Talking cock

I grew up around chickens. I don’t mean the cowards, I’m referring to Col. Sanders’ favorite pet, the one with feathers and go clucking at the first sign of trouble.

My father was a hobbyist breeder and very passionate about roosters, so much that he refused to eat any of the chicken that we brought home from cockfights (hey, each battle has its spoils, some get women or gold but we got dressed and muscled cocks instead). Since my father’s fighting cocks were quite good, every Sunday was a feast since we always get Tinolang manok for dinner aside from the two liters of Coke. Growing up poor, those things were a luxury.

Mornings and afternoons were torture. I was assigned the task of feeding the cocks and the hens at 7 a.m. and 4 p.m. on the dot. Failure to do so earned me a licking. All the cocks insisted on being the top dog of the coop and fight whoever (dog, cat, me) entered that godforsaken, turd-infested (they’re not called fowl for nothing) box. The hostility magnified during breeding period when the cock was all juiced up from pent-up horniness, like the Tasmanian Devil on crack, and any shin or leg was fair game.

And man, you couldn’t believe how some cocks got Kung Fu down pat. If you were lucky, you get only a few welts or scratches but there were cases when my leg was pockmarked by sharp talons and beaks. Though we weren’t really told to not kick or pummel them to death, it was common understanding that a boy always runs away when confronted by a cock. That maxim holds true on both literal and figurative sense. Unless the boy likes cocks and that’s just gay.

As a kid, I did my assignment begrudgingly. I wasn’t passionate about chickens. In fact, I thought the only thing they were good for was when they were covered in barbeque sauce. But when I discovered gambling, cockfighting opened a whole new world for me. Good thing my father was such a sport about his sons gambling. My father was never a heavy gambler. I think he gets more kick of his cocks winning only because it’s a testament to his methods; just like how gambling was a testament to my madness.

It took me years to rid that vice but last New Year’s Day, I went to my first cockfight in years. All the usual suspects were there, the Kristos, bookies, wasted bums, liquors, the adrenaline rush, and even the enterprising man who rents out the metal spurs (also called gaffes or tari in visayan) for a few pesos, and it’s like I never left. It’s amazing how they put up the cockpit that fast when it was just a few months back when authorities raided the placed and booked a few gamblers.

My father brought along one gamecock. So in keeping with the new year, I wagered P500. I thought that was just enough to scratch a nagging itch but not too much to nag at my conscience for falling off the wagon. As luck would have it, the fight was a draw. I wouldn’t have mind losing the money, anything but a draw. I got my P500 back but I was still pissed off. When I handed that money to my father, I already written that off as a lost asset since I learned a long time ago that adopting that mindset helped take the sting off losing. To scratch another itch, the P500 never had a chance. We spent it all on food.

Cleaning out my closet

I completely forgot to mark a year off my life maintaining this blog. I hope that oversight was not my subconscious telling me how pointless this whole thing is because up to now I feel a bit ambivalent about blogging and the repeated self-immolation it entails to churn out even a decent post.

Though to be fair, it’s a personal milestone for me. Who would have thought? I actually wasted a year on something that’s neither mildly therapeutic nor remotely erotic.  Maybe because I’ve been very clinical about my approach to blogging: a great experiment that, if proven successful, might hopefully improve my writing and maybe get in touch with the inner writer in me — that squeaky, dirty voice which have been muted by years of neglect and disregard.

It’s a funny thing, this writing business or more specifically, the business side of writing. I realized that when I started to make a livelihood of writing, the fun in weaving letters together to form words, stitching words together to create paragraphs and organizing paragraphs together to construct a story completely vanished. Work certainly has the penchant to wring the fun out of something you love. At one point, writing ceased to be an abstract concept that I pursue almost to an obsession; all its intangibles were missing and it evolved into something mundane, as concrete and solid as the ashen keyboard I’m using to type this shit.

By the way, my obsession with writing, in relation to my family having produced no writer along the line of its genealogy, refutes the old maxim “shit doesn’t fall too far away from the ass.” I hesitate to call it love affair in lieu of obsession only because the term love affair insinuates reciprocation.

Was it Nietzsche who said that if you have something to live for, you could endure the how?  So what keeps me coming back? Apart from the practical aspect because make no mistake, blogging is a sensible way to practice your writing skills, there’s the extra gravy – fellow bloggers who wittingly or unwittingly hitched a ride in my journey.

The fact that I have yet to see even a shadow of these bloggers, much less meet them, is insignificant. Humans have the need to be a part of something bigger than their puny selves and that accounts for the omnipresence of the godhead. No matter how independent you think you are, you always seek the affirmation of your peers and the acceptance of your betters. In that sense, perverted childhood does not translate to neuroses as Freud suggested, it’s the lack of recognition that causes more psychological damage.

To complete the picture, my account asks for a password and username before I could log in and write this post just like most exclusive cliques which also demand a code, be it a secret handshake or a tattoo, to distinguish it from the others or cloak the group with a sense of inimitability. That password is something I share in common with fellow bloggers, and lest I be accused of being an elitist, I have a ready-made excuse: my password allows me to protect my account from hackers.

This is my clique, no matter how transitory and I like that because anyway I look at it, I always come to the same conclusion: I am a closet blogger.

My mistress and me

Wow, I’m back. For a while there, I seriously considered ditching this blog. There was a point when I my infatuation with the written word waned, or more accurately, it abandoned me.

You really can’t blame me. Growing up, words have always intimidated me but like a stupid, little lovesick boy who’s unbelievably obsessed, I seek words out.

With apologies to the god Apollo, I made Calliope my own. 

By sheer passion, I managed to tame the fiery wildchild. No, that would be inaccurate. For my muse is not, and will never be, submissive. Well, at least I tricked her into thinking I was worthy of her glance.

With her extreme mood swings, our relationship was understandably volatile. There were nights when I sit on my bed, my sheets still folded and unsoiled, and wait for her. The clock ticking away the dusk as the moon, mistaking spite for wit, occasionally taunted me by drawing on the shadows in my room to mask its pockmarked face.

Weeks might pass and still no news from her and just when I was about to yield her to a more talented and younger upstart, she shows up – totally unrepentant. Her defiant eyes stare me down, daring me to ask her where she’s been and I, expectedly, capitulate. Genuflecting instead on her stained, guilty feet. 

Perhaps it’s best to give this post a bit of perspective. By coincidence or ignorance, I landed a job that requires me to write, rewrite, reconfigure, and in most instances, massacre news articles.

In short, I have a sissy-ass job.

I mean, who in his warped mind writes for a living? I personally don’t know any writer or journalist growing up. These inbreds seemed so surreal, like chancing upon fireflies in middle of the metropolis. In a sense, I even feel acrimonious towards writers and journalists because I don’t think they hold real jobs but swindle others into thinking they are entitled into their privileged position. Now, I know somebody who I can channel all my anger to: myself.

It doesn’t help that I belong to a family of thugs and ruffians. Strangely enough, brute force is the language we abide by. We look at killers, drug addicts, or snatchers as role models and for some of us, being a con artist is the penultimate dream. And when on rare occasion we try to be imaginative, we garnish our language with the words fuck and shit and putang ina (roughly translated as mother fucker). And that’s the extent of our creativity right there.

So being tagged as the bright kid who has a way with words has a different connotation for my relatives – a connotation similar to the unknown matter that I puke when I drank too much.

I remember going to my high school reunion eight years after we graduated (who calls for a reunion after only eight years? Wait at least for somebody in your batch to die) and was staring at the attendance sheet. Next to occupation, I wrote stambay (bum) because I was weirdly ashamed to admit what my true job was.  Well, I was only partly lying because the flexible time at my disposal in my current job does give an impression that I’m just bumming around.

It’s rare for a child to live his dream when he grows up. Okay, I might be being deceitful since I haven’t really written a book or even published a short story or anything as illustrious. I’m still leading a writer’s life, although admittedly a poorer adaptation of it. Like a Xeroxed Hemingway. Similar beginning and ending but the grains on the words imprinted by the cold machine do leave you feeling cheated.

I’ve digressed enough so back to my treatise. The point I’m trying to make is simple: when you find yourself married to your mistress, she becomes your wife.

And repetition being the antithesis of creativity, I have to work double time to add spice to my marriage. I used to dream about possessing her, of making love to her at mid-noon while the satin curtains shield our naked bodies from the prying eyes of neighbors. But now, it’s different. Not in a good or bad way, just different in a sense that my mistress is always accessible.

I see her always, my ex-mistress and wife, reclining there on the sofa, rollers on her hair, her white granny panties showing from beneath a pair of skimpy maong shorts, watching TV. Somewhere, somehow, she stopped trying to excite me. She’s just sitting there.

Looking bored.

As always, the fulfillment of every dream is the most disappointing part. I’ve been doing this for the past six or more years. Most days are better than others. There are perks, of course, but then the 10^th and 25^th days of the month more than covered up for those perks.

My salary is what most accountants would term a negligible asset.

And what happens if I don’t feel like writing? Sadly, that’s not an option. When you feel writer’s block coming along, you write, scribble, doodle or pound those keyboards until you produce a graspable train of thought and pray to God, Allah, Brahma or whatever higher power you ascribe to that your editor would find it in his or her heart to be magnanimous. 

Your mangled copy is proof that God has a nasty habit of flicking off the finger.

It’s not a lost cause, however. Through the years I’ve been doing this, I learned something about myself. Something that was made obvious to me as I nearly cap this post:

I’m not very good at what I do best.

Anti-hero

As can be gleaned from the previous post, I have no moral compunction whatsoever. In juxtaposition to that statement,  I'm wary of people who have high-regard of themselves as a virtual authority on values (specifically of the religious kind) and impose that knowledge on others by being generous with their scathing comments or scorn, whichever can generate more spite, when you stumble.

Sure, taking back what the kid stole would have been the correct thing to do but always doing the "right" thing never held much allure for me. And I don't think I'm alone in this. After all, the urge that drives people to a certain action is not really defined by how acceptable it is but because it feels good. The better it feels, the bigger the stake and in that regard, the term charity is most ominous because it is a selfish act cloaked in altruism. The lie is to help improve the lives of others when the motivation is selfish — to feel good. But I'll take charitable frauds to critics, who dish out vituperation without its pecuniary counterpart, any day. 

The times make it very hard for heroes to thrive. You know, those larger-than-life individuals that you look up to even if one day you grew taller and find yourself looking down on them? In this age of fast foods, Chinese knockoffs and pirated 16 in 1 DVDs, the laid-back, cigar-chomping, women-loving, and uncomplicated hero who sees the world in black and white just overstayed his welcome. In fact, this kind of hero when played in the movies is panned out by critics as “two-dimensional.” In its place, we now have the anti-hero. The angst-filled character who’s neither a protagonist nor an antagonist; the man we love to hate; the man who’s got more edges than a googolgon.

I belong to a clan with old-family values. Not unlike the Mafia (and try reading this aloud using your best impression of Marlon Brando’s Corleone), "family comes first." And like the Mafia, we have skewed sense of values. Church is for sissies, and so are pink shirts and uncircumcised men. Pretty much, everything in the 10 Commandments is fair game: stealing, adultery, taking the Lord’s name in vain, killing (I’m not exaggerating here), judging everybody else (and gossiping about it afterwards), or coveting (which predicates stealing).

However, there are two rules you should never, ever violate: Honor your parents and spare the women and children. Those things earn you a bitch-slappin’ right there. 

The result is bringing up a clan of rogue hybrids and anti-heroes. People who have no problem stabbing you to death right where you sit, seducing your wife, mugging you for talking funny, doing drugs, or gambling away that TV set. These are people who think prison is no badge of shame but fuck me if you won’t see them fight to death to prevent that from happening. Sa laktod na pagkabisaya, dili padakop ug buhi.

Yet I could never imagine myself raising my voice to my parents even if the accusations seem unjust or however I may think my position is correct nor could I fathom raising a hand against a woman or a child. 

Never.

And in all that distorted sense of values and mafia mumbo-jumbo, the implicit lesson is clear, for me at least. Anything that is justifiable is excusable. Try thinking of any crime or offense and I’m sure you will find a valid reason if you put yourself in the offender’s shoes, though admittedly you have to lower your standards from the communal to totally subjective point of view.

But I still think there’s no excuse for rape, beating your child silly, or talking back to your parents, which brings us all the way back to our bottom line: Honor your parents and spare women and children. Everything else is fair game.    

eyebrows

You know those conversations that hit home like a wayward punch into your glass jaw and you still feel the after effects much later?  Well, recently somebody punched me in the gut with her words and now this is the consequence. And if anybody should think this entry sucks, don’t look at me and blame her instead.

These are the snippets of our conversation:

Girl: Maski pa paseloson taka, di man gihapon. Maski testingan taka, wa gihapon.
Me: Ah! Testingan jud? High school man kayo na oi, di naman ko madala anang testing-testing.
Girl: (frustrated) Pagselos pud daw oi para makabalo pud daw ko na naga-care ka.

Girl: Mao jud. Kung paseloson taka, di man gihapon ka masuko, NR lang man ka.
Me: Di daw NR oi. Di lang ko pakita ug reaksyon. 
Girl: Wa jud. Kung sultian taka nga naa ko lain masuko diay ka? Di man na nimo nature.   
Me: Unsa man gusto nimo, dunggabon tamong duha?

(laughter)

Me: Bitaw, ayaw lang mo pakita sa akoa kay impulsive ako kasuko. Kanang makaitom pananaw.

Obviously, that was not the first time we’ve had that conversation so her frustration, from her point of view, is understandable. Okay, I’m going to attempt to dissect here why I seem indifferent to fits of jealousy. First, let me start by stating one incontrovertible fact:

I have thick eyebrows.

I don’t mean the bushy kind that most men possessed. My eyebrows are a single continuous streak from end to end, disregarding that defenseless break in the middle of the forehead right above the bridge of the nose.

It’s quite a glitch since I’m not a particularly hirsute person. I can’t grow a mustache ala Lito Lapid or sport a full beard like Dante Varona (for the benefit of the young generation, think Mel Gibson’s mug shot when he was arrested for DUI or Jim Caveziel as Christ). Anyway, I tried growing a mustache once and it came out a little flaky. Each beard choosing to mutiny and extend towards the heavens or the east and west, never down south, which come to think of it was a veritable violation of all laws of physics and gravity. The experiment bombed because I ended up looking like a Vietnamese chihuawa with scabies.

There’s an old myth about eyebrows. Apparently, the degree of your jealousy can be always be distinguished by how thick your eyebrows are and growing up people always tell me. “Seloso ka no?” That loaded question never failed to stump me. How could I answer when I never really assessed myself that much to care whether I’m the jealous type or not? As is the case when you’re being spoon-fed with falsehood, sooner or later you accept it as truth. For quite some time, I thought I was the jealous type and I guarded my women like a hawk. I defended even those who didn’t know I existed. Yeah I know. I came quite close to being a psychotic stalker. 

Let’s call her X. I met her in College at Ateneo and, well, pursued her. I didn’t know why she said yes but we were an item for a while. See, everytime I woo a girl, I go through two phases:  first is the charming son of a bitch — this is when I pull out all the stops to win over the girl; and just plain son of a bitch – when I suddenly lost interest because she said yes. Usually, the girl got the hint and broke up with me. 

Not this one. We were on for only one month but the space between us was a nucleus of hostility. She was jealous and I was jealous and right on the get go we clashed. I didn’t even know why I liked her in the first place (uh… wait. Yeah, she had big boobs). Only a day after we were on, she stormed into my classroom because she saw me talking to my girl seatmate with a smirk, which usually means I have a wisecrack comment, and dragged me outside. Oh, did I mention that the class was still in session? 

And so we’d fight over petty things and nobody was seemed eager to yield. Some days were more violent for her than others, when she’d swing his books or shoulder bag at me. There were also times when I came close to wringing her neck and get it over with. Good thing I had loads of self-control or else I would have been some convict’s bitch by now. 

At least I’ve learned that you could never really win in a shouting match with a woman and so the best argument is silence. Nothing annoys a woman more than utter silence in the middle of spat. 

But I digress.

That experience was pretty traumatic but more importantly, I realized that it wasn’t jealousy that pushed me to endure that relationship or even to provoke her into a fight. It was pride. I relished each moment when I sent her into paroxysms of rage while I retain my self-control; I relished accusing her of being a bitch in heat (yeah, I was a bastard) as men (dogs, I called them) toadied up to her (again, she’s got big boobs). In the end, we walked away without learning anything, certainly not as better persons. 

I saw through the obscurity that my eyebrows had cloaked me with.

I’m not about jealousy. People think I’m indifferent and even my girl thinks I possess a heart of stone, which is not entirely correct. Sure I bleed but nobody’s going to get the satisfaction of seeing me wince. 

(Anger is such a pointless exercise, I prefer to get even.)

Besides, why should I be jealous when I’m partly (I hope) responsible for the person she is now? It’s just like baking a scrumptious chocolate cake that you worked hard for. From the time you list the recipe from your favorite food channel, to doing the grocery, to the painstaking task of mixing the ingredients and baking it on the oven for 400 degrees farenheit. When the cake comes out perfect, should I then complain when others admire its beauty? I should have baked a pandesal instead! 

Am I the only man in the world who’s proud when men mill around his girl instead of being jealous? Let me see, as of last count, my girl has about five men ingratiating themselves to her at the same time! Most of these men are taller, better looking and maybe even more moneyed than me. I should be threatened, right? No, I’m beaming, for Christ’s sake! This would do wonders for her self-esteem. 

Everybody must think I’m crazy to feel secure. But if somebody reads this and still wonders about that, he or she missed the whole point of this entry. This is not about me. This is about her — even if sometimes she forgets that.

What about the incontrovertible truth that is my eyebrows?

Simple, I just plucked them.

I’m back (from somewhere)

Okay… i haven't been here far too long. Much has happened over the past couple of weeks. Just to give you an idea of just how much… I'm writing this post from Thailand. Cool huh?

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I realized how I hate flying when I flew from Manila to Jakarta. I knew something bad was gonna happen when we encountered an ominous cloud. The plane was jerking around from too much turbulence, I was still calm because the seatbelt sign wasn't on. Then suddenly we hit one of those air pockets and the plane dropped 10 feet from the sky!

The captain was all cool and collected and addressing the passengers in a calm voice: "Fasten your seatbelts please." 

Yeah, right! Was that supposed to make me feel safe? We were bungee jumping 35,000 feet up without safety cords on and to make you safe the captain advises you to strap your butt on a 2,000-ton plane! I think that's a conspiracy. I think that as the big bosses plan on commercializing the air industry back in the early days they decided that if the plane was gonna go down in flames, let's take along all its passengers because hospitalization expenses would be costly. While in death, they can just fix an exact amount for burial expenses.

I was there thinking that instead of life vests under our seats, why couldn't the airline just put parachutes instead?

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I'm here on a fellowship to foster better relationship with colleagues from all over. On the same fellowship are the Burmese, Cambodian, Indonesian, Malaysian. We were supposed to have Thai and Vietnamese participants but they begged off in the last minute.

I think it's great. Learning from the others' culture and teaching mine as well. I even taught the Burmese fellow a touch of Filipino hospitality and what better way to teach our culture than our language?

So I taught him a tagalog phrase which I said means "I'm kind, you can trust me."

I taught him to say: "Maliit ang titi ko." 

Hello, how are you?

"Hello, how are you?" is perhaps one of the most worn-out English greeting apart from the curt "hello" or "hi!" Ironically, the monosyllabic greeting "hi" or "hello", though terse-sounding on paper, is actually reserved for friends.  Usually followed by a quick hug or a peck on the cheek.

The phrase "Hello, how are you?" is more formal. It's what salespersons use to greet a potential client; It's what teachers use to welcome students to their class; the boss addressing his secretary. It's what you read in books when the heroines were still in their petticoats, girdles and those cute umbrellas with tassels in their gloved hands.

Nevertheless, the greeting "Hello, how are you?" is usually accompanied with a smile. It doesn't take much, however, since the first syllable of the word "hello" requires you to expand your lips into a near smile as you cluck your tongue on your palate and snapping it free as you roll the second syllable around your mouth.  Hopefully, your grin lasts until you reach the last syllable "you."

"Hello, how are you?"

That's what 23-year old Cho Seung-Hui asked in one of the classrooms of Virginia Tech university. That's what he asked before pointing his handgun on the head of the professor conducting the class and squeezing the trigger. He then turned towards the 15 stunned students and emptied his magazines.

Satisfied that he killed all of them, Cho calmly walked out the door. One of the survivors of the first volley of shots later recalled hearing more gunshots ringing from the next room but not before he heard Cho asked the class, its tenor and nuance muted by the thick walls that insulated the other students from the bloodbath that had just occurred.

"Hello, how are you?"

When the smoke cleared, 32 people lay dead. He then pointed the gun on himself and fired.

What's striking is the formal way he posed the question.  Cho lived in the United States since he was eight years old so 15 years should be enough for him to soak up Western culture. Psychological profilers would have a heyday analyzing his thoughts and motives. Would they perhaps have a better grasp of his mindset the day he went on a killing spree had he shouted invectives in street slang?

Did he snap? But surely a person who's out of his mind wouldn't ask how his would-be victims were doing, would he?
 
If it was a hate crime, his emotion would have been palpable.His rage would have filtered through the barrel of his gun even before his bullets assailed limbs or craniums. His steps, rendered heavy by the seething storm underneath, would have sent off an ominous sensation.    

This was different. Students and teachers who knew him claim that he preferred to be by himself rather than socialize.His classmates said he just watched and listened during classes. He was reclusive, very quiet and a loner.

They were wrong. A loner wouldn't have barged into the rooms and take it upon himself to carry out Hades' job description. A loner would just kill himself. Perhaps the best proof that he was lonely in life could be gleaned in the manner of his death — he didn't want to die alone.

I wonder how many students and teachers reached out to Cho and asked him "Hello, how are you?"

Perhaps they would have gotten the silent treatment. And perhaps they would have gotten a reply, devoid of any formality and pretense. From one human being to another.

"No, I'm not. Help me please."

Holy Crap

I remember exactly when I stopped going to church. It was my birthday during my second year high school, the first day of Misa de Gallo. It was still 4:30 a.m., but the air inside the church was stuffy, nearly clotted by the sheer number of people inside. It felt like we were Jews during the Holocaust about to be gassed.

I was sandwiched between two massive bulks, a mother and her daughter I guess. The daughter gave off a scent that could only be described as vinegary sweetness — a blend of sweat and perfume. Meanwhile, the mother, well, forget the mother. I huddle closer to her daughter. Two grown men in front of me blocked my view of the pulpit. The hum of the priest's voice ricocheted around the walls. I felt very drowsy.

I heard the priest bless the cup containing the "blood of Christ," I strained my neck and I couldn't see what he was doing. I heard the priest bless the Holy Eucharist, I tippy-toed and still I couldn't see what he was doing. Fuck this!

I stormed out of the church and went out to buy puto bumbong. Never paid much attention to priests since then. Oh, I've been to church several times. I even attended Misa de Gallo again and attempted to finish the traditional nine mornings. I would have completed it, too, if the girl I was courting that time (and that is why I was escorting her) hadn't said yes on the 7th day. So the day after, she went to mass alone. Hehehe.

So what went wrong? It seemed silly to drop religion on account of a little acidity from some girl's armpit, wasn't it? Yes, it seemed silly but, to borrow a worn-out phrase, that was the last straw.

I grew up with my lola in an old house stuffed with religious images. Aside from the Holy Family, we also had a Sto. Niño, the Sacred Heart, a big rosary, and a poster of Jesus Christ. I grew up venerating these icons, especially the Holy Family — more prehistoric than my lola, I was told.
(Hmmn… antique? Ka-ching!)

Back then, we prayed a lot. I was quite adept at praying the rosary and could recite the mysteries backwards; the Angelus at 6:00 p.m., the way of the cross to Shrine each Holy Week; I even knew how to pray the novena for every occasion, sa patay, sa buhi, sa hapit na mamatay. When I wasn't at home, I was at the catholic school I go to and you guessed it, recited the rosary, prayed Our Father and droned out the Hail Marys. Oh, almost forgot the three o'clock prayer.

No, there's no Eureka moment nor was I hit with a thunderbolt which triggered a sudden realization that all my life I've been had by religion. My reason was much more mundane and bland than that. I just got tired of it all.

Which gets me thinking… why is it that priests speak in monotone? No, scratch that. Why is the whole Eucharist conducted in monotone? The voice of the priest, the songs, the melody — all make for a banausic impression. I have a theory. I think, it's a grand conspiracy. The lifeless, bromidic ritual taps into our alpha waves or something, lulling us into relaxation and therefore more open to suggestion. You remember those tapes back in the 80s that supposedly dribble satanic verses when played backwards? I think when you slow down the ceremony just about right, you could hear subliminal messages whispering "we are the way or you're going to hell" or "give more to the collection plate or you're going to hell." They have nearly two millennia to perfect the system, right?

I mean, all that ceremony and what do we get!?! The Holy Eucharist which is no bigger than a five peso coin. The priest doesn't even allow us to sip the wine! At least, other religions feed you with a sandwich and juice. If you have to be fucked in the behind, might as well be fed for it. I draw the line with Quiboloy and his Kingdom of Christ, however, they not only not feed you, they make you sell pulvoron in the guise of scholarship as well. The only thing which sucks more than that is my blog.

I've been called a lost child, an agnostic, atheist, or even a satanist. Sometimes I welcome the labels, just so I know I belong to something. Don't get me wrong, I envy those who don't question and just let their faiths steer their destiny. They seem so cute and placid, like sheep. Awwww…

It's easy to think that being amoral sans responsibilities is fun but it's difficult to suspect what has dominated and continues to dominate all aspects of my life; it's especially difficult to doubt when it's all I have left of my lola. If nothing else, religion was our connection. She was proudest when her apo led the novena for the first time and our neighbors praised my skill. She never said a word but I'm sure she looked at the empty space beside her when she recited the Angelus in front of the Sto. Niño.

My lola is now dead. I cried hardest when at the time she needed it most, I couldn't even allow myself to recite a short prayer for her. I wanted to but that seemed hypocritical. I guess at that moment, there's no turning back for me.

Yet, this whole crap is so embedded in me that even as I conclude this entry, I mentally make the sign of the cross.

The look

Growing up, we had a lot of dogs. Mind you, these were not the uppity kind that ate only doggie foods, or respond to any command, or be jumping with joy at the sight of water as shown on those cute Labrador commercials on TV. Our dogs have no pedigree at all. You know, the kind that rabid dogs don't wanna meet in a dark alley.

It's not unusual for us to strut around the neighborhood with three or four dogs behind us while the angry barks and growls of the other dogs trail us as we pass by. Our dogs would be lapping along, assuming a swagger that's not befitting their non-pedigreed askal (asong kalye) ass and unmindful of the commotion they were causing.

Maybe that's the reason why we were not as attached to our dogs as we should be like the owners of those cute Labrador commercials on TV. Bath time were always a struggle, both from the dogs and us kids who were ordered to bathe the damn mutts. To put into context where we place our dogs in our hierarchy of needs: one time, we gave (donated?) one of our sickly dogs which died that summer of many moons ago to the local bums in the neighborhood as their pulutan. That afternoon summer of many moons ago, beneath an overcast sky, I ate adobong Blackie that I downed with an 8-oz. bottle of Mirinda. The whole experience gave a whole new meaning to the word "Down Blackie." hehe (God, I crack myself up).

But this is not about adobong Blackie but another dog named Blackie — for lack of imagination and because we had too many dogs, we named them according to their color and other permutations: Brownie, Blackie, Whitey, Spotty, Tisoy/Tisay, Nognog, etc. — who unwittingly taught us unconditional love and all that crap.

Blackie didn't have any distinguishing characteristics apart from his short legs. Judging from his name, the dog was all black save from a white mark in the middle of its head that splintered his cranium in two. He had the same mark on the tip of his tail that was always bent upwards when he stood on all fours. Like a perpetual "fuck you."

That's exactly how he behaved. He possessed a fuck you attitude, always looking out for a fight with our other dogs, even his old pop. Nobody touched the old dog, a grizzled veteran of many dog fights which bitten a lot of friends' legs that we couldn't care to remember, except Blackie. No sir! Blackie seemed to have made it his life's work to provoke his pop to be the Alpha Dog and fuck you very much!

His coat did not have the luster of pure-bred dogs. The hairs were thin and coarse, almost prickly and they emit a musky odor like a combination of ash and burnt pubes. Not that I know what burnt pubic hair smells like. He was just like any of our dogs except for one: we sold him off for P150.00 to our neighbor to celebrate his birthday with his friends.

Just so everything's clear. Even at our young age, we knew what would happen to him. He would very likely be somebody's appetizer before the day is done. We even knew how it's done.

1. You tie the dog to a post or a tree and make sure the rope is about two to three inches between the post and the collar so the dog wouldn't have room to maneuver and the head is quite still.

2. You take a stick, about 1 1/2 inches to two inches thick, and you hammer in a 4-inch nail at the end of the stick and you have a makeshift death bludgeon.

3. Whack the dog with the stick until his ass don't yelp no mo'.

See? it's easy as one, two, three.

I remembered right after lunch, our neighbor went to take Blackie. The dog was unusually subdued. I had the uneasy feeling he understood our conversations about selling him and he knew he was going to the gallows. As our neighbor led him outside the gate, the dog looked at us with dejected eyes. It's not at all accusatory, rather a resigned look that says "I can't believe you just did that."

I have to admit that I pity the dog. I wasn't such a heartless prick. Nor was my father, in fact, who sold Blackie. There was just too much chaos in the house, with five kids and 10 dogs. He didn't need the aggravation caused by Blackie. I'm not making excuses here, just an explanation.

The house was suddenly clothed with a sudden silence, the unmistakable conspiratorial silence that follows after a great transgression. That's that. Blackie's gone.

Or so we thought.

Some 30 minutes later, we heard a commotion from outside the house and so we all went out to investigate. Blackie's escaped! He knew how to open our gate anyway so he went right in and hid under the stack of lumbers at the backyard. Our neighbor was close behind his heels, clutching a 2 x 2 stick.

When Blackie saw us, he emerged from his hiding place dragging the severed rope around his neck, sporting a nasty-looking lump on his forehead the size of Batanes, and licked my father's feet. It broke my father's heart and returned the money to our neighbor.

Blackie had the opportunity to escape and he went home instead. He knew that my father sold him off to be killed and if he had any doubts, the lump on his forehead quelled all that. I've heard and read stories about dogs being intelligent but coming home was just stupid. Home's what brought him to that mess in the first place. Home was his ticket to one-way street. Was it just animal instinct that made him go home? Well, yes and no.

I should probably tell here that after licking my father's feet, Blackie proceeded to lick all of our feet. Each of our damn, stinky feet. When I looked down to see him groveling at my feet, I understood why my father had to return that money. It's not the kiss. It's the look.

You see, when I look into Blackie's eyes, I saw nothing but forgiveness. That was what my father saw. That was what broke his heart.

Blackie lived on with us for many years until he died of old age. He remained as boisterous, brassy, loud-mouthed, and frenzied as before. He did become the Alpha Dog and not a single day pass by without him reminding us about this fact by being a major pain in the ass.

Torpe

A study made by a University of the Philippines professor found that in the end, the torpe gets the girl. There must be something wrong in my perspective because I find the opposite to be true and that's the reason I changed my game plan in the first place.

According to the study, it's often (?) the "shy, reserved, often wordless and apparently needy" types that attract girls rather than the aggressive ones. While the term aggressiveness here was not qualified, I'd imagine it to be somebody who's actively pursuing the girl as opposed to someone making "paramdam."

I don't know the type of girls (respondents) who participated in the survey but I have in my head a profile of conservative girls looking for stable relationships. I'm stereotyping, I'm sure. I'm not hatin' on the survey or anythin but I tried the torpe tack, and it didn't work as much as I would like.

I don't know how many of those relationships worked but I'd imagine the batting average to be below par. Maybe I'm cynical but the reasons cited by the survey behind going into the relationship with a shy and silent type are already flawed. The psychologist explained that girls want "to help and care for them" because of the compassionate nature of Filipinos. Well, compassion sure isn't passion. Compassion at best leads to a stable relationship. At the very least, it's a sure ticket to friendship. You know, the perpetual shoulder to cry on once your girl cries over his bastard, good-for-nothing, rogue bf who's the very opposite of a nice guy (which you are).

You see, while I'm not an expert on the opposite sex (I excel only in creeping out women), I know this much: attraction is not a choice. That's why you see your pretty crush, the love of your life, get routinely treated badly by his ugly bf (the very opposite of who you are), cry on your shoulders, ask for advice, promise to leave him but the very next day, you find her in his arms anyway. You bang your head against the wall trying to understand what's going on but the answer is pretty simple: attraction is not a choice.

You can bet your ass the girl knows that he's wrong for her but logic doesn't apply here because — repeat after me — attraction isn't a choice.

And you know why "pa-cute" doesn't work? Because the girl already knows about your feelings for her even before you utter a single vow of allegiance to her pretty little pedestal; which begs the question, if she has no feelings for you, why would she stay chummy even if she knows how you feel? Simple, because you (shyness and all) are "safe." Once you profess your undying love for her, however, that harmless factor crumbles and the relationship changes. So, staying loyal to your girl thinking you would win her in the end is not only wrong, its downright masochistic.

I think what draws girls to the "silent type" are anchored on two things: mystery and potential. It would be a good idea to keep the first and fulfill the latter. The danger here is when the girl starts to peel the onion skin bit by bit and find nothing at the core but a needy, groveling wuss. Nobody likes a spoiled, needy child but a mother, and some mothers are known to crack their knuckles once in a while and cluck the head of their pampered kids to knock sense into them.

The second is more complicated. I think the shy, reticent guy alluded to in the survey possess within himself a potential. Kanang masuroy na sa Lachmi ba ug naay potensyal isuroy sa mall ba. No matter what the survey says, nobody likes a dirty bum who doesn't want to help himself. A bum might work if you're a bad boy. Why do you think good girls swoon over the likes of Robin "Bad boy" Padilla, Jay "Totoy Mola" Manalo, or Victor Neri? Apart from their being action stars, it's the element of danger involved that's very attractive.

What's the difference between a bad boy and a geek? Oh, I don't know… sexual tension, danger, unpredictability, confidence, and sense of security (not talking here of financial but the sense that he could handle himself in any situation). The main difference is control. Despite the feminist movement, girls still look for men who exert control, not just to the relationship but to all aspects of his life as well. It's wired into their brains to look for the Alpha male because in the animal kingdom, the Alpha males are perceived to have the best genes for mating. Just like it's wired into men's brains to be drawn to women with big boobs because big juggies are thought to have more milk, and therefore more food for the child. It's not true of course, but nevertheless.

I wish some girls could back me up on this one. Between a needy, shy type every mother dreams of and an adventurous bad boy type that you don't bring home to mama, who you gonna choose? There are only two archetypes of men: the lover and provider. Those two archetypes are further divided into other subtypes: the bad boy, happy-go-lucky, athletes, thrill-seekers, artists, the "daddy" (which refers to old men with plenty of moola with a young woman in tow), husband-material (men viewed as stable partners), and the successful/powerful.

There are also other types that fall below the radar screen of women: the geeks/nerds (totally devoid of potential), bums (the happy-go-lucky guy gone wrong), mr. know-it-all, mama's boy, and the insecure geek (I know, a double whammy).

It's important to choose from among the archetypes and tailor-make you personality according to who you want to be. Do you want to be a lover or a provider? Each has its own advantages and disadvantages.

What a man needs to avoid at all costs is to be lumped into the "friend mode," a pit of perdition that is so very hard to get away from. You might think that the best way to court a girl is to be friends first. Wrong! Don't believe that crap you see on TV. That could only work if in the first stages of the courtship you already lay down your cards on the table about your true intentions and the girl tells you that she's not ready. Here, it's a good idea to assess where you stand in the relationship every now and then to make sure the girl is not shitting you. A good gauge is how comfortable is she around you even after you told her about your feelings and just how touchy you both are after that. This is the "M.U." stage. The only thing lacking in the relationship is the formal proposal and acceptance.

But of course, that's also a trap. Just when you thought you're home free, Wham! The girl introduces you to a new squeeze. Hahahaha! What can I say? Women are weird so it's no good to dissect their complexities. Be that in mind, consider this post worthless.

This post will self-destruct in five seconds… 5…4…3…2…

Movies

I love movies. Even if I fall asleep every damn time.

The last movie I remembered not falling asleep to was when I was still wearing short pants. My parents took us to see Flash Gordon back in 1980 at the old Lawaan Theater (before it was reduced to being the pit of depravity and hedonism, Lawaan was quite cool).

I still remember the story about a star football player, played by Sam Jones, and his friends who was transported to the planet Mongo to battle the evil Emperor Ming, which was played by Max Von Sydow. Sydow, of course, was excellent in his role as Fr. Lankester Merrin in the original Exorcist movie with Linda Blair as the possessed child. Sam Jones, meanwhile, couldn’t quite get out B-movie list and into blockbuster movies.

That was especially memorable because my parents took all of us to the movie, which was rare considering the expense. On government payroll during the 80s, it was quite a luxury to take four boys to the movies. Plus, we were all irascible. Hardly a minute goes by when we were not fighting or running around. Later and as a compromise, my father bought a betamax player and our house was a virtual library of Tom and Jerry, Looney Tunes, and Walt Disney cartoons. There’s also the endless list of Kung Fu titles like the Snake and the Eagle Shadow, Tiger Claw, Drunken Tai-Chi, Animal Kung-Fu, or Shaolin vs. Ninja.

In fact, the first lesson I learned came from Kung Fu movies: You gotta beat up the old guy with the white beard and impeccable Kung Fu moves in order to be the top dog. And later, when you sport a white beard yourself, some young punk will challenge your manhood and you get crushed. No sense fighting that truth.

Our Betamax player soon expired and was replaced by a VHS player. During all those times, going to the movies was a rarity. My love affair with the movies was renewed when I was in high school. And the endless slumbers pretty soon started.

Dates are always awkward. Just how do you explain to your date that your sleeping has nothing to do with ennui? When you would rather sleep than grope, there must be something wrong somewhere. And there was also the problem of being groped yourself. There was one time in the Queens theater when I fell asleep alone watching The Quick and the Dead, starring Sharon Stone, a young Leonardo de Caprio and the still sophomoric Russel Crowe.

I woke up to a hand quickly probing and touching, almost urgently, my crotch. I looked beside me to a silhouetted face of a guy who went on touching me as if I wasn’t awake. I punched his face and rushed outside of the theater. Even in the darkness, I could see that he was much, much bigger than me and my ass had no intention of being introduced to his friend dick.

The genre hardly helps. Be it action, comedy, drama, art movies, indie, animation, romance or any other variations, it did not matter. Im still sleeping. Though I pay closer attention to light romantic movies, which my girl always subscribe to, just to wait for one of them to mess up a big moment. You know, when Ann Hathaway in the Devil Wears Prada, goes off to Paris for the fashion show. I waited for her to trip and bump her head on the corner of the runway ramp and die. That would have been fun if the hero gets killed in the middle of the movie while the rest of the cast just meandering around like chickens with their heads cut off. Of course, it doesnt happen but that doesnt stop me from wishing and crossing my fingers, nevertheless.

It is good that my girl, who equally loves movies, understand my quirks. At least now, I have somebody who guards me when I sleep. Though I dread the day when the next hand on my crotch will come from hers, and instead of sexually groping… she would firmly squeeze.

Taboo

How do you classify some practices as taboo? By what power does society proscribe something as unacceptable, as vile, as forbidden as to exclude it from mores and the fineries of civilization?

I saw on National Geographic the origins of voodooism and it demystified all my preconceived and ambiguous notions about the practice. All I knew about voodoo before were from the movies: the dolls, reminiscent of our own mangkukulam, the rituals of blood and sacrifices, and zombies. Who could forget about the zombies? I remember the film Night of the Living Dead in the old betamax and how they couldn’t be killed unless you sever their heads off from their bodies, or blow their brains out, depending on how you like your gore. That night I couldn’t sleep and it didn’t help that we had a weirdo for a house help who relished in regaling (read: scaring) us with stories from the radio programs she listened to.

Apparently, voodoo is considered as religion in Benin, South Africa where it originated with over four million believers. While the practice also believes in the one true god, it’s anchored heavily on animism. Believers claim that God is too busy to listen to all their concerns so they rely on the messengers. These messengers ostensibly are walking among us and could be invoked if the priest allows his body to become the vessel for possession.

The original meaning of the word from the Farsi (?) language was spirit. Meaning: to invoke the spirits. The invoking part is what makes the religion so controversial. The rituals include sacrificing a kid (not a kid kid but a goat young) or cutting themselves to draw blood, which becomes the sacrifice itself. The priest sways to the rhythm of the drums (maybe the reason why hip-hop music is dictated by the throbbing of the drum) before he’s possessed by the spirit.

I was watching the whole episode when I drew some parallelism with Catholicism, which is supposedly a mainstream religion and was partly responsible for creating the myths about voodooism. The use blood in voodoo rituals is not unique. During communion, priests drink the wine which represents the blood of Christ. All throughout history, we have ordinary people suffering from stigmata and some of them were canonized to sainthood.

Possession, too, is not limited to voodooism. God manifested himself through Immaculate Conception, which is quite simply a form of possession. In fact, Christianity as a religion was itself considered a taboo when Mithraism was the dominant religion years after Christ’s death. Christians were routinely hanged, fed to the lions, or flagellated.

Speaking of flagellation which is a prevailing practice in voodooism, during the Semana Santa, Catholic devotees also practice self-flagellation as a form of penitence. Some of these devotees even nailed themselves to the cross. The fanatics among the Catholic hierarchy like Opus Dei, for example, also practice self-flagellation.

The thing that struck me about voodooism is the violence. There’s a term that describes this: the passion of the real. The concept is that for the experience to be authentic, there has to be some violent or shocking encounter. This is especially relevant to our times when we are rendered more and more like automatons or zombies by the technologies that surround us. When conversations are diluted by the vicarious social interaction between a man and a woman, typing hurried words in their yahoo messengers.

Voodoo is an “in-your-face” religion, devoid of the trappings of social political correctness (which is the greatest thing that ever happened to bigots and racists, but that’s another story). When you break down all existing constructs, what do you have left? Ironically, it doesn’t follow what existentialist and post-modernist thinkers are proposing: that meaning and experience can only be created by the individual and so is not objective. What remains, in fact, is the common need to connect to something that is higher than ourselves. And that promise, that potentiality is universal to all religions. That’s what makes Christianity and Voodooism ultimately the same.

God, my head hurts.

The Jollibee phenomenon

Disclaimer: Data and information in the following content are not intended to disparage anybody down, most especially the famous wide-eyed bug. The author shall not be liable for any errors and inaccuracies in the content. If the author should violate any copyright laws in the process, this disclaimer is meant to be a calculated way out. So, fuck that!

I saw on Backtracks, an episode of the local music channel MYX TV, a clip of Paula Cole’s “Where have all the Cowboys Gone?” released in 1996 and I was floored. Backtracks was supposed to be a celebration of the classics. The music video was lumped there together with the cult clip “Whip it” by Divo, the purveyors of disco pop; Selena’s “Dreaming of You;” Nirvana’s “Lithium;” and I forgot the others.

I could understand Nirvana, Divo and even Selena’s cheesy song “Dreaming of you” (being that she’s dead), but Paula Cole?

In this country, still reeling from post-colonialism, classic music has mutated into a loose form which is equilateral to the term “old.” Other factors could also categorize a music video as a classic:

1. When the singer’s life is cut short, preferably in a violent way;
2. When the song crosses borders between races and influences;
3. When two or three artists, famous individually, collaborate;
4. When the song develops a cult following or starts a new genre;

Paula Cole’s song did not even rule the charts up until the TV series Dawson’s Creek plucked it up from oblivion (insert your objections here) and made it its theme song. Could it be that the Generation-Y, the MTV generation to which I belong is now considered old?

Consider how the youth of today (the Gen-Z, I guess), scoffed at the major influences that shaped our young minds.

All 2-D games now are considered as classics: Pacman, Bomberman, Gattaca, Super Mario Brothers, Battle City, Commando. I doubt even 3-year olds would have fun playing them (what, no blood? Pffftt! Too lame!).

Our music: Metallica, Nirvana, Aerosmith, Pearl Jam, R.E.M, Eraserheads, Yano, alanis Morisette, even the *gasp* boy bands. I think Eraserheads lead singer Ely Buendia summed it best after their songs were revived by various artists under the album Electromagneticpop: He feigned surprise and roughly said “Buhay pa kami.”

And shwarma! Who needs shwarma? They have kebab.

Good thing the gaudy clothes of the 80’s were not revived. Those were just kitschy man! The era of punk, wild hair with highlights, tattered shirts, white rubber high-cuts, high-waist and stretchable pants. The leotards? Way cool! Especially if you pull thick cotton socks over them. Hehehe.

The New Wave music and disco pop were a product of the 80’s but they never really took off until the 90’s.

I think it’s amazing to live in an era when history seems to be anachronistic. We are living in history itself where man is on the verge of takeoff, skipping to another evolution. Modern thinking proposes that there are no longer novel ideas, only old concepts rehashed and corrupted. But I think this is hogwash. New technologies are being introduced by the minute. Even mass media are tickled with the revolution. Scientists in Britain, for example, have cracked the code for curing baldness. So in the next few years (months!), the problem of baldness, falling teeth, cracked nails would have been solved. US scientists, on the other hand, reported to have attacked cancer with gene therapy for white blood cells. Could we see a cure for cancer in our lifetime? That would have been unthinkable yesterday, but now?

Imagine, the grandfather and grandmothers of the future would be listening to rap music to remember the days past! It’s their era, after all. Imagine a grandfather waxing nostalgic to his 4-year old grandson:

“Ah, when I was your age, we listened to Eminem, Snoop, and Nelly. Those were the days when the slurs and curses were bleeped not unlike your music today when all the words not containing fuck are bleeped. And I don’t take shit from you, beyatch!”

I remember seeing one girl at the MTS. She looked about 13 or so and she’s already wearing spaghetti blouse, strapless bra, micro-mini skirt and with red lipstick on. She was with her friends who are all dressed the same: little girls rushing to become adults. That would have earned you a slap on the face from the mothers of my generation right there.

While we still have yet to duplicate the tolerant liberalism of United States and the downright laissez-faire attitude of European countries on public nudity, I think we are getting there much faster than we realize.

Paradoxically, the technologies invented to realize the global village scenario, to bring people closer together might have been the same technologies driving the apart. Where are the games of our youth, the luksong tinik, tumba lata, syatong, chinese garter, sipa?

We are living in an era of fast foods; the short-order epoch. The missing link in human evolution would have been explained if there was a complex communication system in place then but I think we are in it: the jump from tree-dwelling monkeys to human beings. We are jumping from human beings to another step in the evolution process. But what? I know what we are now; we’re a breed of impatient people and I guess that’s a good thing to prepare for the breakneck speed of today and the future.

This short-order epoch is what I call the Jollibee phenomenon. The massive rise of Jollibee is no accident. People now prefer fast food, the turo-turo, so they could get back to their fast-paced lifestyle. At last count, there are nearly 500 Jollibee franchise nationwide with branches in United States, Hong Kong, Brunei and Vietnam.

This phenomenon even led the philosopher Slavoj Zizek to surmise that the true revolutionaries of today are the conservatives who desperately clung to old rules rather than those who ascribe to the changes. The conservatives, in essence, are the real change-makers.

I, on the other hand, still subscribe to Friedrich Nietzsche’s passive nihilism in his book Thus Spoke Zarathustra, the antithesis of the Over Man — the man who is never satisfied with himself, one who constantly tests his limits and demands more of himself once he breaches those limits.

I would become the Last Man.

Changes

disclaimer: published on August 17, 2006

Saw Chik2x last night and as is our wont (a tradition almost) when we have no money, we decided to splurge.

And so we hied off to Kaen Dawet along Roxas Avenue to eat and just chill out. I hated the crowd — the cacophony of voices, of bottles being served, of the shrilling DJ on the background, of shuffled feet, cellphones beeping — all gave me an earsplitting headache.

The thing is, I used to find the chaos of the crowd comforting, seeking tranquility in the anonimity it provides. I was drawn to them like a moth to a flame.

It doesn't really matter where I was. Mostly I and some other guys found ourselves in some dingy honky tonk, beer in our hands that were rendered blue or red (depending on where you sit) by the flourescent lights wrapped in cheap colored water cellophane.

Or sometimes, we enter strip clubs laughing our asses off over some antics of the girls onstage that are anything but erotic. So we just nurse our beers, munch on peanuts, and focus on the girls beside us.

To keep the girls that we "table" from clapping for a ladies drink (which, by the way cost over a P100) every ten seconds, Tonix and I wooed two girls. Mine was married (or so she said and you don't lie about a thing like that in the presence of your customer). It didn't matter, at least the claps now come at 20-second intervals.
We also frequent posh disco houses where dancing entailed standing on one place bobbing your head for lack of space.

I couldn't help but wax nostalgic about the old Mad Max along Legaspi Street. That was a riot in a literal sense of the word. The crowd was rowdy, the entrance was cheap, and a fight almost always break out. PARTEEYY!!

It didn't even matter that I couldn't hold my drink. Every so often I passed out or puke whatever I had for that week. I'd sleep, somebody wakes me up and hands me a glass of booze, naturally I accept it and drink some more; and naturally puke some more (there goes my intestine, my gall bladder and liver).

Free band performances were heavenly. Slamming, thumping, shouting, and get smashed afterwards. Of course, this was the era of grunge, where Nirvana, Radiohead, R.E.M and Pearl Jam reign like gods. ROCK ON!!!

I used to be that guy who shouted catcalls at every lousy joke the DJ made, my stupidity amplified by the alcohol in my veins; the one who took on every dare his friends issued; the jerk who couldn't understand the concept "no means no." I was boisterous, irascible, and generally obtuse. I've mellowed since then.

Last night, for example, I couldn't wait to get out of there and just sit somewhere quiet to talk, and instead of beer, it's my girl's hands I'm clutching.

Does that speak of my maturity? No, more like I'm moribund.

Stumping Ground

Words intimidate me. That may seem paradoxical since I write for a living but it’s true –words intimidate me.

Consider, for example, this seven-syllable word craspedomorphology: defined as a branch of photography, which deals with the sharpness of images, clarity of detail and the resolving power of camera lenses.

If you don’t consult the dictionary and rely only on the phonetics, it would evoke a different meaning. If I had to guess, based on the sound of the word and by literally considering each syllable, I would craft a totally different definition. And it has nothing to do with photography. I would come up something like: cras = uncouth; pedo = child; morph = change; and ology = study of. So my own definition would be: the study of changing an uncouth child.

I told you it has nothing to do with photography.

Fortunately or unfortunately, much as I am threatened with them, I’m also enamored with words. The way letters make love to form syllables and syllables merge to form words, words turn to sentences, and on it goes.

I imagine I must have slobbered graffiti on my mother’s thigh the day I got out just to have the pleasure of admiring what I just scrawled. Doctors must have been surprised to find the bloodied words “I was here” on the side of my mother’s thigh running through her leg.

My love affair with graffiti continued to high school, with a trusty ballpen, or if I’m lucky, pentel pen in hand. I’d scrawl anywhere, from wet cement (your name and the date below just to be sure the owner remembers the day you vandalized his pavement), the comfort room (girls or boys), my bedroom, school, lampposts, walls. A nail cutter also comes in handy when you have to carve your name on the teacher’s desk or your own chair. It was only later I learned that carving your real name would have dire consequences. ah, the lessons of youth!

I was lucky to have been surrounded by books. From those illustrated Jesus books peddled by Christian bookstores to Disney‘s Wonderful World of Knowledge, to Winnie the Pooh classics, Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales; and even our local askal Tagpi with the immortal phrase “run Tagpi, run!” (see, it’s not Forrest Gump who ran first).

Over the years, I graduated to books without illustrations. I used to raid the room of my aunt. There’s no rhythm and rhyme to her bookshelf. Side by side with management and economics books, there are also rows and rows of mills and boons, silhouettes, and other romance novels.

Naturally, between economics and a book with a cover where the hero, naked from the waist up, scoops up the girl with prominent breasts, her blouse off-kilted, waiting for that eternal kiss, I chose the latter.

There are also surprises in reading these romance novels for a young kid with growing loins. In between pages, there’s sure to be two to three pages of hot, searing, and passionate, well, lovemaking.

Then I was introduced to Harold Robbins, WHAM! It was not only my impressionable young mind that exploded (and exploded, hehehe)… I didn’t know words could do that to your loins. Good thing, my aunt only had two titles of Harold Robbins in her shelf but I devoured them both. She must have found out about my “growing” interest from the dog-eared pages where the steamy scenes were for one day, the books were just gone.

It was books that instinctively taught me sentence construction, idioms, and creating images through words, for I never did memorize the parts of the speech even if my ass depended on it. And in some cases, it did. When I was spanked on the butt for failing the English subject.

Mostly, when I write I played by ear. If it sounded awkward, it must be grammatically wrong. You could hear purists on the background screaming, “Your rules suck!” what can I say? I’ve got years of experience sucking.

If words intimidate me, the alternative downright terrifies me. Just how do you say hello to a blank space?