Puckering Time

I would have to perform euthanasia on this blog because:

1) It's badly maintained;

2) I'm busy;

3) There are no readers;

4) It has gone suicidal for the past few weeks, and I have to restrain it from taking the noose seriously; and

5) I tried reading my previous posts and I conclude that my life is dull, boring, and a little less than impotent when viewed in black and white.

Meanwhile, you can continue hounding me (or I could still hound you) at Friendster, provided you know where to find me in that virtual planet or - well, I shouldn't be telling you this but think of the unfortunate possibility of us meeting somewhere in this gray drooling blob. If ever that happens, don't even think of running towards the opposite direction. Instead, we can have coffee. Freebies are hard to find nowadays in this unfair world, you know. Trust me on that.

You may have wondered, took a long arduous wait, asked a few colleagues, and may have actually inquired hospital morgues and funeral parlors. While 0.009% of the total number of readers of this blog strained themselves until they finally raised their hands, shut their computers down, and surrendered altogether because all efforts seem to be futile, I, on the other hand, enjoyed my writing vacation.

I know, I know. I didn’t warn you, but in the interest of fairness I wasn’t even warned either, that I didn’t see myself taking that month-long blog break very seriously. My schedule did not permit me to update this site for the simple reason that I’m fully booked. In a literal sense because I have to read a whole shelf of dog-eared copies of those reading materials that triggered my allergic rhinitis condition because they’re full of dust and whatnot. No, seriously I was just so preoccupied with schoolwork because some professors are kind of onerous (except for my selected well-favored professors). Well, at least there’s a feeling of benevolence with the phrase “kind of” – I would have considered describing them as a horde of sadistic driveling impertinent by-products of an invalid giddy bitch – they, being the very exact definition of irony. I would love to, but I won’t. In spite of this seemingly libelous wordplay, I felt so much productive – not that I impregnated somebody, but all wielded effort went into its proper niches. For instance, I survived Rizal.

Now some of you might find enjoyable and interesting studying the life and works of our national hero (did I just say he’s our national hero?). Suffice it to say that I’m not one of you. My problem is not with my professor, but with the subject matter itself. The truth is that in my 19 years of existence I have never encountered someone who is so obsessed with the Luneta guy. I’ve heard of hardcore Rizalists – people who regard Rizal as Supreme Being – but I haven’t actually seen one. I’m a Christian and I advocate freedom of religion, but I would like to clear things out that I’m not mocking them in any form or manner. You feel like talking to a statue, that’s perfectly fine. Just don’t drag me along with you because I wouldn’t know what to say. The only sure-fire thing I learned in PI 100 is that Rizal doesn’t deserve to be the national hero. Hmmm. Does it have something to do with his being an American state-sponsored personage?

My Broadcast Communication subject is another thing. My professor - the seemingly independent institution within the Mass Communication department – is probably the most terrorizing and, since Halloween is fast approaching, the spookiest ever. Scarier than those ghost storybooks that you guys read. At least that’s what my classmates think about him. For me, he’s like my dad, only heavier in mass and stockier in built. More likely, a friend much older than me. Academic-wise, he is the best professor I ever got. He made us feel inferior and at the same time superior than any mass communication student because he kept on bombarding valuable information even if we’re on the brink of information ultra-overload. Non-academically, think about these: Where else can you find a professor who would lean close to you and ask if you know how to play mahjong while your classmate is on the verge of fainting due to a mixture of heightened tension and fear of the unknown? Where else can you find a professor who would exchange jokes with you while the reporter in front is about to have a grand mal seizure and almost bursting into tears? Where else can you find a professor who would whisper to you that when all the fats are extracted from your big fat classmate it would be enough for a year’s supply of cooking oil for everyone’s consumption? Where else can you find a professor who would call your big fat classmate “Dagul?” Where else can you find a professor who seemed to have memorized all possible factual information on whatever because he goes to class without anything to back him up, and explains the subject matter in an action-packed, full 1080 high definition manner? Where else can you find a professor who gives a grade of “7” whereas the lowest possible grade that can be achieved is a “5?” Most students think he is very offensive. I think he makes perfect sense.

And as for my Radio subject, there have been great departures in terms of class meetings because of class suspensions due to heavy rains and jeopardized schedules between the professor and the class to be held, but in any case I learned a few things about radio speech. We had two recordings; one is for radio speech analysis and the other a radio drama. Now I don’t like hearing my voice when being broadcast; I don’t know, I just don’t feel like listening to my own voice. They said I was fit to become a sportscaster; I said, No way. They said I could be a VJ; I said, No freaking way. They said I sounded like Private Ryan of iFM; I said, How I wish. Another thing I discovered is the term “paned English.” Paned English – I hope I get this correctly – is noticeable when one is conscious in speaking the language, the spontaneity being sacrificed because it’s as if the speaker is thinking that the listener would mock the way he talks. To put it simply, he is very conscious on how he pronounces words, and he sounds as if he’s very unease, uncomfortable. It’s kind of hard to explain this phenomenon, but bring me along with you and I would be able to identify people who speak that way.

So there. I wanted to share the other stuff I’ve been engaged with, but I don’t want to strain you further into reading. By the way, about my violent and atrocious rant – can one rant gently? – on the recent mishap at Glorietta, pardon me for feeling so chaotic and impulsive. I love Glorietta better than, say, TriNoma, and who wouldn’t actually be furious about the incident in the midst of alleged terror attacks in this country? Well, according to news reports and statements of investigating authorities, it might not have been an act of terrorism, but some sort of industrial error. Or failure. Whatever. Then I saw the innards of Glorietta 2 with the camera careening through pipelines with men in hard hats. And there goes one goody-goody senator accusing the government as the culprit behind this nefariousness, and later on withdrew his statement saying that he was only “namumulitika” (politicizing) – is this some kind of a joke? Then some infamous terrorist group claimed the incident as their doing, but was rebuffed by investigators.

Go on, make us infinitely confused.

Yes, I did it! A month without a post! This is self-fulfillment to the exponential level!

***

No, the bomb/LPG did not get me. I wasn't even at Glorietta today, and I haven't been to the place for a longish time because I now take a different route going home. This afternoon while I was trying to lose consciousness my eardrums were disturbed by a phone ring. It was mine. My sister was trying to contact me for inexplicable reasons. Prior to this seemingly Apocalyptic event of it all, she sent me a message asking me for my whereabouts. Because I was on the verge of closing my eyelids, I figuratively threw away my phone, and seconds after my phone began to ring again. I answered it, my sister on the other line, still asking my whereabouts. I croaked, "Sa bahay (At home.)." She thought I was outside. At Glorietta. I just love my sister.

Whoever perpetrated this heinousness, you will die, son of a bitch. You're going to pay for this. Maybe not today or tomorrow, it may not even involve you, but let's hope for the worst. I doubt if you're reading this, much less if you know how to read, and my skepticism is further elevated with the fact that you're an invalid asshole who doesn't know anything but sow fear and panic. You're a weenie. Now that Glorietta 2 had been blown up, chances are I wouldn't be able to set foot on the mall's tiles anymore. The hell with you. I fart in your general direction! I burst my pimples at you! Don't quote me for that, I will deny it.

To everyone, keep safe. Don't go out just yet. Wait for further instructions.

Barely a few weeks ago while my dad and I were driving our way home, and tuned in to DZMM’s broadcast of TV Patrol World, I heard this news about him. When his name was mentioned it reverberated inside my head and my brain immediately scanned through the pages of my memory bank, leafing every single folio of the names of casual acquaintances I’ve met in three years of my stay in UP. Unfortunately his name wasn’t scribbled in it. Then I found out after two, three days that the guy I overheard from a news flash report was my friend’s classmate.

A few hours ago at Starbucks Mall of Asia I had a philosophical chitchat with a Greek. Despite the presence of the creepy word philosophical, it wasn’t what most people would describe as hemorrhagic with gushing torrents of blood pouring out of every possible opening in their bodies. Greek guy was tall roughly around six feet, has light green pupils, pointy nose, and a receding hair line. He wore a lavender long sleeved polo scarcely hiding his inner greenish blue shirt, a pair of black pants and leather shoes. He spoke very fluent English – he told me he studied in the US – but still had this unique accent every time he speaks. I didn’t get his name, but it was a fun conversation anyway. He, according to him, is 47 years old and he will be leaving for Athens 20 minutes after midnight on September 12 (which is just a few hours from now). He was on a 36-day vacation, shuffling from different places here in the Philippines, which he liberally described as “beautiful.” He kept reiterating the word, emphasizing it by prolonging the first syllable. “You know what, young boy,” he said, “your country is one of the most beauuuuutiful places I’ve visited, one of the most beautiful but more beauuuuutiful than Thailand.”

“Thank you sir, that was very generous,” I said in a cheery tone, without undue sarcasm, of course. He enumerated the places he had been to.

“Cebu is beautiful, Bohol is beautiful, Boracay is beautiful. All of the Philippines is beautiful and you are very lucky. I was at Boracay yesterday, and I just arrived from there.” He offered me his doughnut. “Would you like some? Just a piece? Don’t be shy.” I fondly declined his offer not out of sheer inhibition but I fear that I might consume his doughnut whole, leaving him with nothing to eat which might spoil his last few hours of stay in the Philippines.

I tried to be friendly by asking a few questions. “So, are you with someone else here or are you alone?”

“I never travel with someone else, but I’m not alone. I’m now here surrounded by 80, 90 million Filipinos, how can I be alone? Are you getting it?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“I travel by myself all the time and I feel great. You see, traveling will help you broaden your horizon by meeting new people, new acquaintances, new friends. You learn new things like that (points at my neck), what is it?” He riveted his hued pupils on my rice god necklace which I got from my trip to Sagada.

“It’s a rice god.”

“God of rice? See, I didn’t know there is a god of rice. Now you know what I’m talking about.”

While he was munching on his chocolate doughnut, I was finishing off my cigarette. My Java Chip Frappuccino was close to nonexistence so there’s nothing to wash down the tar and nicotine from my mouth, even if I was using a cigarette filter.

“They have nice coffee here, don’t you think?” he inquired.

“Yes, they do, but some people don’t like the coffee here. They say it has a burnt taste or something.”

“I take coffee with cigarette. Do you smoke a lot?”

“Not at all. I only smoke when I feel like it.” He peeks at my ashtray and pointedly shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, that’s bad. You know Marlboro Lights and Menthol Lights cigarettes are more harmful than the Reds. They have additional chemicals and Menthol is I think worse than Lights. But it has a cool effect.”

“That’s the reason why I smoke Menthol. Aside from you, somebody else had pointed out that both [Lights and Menthol Lights] are actually worse than Reds, but the mere act of smoking is bad in itself.”

“Egg-xactly.”

We talked about a few other stuff like casinos, Filipino women in general, his being a civil engineer and my being a broadcasting major, Koreans, Chinese, Filipinos in Dubai and Athens, mathematics – just about a hodgepodge of anything and everything under the sun. Then I brought out the most inevitable and most controversial topic of all.

“What do you think of the Philippines as, well as surveys proclaim, a corrupt country? Any views about it?

“You know, the Philippines has nothing to do with corruption. Nigeria is not corrupt. Your country is innocent of it. Look at the people. Do you see corruption in their faces? The most corrupt are not in this mall, they’re in Makati.”

“And in Manila,” I retorted. He laughed so profoundly while biting off a doughnut, and I worried about him getting choked.

“Also in Athens, there is corruption. Corruption is all over the world. You just can’t see them because they stay in a special place. They’re not here in malls. God knows what shit they do.” I was about to ask if he thinks this is a product of globalization, but my tact proved unnecessary.

“Globalization has promoted corruption and we can’t do anything about it. It will be an on-going process. It’s fucking to think of it, but that’s that.” A few seconds’ silence then he segued to throw questions at me.

“I see a lot of Filipinos wearing clothes with fake brand names like Ralph Lauren.”

“And Louis Vuitton and Lacoste. They wear those because they can’t afford to buy the original ones. Those brands are expensive here.”

“Well, yes they really are, but in Athens you can see people wearing originals. Which would you prefer, something that is not really popular but authentic or something that has a label but fake? Do you think luxury is quality or quality is luxury?”

“To answer your first question, I’d rather have the authentic. The hell with popularity – what if it’s fake? You’d become instant celebrity because you’re wearing imitation brands. [He laughs again] And as for the second question, I think a thing that is of quality is luxurious in itself, and if you’re capable of buying it, it is luxury at its most.”

“[Nods] That’s great. You know, we from Athens philosophize everything. If you don’t philosophize you won’t get an answer. Try it, it’s helpful.”

“But I think the answer depends on your perspective on specific situations.”

“And your experiences with it. People nowadays, in general, just absorb what they think is real. They don’t analyze, and I believe you know that. You’re in broadcasting.”

“Yes sir, I do. That’s media in its awful sense because it’s profit-driven. It’s all about business.”

“And even if people are bombarded with a lot of things, they’ll just keep on absorbing them. Even if it’s all shit.”

“They pay for shit.”

“Egg-xactly. Which would you prefer, to believe in something that can only be heard or to believe in what you can only see?”

“Sir, for me they go hand-in-hand. It would be difficult for me to function without the other. And I think it would be more believable if you have technically utilized all your senses with it.”

I never imagined myself meeting people like him. He is so witty he has actually given me inferiority complex. Based on my personal experiences he can make people feel extremely stupid and at the same time extremely intellectual for his no-nonsense questions are relatively answerable depending on which school of thought you advocate. I suppose the Greeks are naturally contemplative given the number of Greek philosophers glorified in world history, and they don’t box their ideas to themselves; rather, they share their thoughts to others. This guy whom I accidentally met believes and is a staunch promoter of freedom. He was probably the most enlightening person I’ve had close encounters with, and the possibilities of rustling up nifty adages of practical use are astonishing. His last pieces of advice wedged in my head so deeply I couldn’t be so forgetful about it.

“You know metaphors? [I nodded] Okay, imagine a diamond that is dropped into a shit hole. You get it, you wash it, and what you have is still a diamond even if it smells like shit. Education and learning is different. Education is what you do in school, what I did in my school. Learning is outside school – this conversation is learning. You must not limit yourself to what you just know. Widen your horizon. Meet new people. In your group of friends there is someone who you don’t really like, and you mingle with him just because he belongs to your circle of friends, right? Don’t ignore him for it would be certain that one day he will tell you something that you could have use for. This would most likely change your perspectives. A lot of people claim they’re human beings, but they’re just beings not humans. Being human is doing something for humanity. Something inspirational, something that could help others. Always widen your horizon.”

It was getting late. I bade him farewell and a safe trip back to Greece. He wished me “great luck with my life,” and promised to return to the Philippines.

Okay, just some clarifications. I went on a limbo not because I’m experiencing some kind of personal dilemma whateverthatmeans thing because if I really were maggots and all sorts of vile icky creatures would’ve been enjoying a smorgasbord by now, but you’re reading this so I would most certainly say that I can pass for normal. I just wanted a break. Specifically, a more peaceful hiatus (Blecch! Phooey! Why the hell am I using that term, anyway?) that required total chastisement, barricading my eyes from seeing my blog on a daily basis. It also entailed another deviant behavior: reading posts from my blog roll. It was a tough decision, and after much biting and chewing of cuticles and since there were exactly seven people pining for my return which I think is enough to prove that my blog is adequately intelligible, I’ve resolved to go back.

Warning: segue. My friend (the jeepney-riding companion I’ve been mentioning in my earlier posts) kept on reminding me about the state of my brain. Every time I kid around and utter statements that only a smartass can declare he promptly says without missing a beat, “Sira ulo ka talaga,” or “Loko-loko ka,” or “Adik ka.” Then again, I know myself much better than anyone else, and people don’t have to remind me about anything they’ve particularly witnessed.

There are a few contentious things, however, that hounds the hell out of me. Or was I just being too observant and critical?

Kokey

This is probably the most hideous TV show I’ve seen in my entire 19 years of existence. In case you’re one of the enlightened people who can survive without the picture tube, Kokey is all about this terribly abominable extraterrestrial of the gooley eyes that made an emergency landing on Earth because there was a trouble in its spaceship or something and the alien has to fix it and then he found a human friend who kept the alien secretly from the kibitzing neighbors – at least that’s how I understood the plot. Even in the midst of its fatal attempts at levity I don’t find this creature hilarious or anything synonymous to it. I assume that the program targets the children, and I hope the intention is not to wreak tension and emotional disturbance among the viewers although Kokey is not at all scary. The most exasperating part comes in when Kokey speaks gibberish. My jeepney-riding friend imitated the way it babbles – I found myself frothing at the mouth and I have to restrain myself from spearing him with a fork. I have actually seen the predecessor of this TV show, the original Kokey; it looked cuter and provokes less fist-clenching.

Thankfully, Eugene Domingo is there. The universe isn’t that indifferent at all.

Youngblood

I’ve always wanted to contribute a write-up for this column in the Philippine Daily Inquirer. The problem is that I have no idea what to write. Sure, you may suggest that I write about something people could actually relate themselves to, but for me it’s not easy as it seems. Each time I hear this calling to write for Youngblood I immediately heed unto this bit of voice inside my head. But not long after I’ve typed a few paragraphs it will always occur to me that this calling is nothing but ghastly hallucinations, and then I’d delete everything. I never went to finish anything for Youngblood even if I’m utterly convinced that I could finish off a write-up in just one sitting.

Then it came to me that I’m incoherent, and judging from the previous Youngblood articles I’ve read I should better assess my writing skills first. Not that I’m being pessimistic, but I think I wouldn’t even pass for a good writer.

Kim Chiu

I used to salivate after this Filipino-Chinese girl when she joined that ridiculous TV program – and a certain Blogger may attest to this – but now when I saw her hawking shampoo, cavorting mercilessly in the TV ad, I found myself deeply in shame. Never in my life have I felt like wallowing in self-pity. How could I possibly continue to yearn and sneak around her if she looks like a piece of frayed cardboard dancing and shrieking what could have been lyrical poetry to some raving fanatic of bubblegum pop songs? And then she has this song Crazy Love having lyrics that go, “Crazy love/crazy love/crazy love/crazy love” – someone put this lady in a mental asylum. I know that love causes people to do crazy stuff – catatonic stares, going on stupid weight loss regimens, slashing wrists, guzzling insecticides, sniffing toilet bowls – but coming up with a song and broadcasting it on the airwaves? To quote Mohinder Suresh from Heroes, “It sounds mad!”

There must be a better way to live.

That laundry soap ad

Every time I see this commercial it makes me more of a cynical person. The glimmering endorser of this TV ad is Ms. Solita “Winnie” Collas-Monsod, a well-renowned professor of Economics in my school, TV show host of a news and public affairs program, and columnist of the PDI. She portrays a magician kind of character wherein, instead of wands and funky smelling rabbits emerging from top hats, she uses this certain brand of laundry soap that claims to be very effective in removing stubborn dirt from garments. I don’t wash my own clothes so I cannot actually put this claim into test, but for crying out loud they got the wrong endorser!

Think about it. Although one is free to make money out of his or her career reputation, a professor slash media personage slash columnist of a reputable daily is not the proper endorser of products that reportedly slough off grisly filth like magic. We are all aware that Ms Monsod is a credible person (not because her work requires her to be one, but I think she’s very reliable nonetheless), but how are we supposed to believe in everything she will tell us if we all know for the fact that she was paid to say that it’s a capable laundry soap – even if all claims of effectiveness were held truthful? We have artists – lots of them, I must say – who can do the work for Ms Monsod without their repute being questioned.

On Havaianas

I was wearing a pair when my friend and I went to Starbucks TriNoma a week ago. Beside our table was an undiplomatic corps of human beings who made pompous comments on my tsinelas. I thought they just wanted conversation; it turned out to be a lecture on poverty, hungry kids along sidewalks just outside the mall, commercialization, blah blah blah. A member added that he sees it pointless having to buy an expensive pair of rubber slippers when there are cheaper alternatives available whereupon his other companions gave an air of approval.

Hey. Mind your own problems, people. We don’t need constant bickering of how the majority of the population feeds on barely one meal a day, how their situation is often aggravated by lack of available jobs and proper education, how we are able to come up with every politically-correct term imaginable for these lowly people – if you are so much concerned about them, you go and help them figure out what to do. I got my pair of Havaianas through savings from my allowance, and I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you say that I’m wasting my money on such superficialities. Shut up.

By the way, you said that you are against commercialization. What business are you up to inside a commercial establishment? And why the hell are you drinking a Frappuccino? And for the love of God, it’s AH-va-ya-nas, not HA.

Zero to

About the winless situation of UP in the 70^th season of the UAAP. Now it will seem too distressing to find out that the UP Men’s Basketball team hasn’t won any of its game in this season, and I don’t know what seems to be the problem. It is interesting to note that even though the men are flunking, the Women’s team is actually making its way to the top.

Some people that I’m acquainted with say that it’s a little ironic that UP – its students notorious for undisputed excellence in all possible fields – is becoming a sore loser, or make that indeed a sore loser in this certain field called sports. It doesn’t necessarily follow that if we are academically exceptional, we can also grab every trophy, medal, and all those glorious reputation in the world of basketball, particularly in the U double A P. Let me just clarify that our basketball players and the rest of the student population of UP are only humans, much to your relief, and we do have limitations. In this case, we’re simply not the best in basketball.

At least we’re not a bunch of cheats. Don’t say, “We’re Machiavellians! The end justifies the means!” Cheating is cheating, even if it has chocolate syrup in it. I would rather we lose through honest sweat and toil than to emerge victors with the aid of huge bank accounts, persuasive late night conspiratorial chit-chats with the authorities – or hypodermic syringes.

I’d be going on an indefinite leave of absence. For several days I’ve been so pissed off with my life, so bored out of my f***ing skull that I occasionally wished that I’d just fling myself upon an onrushing vehicle. Or something like it to the point that I’m beginning to lose my conscious will and full conviction to blog about…anything.

Be back when I’m damn ready.