Friday, June 29, 2007

Brashy, bratty and bitter.

Hooowaaahhhht?!!? Why do I have to always explain things that I shouldn’t in the first place? Enough of telling people around. Screw understanding. This just cements everything that I have come to believe about people and why they should quit telling they know what you feel and they understand. They don’t fucking understand you because they can never fit in your shoe. Bratty? What’s the fucking big deal about it? Bratty is for sissies and elitist dimwits who get what they want at the flick of their fingers. But the world doesn’t work like that man. Perhaps for all you self-deluded pricks and your thinly imagined world of banalities. Not for me and not for all those people who are going through a lot of shit.

Photocredit: Thanks to ka0rg for the caricature

Crash into me.

Nothing could have ever prepared me for J.G. Ballard's Crash. It's up to you if I'm exaggerating but seriously, it's unlike anything I've ever read before. This is a late review and I have labored finishing through what could've been a breezy read. The second-hand copy I found in one of the booksales here and bought for 35 pesos is not the book cover posted here. I could've dismissed it even for its abstract cover on a usual abrupt breeze-through in the pile's mishmash of forgotten titles. But Anthony Burgess, author of one of my favorite books A Clockwork Orange, sorta says something about the grandeur of Ballard's imagination, and the three-pronged "blood, semen, and engine coolant" sure sparked a hell of interest (*evil grin*). The 1996 film adaptation is directed by David Cronenberg and starred James Spader and Holly Hunter.

narrates the ultra-unique and violent adventures of then-TV scientist Vaughan and his avid friend-follower James. Vaughan believes that humanity's fate is in the fast lane and death ultimately is a malevolent but orchestra-ic concoction of car-crash and human carnage. Vaughan envisions his final death scene with Elizabeth Taylor, while experimenting on different variations of automobile collisions. Pretty grand, huh? It solders violent sex into the concept of orgasm and automobile crash as a perfect junction in achieving a different state of nirvana. In a dreamy scene inside a car, James watches Vaughan and his wife perform rigorous, mechanical sex while the automobile is car-washed. Some fetishistic sicko, huh? But no, like the 'underground literature' that it claims it is, the novel is uncompromising in its imagination, and for believing so much in the notion of Vaughan's obsession, this is a great diversion. The psychological exploration of man is just an after-taste. You should be entranced in the hallucinatory and hypnotic ride.

Monday, June 25, 2007


The whole week mentally, emotionally and physically drained me. Let's just say I'm mapping out a path which I dunno where to begin and what to place. You find time to be with you old chums and bask in noise and perfunctory chatter (even when it was 48 years ago that you last seen each other) and try to forget the mental and emotional rigors elevated by your too much contemplation but you can't escape the Lost-in-Translation-loneliness-in-a-crowd. It's that type of thing. Times like these you want to imagine yourself in a tranquil place like Canibad where you can do all the thinking you want. I wish I can just have Hiro's teleporting capabilities.

Sunday, June 17, 2007

A visit from Peeping Jane

Sheila came over our place last Saturday night. The last time I saw her was five or six years ago. She used to work as a waitress cum GRO (not the GRO you’re thinking) when we still operated this videoke joint after father resigned from the company he’s working with. This forms part of the wrongful decisions that send us hurtling downhill until now, the resignation I mean not Sheila.

Anyway, going back to Sheila, I mentioned her because I couldn’t help but remember a very funny thing when I was in high school when we still had the videoke joint. She was actually visiting my stepmother and called us from inside the room to have a good look at me and my siblings. I guess she was surprised to see how much I’ve grown physically from the teenybopper she and the other girls used to poke fun with.

As part of the cost-cutting and as an easy means to earn 50 pesos a night, I operated the videoke machine which that time was merely a 3-disc player where I exchange a roster of CDs containing Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck, Air Supply, Bee Gees, which is just about what people normally sing every night. Imagine my eardrums getting immune to such repetitions that sometimes I caught myself singing to Delilah. The horror of it all.

So I have this nook at the back and the girls would hand me these small pieces of paper containing the song numbers which I would tack in order. I’d be lucky if there are a few drunkards who would give me an earful because they want their song to be played right away. No can do, mister. So I usually hid my head.

Because I’m not used to staying awake late, my eyes would normally droop starting from 11 pm. We’re open till 2 so go figure the agony. So when I have a whole line-up of songs programmed for say 15-20 minutes, I take short naps on the couch. And these girls would always try to unzip my shorts or simply pull the garter of whatever I’m wearing to check if mine was cut or something like that. I’m sure they don’t really mean to do exactly that because what would they really want from a 15-year old weener. The whorish giggles sure gave me something to wank about but I made it a habit to drink cups of coffee to stay awake.

Thursday, June 14, 2007


God delights in seeing his good children suffer. More weeping.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Mao na ni ron.

Talk about too much love for the game. Found this one on They've got 'good pieces'. Boy, was I rolling on the floor.

Watching Game 2 of the NBA Finals at Tequila Joe’s, Ayala Center Cebu, 11 June 2007 10:17 AM.

Guy 1: Boanga, naunsa man pagkahitabo-a nga napildi man ang Pistons sa Cavaliers?

Guy 2: Maayo man gud ang Spurs.

Guy 1: Ha?



Girl 1: Taasa sa linya oi…

Girl 2: Lagi oi, maayo pa siya ay kay nauna na.

Girl 1: Alangan ningbayad man. Taymsa, asa man ta inig human kuha aning form?

Girl 2: Anha diha oh, mag fill-up ta sa form dayun magpa-finger.

Girl 1: Naa bayad magpa-finger diha?

Girl 2: 5 pesos man siguro.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

5 reasons why Filipinos (the Philippines) may not be worth dying for

It's Independence Day for chrissakes (wait, is it yesterday or today?) but please don't think this is such an unpatriotic blog entry. It's just that with everything around us today, Ninoy may want to reconsider his most famous statement immortalize in the 500 peso bill, which amounts to really not much these days. On the second thought, even if Ninoy would be alive today he'd still die for us, for the country, but I know he'll come up with something that doesn't necessarily require bloodshed. It would be such a waste of brains.

# 1 - Where are these Filipinos we’re talking about? The majority of the Filipinos being referred to in the statement have fled and flown to just about every city in whole wide world where their idealism, intelligence, talent and perseverance will be put to good use. Just exactly who are the ones left? Those who couldn’t care less.

# 2 – Statistically majority of the Filipinos are either dying from hunger or on the brink of poverty. And government phonies would try to lure you with figures and stats that’d suppose to tell you poverty has abated. But really who are they kidding? The homeless? The unemployed? The farmer who up to now tills land he does not own? When you’re hungry nobody gives a flying lemur about heroic deeds or love for country. One of my friends said she’d begged to steer away from my first premise and rather say that Filipinos found more than one reason to leave this country. Sad but true.

# 3 – Practically a number of negative traits have been coined referring to a particular Filipino character. Yes, there are whole bunch of talented and industrious people out there but there are a great number who are indolent and plain worthless. Paging crab mentality and a plethora of other bad behavior. To my mind, this doesn’t give us any positive identity rather it has work to the disadvantage of hard-working Filipinos both in and out of the country only to be discriminated against because their fellowmen are morons.

# 4 – If Ninoy was alive today, he’d shoot himself in the head if he was to work and be flanked by worthless bad-ass sonofabitches in practically every level of government. Think DOJ secretary Raul Gonzales whose etymological skill has entirely modified the meaning of vote-buying or Benjamin Abalos and the COMELEC aliens who sit in their prized thrones clad in robes watching the whole elections get rigged. A friend of mine said Ninoy would still probably shoot his head if he lives up to seeing her daughter's histrionics. Di nga kaya?)

# 5 – That GMA ad featuring a dispatser shouting Kalayaan is so striking for me. It’s not enough that people have lost touch with the essence of our independence. To further mis-educate the people, the government’s ability to swap relevant commemorations as if it were festivals has come to its fruition with this one.

There’d be more reasons out there I guess but that’s what I can think of and also based from those who have commented and validated.

So am I saying that every hero who has fought for our liberation died for naught? Am I unworthy? And those who still live up to the hope and ideals that this nation can still be great? Am I to be blamed for wanting a better life? Are those people who have put to good use their talents and those who have enslaved themselves to working for other countries be blamed because they did not espouse patriotism? Maybe yes? Maybe no?

These are just questions. But I hope and pray that I would be able to live up to a time that I shall know the answers.

Photo courtesy of

Friday, June 08, 2007

The death of Kitty

Coming home the other night, I received a sad news. Kitty was found murdered with assailant still unknown. Kitty, who until her death remained unnamed, was found by my 6- and 4-year old half-brothers in a nearby house about two weeks ago abandoned and whimpering. The curious youngsters that they were, they brought it to our shabby room where it freely gallivanted. Despite its shrill voice especially when it impatiently asks for food, everybody didn't seem to mind. And then the news. Some sick fuck of a neighbor whacked the poor kitten to death and threw it in the rats-infested canal. My brothers were not to be stopped from wailing. These cruel people should be repeatedly whipped and thrown to the dungeon of lions where the beasts can have a grand time shredding them to pieces.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Viagra invasion

My morning routine of email checking won't be complete without Viagra, and multitudes of it. Nope, not that there's really anything orgasmic about checking emails and nope I don't need it, my pole still stands mightily proud every morning even without my gentle coaxing of it (*evil maniacal laughs*). One of the first things I do when I sit in my chair and begin the day at work is to check my account in our own email server which is also housed in the office. Unlike Yahoo and Gmail which has the ability to filter spam, though not 100%, our MIS cannot figure a way how to stop the influx of these nuisance. Every morning an average of 10 floods my inbox and totalling to another 10 within the day.

Which explains obscene spam subjects like Viagra, or Growing Erection. Or weird ones like Increased Metabolism, Physical Performance, Exquisite Replica, 4ever Young, even Chopard watches. Also, the list wouldn't be complete without the names of fuckin' people who probably don't even exist. This morning really did it. From: Fuck Hard, Subject: Oral Medications. Jeezers.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

the smell of the devil incarnate

Jean-Baptiste Grenouille was born with no distinct smell. Despite being thrown in the garbage amidst the stench of rotting fishes, he managed to survive. Despite the absence of human smell, his olfactory sense is a hundred times more active than a normal human being. He can detect a smell within a mile, even the unidentifiable ones, the ones not listed in the dictionary of smells -- if ever there is one. He has mastered the skill of concocting perfumes from a plethora of ingredients. In no time, he was able to surpass the famous perfumers in France. He skips from one town to another to pursue his only dream of becoming the greatest perfumer in the world. So great was this obsession, intensified by his goal to create the most perfect smell which can only be extracted from 24 virgins.

Aside from his unique olfactory gift, his survival is one of unbelievable. At the snap of a finger, he is cured from a rare terminable disease upon hearing that the extraction of smells can also be done by a special process of distillation. After hiding in a mountain cave for eight years, and being literally devoured by earth and decompositors, he still lived. He lives for himself alone and does not feel accountable to anybody. He can only feel hatred. Not compassion nor love. And yet people who bump into him regard him as probably the most innocent man they've ever laid their eyes on.

Das Parfum (Perfume: The Story of a Murderer) has got to be one of the weirdest books I've ever read. But it's a weirdness that leaves you with amazement. Originally written in German, the translation is impeccable. Every page seethes with an obsessive quality, as if the untraceable smells draw you into the same evil obsession. The ending is explosive. It's so amazingly wicked that I'd spare you the details and I want you to read for yourself. But the film adaptation of this novel was released last year, so if you can't find this book in any booksale you can watch the film. But I doubt it would have the same belief-suspending qualities that would make you gasp as with the book.

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting