Monday, July 30, 2007

The Boss

I picked up the phone after three missed calls. It was unregistered and I have an immediate withdrawal syndrome for unnamed callers. When I answered an enigmatic hello, the guy from the other line shouted "Bossing!", a Tagalog derivative of boss or someone who usually leads and dominates the pack. It was Angelo, one of my high school classmates. I should've guessed it. The spur-of-moment semi-reunion was actually happening in real time and that I should be there. I'm the bossing anyway, despite the fact that I cannot shell out 43 pesos for the taxi and would have to text Frances, another close classmate of mine who promised to pay the fare, to save my face.

(Diversion: The realities of an overworked low-wage-earner loser is a case that should be documented already by Amnesty International. Imagine the psychological effects of seclusion and deprivation of proletariat ramblers like me due to perforated-pocket syndrome. Double whammy. I bet there are bazillions of undocumented (unsung, in a rather 'lyrical' melodramatic sense) out there that could rival the ever-increasing statistics of political prisoners and media slayings.)

Trying to dislodge the bossing irony, while sipping a pretentious mocha-on-the-rocks surrounded by noisy class A people and faux pas bourgeoise, I am again transported to that memory in high school, where the bossing etymology is rooted.

I was the only male cadet officer during the fourth year PMT heydays when commando-crawling in both rocky and muddy grounds and eating lamaw-like buffet gives a stupid adrenaline rush. Sir Sonny, our beloved commandant was not around during our pointless training month, and was replaced by the dominatrix Sir Emilia (his alternate name). If clinching the credits to sustain the honors thus the scholarship was not in question, I could easily have quit along with five of my guy classmates who shared to me they just couldn't stomach the pointless stupid training with the bitch. The other five called themselves "the quitters" and emerging as Alpha Co. Commander and only thorn among the brave roses, I was tagged their bossing.

It would have been a different ball game had I quit, had I proven a different point, had I disappointed expectations. My reasons may not have been as valid but later gaining the respect and confidence of the rest of the guys is priceless even if I had endured burnt arms in the searing pavement and the nauseating, puke-inducing stench while submerged in the canal. Gawd, I really could have done away with it, no? Oh, fuckit.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Jayclops Simpson

Got this from Mitchie. Not a particular fan of The Simpsons but I badly need some diversion. Simpsonize yourself here.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Jeez, this is becoming a one-liner blog.

Sometimes, there are things better left unsung; it gives an inexplicable feeling of strength.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Regurgitate, infinitesimal.

Despite all my rage, I'm still just a rat in a cage.

- Bullet with Butterfly Wings, Smashing Pumpkins

Thursday, July 12, 2007


Stepping out of the cramped conference room after a long afternoon meeting, I glanced at the clock above the wall and its long hand was just in time to flick into the 30-minute mark. I wasn’t tired, no. My eyes were listless and I seem to be wandering in a state of dormancy and paranoia instantaneously. Anxious. I wanted to rest my head and drift off to slumber, put on that overplayed playlist of the day. 3 Doors Down, Yellowcard, Dashboard Confessional and some good ole Gin Blossoms. Swear to God, just felt tears welled up my eyes, but they were closed and my arms providing the cushion to prevent those lachrymal by-products from streaking down like snippets of slight rain on an empty wall. Gawd, I’m so fucking emo right now, I can’t even figure why the hell am I. The recurring fantasy of falling off a precipice or the Petronas Towers is so vivid right now.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Washday Sunday: Tales from this Godforsaken Whatever

There is never a week that I don’t get my hands chemically-burned by commercial detergents. I’ve tried different variants of different brands but I end up with sore fingers, which usually takes about five days for the blisters to dry up. The stingy feel, especially when run by and soaked in water, lasts for about a day.

When life was still easy and little bit convenient, we had the washing machine. Every middle class family probably owns this piece of appliance that I think is semi-useless save perhaps for the all-too-good promise of convenience and the economic inevitability of purchasing power brought about by the occasional increase in income. Some who can afford to have manang labandera doing the laundry for them, choose to have the dependable hands of humanity rather than the regurgitating wheel that spins and loops your clothes.

So while I still bask in the far-off reality of a laundromat in some big-shot city like NYC, Indian-sitting with a book in hand and an iPod in my ears, or the perverted thought of a quickie sex with some hot chick atop the frenzied machines on a lazy and gloomy morning, I have to make do with the refuge of the shade on a makeshift small bench on a scorching Sunday morning, with pestering flies like tiny black helicopters hovering over the liquefied suds beside my feet, the doggie stench of Scooby, drifting off to thoughts that would make me forget I'm ruining my precious fingers.

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Jaycloptron, activating.

Alter-ego Scott Summers right there, going through serious galactic transformation. Really, wouldn't it be ultra-cool if Jayclops could morph himself into a sleek blue Chevy Camaro and still emit his trademark optic laser via headlights. Maybe I'm really one of the Bots who's taking refuge among the stars. I can hear Optimus Prime sending the message via hardcoded undecipherable signals. Pardon my childish meandering, but that some megatronic hangover right there. Transformers really packs some neat shit and explodes in your face that you can't help but cheer (though discreetly, thanks to the already annoyed lady beside me) like an eight-year old kid and not feel guilty about it. Oh and it's Sha-ya La-Beau. "I gotcha boy!," ensures Optimus, with quirky me hanging on to Allspark and dear life. Sweet. So here's my little eight-year-old take on what I think is the most enjoyable summer blockbies so far.

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