not a judy ann santos, ryan agoncillo post.

I remember Ryan Agoncillo saying in an interview, that he had to separate himself from Judy Ann Santos for a while. Something that he had to do to find out if they were really in love or if their feelings were borne out of proximity.

Many relationships fail because, as sad as it may sound, couples only had pseudo-love. The kind of feeling you acquire for being too close and for being used to each others company. Since you see each other everyday and you bond almost everyday, you thought that you were bit by the love bug.

This kind of delusion creates pseudo-special relationships. The kind of relationship you’ll enjoy for a while and will turn out to be boring once time gets by. The longer you stay, the weaker your feeling for each other gets. Maybe because once couples decide to level-up, a certain element that can only be found in non-commitment is lost.

Certain elements change, the dynamics change, feelings change, relationships change.

But what if, feelings were borne out of distance? A typical story of girl-meets-boy, or boy-meets-girl, or boy-meets-boy, or girl-meets-girl over the Internet/YM/social networking sites/whatever. Will things fall apart once they meet? Will something change if the tattered cloak of anonymity and pretentious identities were taken off? Will the relationship exist after goodbyes?

One of my professors said that everything is a matter of mimesis. If that’s the case, can we trace the genealogy of such types of relationships and can we ever pin down results of what happened anchored in real life?

It is easy to say yes or no. Until you realize that everything is just a blur and you’ll end up thinking forever.

the day he cried.

Michael, my brother, cried today. That was after he was sent home for being late. Actually, they

Rescue came in the form of an agitated mother and a father ready to back her up. Her hair was still damp when she readied herself to make way for his son and daughter. Which is very unusual because she’ll spend 30 minutes (or maybe this is an exaggeration) just to make her hair look right. The term “right” being problematic because I’m not really sure what she wants to happen with it.

It all ended up well, I think. The two got to attend classes and after the fiasco, I still had enough time to go back to sleep and dream.


P.S.: I was once late…and been barred to enter the school premises. I didn’t go home even if the stupid guard told me so. I knew better. I always knew the “secret” passageway in the chapel that would lead me inside the school. And because everybody else found out about it, more gates had to be built and more students were left with no choice but to be forced to go home - like Michael and Mariel. were sent home. Mariel, on the other hand, stayed in school. Maybe she knew her brother will fetch rescue.

of being frighteningly lonely.

I have questions.

If we can love someone so much, how will we be able to handle it if one day we get separated?

And if being separated is part of life, and you know separation well, is it possible that we can love someone and never be afraid of losing them?

At the same time, I am also wondering, is it possible that we can live our entire life without loving anyone at all?

- Mew, The Love of Siam.

***

To make something special, you have to believe that it is special.

- Mr. Ping, Kung Fu Panda.

***

Lean and Kath leaves at 10 a.m. and will be off to Baguio by 12. They’ll be back soon. They will.

lean, kath, and fred.

I think I’m drunk. Or maybe this is genuine happiness as Kath would say. I can’t sleep and I don’t feel the need to. I want to remember everything that happened, every sweet smack on the shoulder, every loving pound on the back, every laughter, every giggle, every smile, everything. Damn this feels good. I wish you were just here. Always.


I can call Lean, Kath, and Fred as my inner circle, my closest friends. There is something in the seven or eight years that we’ve all been through. I can open my mouth and say the stupidest thing and I know they’ll understand (or will always try to).

Fred was once my fiercest competition. Talk about high school rankings. I admit that I misjudged him. Good thing I was enlightened right on time. Now we compete in being the bangka - the one who talks the most and opens up the bulk of the topics to be talked about. We have to make people laugh.

Kath was/is an epal. I don’t know how and why we became friends. But she was always the one who understood. She stepped aside and watched me in my most fucking state. She allowed me to be me. She came back as if nothing happened. She’s the sweetest epal I have now.

Lean is and will always be THE friend. Seven years is already something to be proud of. Seven years of highs and lows. Seven years of amazing shitnitz. Like what I told him, I think I know why we remain friends. It’s because I found me in him. He usually likes the things that I like and usually hates the things that I hate. We share the same wavelength. The only difference is that he’s more reserved and calmer than I am. He always understands and is willing to wait.


Today was the thing I needed to make my semestral break complete. I feel loved. I feel happy. I feel light. And yet I feel sad. Kath and Lean will be leaving me again soon. I once again feel afraid. But I know they’ll be back.

Until then, I’ll be missing all of you.

randomizing the things i want.

There are so many things rumbling in my head right now. That even at this point, I’m doubtful if I can really render what’s happening. I want to scream, not because I’m in rage. I want to scream because something heavy is pulling my chest down. I’m feeling too much pressure inside that I just want to burst, pop, explode into bits and bits of pieces.

I want to breathe. I want to let it out. I want to know how.

I want to rant because I wasn’t able to buy ice cream earlier. I had to buy something else. I want to eat something cold despite the pouring rain. I want to indulge. I want chocolates, the bitter-sweet kind. Dark.

I want to talk about Yu. I want to say why Cinnamon is interesting.

I want to shout because I had one class today. The professor didn’t show up. I want to share how I found out that I’ll be having an emo classmate this semester. I also want to share that I’ll be having a classmate who reminds me of Lord from Project Runway Philippines.

I want to feel better. I’m getting woozy with Camille’s invitation. The scent clung inside my bag. So whenever I’ll open it, the scent rushes through my nose. Not to mention that it smells like car scent. Don’t worry Camille, I’ll try to attend.

I want to share how excited I am for TriNoma’s mall-wide sale. And at the same time, how it disappoints me because I won’t be able to exploit this opportunity for an obvious reason: money.

I want to solve the mystery of the disappearing undies.

I believe that…

1. People who are angry at each other about silly things are usually the ones who care about each other the most.
2. Most people think that nobody cares for them.
3. There is nothing such as “too much love”.
4. It’s better to commit mistakes than not to love and be loved.
5. As long as you love, you still have hope.

These things that I believe in are from The Love of Siam. The movie made me happy even if my insides are crushed. You can download it somewhere if you have an extra 1G in your hard drive. Go watch it!

Well, that was something random.

paulit-ulit.

Maraming hindi nakakaintindi kasi marami rin ang ayaw umintindi. Maraming hindi nakakaintindi kasi marami rin ang hirap umintindi. At maraming hindi nakakaintindi kasi marami rin ang nagkukunwaring nakakaintindi.

Isang sistema, proseso na patindi na ng patindi. Isang sistema, proseso na paulit-ulit nating ginagawa. Isang sistema, proseso na palala ng palala.

Isang sigaw. Lahat lilingon. Putang Ina.

Sigaw na tahimik na dalisay na kinikimkim. Sigaw na tahimik na marahan kang guguluhin. Sigaw na tahimik na sa harap mo ay nagtatagong mahinhin.

Mga matang mapanghusga dahil walang ibang mundo kundi ang sarili. Mga matang mapaghusga dahil sa tayog ng posisyon na ang nagluklok ay ang sarili. Mga matang mapanghusga na nakatingin, tumitingin, at habang buhay na titingin at susulyap sa sarili.

Magpumilit man ang iyong diwa sa pagyakap sa mga bagay na ipinararating, hindi mo magagawa. Yapusin ang katotohanan na ang balakid ay ang mukha. Wala kang magagawa.

Maraming hindi nakakaintindi kasi marami rin ang ayaw umintindi. Maraming hindi nakakaintindi kasi marami rin ang hirap umintindi. At maraming hindi nakakaintindi kasi marami rin ang nagkukunwaring nakakaintindi.

Mga nagkukunwaring nakakaintindi.

beyond mindoro and puerto galera.

You can spell F-U-N with M-I-N-D-O-R-O or with P-U-E-R-T-O-G-A-L-E-R-A. You can choose one of them or use them both for emphasis and the meaning wont change. They’re synonymous, I think. Issa, Chel, and Annel can attest to that. And that’s something I’ve learned in three days.

Mindoro got its name from Mina de Oro, meaning “gold mine.” It is the seventh-largest island in the Philippines. It is located southwest of Luzon and northeast of Palawan. And since 1950, the province was divided into two – Occidental Mindoro and Oriental Mindoro.

Puerto Galera, on the other hand, is part of Oriental Mindoro. It’s not the name of the beach, it’s the name of a municipality within the province. White Beach and Sabang Beach are among the famous beaches in the municipality. The former being popular with the local tourists and the latter with foreigners.

I thank the heavens for granting my prayers. Even though I had nervous breakdowns in between, at least it came just right on time. My mom said I could go at around 10 a.m. of October 25. Never mind that we were supposed to meet by 12 at Taft and my traveling bag had nothing in it but air of hopes.

Let’s skip the things that happened during the bus ride going to Batangas Port. I was late. It was also traffic on the way and that’s why we didn’t catch the 3:30 p.m. trip to Calapan.

We boarded on this huge RoRo ship (roll-on, roll-off ship) instead. It took us roughly 2 hours to get to the next port. Upon boarding, we realized that most of the seats were occupied. But I was lucky because the girls I was with had natural charms. We got in the “Authorized Persons Only” area – somewhere near the captain’s cabin – while everybody else was standing against the ship’s railings due to the lack of seats. It was the captain himself who invited us, I think. The bitch passengers were silently screaming in loathe. The place was perfect for taking pictures – pictures of us and the sea. And I was policing those bastards who were throwing trash to the sea, silently.

The port in Calapan welcomed us with a Jollibee billboard. A huge photo of Chicken Joy against the red and yellow background, not of a Jolly Hotdog and not of Jolly Spaghetti. I just have to mention this. It was one of the debates before we boarded off the ship.

Before going to Daisy’s loving home in Bayanan Dos, we paid her adorable lola a short visit. Her lola’s house was right beside the sea. It was so close to the sea that when you peek down the balcony, you’ll realize that there is nothing else but deep water.

From there, we were fetched by Daisy’s parents. On the way, we paid Jollibee-Calapan a courtesy call. It was a branch where service crews are far more competitive than the Manila-trained crews. Everyone was on standby. Imagine them standing allover the place, ready to serve with a slightest call of attention.

Daisy’s home was a different story altogether. When we arrived, we saw huge cauldrons placed at the house’s façade and suspected that we were going to be offered anytime from Saturday till the time we leave. We half-seriously believed that it was a plan Daisy and the whole barrio concocted fit for some grotesque celebration. Not to mention that we were fed all the time and the night of our arrival, the whole place was enveloped with intensifying smoke from charred wood.

The next day, we borrowed their family car and drove around the city in pajamas. Annel was supposed to be our driver. A test to see how much she learned from driving a manual transmission car from driving school. But since the car kept on dying while she reverses it, Issa had to take the wheel. Issa who, by the way, drives an automatic back in Manila. What happened? Go figure. But I’m glad to be back in one piece. I guess Annel’s coaching worked. Tapakan mo yung clutch. Todo. Then changes gear for Issa. The car went beserk! And dies. Annel then sends another tirade of instructions. Clutch, change gear, gas. Mantra: Confidence!

Then all of a sudden Mr. De Guzman texted Daisy to go back as soon as possible. Daisy’s dad had to go somewhere daw. After that, the car’s key was lost forever.

Mrs. De Guzman (or Tita as we called her during our stay) makes the best empanadas in the Philippines. I swear. You can forget about its fillings because the crusty bread is delightful in itself. We were also fed with this huge, huge fish that they call ‘musko’. It was steamed, glazed with mayonnaise, and then topped with minced tomatoes, garlic, onion, pepper, and pickes among others.

We also met Ate Camille’s French “friend” Serile, who rarely talks, and Serile’s friend Jacques, who talked beyond any conversationist could talk. They insisted on bringing us to Anahaw, a restaurant/bar beside the beach, on the night of Daisy’s birthday. There we were made to drink bottles and bottles of beer that Jacques kept on ordering. We all wanted to go home, so we had to do something. In Ara’s word: konspirasyon. Enough said.

After all the good things in Bayanan Dos, we readied ourselves to push the fun level a notch higher. It was time to go to Puerto Galera.

We took a jeepney ride which lasted for an hour or so. Bayanan Dos to Puerto Galera. We had to pass through a mountain just to reach the other end. It was rough because there wasn’t really a road, but a make-shift road meant for a concrete one.

That ride was special because I wasn’t seated inside the jeepney, but instead on its door. It’s hard to explain. But just imagine a jeep with a door at its end, the door having a thicker portion where you can sit. There, I sat patiently despite annoying passengers (who, by the way, kept on staring) and bumpy roads that kept on hurting my arse.

We stayed in Bangera Inn. We just love the place. Our room was super cozy. They even provided extra pillows and a mattress for free. Arman Alviz, the inn’s manager, was also lovable. He pops out of nowhere whenever you need him. Promise.

I don’t know why, but Puerto Galera exuded a different kind of charm that time. It must be the rain and the low count of tourists. Not to mention, neighbors from a different inn who constantly showed off skin – as in constantly showed of skin. Hell Good heavens, I enjoyed our stay.

As Chel's shoutout shouts (?), Mindoro and Puerto Galera are just beyond words.

We took so many pictures. And now we’re having a hard time sharing it among ourselves. I’ve uploaded some of them and more are coming soon.

***

This is a long entry. I just have to say it. If you reached this point, receive my congratulations. Cheers!

leave of absence.

I wasn’t able to finish my Mindoro/Puerto Galera entry on time. I’d like to believe that I was suffering from an ultimate writer’s block. To create a delusion that it wasn’t really my fault, I’ll say that I was just straining experience by creating distance through time and absence. But I’ll also admit that that is just a huge chos on my part.

I’m off to Dagupan today. And I think I’ll be back on Sunday or Monday.

To Epistaxis, I’ll try to bring home pasalubong. I’ll look for tupig, kahit ‘tig iisa lang kayo. Cost-cutting. Bleh. If I can’t, tanggapin n’yo nalang ang aking nag-uumapaw na pagmamahal at pag-unawa. Mga bagay na mas makabubusog at magtatagal kumpara sa kahit anong tupig o pasalubong na materyal. Chos.

As of typing time, I’m being barraged by reminders to pack my things now and leave the computer at once. I’ll stop here.

Much love and I shall all see you soon.

Cheers!

things to share about the womanizer.

We know Britney is officially back. Thanks to Womanizer and thanks to her doctor for helping her fix the body. To not make Chris Crocker cry, let’s leave a tiny space for doubt that she actually worked for that figure. In any case, those things took her out of the gossip pages and placed her back in the music scene.

Womanizer is catchy, let’s be honest. It’s like singing the ABC or Old McDonald Had a Farm … e i e i o. You don’t need to be a hard-core musician to memorize its tune. It’s like the Italian accent. It’s sing-song-y.

Catching up with the song is also quite easy. Just remember these words: womanizer, you’re/you, a, oh, baby, and are. With that, you can already sing a part of it.

Womanizer, woman-womanizer, you're a womanizer, oh womanizer, oh you're a womanizer, baby. You you you are, you you you are womanizer, womanizer, womanizer (womanizer).

I found a cool cover done by David Choi. It was done with a guitar and if you visit his community, you can download its mp3. He appears to have worked with HappySlip (Christine Gambito). Check out their video here. And I also realized that David Choi kinda looks like Ali Alejandro of Mojofly.

Check him out and his Womanizer cover.

And to top this Britney-slash-Womanizer entry, let’s talk about Brandon Stoughton a.k.a. Womanizer guy. He is rumored to be gay. And one of reasons to suspect his sexuality is this photo.

That’s Lance Bass on the right. We know he’s gay. And the guy in green is your Womanizer guy – one gay guy on his right and another below his face. You can agree or disagree if he’s gay or not. I could not care less.

P.S.: A womanizer is a man who likes many women and has short sexual relationships with them. In short, babaero but with sex involved.

P.P.S: Special shoutout to (kuya) Mon Pancho for the gossip.

i am sembreak.

DECL closes at 5 p.m. I was still “inventing” my conclusion at 3:45. It takes at least an hour to travel from home to UP. The final period for that particular paper landed at 4:15. Printer ran out of paper. From 4:20-4:30, I was already getting calls and texts from Epistaxis. I was replying with rants. At around 4:35, I was on the road. And let there be traffic. More calls, more texts. I was in FC at around 5:30. The paper, my paper? It got in. It. Got. In. How does ‘sneaky’ sound? Start evil laughing. Husshhh.

I’m still waiting for the grades, but officially, my first sem, 08-09 ends there.

And to celebrate this waited event, we went to Star City! With the special participation of our beloved Korean friend, Dana. Hooray, hooray! I think it’s just proper to say that I was “sponsored” by a good friend – Issa Sayno.

As usual I was late and fortunately Ericka had to attend rehearsals at Claret, so we were together going to CCP. It was quite an adventure, I must say. I almost got caught between the train’s doors. Masakit s’ya, to be fair.

But it was easy to forget everything that happened during the trip. All you need are warm hugs from loving friends and smiles to lift the heart. When we got inside, I was happy. I was so happy that my brain got twisted with a snap. I told the lady who puts the ride-all-you-can sticker around your wrist that her hands were dirty. She was defensive. I told her I was joking.

Star City is better now. I liked most of the rides and attractions.

Snow World let’s you experience winter that tropical countries never had. 15 degrees centigrade. It’s really cold inside (duh!). I sort of enjoyed the ice slides. But I can’t appreciate it much because the slides have the tendency to be harsh – sometimes you’ll slide too fast and end up having your arms and arse bruised and sometimes you won’t slide to the end so you’ll end up looking stupid. Never mind that it’s the longest ice slide in Asia (about 68m).

Star Flyer is the first inverted roller coaster in the country. The thought of twisting and turning without the conventional cart’s floor will excite you. I think it’s better to ride it during day time, so you’ll feel like superman while flying. Plus, I would love it more if they’ll run the ride longer. Boo for the sudden drop of momentum. I also wish that crews would be gentler when securing passengers, so that genitals won’t be crushed that often. It’s a weak, sensitive point, you know.

Zyklon/Cyclone Loop, as ever, was a rough ride. My lower legs got bruised from the sudden drops, twists, and turns. The safety lock was a bit loose, so I was a bit skeptical if it can really prevent me from falling.

Viking was a bit boring. Fun comes from exaggerated reactions whenever the ship would swing alternately. Issa and I was talking about the girl who was screaming more than she should. Apparently, she’s bungal. We also talked about the older lady who was just in front of her. We thought she was also bungal, but her teeth were just small.

The Surf Dance is a family gondola ride that is about the height of a five-storey building. The 44-seat ride swings upwards, downwards, and sideways. It is the first and only of its kind in the Philippines. I wasn’t able to ride this one because it closed before I can even fall in line. Too bad.

The dining area is also better. We bought food from Outbox, a San Miguel owned, shop. I ordered Kare-kare. They gave me boiled pork, eggplant and banana bud slices, shrimp paste, mixed with über-synthetic orange peanut sauce. Yes, that was kare-kare.

The joke for the night was from this Pinay who has an American boyfriend. Her boyfriend was seated behind us. She was from a ride and was approaching. When she was near enough her boyfriend, she said, “We /beender/.” I know it’s not really funny at this point. You should have /beender/ too.

The issue for the night: Kuya Ateneo (whose eyes I deeply envy and adore) and his substandard-looking girlfriend bitching at Kuya. To quote Joy, “[ay ‘te] kung ayaw mo sa kanya, akin nalang.” Very well said.

My dad texted me asking where I am at. I was forced to be creative.

We practically closed Star City. We were back in Philcoa by 1 a.m.. I texted my dad, “Pa galing akong despedida ng friend kong koreano. Pauwi na ako.” Half-true. Ericka dropped me off at Sandigan Bayan and I waited for a ride for what seems an hour and a half. While waiting, a lady approached from the back and asked, “may dumadaan pa bang Montalban jeep dito?” I told her that I’m not sure. She ended up telling me, “sabay na tayo.” I thought, sabay saan? Sa taxi? Sa tricycle? Sa jeep? Pauwi, I figured. We stood side by side. When it started to drizzle, I gestured to share my umbrella. Apparently, she also has one. She tends to look behind a lot, until she walked away. When I looked back, she was talking to somebody. It’s not out of fear, but of being sneaky that I felt compelled to leave her. I asked an ambulant vendor if I can get a tricycle to drop me off somewhere I know rides are abundant. She gave me directions. When I saw the tricycle, I was puzzled why we weren’t leaving. I found out that I was to wait for three more passengers. In 2:30ish in the morning, is that possible? To my surprise, it was.

I chose to explore the feeling of waking under the cold breeze of the morning. The streets of the subdivision were a bit dark. It was quiet even. Except for that dog who barked nonstop until I passed by him. Halfway through, I got afraid of potential criminals that would pop out of the bushes, so I was practically walking in the middle of the street.

Good thing Chilo was too groggy to bark. I sneaked in. I checked the time only to see it was already 3:30. Then it hit me. I am sembreak.

the triumph of the yell.

I put the question to a journalist who had written a vitriolic attack on a leading feminist researcher: "Why do you need to make others wrong for you to be right?" Her response: "It's an argument!"

That's the problem. More and more these days, journalists, politicians and academics treat public discourse as an argument -- not in the sense of making an argument, but in the sense of having one, of having a fight.

When people have arguments in private life, they're not trying to understand what the other person is saying. They're listening for weaknesses in logic to leap on, points they can distort to make the other look bad. We all do this when we're angry, but is it the best model for public intellectual interchange? This breakdown of the boundary between public and private is contributing to what I have come to think of as a culture of critique.

Fights have winners and losers. If you're fighting to win, the temptation is great to deny facts that support your opponent's views and present only those facts that support your own.

At worst, there's a temptation to lie. We accept this style of arguing because we believe we can tell when someone is lying. But we can't. Paul Ekman, a psychologist at the University of California at San Francisco, has found that even when people are very sure they can tell whether or not someone is dissembling, their judgments are as likely as not to be wrong.

If public discourse is a fight, every issue must have two sides -- no more, no less. And it's crucial to show "the other side," even if one has to scour the margins of science or the fringes of lunacy to find it.

The culture of critique is based on the belief that opposition leads to truth: when both sides argue, the truth will emerge. And because people are presumed to enjoy watching a fight, the most extreme views are presented, since they make the best show. But it is a myth that opposition leads to truth when truth does not reside on one side or the other but is rather a crystal of many sides. Truth is more likely to be found in the complex middle than in the simplified extremes, but the spectacles that result when extremes clash are thought to get higher ratings or larger readership.

Because the culture of critique encourages people to attack and often misrepresent others, those others must waste their creativity and time correcting the misrepresentations and defending themselves. Serious scholars have had to spend years of their lives writing books proving that the Holocaust happened, because a few fanatics who claim it didn't have been given a public forum. Those who provide the platform know that what these people say is, simply put, not true, but rationalize the dissemination of lies as showing "the other side." The determination to find another side can spread disinformation rather than lead to truth.

The culture of critique has given rise to the journalistic practice of confronting prominent people with criticism couched as others' views. Meanwhile, the interviewer has planted an accusation in readers' or viewers' minds. The theory seems to be that when provoked, people are spurred to eloquence and self-revelation. Perhaps some are. But others are unable to say what they know because they are hurt, and begin to sputter when their sense of fairness is outraged. In those cases, opposition is not the path to truth.

When people in power know that what they say will be scrutinized for weaknesses and probably distorted, they become more guarded. As an acquaintance recently explained about himself, public figures who once gave long, free-wheeling press conferences now limit themselves to reading brief statements. When less information gets communicated, opposition does not lead to truth.

Opposition also limits information when only those who are adept at verbal sparring take part in public discourse, and those who cannot handle it, or do not like it, decline to participate. This winnowing process is evident in graduate schools, where many talented students drop out because what they expected to be a community of intellectual inquiry turned out to be a ritual game of attack and counterattack.

One such casualty graduated from a small liberal arts college, where she "luxuriated in the endless discussions." At the urging of her professors, she decided to make academia her profession. But she changed her mind after a year in an art history program at a major university. She felt she had fallen into a "den of wolves." "I wasn't cut out for academia," she concluded. But does academia have to be so combative that it cuts people like her out?

In many university classrooms, "critical thinking" means reading someone's life work, then ripping it to shreds. Though critique is surely one form of critical thinking, so are integrating ideas from disparate fields and examining the context out of which they grew. Opposition does not lead to truth when we ask only "What's wrong with this argument?" and never "What can we use from this in building a new theory, and a new understanding?"

Several years ago I was on a television talk show with a representative of the men's movement. I didn't foresee any problem, since there is nothing in my work that is anti-male. But in the room where guests gather before the show I found a man wearing a shirt and tie and a floor-length skirt, with waist-length red hair. He politely introduced himself and told me he liked my book. Then he added: "When I get out there, I'm going to attack you. But don't take it personally. That's why they invite me on, so that's what I'm going to do."

When the show began, I spoke only a sentence or two before this man nearly jumped out of his chair, threw his arms before him in gestures of anger and began shrieking -- first attacking me, but soon moving on to rail against women. The most disturbing thing about his hysterical ranting was what it sparked in the studio audience: they too became vicious, attacking not me (I hadn't had a chance to say anything) and not him (who wants to tangle with someone who will scream at you?) but the other guests: unsuspecting women who had agreed to come on the show to talk about their problems communicating with their spouses.

This is the most dangerous aspect of modeling intellectual interchange as a fight: it contributes to an atmosphere of animosity that spreads like a fever. In a society where people express their anger by shooting, the result of demonizing those with whom we disagree can be truly demonic.

I am not suggesting that journalists stop asking tough questions necessary to get at the facts, even if those questions may appear challenging. And of course it is the responsibility of the media to represent serious opposition when it exists, and of intellectuals everywhere to explore potential weaknesses in others' arguments. But when opposition becomes the overwhelming avenue of inquiry, when the lust for opposition exalts extreme views and obscures complexity, when our eagerness to find weaknesses blinds us to strengths, when the atmosphere of animosity precludes respect and poisons our relations with one another, then the culture of critique is stifling us. If we could move beyond it, we would move closer to the truth.

***

NOT my work. Actually, it’s Deborah Tannen’s, from The New York Times, 14 January 1994.

sex is good for the film industry.

It is way easier to produce films if the “raw” materials are not that price-y, I think. Imagine. If a movie maker can produce a high-quality movie using a digital camera with about a whopping eytigig memory (he can just shoot and transfer files), complimented with a good computer ready with sophisticated softwares that can do all the special effects and editing, then maybe we can have about 50 movies in a week! And that would be like [momentary mental lag] 200 in a month! Having less, or even no space for foreign movies. That’s also assuming those movies are not trashy and interesting in their own ways.

We can have more movies about Encantos (speaking of which, click ♥ to view an issue about Lav Diaz’s film), more movies about indigenous weird stuff with one-word titles (like Kutob, Sigaw, Kulam, Sukob, etc), we can have more films like Jologs (is the title is an overkill?), Labs Kita, Okey Ka Lang?, Dito Sa Puso Ko, Hey Babe, and so on.

But no.

Thanks to the progressive weakening of the US economy, bundled with the Philippines being dependent to Uncle Sam, and our status as a “Third-world”, what we have are movies coming from foreign lands – more like US monopoly. We’ve seen movies of talking dogs, parrots, fishes, and the Animal Kingdom in general; movies about traveling pants, magical basketball shoes, and dresses; add those flicks that fall under the what’s-the-point category: *cough*Horton*cough*, *cough*Ninja Turtles*cough*, *cough*Da Vinci Code*cough*. Enough coughing.

But don’t despair. Good thing Pinoys are naturally resourceful and eager. Given the funds, and surprisingly even given not, they still manage to produce brilliant films once in a while. Pinoy movie makers refuse to die! As consolation, they get awards and citations here and more abroad – being in film festivals in Cannes, Venice, Udine, Metro Manila, and insert city name here. Drop Metro Manila. I just realized that’s Mother Lily’s festival.

The point is: we still manage to produce movies that we can call our own. It only proves our resourcefulness and eagerness, with the added proof of our creativity. Sometimes we just need a kinky place, warm bodies for actors, moans for sound effects, and a decent camera to capture the moment, and poof! we’ll have a movie – a bold one, that is – and sex scandals to a lesser degree.

That’s the second point: cheaper “raw” materials, more bold movies. Brilliant, don’t you think?

the new kid on the block: aki sato.

For all of those who are keeping up with the trends, you’ll already know that Penshoppe just launched their new fashion underwear line called Undercover. I think it’s a move to keep up with the demand for trendier under garments. People, apparently, are now inclined in showing what they’re wearing inside than flaunting what’s on the outside.

Aside from this new line of flashy underwear comes a new face in the Philippine modeling world. Let’s call him Akihiro Sato. He's the guy posing in black. Front and center. I think it’ll be redundant to type his background here since he’s one Google away.

Fortunately for UP students, this Akihiro guy is just an Acad Oval away. I heard he’s studying Filipino in UP and he’s too easy to spot (well, at least for me and for those who belong to Arts and Letters). I am writing about him at this point because I just realized how stupid I was for thinking that he is Ma’am Erica Valerio’s boyfriend. It’s not that Ma’am Valerio can’t have an equally hot partner, but I heard Akihiro is currently in a relationship – married, as reported by gossip peeps. I’m not sure.

Honestly, I didn’t know him until last week. So those times that I walked pass by him in his athletic outfit, those times I passed by him in the campus, and those times I hated him for blocking the way, were times wasted. I could have used those opportunities to scrutinize the guy more and report to you how he looks like in “real life”.

In any case, it doesn’t really matter. What matters most is my English 102 exam later. So I’ll stop here and catch up with you some other time.

Ciao!

tequila 101.

Tequila shots are complicated so I tend to follow conventions. I drink in shot glasses, with slices of citrus prepared and salt ready. I learned not to put ice, so I don’t. The instruction is simple: lick-sip-suck. Lick the salt, sip the tequila, and suck the citrus (may it be a slice of lemon or calamansi for cheap drinkers). It is believed that the salt lessens the "burn" of the tequila and the sour fruit balances and enhances the flavor. So I lick-sip-suck whenever tequila is served.

He, on the other hand, belongs to the unorthodox school of drinking. He defies conventions whenever he can. He puts on ice. He drinks in regular glasses. He drinks it straight – the Mexican treatment of tequila – without the salt and the fruit. As far as I know he’s of the same nationality – Filipino – so he should follow how Filipinos drink this alcohol. Bothered, I tried to share the dogma of the convention. Lick-sip-suck, I told him.

Lick. Step point five to one was a success. He dabbed salt on the back of his hand. But instead of licking, he picked the salt off the back of his hand and wiped the salt to his tongue, and then he drank. He didn’t get it. Failed, we tried to repeat it again. But I guess he was really turned off by the idea of the gesture. The second time he picked off the salt again. I knew it was a failure.

Sip. It came easy. It seemed that he liked the drink although he complained every time. Lick-sip-suck, I told him again. But it’s either he sipped first before the salt or picked the salt then drank. It was a failure.

Suck. At least he got this one right. He knew that in the sequence of the conventional ritual, suck comes last. And so with every failure with the first two steps he served himself the citrus. Until he got tired. He squeezed the fruit right to the tequila. My insides were screaming what the fuck. I asked him what he was doing. I was answered with an assurance. He reminded me that he knew how to sip.

He was having a hard time learning the dogma. I should know. Aside from scrambling with the sequence, he resorted to some experimental way of doing things. He filled the shot glass that I forced him to use, sprinkled a pinch of salt to the fluid, and squeezed the fruit right into it. He gave the new concoction the final touch of his brilliance – he stirred it – and then took it down straight. Once again I was reminded he knew how to sip, he knew how to drink.

I told him out loud that tequila shots are complicated and he should follow the lick-sip-suck dogma. I told him he was doing it wrong. He told me he is my father.

on disappearing acts.

The disappearing act can be considered as a staple in every magician’s repertoire. I remember growing up watching shows of people disappearing behind the cloth, while inside some minuscule boxes buried under the ground, and even against a thick fog. Not until Breaking the Magician’s Code came on Philippine TV that I realized that I was being fooled all along. It was a grand business of foolery I must say. And to date, many are still victimized (especially the young innocents).

As far as I know, my parents never ventured in the sphere of magic. They had normal jobs in the past and continue to have normal jobs until now. But even though their jobs are normal, I still find it amusing that they can perform their versions of the disappearing act.

About a week before this week, my mom went to Naga. The only information that I know is that it is work related and she went to … Naga. She spent her whole weekend there and came back Sunday night. The thing is, I wasn’t really informed beforehand that she was spending her weekend in that far away land. My father even got irritated when I asked him where Mama was.

When she came home, she had with her a bagful of pili nut delicacies in variations – there’s pili brittle sticks (I invented this term), pili tart, crunchy pili, and coco jam with shredded pili forced against the jar.

Then the next weekend, I was surprised by the fact that my father was asking me to do too much. After you do this, do this. I left something blah, blah, blah. I won’t be home by blah, so blah, blah, blah. All of this boiled down to one point: your mom is not going home this weekend. She went to Naga. I was like, huh?

Good thing I bond with the boob tube a lot so I figured that it is Peñafrancia. Credit the fact that we don’t have relatives there (as far as I know). So by the process of ethnomethology, I came to the conclusion that she went there for work. I know. The idea is so … profound.

Monday night I saw her again on the grounds of our humble home. She had with her again a bagful of pili nut delicacies in variations – there’s pili brittle sticks, pili tart, crunchy pili, but sans the coco jam with shredded pili forced against the jar. I don’t know what else she got from Bicol, but upon arrival, she was bibo enough to request for a collaborative effort to wash our clothes. (Just so everybody knows, we don’t have maid/s.).

My father, on the other hand, likes to disappear on weekdays. Last night he left for Dagupan to fix some unknown matters after his phone kept ringing earlier that day. Good thing my father likes to travel during the wee hours of the night (he says it’s faster) and so I was able to know that he was going to disappear. Of course my mom also knows.

Just like in a magic show, he reappeared on the same day in the most unlikely time – that time when he expects our home left in solitude. I decided to go home early. So the person who saw him disappear also saw him reappear. I was like the assistant of the magician.

When he came home, he had with him tupig(s). If you’re not familiar with it, I can say that you’re missing something in your life. Tupigs are made up of coconut shreds, sugar, and malagkit rice. They’re wrapped in banana leaves and then cooked on a hot plate with scorching coals below. For reference, these pictures below were taken from a trip almost a year ago.

Let’s also mention that with tupig comes, kilos of kalamansi, garlic, and some things I didn’t bother asking about.

To this point, I don’t know how to end this entry. Thoughts, apparently, also learned the trick to disappear suddenly. But before I officially end, let me share brilliance. Earlier this day I used the CR in FC (the one near DECL). I don’t know why people stood aside as I passed, but I was delighted they did. When I came out I heard someone ask, “CR ba yan?” Wow.

on being broke.

The truth is always a bitter pill to swallow. I am perpetually broke. And I don’t know what to do with it. In fairness to me, I had a plan towards better days: I promised to force myself to a financial hiatus. But, no. Spending money is one of life’s constants and I have to deal with it.

When I was younger, money was a lot easier to handle. I can even remember being able to save up P100 just in time for my brother’s birthday. I bought him a cheap remote controlled airplane that doesn’t fly. I was satisfied knowing that I was able to save, but spending it was more delightful.

High school was the advent of my life’s financial crisis. It was the time I learned responsibility. I stopped (or more of moderated) begging for extra allowances whenever I go out with friends or whatever. I realized that if I would like to feed on my whims, I have to pay for everything. Well, at least in spirit.

College, as I feel, is the peak of the crisis. Or maybe this is when the rising action towards the peak starts. I can really feel my pocket draining. With all the spending shitnitz that I have to fulfill, nothing is left for me. I am forced to rely on my parents for the basics – shirt, pants/jeans, shoes, etc. – which during these times, I find hard to ask for. As you may know, we’re not class A. We belong to class O, as in O-kay lang. My class readings are not included in the category of basics. So once in a while I force my parents to “subsidize” me.

Fortunately I can still manage to enjoy life in many ways, like eating out with friends and stuff. Which leads me to think, is my money enough or am I just spending too much?

I was talking to Alfha on our way home. She told me she wanted to get a part time job since her Wednesdays and Fridays can now be called free days – meaning she don’t have classes on these days anymore. I am always tempted with the idea to have a part time job too, but laziness prevails and so I remain broke.

The semester is about to end and Daisy’s birthday is approaching. I remember a promise to attend her debut in the far away land of Mindoro. Speaking of far away, let’s talk about the fare that I’ll need. Last time I checked, my savings wasn’t even enough for a one-way trip. So, good luck.

In fairness to me, I had a plan towards better days: I promised to force myself to a financial hiatus. But, no. Joy and I will watch Isang Panaginip na Fili this Thursday and I’m not even required.

christmas countdown [the title is irrelevant, i know].

I did an essay for my Creative Nonfiction class, which, by the way, was my fountain of stress for this week. At some point, I felt proud of it – another work done through the magical process of cramming. And that point of pride ended 15 minutes after I typed the last thought I can muster.

I talked about Love. I talked about how fart is luckier than Love. I talked about how Love is naturally displaced because it is diluted with notions of care, generosity, mercy, and the like. I talked about Love and how I dealt with it on the level of identity rather than identification (note: I just love these terms. It’s so postmodern). I talked about alienation with Love. I also talked about Love Añover.

Why Love? Wala nalang pakialaman, please?!

***

My Creative Nonfiction professor is so fun/lovable/adorable/insert term of admiration here. She asked me to create a Yahoo Group for the class and did it hours after she dismissed us. Come next meeting, she was still oblivious to the fact that the YG already exists. When she found it out, she was like, “ha? Marc, isali n’yo naman ako d’yan!”, with face bewildered. Ano ba mam?! Wag ba daw isali yung prof?! Of course, I invited her. Blame the UP Webmail.

***

My Italian class is also stressing me out. Pero, keri lang.

***

Anna O.,

The first day of your official leave from English 42 felt different. For one, Joy felt so alone. As a matter of fact, she was indeed alone on the left side. But since I wasn’t able to finish reading the story, I didn’t sit beside her because I know I won’t make sense in the recitation.

And this is one of the times I wished you were there. We talked about Africa!

I imagined how you’ll narrate the beauty of that country – on how it resembles paradise, on how tall the guys were (did you ever said they’re hot?), the way you rode and enjoyed the ostrich for seconds, and more.

As you go and venture to another exciting project in your life, may you always be blessed and guided with the idea that your friends are here praying for your success.

CHOS!

And the Best Actor Award for a blog entry scene goes to…

***

Question: Bakit halos lahat ng guys sa Survivor Philippines buff? Halos lahat may dalang washboards at may itsura kahit papaano. Ganun din sa mga babae, bakit parang pinaghandaan masyado yung bathing suits? Parang masyadong sexy para sa show na baragan ng mukha at patagalan ang labanan. At eto pa! Bakit binigyan yung mga castaways ng (Crocs-looking) shoes nung first day nila sa island? Masyado ata silang pampered? Plus, everything looks so polished. Ang synthetic ng vibe.

***

The countdown to Christmas already started. Seriously? I mean, seriously.

nevermind.

I can’t understand myself. I want to kill the next person who will mess with me. The next person who’ll dare to try will die. Because I’m sure, that person will live long enough when hell freezes over.

***

I usually ride the tricycle out of the subdivision. Walking would mean sweat and that sunny odor that everyone wants to avoid. Most of the drivers here are either naïve when you try to hail a ride or pa-importante (as in they pass by you first and tells you wait, goes around the subdivision to check for other potential passengers, and comes back at you with someone riding in the “most comfortable” seat, that forces you to ride where the wind is more violent – the seat behind the driver – or they come back at you without a passenger that would mean that your time was just wasted). So whatever the situation may be, I just look for another tricycle that will be more willing to give me a ride. When drivers coming from the left side miss me, those from the right are always available and vice versa.

Last Sunday, this tricycle crisis happened once again. And because I was running late again, I was more aggressive. What surprised me is that a driver was more aggressive than ever. I hailed Tricycle A, but he just waved back at me to fetch another passenger. Who knows how long it’ll take him? So when I saw Tricycle B, I tried to hail him instead. And it was a success. Apparently, Tricycle B was “concerned” with Tricycle A, so that when they met at an intersection Tricycle B told me to transfer to A. I was then forced to ride behind him. And this is what he told me: Di ba sabi ko sayo sandali lang?!

Pota. Gusto ko s’ya gawing Koko Crunch at that moment. Isang pukpok lang sa ulo, patay s’ya. But, NO. I realized that would also mean my potential death.

***

Sometimes I think that the Mass is an event when hypocrites come together. And in the forefront of hypocrite-Mass goers are the Mother Butlers, followed by old usherettes, then old women in general, and ranking last are the “critics” who judge other Mass goers. Spare me. I’m just stating an observation.

The reason behind the ascendancy is ascendancy. The fact that that they signed up to be Mother Butlers should mean that ideally they would be the least judgmental of all, they should serve as “models”, and should learn how to be humble. Being in uniform, being able to roam around and police Mass goers, and the feeling of absolute authority should not be abused. They need not to say what they think. The way they look at particular Catholics says it all. It’s the same with usherettes, with old women, and with “critics”. Some old women even share whispers during the Mass. As if the event is an ordinary occasion where being judgmental is normal.

Last Sunday an usherette was holding the signature campaign sheet against the Reproductive Health Bill. And by the aura that she shares, you’ll know she’s bragging it. With chin high and condescending stares, she roams to solicit signatures. That’s why I told myself that the moment she tries to get mine, I won’t sign it. Not only because I wanted to harm her in my little way, but also because I don’t believe in blocking the Reproductive Heath Bill. Sometimes I just wished that Logic should prevail when making decisions. People should follow because they know it is right and not because Faith blinded them altogether. During the final announcements in the church where I usually go, this is the logic they follow: the Reproductive Health Bill is once again pursued (check); it will desecrate the value of life (eeengk); it will give way to abortion (eeengk); it will promote same sex marriages (EEENGK. Wtf!); therefore, let’s not support the Bill (wow).

***

Mama didn’t go to work today. I guess it’s her free day for going to Naga back and forth last weekend. Whenever she’s here, she always polices the one who sits in front of the PC, especially when she wakes up with that somebody already seated surfing the net. Most the time, that somebody is me. So for today, I got multiple sermons on how I was wasting my day just sitting and staring in front of the computer. She doesn’t even know why I was spending most of my time facing this machine than facing them. Which, by the way, pisses me more. Sermons are okay, I can let it pass. But to tell me to clean the house again after I cleaned it last night, that’s too much.

Instead of brainstorming for the essay that I’m supposed to do, I now have extra responsibilities to fulfill. Never mind that I also have an Italian exam. Never mind that they forgot to feed me lunch (they always think I can manage). Therefore, I need to cook for myself. Never mind that I’m going to do all the chores since I'm home alone. Never mind me, never mind.

By the way, I still love her. Nevermind. Sabaw.

***

One of my professors heard me sing Ako ang Nagwagi while walking in FC. Of course, it didn't sound brilliant. Ang taas kaya. I wish she'll forget about it. Why was I singing it? I DO NOT KNOW.

misunderstood.

When I bought John Mayer’s first album (in the most grepa form of a cassette tape), I knew My Stupid Mouth was recorded for me. I felt that I was the epitome of the Stupid Mouth. Not that I’m incriminating myself, but it’s true. More often than not, I’m always caught in a situation when there’s always an urge to retract what I have just said. It sucks. Having the good, right intentions will not always mean soliciting the desired effect. Let’s not go into details because that would only mean soliciting clashing reactions.

My stupid mouth,
Has got me in trouble.
I said too much again.
To a date over dinner yesterday
And I could see she was offended.
She said well anyway...
Just dying for a subject change.

Oh, its another social casualty
Score one more for me
How could I forget?
Mama said think before speaking
No filter in my head.
Oh, whats a boy to do?
I guess he better find one soon.

We bit our lips. She looked out the window
Rolling tiny balls of napkin paper
I played a quick game of chess with the
salt and pepper shaker.
And I could see clearly
An indelible line was drawn
Between what was good, what just
Slipped out and what went wrong.

Oh, the way she feels about me has changed.
Thanks for playing, try again.

How could I forget?
Mama said think before speaking
No filter in my head.
Oh, whats a boy to do?
I guess he better find one.

Im never speaking up again. it only hurts me.
Id rather be a mystery than she desert me.

Oh ‘Im never speaking up again.
Starting now.

One more thing.
Why is it my fault?
So maybe I try too hard
But its all because of this desire
I just wanna be liked, I just wanna be funny.
Looks like the jokes on me
So call me captain backfire.

Im never speaking up again it only hurts me.
Id rather be a mystery than she desert me.

Oh Im never speaking up again
Starting now.


-John Mayer, My Stupid Mouth (Room for Squares, 2001)

***

I want this shirt. Designs by PUB COM, GET IN THE ZONE APPS. UP JMA. Imagine me wearing this. It's going to be a real statement because…

not that I'm liking boyfriends back.

***

It is important to know that I’m prone to confusion. So don’t get me confused – whatever the context is. Speaking of varying contexts, I’m still in great need of a guiding light for an essay I’m supposed to do for class. Note that in my class the term “essay” is not the essay that we know. We discuss poems evolving as essays, pieces that seems fiction but still considered as essays, compiled quotes that ends up being a fragmented piece (read: pointless) that is considered as essay. Therefore, I’m confused what to write anymore. I don’t even have a topic in mind.

***

AND YOU. You’re getting me confused. Pakshet.

sept 9 is a special day.

I feel that the day was cursed. Because even though how much I tried to uplift my spirit, circumstances pulled me down. The fact that the day was cursed made it special. Special not because it is Pom’s or Jacques’ birthday, special not because it was another fun day with DebSoc, special not because of the free cuts, but special because…

I woke up early feeling well. Credits to the generous sleeping time. Left the house by 9 a.m. hoping not to be late for my 10 o’clock class. Somebody is trying to change. But ended up being caught in traffic for [drumrolls] TWO HOURS. So I had my first absent for that class rather than being usually late. Thanks to the nonsensical fiesta called Kakanin Festival by the Municipality of San Mateo. The municipality doesn’t even produce a considerable about of rice delicacies to have a Kakanin Festival! The nerve to have a parade celebrating stupidity. I am always tempted to text Mayor through the equally nonsensical project in collaboration with Talk n’ Text called “Basta kay Mayor, Bida ka!”. I just want to applaud them for a job well done, for a decision well thought of. To overemphasize the stellar intellectual level of the San Mateo Admin, let me just say that for a two-lane road running within the municipality, they even allowed bazaars beside the road – leading to a total, major, freaking traffic.

Add the fact that things were more special because I was having a major headache. A headache made worse by the sight of light, abrupt changes in position, and noise. Interestingly enough, the same headache that goes away whenever I’m in front of the PC surfing the net.

Then come night time. Let the heavy rain pour down and piss me more. I had no choice but to force the transformation of my shoes to fit the rain. Instant rain boots sans the waterproof feature. I also felt that my pants turned into rug when rain water started creeping up and up. That was one of the times I wished I had a motorcycle so spare my jeepney seatmates from getting wet. The FX wasn’t even an option, unless I wanted to die cold.

I finally touched the grounds of home. I attempted to feel better by soliciting sympathize from my mother; telling her how unfortunate I am for the traffic and all the shitnitz. But, no. I had to be screamed at because I was charged of “slacking off” and I should have “anticipated” the horrible traffic because I “knew” it all along. Two words: not true. So as a good child with a good day and a throbbing head, I had to engage in a shout fest. Nobody won.

The day ended with a bitter sleep. Come the next day, I felt dumb during my Creative Nonfiction class. Actually, I felt dumb the whole day.

And oh, the day is also special because Philip from high school said so. Thanks for the free ride.

Late post.