brittas Empire to re-re-re-watch online, when—

Pubey Boy: may ginagawa ka ba?
Milkmaid: wala. bakwet?
Pubey Boy: samahan mo naman ako o
Pubey Boy: i just need to go to this event
Pubey Boy: magpapakita lang ako
Milkmaid: now? where is this?
Pubey Boy: the event is in world trade center
Pubey Boy: it's a "rave"
Pubey Boy: i really really really don't wanna go
Milkmaid: then why go?
Pubey Boy: but i just need to tell my boss that i went
Pubey Boy: i just need my name crossed off their guestlist
Pubey Boy: we'll just go in and then out
Milkmaid: fine.
Milkmaid: but we're only going to show up and then leave.
Pubey Boy: YES
Pubey Boy: for the love of God

And thus, I found myself on my way to my first—and last—rave. In fact, I wasn’t even exposed to the real deal since Pubey kept his promise, limiting the experience to a mere twenty minutes. We also got there early, so the place wasn’t packed yet, and just a smattering of people was starting to do that bopping motion they consider dancing. (And only a fraction wielded glow sticks, harumph.). But I suppose I witnessed the most basic elements of this particular phenomenon of the Upper Society Saturday Night, at the very least. Allow me to do a checklist.

[×] girls in flimsy halters, hot pants, I-will-puncture-the-earth-with-each-step-I-take heels, body glitter, and too much foundation (Happy Foundation Day!!!)
[×] guys in tight polos, mirrored shades, gold chains, and who basically spent more time grooming themselves that night than I had ever spent in the past 21 years
[×] VIP platforms with couches, makeshift bars, fat rich guys, and the cream of the skank crop for the previous to fuck later on at dawn
[×] everyone sizing everyone else up, sporting that “I’m the hot shit and you are sooooo not” look
[×] one endless tgsk tgsk tgsk tgsk tgsk tgsk tgsk beat c/o Mister Dee-Jay
[×] thick, criss-crossing laser light
[×] a sense of impending debauchery

We left before the chaos, before the pills started making the rounds, before that fraction of Manila society morphed into the not-so-elegantly wasted, bopping throng I see in films like Go. But it was worth it to have seen the warm-up. And Pubey was an excellent tour guide, explaining the spectacles with the somberness of a National Geographic voice-over (if you look behind you, you shall see a gaggle of “putachings” priming themselves for a drug-addled spell of intercourse with the herd of corpulent “dee-oh-ehms” grunting in the background *oooooh* *aaaaah* *click* *click*).

Being in that sparkly, sinister bubble, however briefly, was a fascinating experience, but no matter how infectious the whole brouhaha tried to will itself to be, I won’t ever be able to take it seriously. Pubey even asked me on the way home if there was a chance I could be the type to frequent these things, had my past been altered a bit a few years ago. I told him, with great certainty, that there still wasn’t, that I’d be inherently allergic to them. That, and I’d look like a moron in hot pants.

Race

2007-06-12T13:18:00.000+08:00

I am not a rah-rah animal activist. I am not an animal activist. I am not an activist. Although politics do fascinate me, I’m afraid I lack the conviction to take actual action for whatever cause I agree with. My dream last night, however, proved that tucked somewhere in the pleats of my subconscious is the desire to uphold the rights of native Australian faunae. Or not.

The first half of my dream had something to do with sketching cartoon figurines or cartoon cels onto large pieces of paper. I think I was intimidated by the change in scale, so I was really anxious about doing the grids right. Anyway. That segment slipped into me lurching down the Amazon river in one of those rickety boats with the gargantuan fans at the back, accompanied by English-speaking koalas, kangaroos, and some other creatures I no longer remember. Apparently, we were on the tail end of a river race, and the other teams were composed completely of humans. The koalas made this big speech about how humans should stop antagonizing them, and that we were definitely going to win the race against those bastards because the kangaroos had an extra-special ability.

The Amazon river was marked every once in a while with a pink and blue MMDA pedestrian bridge. As our boat sped on, the kangaroos would suddenly latch onto the edge of these bridges with those heavy-duty metal measuring tapes (the ones construction workers use, with the metal coils rolled up into small plastic cubes; the ones that retract with frightening, I-will-slice-your-fingers-off speed at the push of a button). Then, they would swoop way over to the opponent’s boat, Tarzan-style, and then repeat the process at the next bridge. Sometimes, if the boats were near each other, the kangaroos would hop instead, but that didn’t look nearly as cool as the measuring tape maneuver, of course.

Most of the dream’s details have naturally dissolved since I got up, but that much I could remember. I’m not exactly sure why we would win if the kangaroos got to the finish line ahead, considering it was a boat race, and what the koalas meant by their being antagonized, but the fuck I care. The dream seemed tinged with propaganda, animal-related or not. All I know is that it had something to do with something fighting the something rights of something something. And that I woke up this morning wondering what the hell brought all that up.

Then again, I have been watching The Maxx like a fiend recently, and the Outback (okay, so it's the Outback in another, weird creature-laden dimension of Maxx's subconscious, but it's still a huge dusty plain) is one of its main settings. And I made myself sit through Madagascar a few days ago. And I saw this episode of Jeopardy yesterday that had a category on the Amazon. And the tiny stuffed koala that the octopus gave me has always been in my room, staring. There may be an explanation for everything.

Istap It

2007-06-09T01:49:00.000+08:00

The 7th Ateneo National Writer’s Workshop: Call for Submissions, Baybeh

+++

Earlier today, I started to fear that I had reverted to the sad sap of a state I was in when I was a college sophomore—a life vacuumed of worth, days consisting mostly of pondering over what very, very little I thought I had.

But I have to remember that, compared to three years ago, I am in a much better place. I have proven myself to be a capable person since then, in many respects. And there is no possible way I can go back to that time when crying in bed hysterically from feeling so immobile was my way of filling out the days. I have made myself concrete since. Others know I exist and, in a few incredible instances, have valued that fact. I have to remember that, because the only option is to continue the good that I’ve started, and to be certain that I am not as alone as I was.

+++

When they say that your life flashes before your eyes right before you die, I realized that the term “flash” may not necessarily mean that split-second montage that films have accustomed us to believe. Maybe the moment is stretched out much, much longer, and the patches of your past emerge between longer intervals of normalcy. Technically, your life still flashes before your eyes that way, and it still is “right before you die,” if you have a slightly more generous perception of time.

I got the idea this evening as I was walking down EDSA Central. In the 15 minutes it took me to get to the MRT, aural and visual reminders of the past two decades surfaced. A song. A friend’s car. A familiar snippet of conversation. My father (yes, we walked past each other in the hallway, and he stared all the while, incredulous). Another song. A T-shirt design. A toy. A fast food meal. Another song.

It was an uncanny series. I know everything reminds us of everything, but this evening’s little slideshow was a tad too menacing for me, a bit too comprehensive for such short a time. But the reminders did sputter out by the time I got to the station, and I would like to think that I’m still part of the living. It was just a thought.

Mandatory Post-First Job Traumarama Entry

2007-06-06T18:00:00.000+08:00

I left my job. In classic, fresh graduate pondering over Life as she sits bemused in her little office corner fashion. I don’t think I wasted any of my time, though, because it is crucial to try things out first, to get a more concrete sense of both what I want and am willing to do. And going home six nights a week drained, strained, and altogether miserable means that I am just not cut out for a steady stint writing copy. Especially in an agency where the projects are life-sappers in themselves (realestaterealestaterealestate), the workload is inhumane, and inter-office communication is shoddy. It felt ridiculously wrong to be so exhausted from piecing together sappy brochure text for land developments that I could only wring out a sentence or two of fiction each night. That is, if I hadn’t passed out on my bed by then. I did learn a lot about corporate communication, and while learning is always a good thing, I was unhappy. It didn’t feel right. Work shouldn’t have to get me all ecstatic, but neither should it suck all the cheer out of me.

This is all hackneyed first job introspection, obviously. But I’m not upset about it. If anything, I’m glad to have gone through the motions. I told myself a few years ago that as long as my job involved the written word, film, or radio and didn’t keep me from writing stories, I would be okay. But I wouldn’t have known which exact job did or didn’t fall under that, of course, so this whole cliché of a blog entry isn’t too revolting for me. Although it probably is for whoever else is reading this.

So I figured out through hands-on traumarama that I can’t do Creatives, Corporate-Style. It is just not my bag. Alright, then. Bow. I thank you.

Ipis Ka

2007-05-28T17:56:00.000+08:00

I have a horrendously long list of articles to edit. To do complete overhauls on, actually, because whoever wrote this stuff spent his whole life steeped in a pot of Crappy.

+++

Everything sounds better appended to the word "caramelized." Caramelized bananas. Caramelized apples. Caramelized keyboards. Caramelized lightning. Caramelized eye crust. Caramelized deep-seated trauma.

+++

1.5 articles down, 61 to go. This is not pretty.

+++

I am feeling very confused and vulnerable lately, and the only reason I can think of for this current state of ookishness is the great, unconstrained sweep of time ahead of me, as opposed to previous years when impending school-dom would somewhat ground me during this season. Not that I've ever been able to predict most of the events I've deemed significant, but there are, admittedly, some milestones that had to occur simply because the school year said so. Like thesis (titi). Or the simple fact of taking new classes, which leads to meeting new people and doing certain new things. Now it's all liquid, each issue as permeable as the next no matter how feckless it is. Like the ideas of certain people. I am obsessing over the way they portray themselves, not even of who they really are. Because I am that fucking erratic right now. Man.

+++

Last night, I dreamed I could ride a bicycle. And that I had to ride a bicycle for the rest of my life. Me speeding through traffic on a two-wheeler woohoo. It felt great to be able to ride a bike, although I think I woke up from my dream because I crashed into a sedan on EDSA.

+++

Last night, while still conscious, I went Little Miss Massacre on five flying ipises. For some reason, they all decided to gang up on me, swooping straight for my pillow or my book or my boob or my glasses. The fact that there were five of them all at once, and that they all decided to give me a hard time, just got me really, really annoyed. Five mad, flying ipises. It was uncanny, like they were past human souls banded together in some karmic crusade to, well, annoy me. Whether or not they were the dregs of samsara or the house I live in has just become extra-extra-infested, my slippers and I committed five counts of insecticide, anyway.

If reincarnation really was the culprit, I wonder who those ipises were. Hrm.

Fever

2007-05-22T11:58:00.000+08:00

Pubey Boy: well that's 'cause you're cuntilicious
Pubey Boy: use 'cunt' in a sentence today
Milkmaid: i have a cuntifically bad fever today.
Pubey Boy: that's cuntingly bad
Milkmaid: cunt it. i cunting know, right?
Pubey Boy: haha you silly cunt

In case you hadn’t deduced it from that piece of profundity above, I am sick in bed. I am sick in bed, I did not go to work, there was a presentation today, I did not go to work, I did not go to work. But I am sick in bed. But there was a presentation today. I did not go to work. But I am sick in bed. And I have this really bad feeling that they didn’t get the stuff I worked on at 1 a.m. today. Even if I emailed it twice. But then again, I woke up to find no angry text messages or emails waiting for me. Or any text message or email, for that matter. So maybe they channel their ire through silence.

However, despite this paranoia (which I’m sure will cloud my discernment of office relations for the next week or two), the fact remains that I am still in bed. And I will stay in it. Because I am sick, and it would be nice to return to the office tomorrow in good form. Not in that droopy, tissue-wielding, Extra Strength Tylenol-loopy form I was in. I’m also paranoid that they’re holding this sick leave against me because I was obviously not taking care of myself yesterday, what with the smoking and the fact that I even went to work in the first place. But again, all guilt aside, I am still in bed. And I am going to get well. I am not going to lie down for one more hour and then suddenly find myself on the next train to Makati, telling myself that I just couldn’t fucking help it. Except for when I pee, my back and my bed sheets are going to be the Bestest Friends Forever. For today.

Ignoring my fever yesterday was well worth it, anyhow. Work-wise, a lot needed to be done. More importantly, though, I got to see my friends. I’ve been really needing their company recently, mired as I am in this state of Great Big Ugly for the past few weeks. And besides having a good albeit short time with them last night, they also reminded me that I needed to take care of myself. I’ve always had trouble with my priorities, and my friends always provide that sense of, um, having sense that I need. That loving wallop on the back of my head, that combination of kind words and grave eyes. I love my friends to pieces. I know I’m treading trite territory with this paragraph, but I really do feel lucky to have the friends I have, and I hope I can be as good to them, too.

So here I am in bed. I listened to my friends, eased the rod out of my ass about halfway, and went on sick leave. I don’t know what will become of me tomorrow, but I think I’ll be able to handle it. I need to get rest today. I need to keep still, get rid of this fever completely, and let the past few weeks—a malady of a different, more toxic strain—dissipate at last.

"Peachy the Prosti" on Youtube!!!

2007-05-15T14:05:00.001+08:00

We're going multimedia! We don't care if it's getting really old really fast to the subject of our creative endeavors. She can roll her eyes and pop another piece of tokwa into her mouth with as disinterested a motion as she can muster, but we're going to keep at this until we creators tire of it ourselves. (So in a couple of decades.) Thus, behold "Peachy the Prosti" Youtube edition, wherein I sing the first verse of our brilliant little ditty while being filmed and flash-lit by Wench Eigenmann. It was, as they all say, a labor of luuurrrvve.

I suggest a few simple steps to maximize your enjoyment of the video.

Step One
Watch the video. Familiarize yourself with the melody, meter and intonation.

Step Two
Watch the video while referring to the song lyrics posted in a previous entry. A separate Explorer/Firefox window should do the trick.

Step Three
Sing along with the video.

Step Four
Repeat Steps One through Three until singing "Peachy the Prosti" has become an inherent force in your psyche.

Step Five
Hunt Peachy down and regale her face to face with your newfound skill.

Yeheeeeeeeeeey.

Anywench, this video came about during one of the duller moments in my little NAMFREL stint with Wench Eigenmann yesterday. Wench E. was the Voting Center Manager for Brgy. Paligsahan, and I was his bitch. It was our role to collect NAMFREL's copy of the election returns for all the precincts under this barangay and to deliver them to the volunteer droogs back in Ateneo. There were very long periods of waiting at the barangay's high school, hence the time and energy to create another dimension to the "Peachy the Prosti" saga.

I have to say that I've never seen Wench E. this diligent before, scurrying around the school building and helping out whenever he could. It was very commendable, and further concretized the fact that I am scum. I did all my assistant-ly duties as best as I could, but this mostly consisted of my sitting in one place and making sure no teacher ran off with any set of election returns without handing us our copy. Saying that my ass is sore for the good of the nation won't exactly cast me in a respectable light. More so because I didn't vote. Pero rakstar talaga si Carl woohoo.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have written such distracting paragraphs. Go on, go back to your "Peachy the Prosti" rehearsals. The future depends on you.

Guess Which Doors Song Fits This Entry Best

2007-05-11T16:50:00.000+08:00

There are several different companies in the building I work in, with two companies splitting the entirety of one floor. ("Entirety," though, doesn't seem that appropriate a word to use, considering that the whole structure is this cramped 6-floor deal and will be the last thing on Pasong Tamo to ever be considered grandiose. Oh, and the place has this temperamental elevator that can only fit three people and, through its random blinking numbers, lies about what floor its actually on. I'm not complaining, though. I happen to find run-down places cozy. I've been living in one for most of my life, after all. And the elevator has a mirror. But I digress.) The washrooms, strangely enough, are located in between floors, on floor 1.5, 2.5, and so on, if you will. Such special spaces, our washrooms. Since our company is on the 6th floor, the washroom I frequent is on floor 5.5, and the weird .5 corridor it's on gives me an ample view of one of the companies on the floor below us. It would be safe to say that this company has something to do with fire safety. Because there is a life-size statue of a Caucasian fireman by their front door, just a few feet away from the little girls' room. And it's not some hot fireman, either (sorry, Vittorio). It's this big, old moustached guy. Like Super Mario, only taller and not a plumber. So anyway, the whole point of this bad paragraph is that every single time I leave the washroom, I come face to face with a scary, plaster man. I've never gotten used to it. You'd be confused too if you came face to face with a scary, plaster man wielding an enormous hose every single time you finish peeing. You'd feel violated, even. But maybe if the guy just didn't look so "Suburban Dad from the Volunteer Fire Brigade," and looked more, I don't know, attuned to the fireman image of pornos past, it would be much, much better.

(Written Earlier on Paper)

2007-05-10T23:55:00.000+08:00

8:48 p.m.
Around 3 hours left before I make my way home. I can’t go back there until everyone’s definitely asleep. The rain’s cooperating, coming down hard, stranding me here in EDSA Central. The cold is nice.

9:16 p.m.
What I would give to see him coming down this walkway, dripping from the rain, big black headphones still on. He will see me sitting here. I will stand and smile and hug him and he will keep me company while I wait for midnight. Yellow Cab’s next door, so maybe we will have pizza, like he promised me on the last night we ever spent together.

(The big, fat call center boys are back. One of them got a haircut.)

9:47 p.m.
Must pack when I get home. It will be a weekend getaway in the most literal sense. Must not forget charger.

10:18 p.m.
Just got back from the washroom. There was a sign there that said “Please Use Toilet Paper Prudently.” Does that mean I have to make a “prudent” face while using their toilet paper? Eyebrows raised a tad, tight-lipped smile, maybe humming something nice and earnest? I can't remember what face I made while in there.

10:32 p.m.
Got my first-ever paycheck today. I mean, I’ve gotten checks for working on random things, but this was the first time I got one from a real, dead-serious contract-bound job. Efren, the senior designer, cracked up when I took a picture of the check. Can’t post it on the blog, though. Lighting was bad. Was nearing evening then and the pantry’s fluorescents are dimmer than most.

10:50 p.m.
Screw midnight. This should be late enough.

Because the Beauty of Online Self-Publishing is That You Can Litter Your Swatch of Cyberspace with Bitter Vagueries

2007-05-09T22:05:00.000+08:00

I am not taken very seriously at home, you see. I’ve been a cartoon to my family this entire time—a dark, stubborn, toxic cartoon, a dismissible caricature of the angry girl. And the thing is, I’m not really that angry, and it’s just unfortunate that they only get to see this surface-level stewing-in-her-juices aspect of me. And because of that, I feel even more frustrated in their company, leading me to look even more like the Daria they’ve made me out to be.

I am a decidedly happier person than that. But all this “let’s all be on our toes because Margie might do something disgraceful yet again” treatment has gone on for so long that it’s congealed into some impenetrable force now. I am such a different, more tangible person around others, but I can’t be the same way around my own family. Their skewed idea of me has become too concrete.

What makes this whole deal even stickier is that I really can’t become the relative they wish I could be. It isn’t just a matter of smiling more. To be the lovable daughter/granddaughter/cousin/niece to them, I would have to turn my back on a certain decision I made that I still deem a perfectly logical move. I made that decision because I knew and felt that it was the best thing to do. I would like to think that a real life is one run on our own personal decisions, not on those of others. I don’t want to die with the thought that I compromised my whole life in order to be tolerated better, that I put on some good girl show so I could be their idea of normal and nice.

He made me a miserable person too early on in my life. No child deserves exposure to such unfounded insensitivity, to such violence. I spent the first decade of my life in the purest fear, subject to vicious words and an even harsher fist. And I knew that I had to be free of that, that there were so many great experiences ahead of me if I just had control over myself.

I wouldn’t be living a genuine life if I didn’t make that decision. If I took it all back and cooperated in making my family a sham, I wouldn’t have encountered the world the way any self-respecting person should. All of us are here for only a handful of decades, and there’s no point in not milking our lives for all they’re worth. So I’m not sorry that I prevented myself from such artifice. It’s just too bad that I’m synthetic to them already.

My Blog is Not My Happy Place

2007-05-06T19:59:00.000+08:00

Carl told me never to bring work home. And I knew that rule way before, practicing it successfully for the first few days of my Makati Ho-dom. But then Friday’s big steaming pile of Deadliest Deadline Doodoo plopped right down on my head and made me the saddest fuck for the next two days.

If I write one more synonym down for “premium” or “savor,” I am going to scream. *And thus, the future echoes with Margie’s hapless cries.* I write slow, you see. It takes me an hour or two to feel happy with a paragraph. Nay, a sentence. And, apparently, I am a copywriter as well. These two facts do not result in my wellbeing. They do, however, result in whole days of anguishing over whether the use of “wellbeing” was convincing enough for my latest draft of brochure copy.

Whenever I feel harassed, I try to do what Adam Sandler tells me to and go to my happy place. And as of late, my happy place has been the clothes store. My wardrobe has grown. Exponentially. So now I can sport a nice top while feeling harassed and poor, hooray hooray.

Ten minutes before the Project Runway re-run, my other erstwhile refuge. Sige, tara, one more synonym. Let’s see. Which one, which one. O, sige, eto na lang.

Relish.