When you shoot yourself in the foot, you will feel pain afterwards. The wound will bleed, the blood will flow, and the tears from the pain will follow. You'll probably scream at the top of your lungs, "Ouch! I just shot myself in the foot!" But no one will really care, because it's your fault. I mean, you just shot a bullet through your damn foot.

When you're experiencing the pain brought about by the irresponsible act of shooting yourself in the foot, your mind will ask so many questions as to why you did such a thing. You will keep going back to that moment, when you had the gun in your hand, and you were slowly aiming it at your outstretched foot...then you held back at the last minute, knowing that it would bring nothing but bad things. What am I doing? you asked yourself. The wound might be too deep. I might not be able to walk again.

But then you pull the trigger anyway.

Your blood might have splattered to your face, and the searing sensation in your foot might have taken a while to sink in. But when it did, you had the feeling that things will never be the same again. The wound might heal eventually, but the scar will always be there. You might even be limping for a long while. Who knows, if the damage is too great, you might end up limping forever. Well, you shot yourself in the foot, you should have expected that.

But the point is, you weren't really thinking. You just thought you'd try it out, not knowing the consequences of doing so. You kind of knew you were flirting with disaster, but you still pulled the trigger and shot a freakin' bullet through your foot. What kind of masochist are you? Why the hell would you do something like that? What did you think you were going to get other than a bloody foot, a mouthful of curses, a painful realization that shooting yourself in the foot will bring you nothing but intolerable pain, and a wasted chance at a better future?

And the thing is, everyone will think you're crazy for doing such a thing. They'll never comprehend why you did it, because even you are not sure. Maybe you wanted to derive some satisfaction out of the whole damn thing, maybe you just wanted attention, or maybe you just wanted to see how it feels like to be shot in the goddamn foot.

Or maybe, just maybe...you just wanted to feel.

But the bottom line is: you're still crazy. You should never have done such a thing, man.

This post doesn't make any sense. Do not ask me why it doesn't make sense, it just doesn't. Why would you be interested in knowing why a senseless post refuses to make sense? This post just exists so it wouldn't make any sense to the reader, who happens to be you. Yes, you. Does that make sense? No it doesn't, because the carrier of that insight is this post which doesn't make any sense, whose senseless nature already presupposes the futility of you managing to derive any form of insight that would make the least bit of sense. So give up.

Why would you give up? Because this post doesn't make any sense, duh. You won't find anything here. Nada. All you'll find here is a big black gaping hole of nonsense, which doesn't make the least bit of sense either. Am I making sense? Of course not, because as I said earlier, this post is already defined by its being nonsensical. You should have figured that out already, but the fact that you're still reading this second paragraph proves that even the message that this post is saying about its being nonsensical is not making any sense to you. You should have realized that from the first sentence alone, but then again, even the fact that this post is aware of its being nonsensical could mean that its message contradicts itself; when this post says that it doesn't make sense, maybe it does because if it is characterized by not making any sense, then that statement (which says that it doesn't make sense) is actually false, leading to the conclusion that in a way, this post does make sense. But then again, there's an infinite regress here, because by saying that this post makes sense, one would have to take into account the first statement once again, which is that this post doesn't make any sense, therefore, this post doesn't actually make any sense.

So just stop reading. A bunch of words are all that you'll find in this post, a bunch of words that are stringed together to form coherent sentences that don't make any sense. Well, they make sense in the sense that you get what the sentences are saying, but the only thing that the sentences make clear to you is that what you just read actually doesn't make sense. At all. The only message that these sentences, including this one which is still unfinished, manage to convey to you, the reader, is that they don't make sense, making you feel like you're caught in an infinite loop of nonsense. And mind you, there are four more paragraphs filled with the same shit.

Even the word "nonsense" doesn't make any sense. That previous sentence is a "duh" moment because of course, "nonsense" doesn't make any sense and you will already be able to figure that bit out just by merely looking at the word. The prefix "non-" negates any form of sense to be derived from the word, because "non-" is a prefix of negation, hence "nonsense" is a word that negates any form of sense to take place. Which is why this post (which doesn't make sense, remember) is entitled "nonsense" for pretty nonsensical reasons. Well, actually, it makes sense that it's entitled "nonsense."

So does that mean that this post is starting to make sense? Of course not. As said in the previous paragraph, nonsense blocks every form of sense, and since this post is christened with that term, there is still no sense to be derived from all the words that are filling up your screen. They are all just a bunch of words that point to the fact that they formulate nothing but nonsense. Nothing is synonymous to nonsense. Again, that didn't make sense, which is in keeping with the trend that this post is trying to make. Which is to not make sense, in case you've forgotten. As if I care whether you've forgotten about how sense is something that you will not find in this blog entry, no matter how hard you try and empty your brains out. No amount of theory will be able to squeeze some sense out of this post.

Do not even think of being a smartass and say, "Oh, but this post has sense in it! In fact, in every paragraph, the word 'sense' is mentioned every time! And almost every sentence contains the word 'sense' in it!" That is absolute nonsense, if I ever encountered one. The "sense" that is being blocked from this post is the true and absolute sense, that feeling that makes you go "Oh, I get it" or "Pakshit, that does make sense!" The letters that form the word 'sense' are not "sense" in themselves, they are only letters that convey a sense of sense. Which doesn't make sense once again, if you think about it.

This is getting tedious, because this means that you are still reading despite all the warnings that say this post will not make any sense whatsoever. What a waste of time, you're probably saying to yourself. So many words, and yet they didn't even make sense. You should have guessed that from the first paragraph alone. Hell, you should have guessed that from the TITLE alone. Well, it's all your fault, don't blame me. Why did you even bother, anyway? I never forced you to read such a nonsensical blog entry.

I went back to the dentist last Monday to have my braces adjusted. I was an hour early for my appointment, so while waiting for the dentist to arrive, I spent some time with this cute little doggie caged right outside the clinic. Such a cute dog! It kept jumping angrily whenever I stopped patting its head, as if telling me not to stop. Too bad it spends most of its time locked up in that drab little cage, when it's supposedly a toy dog.





Seriously, I don't like people who lock up their dogs in cages all day long, especially when it's a toy dog. I mean, poor creature. It was born to be cuddly and cute, only for it to be thrown into a cage where it'll grow old and live the rest of its days. What is wrong with these people? Hard-hearted fuckers.

Anyway, the trip to the dentist was pretty uneventful as usual. The dentist (who happens to be a family friend, or a relative, I'm not sure) didn't drill through my tongue or anything, just adjusted my braces in the most pain-free way possible. But as usual, there was the common chitchat that me and the dentist engage in, like asking what my name is again or what school I go to even after saying the same things to her every time I visit.

And of course, there's the usual "So, may girlfriend ka na?" talk. And as usual, I say "Why yes, I have a girlfriend whom I pore my heart out to every day, whom I serenade with sweet songs while playing the guitar, whom I kiss tenderly on the lips every now and then, whom I tickle in the belly when I'm feeling ticklish like a mentally retarded person, and yes, I love her, except for the fact that she's imaginary and that I was making up all that stuff I said earlier about having a girlfriend. Ha! Fooled ya."

She asks that question every time, that I think she'll be surprised when I finally say "Yes, I finally have a girlfriend. You happy now?" during one of my visits. But come to think of it, everyone asks me that stupid, demeaning question. Every adult I happen to be introduced to, that is. They'll ask if I'm dating anyone or am planning on dating anyone or if I'm gay and not interested in women at all, after which I will threaten to rearrange their faces in a brutal manner. "Wala ka pa ring girlfriend?!" is what their questions imply. Not to mention that it's putting me in the pressure cooker.

So I leave the dentist's clinic with a heavy heart every time, wondering how I could change my relationship status. And it's such a useless thing to worry about, and my dentist keeps reminding me of it. This is another reason why we should fear dentists, apart from the fact that they cause tremendous pain via root canal and teeth removal--they never fail to remind you that you're still single, and that your days are catching up with you.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Oh my God! Oh my golly golly golly gosh! This is...this is...oh, the horror! The pain! Those pecs! Those abs! Those FACES! ABOMINATIONS! IT'S GAY PORN AT ITS MOST DISGUSTING! Holy craaaap I feel like I'm gonna puke out the fish fillet I just ate a while ago, complete with the teriyaki sauce, extra rice, and the vegetable side dish that came with it! Shit, that's 60 pesos worth of nutrients I'm gonna be regurgitating out of my system! That's less nutrients to help me beef up my immune system that helps me ward off the piggy grasp of swine flu! Oh man, a delicious meal is going to be reduced to pink-colored vomit splattered on the floor! All because of these...these...these posters that advocate male prostitution and anal sex! Look how oiled up their bodies are! Look how seductive their looks are, as if inviting you to have...to have...(dare I say it?)...SEX!!! Oh my golly goodness gracious! (crosses self thirteen times) They look like they want some man-to-man action, and I'm not talking basketball here! You know what I mean! They look like they're inviting me to experience a bit of anal rampage! Gaaah! Disgusting! These posters that advocate gay sex should be banned! They should be burned at the stake, together with those faggoty models posing like a posse of goddamn sex toys! These gay porno posters should be killed! These gay porno posters should be............

Mmm-mmmmm. They just had to unbutton his polo to reveal his six-pack and man boobs (rendered by CGI, no less). Yummy yummy. Rowr, I got a hard-on for you, Pattinson. You bet your ass.

And for fuck's sake, can someone comb this guy's hair?! Someone give him a comb for Christmas!

Don't be surprised if my eyes are bleeding crimson tomorrow.

For the past few days, I feel like my eyes have been pecked out by a couple of crows for dinner. My irises are like rivers drenched with the blood of slain warriors from a nearby battlefield. From the looks of it, it looks like all the veins in my body have migrated to my eyeballs. And I won’t be surprised if someone asks me if I squeezed lemon juice all over my eyes, or if I overdosed on Visine.

Bottom line is: my eyes are just so goddamn tired.

Fucking stressful weekend. And to think we didn’t have classes last Friday. I can’t help but think that I just wasted that free day—I tried to finish one of Sir DM’s writing exercises for Fiction class, and I nearly did after five hours of sitting with my eyes glued to my laptop. But the thing is, I still didn’t get to finish the damn thing, and I put if off for later and just immersed myself in the worst that the Internet has to offer for the rest of the night. Seriously, what an achievement in procrastination, seeing that I needed to read “Zen is Not a Philosophy” for Philo, read “The Dust Monster” and “Selecting a Face” then coming up with a critique and recommendation for Heights, read the first two chapters of “The Odyssey,” re-read my readings for FA 198 (good readings, though: “How Stories Fail” and “The Element of Suspense”), and finish the writing exercises for Sir DM.

So for the past two days, I’ve been cramming. Since all of those tasks require flawless brain-and-eye coordination, you can imagine how battered and bruised I am mentally. Of course, I look fine on the outside, but I resemble a siokoy with these bloodshot eyes that look like they would spray blood any minute now.

I nearly went ballistic last night, at exactly 9:05 PM. You see, I managed to read the first two chapters of “The Odyssey” early in the morning, and I immediately started to read “The Dust Monster” after breakfast. After reading the damn story twice, I was already tackling the critique of it that Heights required me to do. Not a bad start, huh? But I would have breezed through all my other readings if only my brain didn’t act like a gigantic turtle. I remember starting on the critique at twelve noon, but as 9 o’clock in the evening rolled by, I was still nowhere near finishing it.

Of course, as any sane man would do in my position, I went ballistic. I just realized I wasted nine fucking hours on a one-page long critique of a goddamn feminist story. For nine hours, I kept staring at my laptop’s screen till my eyes bled, kept re-checking passages in “The Dust Monster” in the hopes of gaining an insight, and kept praying to God that my critique would be enough to assure me a spot in the English staff of Heights. I nearly drove myself mad, and it’s a surprise that I’m still as sane as Obama, and no, I’m not exaggerating.

So after jumping up and down and cursing all of God’s creation for five minutes, I sat down and commanded myself to finish everything before 10 o’clock could creep up behind me and fuck me in the back. And surprise, surprise, I managed to finish the critique and one of the writing exercises for Fiction class. Needless to say, I felt pretty good with myself.

Today, I finished the story/poem recommendation for Heights, and I managed to read most of my Philo reading. But the bad news is, I still haven’t given serious thought to “Selecting a Face,” so I’m gonna be skull-fucked in the interview tomorrow. And I’m not entirely sure if my critique and recommendation are enough to guarantee me a place in Heights, but I have my fingers crossed.

I’m pinning it all on Heights now. If I don’t get in, I don’t know what the hell I’ll do. All I know is that my eyes are fucking pleading for an ophthalmologist right now, or even a drop of Visine to relieve their pain. All the effort I put during this crappy weekend had better be worth it.

For now, my eyes need rest. I think I’m dying.

Before watching Sam Raimi's highly enjoyable (yet vomit-inducing) Drag Me to Hell with my cousin, I was introduced to a number of movie trailers that tickled my interest to the point that my brain suddenly buzzed with thoughts of "That movie looks great! You gotta watch that! You're so excited!" Up to now, this incessant buzzing still hasn't stopped, and I know the only way to shut it up would be to watch these upcoming movies in theaters here. Man, I'm pissing myself crazy in anticipation; I really can't wait.



The Hangover - Well, it's about the worst hangover ever. A bunch of guys wake up in Vegas after a bachelor party only to find that a friend of theirs is missing, and they go through the whole of Nevada in an effort to find him. I found myself laughing like a maniac during the trailer--more than enough reason for me to check this one out.




G.I. Joe - Rachel Nichols and Sienna Miller in very, very, very tight leather outfits. Meow.




Up - A flying house? A grumpy old man? A boy scout with a cute voice and squeezable cheeks? A talking dog? An adventure of a lifetime, reminiscent of "Around the World in 80 Days?" Sounds like Pixar's cooked up another magical feature for all ages. Can't wait to see this one; I'm ready to feel dazzled again like how I felt while watching their most recent masterpiece, WALL-E.




Bruno - Ever since watching the ever-offensive Borat, I've been anticipating Sacha Baron Cohen's next film. Finally, it arrives in the form of Bruno, another potboiler comedy that now aims to show how ludicrous the fashion industry is. I know I won't be disappointed with this one, considering I hate the fashion industry and all the useless people behind it.




Public Enemies - Man, I love Michael Mann films. He really knows his stuff well. Particularly guns. Man, this guy loves guns (watch Heat's bank heist scene and you'll see what I mean), and no one would be more fitting to direct a film about the famous 1930s Great Depression gangsters (John Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson, and Pretty Boy Floyd) than Michael Mann. I can almost imagine the ear-splitting rattle of tommy guns pervading this movie; I know Mann will make it all poetic anyway. I can't wait to see the famous Dillinger escape plans (Johnny Depp had better do a good job portraying this famous gangster). I simply can't wait for this movie to come out.

I'm a loyal IMDb worshipper, and I usually read discussions on the site's movie message boards. Of course, this being the Internet, most of the discussions make about as much sense as Miriam Defensor-Santiago inflicted with mad cow disease. Some of the message boards are overrun by a horde of trolls (see The Dark Knight boards), a flurry of haters (see Best Picture winners and Titanic board), or a bunch of pseudo-intellectuals (see Lost in Translation).

In the Lost in Translation board, there's this fascinating creature hiding under the user name of "ex250." I call him a creature because that's the impression he gives me, or that's how I like to visualize him--hunched over in front of his computer, his long fingers tapping away at the keyboard with pinpoint precision, his veined, bulging eyes super-glued to the screen, while a little trail of drool drips from his mouth.

Just take a look at this thread he made: Spoiler: 90 Scenes of Story

To sum up his "achievement," he somehow believes that the plot of Lost in Translation (which is about as simple as a cupcake) is so much more than it actually is. Come to think of it, that last sentence I wrote is probably the biggest understatement I have ever written in my entire life.

For starters, he believes that LiT is actually about the main character's trip to heaven after "dying" from a car crash, and that Charlotte is actually a reincarnation or a manifestation of the main character's real wife back home. His interpretation gets weirder from there, considering that LiT is just about these two disillusioned Americans having a chance encounter under the neon lights of Tokyo and forming an unlikely bond with each other that makes them see the value of the current relationships they are in.

I have no qualms about people offering their own interpretations on certain things (books, movies, music lyrics, etc.), because that's what art does. A good work of art inspires interpretation, generates discussions, and makes the person relate to it on a personal level, which in turn leads to one's personal insight. I have no doubts about LiT's artistry (it made me relate on a personal level, and the film really leaves an impression despite the subtlety of the plot), even though most of the reactions concerning the film goes like "This movie sucked balls!!!", "An almost 2-hour snorefest," or "I've fallen asleep while attempting to watch this film on 5 occasions." I don't want to say that these people just didn't "get" the film, because I know LiT doesn't really reach out to everyone and I know how they feel (I'll try to expound on this more in the future). Unfortunately, for ex250, he more than just "gets" the movie--if you read his thread that I posted, he somehow managed to squeeze meaning out of almost every detail in the entire movie.

It's a nice thing that ex250 took the time to lay down his interpretation of the movie, sharing it with others in what he says is a "guide" for everyone who wishes to determine the underlying message of the film. But what's bad is that for the most part, his interpretation sounds too far-fetched despite containing some interesting insights, which in turn could mislead the viewer and distort his/her view of the film. Sometimes ex250 even abandons common sense in search of a "deeper meaning." For example, he insists in another thread that Bob is actually dead and being transported to heaven (Tokyo) in the very first scene. To quote what he wrote: "Here's a question, 'How did Bob Harris get all the way from Los Angeles to Tokyo by limo?' I mean we never actually saw him on an airplane, did we?...Was there possibly some reason that Coppola never actually showed Bob at the airport? Perhaps he didn't come from the airport at all." I mean, he just failed to look at the director's point of view right there (even though that's what he claims to be doing). Why didn't Sofia Coppola show Bob at the airport in the first place? Maybe for editing reasons, to cut down on screen time, or maybe because it was just IRRELEVANT TO THE STORY. I mean, I never saw Michael Corleone take a piss in all of the Godfather movies (even though he went to the bathroom in the first one, he never actually used the toilet). Does that mean that Michael doesn't have a dick? No! You don't have to show everything in a movie, unless you idolize Lav Diaz and his movies that run on for eternity (again, another understatement).

And ex250 squeezes some sort of meaning out of every little detail from every scene in the movie. For example: "Bob is handed a white box by one of the press agents. Bob says, 'I need that.' The box symbolizes Bob’s need for his children and what he needs to do to be with them." Another one would be "The shirt colors correlate to where John, Young Lydia, and Kelly are in relation to each other as if they’re standing on a traditional Red-Yellow-Blue (RYB) color wheel." They all sound great on paper, but there are no references from other artworks or literature to back up his observations. Anyone could come up with all those symbolism shit; even a ten-year-old could.

What he's doing is bad for a number of reasons: first, he's overreading, determined to squeeze meaning out of every single scene in the movie. Of course, overreading is more like "distorting" a work of art so you can come up with a supposedly intellectual analysis, when in fact all you come up with is a convoluted and overly contrived "analysis" that even the artist himself would feel disgusted with. As Freud said: "Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar." Sometimes, a work of art can be taken just as it is, which is why I scoff at all those pseudo-intellectuals in literature and art appreciation classes who rabidly dissect every paragraph, line cut, brush stroke, and color in the hopes of finding the deeper meaning that the work of art "hides" from them. Well, sometimes I don't really agree with this, since as a writer, I don't really put that much thought into whatever I write; I don't think "Oh, this has to mean this, and this has to mean this, and the readers must get this." I'm fine with people coming up with their own interpretations for my stories, but if someone like ex250 dissected my work the way he did so with Lost in Translation, I won't even be flattered. I'll be disturbed to the point that I would suggest he have himself examined by some psychologist.

Why? Because ex250's super-extensive interpretation only proves one thing: he has no life. He must have spent endless hours dissecting every portion of the movie, and man, imagine the amount of time that ate up! And as I type this post now, he's only halfway through his interpretation of LiT, which is partly troubling.

Here are some words of wisdom, ex250: don't let this movie consume your life. It's just a friggin' movie. Are you depressed, and you're just dissecting LiT as a way of distracting yourself? If not, then your extensive analysis is just pointless because you're not really doing research or providing concrete evidence for your interpretations--from what I've read, everything is just a brainchild of your imagination. I mean, Lost in Translation is also my favorite movie (yes, it toppled Pulp Fiction from the top spot), but you don't see me doing what you do, because I already love it for what it is. I don't need to probe deeper into the movie, because I believe there are no more depths to explore. I love the movie for how it makes me feel, and I'm not going to let your far-fetched vision ruin my favorite movie for me.

And ex250, whatever drugs you're taking, it's highly advisable for you to stop now.

Recently, US President Barack Obama killed a fly in impressive, martial-arts fashion during an interview. Of course, those crazy fools at PETA are quick to take offense at the president's "execution" of the harmless little fly, which they claimed was doing nothing but buzzing around and spreading all the germs it contains on its many legs.

I'm not saying I'm against PETA's stand on animal rights. In fact, I love animals. I love puppies, I love kittens, I even love cows no matter how dumb they are (credit "The Far Side"). I hate bags and clothing made from animal skin. I'm against zoos. So that only goes to say that I'm all for the ethical treatment of animals, and I support PETA's cause. But most of the time, PETA just seems determined to show everyone that they're a bunch of idiots who would go to bed with any four-legged animal rather than someone from the same species. From holding violent riots in front of animal shelters to advocating the "complete and total liberation of all animals" (what the hell???), I'm starting to believe that PETA is turning into a cult run by brainwashed fanatics who overreact at the slightest provocation, verbal or otherwise, against animals.

They even took a jab at the charismatic Obama just for killing an insignificant little fly, which reeks of first-class stupidity. Some would say that PETA is just living up to their image that advocates animal rights, but most of the time, they're overreacting to the point that they sound like annoying little suckers.

First of all, it's just a fly, for Christ's sake. You know why God created flies? So that they can be eaten by frogs and other amphibians and reptiles, and so that they can be swatted to death by human beings. Anyone in their right mind wouldn't think twice about killing a fly--for instance, I love whipping out a fly swatter whenever I see a horde of flies gathered in one place (on a table top, for example). Why? Because flies carry germs, and they remind us of death and decay. They're not as important as bees, who carry pollen from plant to plant which helps in the process of photosynthesis. To sum up, you can kill flies without your conscience scolding you for snuffing out a life, because flies don't mean shit in this world.

Secondly, flies aren't even animals. They're insects, and damn useless and uninteresting ones at that (unless you're a freak like me who loves to kill flies). The mere fact that they carry germs and could possibly transmit deadly diseases is more than enough reason to lessen their number in the world, so it's maddening to think that PETA feels sorry for these pesky little buggers.

What makes this Obama incident even more funny is that PETA sent Obama a "device that catches flies so that they can be released in the wild." What a useless device. I mean, killing a fly is already hard in itself, so you can imagine how pissed you'll get when you try to catch a fucking fly, which will do everything in its power to evade you and annoy you at the same time with its annoying buzzing. And why bother catching a fly when you can just kill it? Attempting to catch a fly is such an inconvenience, not to mention the fact that PETA really is crazy. Release a fly into the wild only so it can go back to pester you once more? Are you kidding me?

My dad agrees that those people at PETA should be forced to watch "2 Girls, 1 Cup" 24/7 (btw, Happy Father's day!). So what if Obama killed that fly? My dad said those PETA people should try eating at a carinderia here and not get pissed off at all the flies buzzing over their food to the point that they'll tear their hair in anger. PETA doesn't know what the hell they're talking about, siding with a dirty little insect over the president of the US.

Killing a fly is no big deal. It's not like Obama beheaded a kitten on live television. He just swatted a fly and marveled at his feat, because he knows how hard it is to kill one in just one try. PETA should stop hating on even the most insignificant "animal" abuse, because they're just so damn annoying.

And right now, I think I'll help myself to some delicious meat from some slaughtered animal for lunch. Uh-oh, I think PETA's already holding a riot outside my gate.

Apart from saying "Damn, Mickey Rourke surely gave a hell of a performance" after watching Darren Aronofsky's breathtaking The Wrestler, most people would probably say "Poor Randy the Ram...life really was hard on him..." or something like that. I'm not surprised by this initial reaction, seeing that Mickey Rourke's character elicits so much pathos throughout the film, having to deal with an asshole boss while trying to scrape a living and trying to create this illusion to his co-wrestlers that he's successful even outside the wrestling ring. I myself felt for his plight, his star having faded long ago and yet he continues to grapple with other wrestlers inside the ring for a living. The wrestling scenes were very hard to watch (particularly the hardcore match--what the hell was he thinking?), showing us the pains that his aging body has to go through just for him to get a hard-earned paycheck.

But wait a minute...let's not spill our tears out after Randy jumped off the top rope in the final scene in what was probably his final match. This movie is more than just a look into a fallen wrestler's life that's designed to make you go "Awww, that poor, poor man!" and then empty your tear glands. The movie is trying to tell us something else, apart from activating our seldom-used tear glands and stabbing at our hearts with unrelenting vigor.

Granted, Randy's life twenty years after the prime of his career really sucked. From being a marquee wrestler headlining major pay-per-view events, he's reduced to carrying boxes in warehouses and working in a deli counter. Imagine how ashamed he feels. But come on, who's really the one to blame for his downward spiral into anonymity? Apparently, he should blame no one but himself.



Randy "the Ram" Robinson is a one-trick pony, and this is evident in the entire movie. We don't know anything about his past except for the fact that he hates his real name (Robyn Ramsinski). What we do know, from the pictures in the opening credits, is that he used to be a famous wrestler in the 80s who had classic matches against other famous wrestlers (the most notable being his match with Ayatollah, with their rematch playing an important role in the film). Twenty years later, he's still wrestling, even if his age and body don't agree with this kind of lifestyle anymore.

What does that tell you about him? He's a guy who caught a lucky break in his wrestling career, and got drunk with the fame that came with it. As a result, he is never able to fully commit to anything other than his career (he left his daughter, never taking care of her). And yet another result of his rise to fame in the wrestling arena is that he got too caught up in the moment, which led to him losing sight of planning for his future and just reveling in the glory of the present.

That's the importance of Marisa Tomei's character in the movie, to show a contrast between how she and Randy planned their futures. Both of them are has-beens, old age sneaking up behind them, making them unfit for their respective careers. Pam (Tomei) is a stripper well past her younger days (although she still has a body to drool over--and Marisa Tomei is over forty years old, mind you), and Randy is just too darn old to still be wrestling. But what makes them different is that Pam has already made plans after she retires from stripping, unlike Randy who seemingly has no intention of ever retiring until a heart attack forces him to stop. Hell, he still had plans on "getting back on top" despite his old age, by agreeing to a rematch with Ayatollah twenty years after their first fight. Pam has her own house, a suitable environment for her son to grow up in, while Randy just lives in a rundown trailer somewhere in Minnesota, which shows that Randy wasted his money on a lot of unimportant things.

To quote what his daughter Stefanie said to him, Randy is nothing but a fuck-up. He is an irresponsible fuck-up, screwing up his priorities time and again while still refusing to detach himself from the past. Scenarios in the movie show how Randy could have possibly fucked up his relationships before--his forgetting about his date with his daughter and his abandonment of Pam could mirror how he gave more importance to wrestling than to the people around him.

Sure, Randy had a hard life. Still, that's inevitable considering his "live-for-the-moment" attitude. You reap what you sow, or something like that. This is the fate of many people who experience improbable fame early on in their lives, and as old age slowly creeps up on them and erases their celebrity status, they still refuse to let go of their earlier fame and still try to cash in on it. David Pomeranz is a perfect example; he used to be famous, but now he's just some has-been who keeps coming back to our country, hoping to make a quick buck out of the few fans he has left. Most of the bold stars in this country experience the same fate; as their beauty faded away, so did their comfortable living.

People should know when their time is up, and when it's time to move on to other things in order to stabilize their living condition. What's saddening about Randy's situation is that he had opportunities to save up money from his career days, and could have maintained a healthy relationship with his daughter who in turn would have taken care of him when he's too old to take care of himself. But as the movie shows us, he didn't capitalize on these opportunities, wasting it all on whatever until he finally ends up down for the count. It only goes to show that adapting to the times by way of learning a new trade or coming up with a stable assurance for your future (ex. a business) is much more important than relying on talent alone.

Bipolar (2008)


I mentioned in an earlier review that it would be quite a feat if Armi Millare and company managed to top their mind-blowing debut Fragmented. For me, that album was almost perfect (if not for the bonus songs, which proved to be boring clunkers and waste of space), an album that introduced a fresh and elegant sound that stood out from the rest of the local mainstream acts. With the album’s innocent charm riddled with glitches of electronica and soulful tunes, it proved to be a truly defining work, music that was hard to bound within one genre. At the time of that album, it seemed unlikely that UdD would be able to produce something that would even come close to Fragmented’s brilliance.

But Bipolar completely trashes this idea, slapping us in the face and telling us “How could you even think of something like that?!”

Bipolar starts off with “Blessing,” which is a return to their debut album’s shimmering sound. From there on, the band shows off their new and more mature sound, dispelling the refreshing atmosphere that they were able to create from their debut and going for a more electronic and melancholic feel while still incorporating Carlos Tanada’s masterful guitar work and Paul Yap’s soothing basslines. This new sound is immediately eminent in the second track entitled “Clockwork,” a fast-paced, adrenaline-pumping number, and also in “Taya,” the album’s most radio-friendly song, with its catchy riff and electronic drum beats making for a memorable song that doesn’t necessarily suck all the life out of the whole album (which is what extremely catchy singles do for an album most of the time). Their technical brilliance also shines forth here, with instrumental tracks like “The Cold is Warmth” and “Return, Saturn, Return” improving on the technical potential they showed in Fragmented.

What’s really interesting here is that the energy can never be contained in one place—it keeps shifting throughout the length of the track list. Just when you think the album is rising to a climactic point, it quickly spirals down, and just when it reaches its most restrained part, the energy picks up again. This is usually bad news since the cohesiveness of the album would be deemed non-existent, but the songs have this universal appeal that makes sure you remain transfixed to their quality. And the album is safe behind the guise of its theme of an ever-changing mood, with the songs themselves manifesting this theme as they keep shifting directions and moods throughout their playing time, as exemplified by “Blessing,” “Silid,” and the excellent “Every First Second.” Even the limited edition packaging of the CD adheres to this theme, allowing you to change the cover to your liking, a wonderful concept thought out by Ean de Mayor.

What makes Bipolar top its predecessor is the fact that the band never let it dictate the tone for the second outing. They didn't let its success get to their heads, and they never bowed to the wishes of the public for a more friendly sound. Instead, they opted to stick to what made that album work, and even tinkered with their sound to produce something darker, and it still worked.

Whether it catches you off-guard or not, Bipolar will stand the test of time. Up dharma Down has avoided the sophomore slump, even improving on their already near-perfect debut. They’ve proven that they really are a band worthy of notice and praise, but despite this, they’ve also proven that they’re a band that’s still at the crossroads, still searching for their sound. And I don’t mind in the least if they keep pursuing different sounds throughout their career, as long as they keep producing albums with such range as Bipolar.

9.8/10

Emergency & I (1999)


There was a time when alternative rock wasn’t just limited to three power chords, shallow lyrics, and a free pass to any radio station that caters to the teenybopper populace. There was a time, during the end of a decade overshadowed and influenced by Kurt Cobain’s screaming angst, when a record dared to be daring and succeeded in nailing a generation’s universal feeling of alienation and dementia, the same way The Smiths’ 80s album The Queen is Dead attracted a horde of lonely teens looking for solace in music. And what made these records great is that even now, years after their initial release, their luster hasn’t worn off, the daring that they first exhibited back then still as hard-hitting as before.

The Dismemberment Plan’s Emergency & I contains a staggering collection of songs that tear apart the conventions that have enslaved modern rock up to this day. As the title suggests, the album is both alarming and jolting, burning with an urgency that makes you dance along with its wildness. This is dance-punk at its finest, and this is how modern rock should be like.

Emergency & I has a penchant for making your head spin—the flow goes up and down, going stagnant at times, turning the energy level several notches higher the next instant, then looks to drag you closer to the album’s dementia. Its wildness can be compared to a crossover dribble, the way you think it’s going in one direction, only for it to race the other way. Frontman Travis Morrison has this ability to twist his voice into howls, stutters, and drones to further capture the loneliness and insanity that his songs preach, like anthems for the disillusioned. But this wildness and daring never shadows the songs’ creative power, instead giving life to the band’s imagination that every line attests to.

The album’s innovative tone is already set in the opener, “A Life of Possibilities,” a refreshing take on one’s escapist tendencies, characterized by a squiggly riff that perfectly accompanies the song’s story of crawling underground as a means of retreating from the outside world who doesn’t give a shit. The song’s lightly ironic tone finally explodes in the coda, the guitars roaring and drowning out the urgent bassline to give way to Travis Morrison questioning this life of possibilities.

Following the album opener are “Memory Machine” and “What Do You Want Me to Say?”, songs that showcase the band’s ability to dish out killer choruses on top of the alarming riffs and sarcastic basslines. “Memory Machine” is a disturbing hallucination brought by heartbreak, with dreams of a machine to “wash away the grief” (“If they can make machines to save us labor/They’ll do our hearts the very same favor”). “I lost my membership card to the human race/But don’t forget this face/’Cos I know I do belong here” opens “What Do You Want Me to Say?”, with the piercing notes of guitar pushing Morrison’s voice on the verge of insanity only to be punctuated by another hummable chorus. It’s probably their most conventionally structured song, adopting the verse-chorus-bridge-outro format, and easily the most ear-friendly number.

The album slows down with “Spider in the Snow” and “The Jitters,” with Morrison singing in a bored voice on both songs as he lists down routine after routine like reading from a checklist of the mundane. “The Jitters” is exceptional in being the album’s most haunting moment, the lyrics that envision ordinary, everyday things only adding to the frightening possibility of sinking into a life of daily routine. But the energy is kicked up again by the insistent drumming and wild, uncontrolled riffs of “I Love a Magician,” and the song ends with a melodic “There are times when I don’t know you at all” after hearing Morrison distort his voice into an eerily impish tone.

What follows is one of the album’s highly entertaining songs, “You Are Invited,” about a supernatural invitation found in the narrator’s mailbox one morning, with a fascinating story to tell and another chorus that demands you to sing along. The song, compared to most of the track list, starts off slow, making do with a simple drum loop then exploding right in the middle before slowing down again, ending on a rather poignant note.

“Gyroscope,” one of the instantly catchy pop numbers of the record, kicks the album into high gear once again, before diving into the saddening “The City,” which embodies the numbness that city life induces (“So I’m not unsympathetic/I see why you left/There’s no one to know/There’s nothing to do/The city’s been dead/Since you’ve been gone”). No one else other than Thom Yorke of Radiohead can capture the draining feeling of loneliness as much as The Dismemberment Plan.

Morrison distorts his voice again in “Girl O’Clock,” adopting the persona of a manic-depressive, sex-starved loser on the verge of suffering a nervous breakdown, stuttering his way into your mind. A nuclear holocaust becomes the subject in “8 ½ Minutes,” with an alarming bassline, nail-biting rhythm guitar, and another gem of a chorus. Closing out the album is “Back and Forth,” a pleasurable jam filled with incessant drum fills and a danceable bassline. It’s probably the tamest song in an album that threatened to blow you off your rocker the longer it took, serving as the perfect closer and leaving a palatable taste in your mouth.

So there, I’ve taken you through the whole album. Emergency & I guarantees to ensnare you in a web—the hooks just keep on coming like a flurry of punches. The Dismemberment Plan sure as hell didn’t hold anything back in this album, exploring new rhythms and distorting them to their own aesthetic, not afraid to dig deep into the neurotic side of the human mind unlike most of the bands of today’s generation who are content with pleasing crowds with boring college rock. If only modern rock was as exciting and creative, at the same time immediately accessible, as Emergency & I, then the world would be a better place to live and die in.

10/10

You wanna know how you can avoid being in the center of a sex video scandal? It's simple, really: DON'T MAKE A SEX VIDEO OF YOURSELF!

This "Hayden Camera" issue has really blown out of proportion like a really messy money shot in bed (sorry for the crude metaphor), and none of this would have happened if Dr. Hayden Kho wasn't such a fuck-up considering he's got a medical degree. Where the hell did this guy's brain go? Did he have it surgically removed after he got into a relationship with Vicki Belo? (Ugh...the mere thought Belo makes me squeamish).

Even the Senate's made a circus out of the whole thing. Why did they have to publicize the hearing anyway? It should have been a private matter because it wasn't really that important compared to the other more pressing issues that the country is facing, like this damn Cha-Cha thing that the lawmakers are so intent on passing. It's clear these senators only wanted attention, particularly Bong Revilla and Jinggoy Estrada.

But I'm not really complaining, since this Hayden-Katrina issue is much more entertaining to follow than a bunch of old geezers fighting tooth and nail to turn our government into a parliament. And if Senator Jinggoy hadn't verbally pwned Dr. Hayden Kho's lawyer after she demanded that they hold an executive session instead of a public one, then I wouldn't have been able to see the deranged Abner Afuang pour water on the perverted doctor's head. Talk about being baptized into the cruel world of politics! Now that's entertainment!

Why do some guys and some couples record their coital acts? I've always been puzzled by this impulse of theirs. Yes, it's an impulse, because if you're thinking rationally, you will be forced to conclude that making a sex video involving yourself is very risky in this digital age, where file-sharing is about as easy as breathing. Not to mention the fact that these sex videos could be used against you to tarnish your reputation and to make a fool out of you in public, like what happened to Hayden Kho.

Apparently, Hayden Kho's case is more shocking because he did it without the consent of the women. Why would he do such a thing? Well, he insisted that those videos were only meant for his "private viewing." What is he, a sex guru? A sex enthusiast? There's no other explanation: those sex videos were meant to brag about his sexual prowess, as others have already said. Kho probably bragged about those videos to friends of his, to show that he managed to bang some pretty hot women. If that explanation isn't right, then there's always the "private viewing" thing, which still proves that he's a goddamn pervert who maliciously tapes his sexual acts without the mutual consent of his sexual partners.

I still don't get why some people get thrilled when they watch themselves fuck someone onscreen. I mean, there's always porn. Watching porn done by "professional" porn stars is better than watching you and your small dick try to hump some woman, because 1) they know exactly what they're doing (translation: they fuck better), and 2) it's harmless, because it's just porn, and you're not the guy onscreen.

I mean, Kho's a doctor. He studied for ten years. I'm pretty sure he studied ethics in school. He's a guy who got drunk with fame, which caused his brain to stop functioning. Recording a sex video of yourself is not a risk anyone should take--forget the thrills behind it, unless you want to have your life demolished like what happened to Kho, or unless you want some quick Internet notoriety.

There will be no Kobe-LeBron matchup for the NBA Finals this year. Superman and his league of dependable teammates made sure of that, and made asses out of those Nike executives who dared advertise that dream matchup before the Finals had even started.

The Magic clobbered LeBron and his Cavs in Game 6 (sorry, sir Krip). It was heartbreaking to watch the Magic's shooters bury three-pointer after three-pointer, at the same time burying Cleveland's dream of making it to the Finals after a spectacular season which saw them win 66 games. But it was more heartbreaking to watch LeBron drive again and again to the basket, carrying the entire team on his shoulders, willing them to win. After their Game 6 defeat, LeBron James walked silently off the court, his superhuman effort in trying to get the Cavs out of the Eastern Finals thrown to waste.

It's easy to understand LeBron's frustration after losing this nightmare of a series for them. His team won 66 games in the regular season. They only lost twice on their home court. They're the number one seed in the East. They stiffled their opponents in the first two rounds of the playoffs, winning all eight games in double figures. LeBron himself averaged over 38 points in the conference Finals--stats that speak of the tremendous effort he put in the series. And all of those outstanding accomplishments were shattered by the Orlando Magic's equally outstanding inside-outside game, as if they were just brushing dandruff off their shoulders. (By the way, I'm entirely fine with an Orlando-LA matchup in the Finals--go, Magic!)

Still, that doesn't give LeBron reason to just walk off the Orlando court without as much as a handshake to the victorious Dwight Howard and his teammates. Such an act reeks of bad sportsmanship.

It's simple sports etiquette. Win or lose, you shake your opponent's hand. It's a sign of acknowledging that the better team/player won, unless of course the winner cheated his way to a win. But the Magic sure as hell didn't take any shortcuts in any of their wins against the favored Cavaliers; they won fair and square by gutting it out and being mentally tough down the stretch. If there's anyone who should complain, it's the Magic, since throughout the series, almost every LeBron drive to the paint was a guaranteed foul for any of the Magic players (thankfully, the refs didn't bite on this as much on Game 6).

Apart from walking off the court without even congratulating the victors, LeBron made it even more pronounced that he's a sore loser with his weird email to Dwight Howard a day after their defeat, which read: “It’s hard for me to congratulate somebody after you just lose to them. I’m a winner. It’s not being a poor sport or anything like that. If somebody beats you up, you’re not going to congratulate them. That doesn’t make sense to me. I’m a competitor. That’s what I do. It doesn’t make sense for me to go over and shake somebody’s hand."

Oh, that clears everything up. He's a winner. He's a COMPETITOR. Translation: he's a SORE LOSER.


What a pathetic argument from the league's MVP. How does being a competitor justify your classless act and lack of sportsmanship? You're in the NBA, LeBron--you don't get into that league if you're not a competitor. Everyone in the NBA is a competitor, unless your name is Eric Dampier. If congratulating someone's hand after they beat you in a game doesn't make the least bit of sense to LeBron, then it's safe to assume that he views the basketball court as a gladiator arena--butcher your enemy to death so the only one you would congratulate is yourself (hey, he's a WINNER). Someone better remind him that basketball is just a game, even in the professional league.

Just take a look at the NCAA and the UAAP. College players always shake hands after every game to show that there's no hard feelings. Even bitter rivals such as Ateneo and La Salle have the decency to congratulate each other sometimes. As early as college, athletes are already being taught how to be good sports, win or lose. LeBron apparently wasn't taught this--but then again, he never went to college. Whoops, my mistake.

If you were to ask me, it would have been better if he just apologized to Dwight instead of coming up with some lame excuse for being a no-show on the Orlando court, when everyone in the Cleveland team was out there congratulating their opponents for beating them, the supposed Beasts of the East. Even Mo Williams had the decency to be a good sport, when he should be the one humiliated after "guaranteeing" that they would win the fucking series. LeBron's email to Dwight proves one thing: he has an ego the size of the state of Cleveland. It's like him saying: "Why the hell would I congratulate anyone? I'm the best basketball player on the planet. I'm a basketball god. Basketball gods do not apologize to underdogs who somehow manage to upset them. I'm a winner."

Of course, one would counter that LeBron snubbing the Magic is superficial compared to everything he did in the series; it was like he took on all the Magic by himself, with his teammates bailing out on him again come crunchtime. But he's partly to blame for that, too. The reason he became the MVP is because he is just that--he is Cleveland's most valuable player, the one his teammates get their strength from. He's the one who's been making plays for them all year long, serving as their leader. Take him out of the equation and the Cavaliers would crumble, unlike the Chicago Bulls who were still contenders without Jordan. But in the Orlando series, LeBron showed his lack of leadership. He kept hogging the ball and taking it to the basket all by himself, a reason why he's had such high numbers. He would dish out an assist here and there, but it was the LeBron show all the way because he didn't really trust his teammates. He didn't huddle up with them in an effort to fire them up when needed; he just hogged the ball and tried to save their season all by himself, because he didn't trust them. He's a selfish player, and his email to Dwight only attests to that.

There's no doubt about it--LeBron is a bad sport. He's the MVP, and should set an example.

Poor Ricky Hatton.

Or even better, poor Floyd Mayweather Sr.

I'm really glad that Manny Pacquiao's stunning second-round knockout of the British champion reminded that cocky black trainer that he's second-rate when put alongside the brilliant Freddie Roach. Mayweather Sr. has been talking trash about the Pacquiao camp for weeks, and it's only fitting to have Pacquiao's dominating victory shove itself inside his filthy mouth like a fat black cock.

This guy should know his place and stop calling himself "Floyd Mayweather Sr., 'The Greatest Trainer of All Time.'" I mean, if he was God, then I'd believe him, because God is awesome. But as it plays out, God doesn't talk trash; all the words that flow out of His mouth becomes a reality (LET THERE BE LIGHT!), while all the words that came out of Mongoloid Mayweather Sr.'s mouth were ridicules that only pointed back to himself. Oh, and God isn't involved in drug trafficking, very much unlike Mongoloid Mayweather Sr.

Greatest trainer of all time? I think Uranus just exploded. What exactly did Mongoloid Mayweather do that made Hatton better than in his last fight against Paul Malignaggi? But the real question is, was there an improvement at all? I'm not sure if it's the Hatton camp to blame or Pacquiao's prowess that led to Hatton getting floored like a sack of potatoes in the middle of the ring. But it seemed like Hatton didn't have a game plan coming into the fight, he just kept doing what he always does; charge forward like some idiot brawler, hug his opponent and rub his genitals furiously on his opponent's leg like a panda in heat, then throw random punches in a manner similar to what drunks in dark alleys do. From this, it seems like the only planning that Mayweather did for this fight was to come up with the most creative ways to ridicule Freddie Roach, without even thinking of how to improve Hatton's lateral movement and defense. But hey, that's what legendary trainers do: talk trash 24/7, then blame their fighter if they lose the fight.

Now, it's safe to say that Freddie Roach is the best trainer in the world. One only has to look at Pacquiao, who's in tip-top form and bound to get better, and they wouldn't question this. But wait! Mongoloid Mayweather still refuses to relinquish his title as the greatest trainer in the world! Man, can someone tell me just how much cow manure is crammed inside this guy's overly inflated head?

And man, Mongoloid Mayweather looks like a Predator:





Anyway, I never expected Pacquiao to demolish Hatton that easily. I knew he would win anyway, but not in that stunning fashion. So I guess I also have to thank Mongoloid Mayweather; all his trash talk only served to pump up Pacquiao, causing him to deliver a brutal beatdown on the "Hitman" (he's a hitman, alright: he absorbed 78 power hits from his opponent. Way to live up to your nickname). But all that trash talk was just a luxury, Pacquiao didn't need any of it to destroy his opponent. So fuck off, Mayweather.

And Pretty Boy Floyd, Pacquiao's gonna demolish you next. You better shit in your pants now.

It’s a jumpstart for a possible relationship, the “feeling out” stage. After you’ve managed to hurdle over the bump of asking out the person you like (believe me, it’s a real obstacle, seeing that 90% of the world’s population are made up of torpes), the real challenge begins—the date itself. Not all of us are as calm, cool, and confident as most of the movie characters we see onscreen (partly because they’re way up in the looks department compared to us), so we tend to fidget, sweat, and say ridiculous things to our partner that sucks all the romance from the date, and also shatters the possibility of scoring a second date. But don’t worry, you’re in the norm if your first ever date goes horribly wrong (at least in your mind).

 

But not all dates in movies go okay. Even movies remind us of how dates can go wrong, reminding us that the characters we see on screen are human beings like us who also fidget, sweat, and say ridiculous things to their dating partner. But since all of the bad dates in this list took place in the movies, they tend to be a little far-fetched and silly, bordering on the “Wait! That doesn’t happen in real life!” retort. But this is exactly what we need, because aside from giving us tips on things we shouldn’t do, these bad dates in movies also make us thankful that such things never happened to us on our own dates (well, if they did…God, you’re one sorry loser), and they make your petty mistakes and Freudian slips that tormented you for months seem like laughable matters that don’t even deserve to be remembered. I’m not portraying myself as a Hitch-type person here (because sadly, I failed at my first date too…boohoo); I just wanted to share. So without further ado, here are ten bad movie dates to make you feel better about yourself:

 

10) Sex Education – Taxi Driver

Here, troubled loner Travis Bickle shows off his mastery of the dating lifestyle: for their first (and last) date, he takes the beautiful Betsy to a porn movie (Swedish Marriage Manual). It would be rather churlish to say that this is a romantic venue for a first date unless you’re a certified sexual predator, which is undoubtedly the impression that Travis gives Betsy. Of course, she finds the whole situation uncomfortable, causing her to leave the theater and dump him then and there. Well, not to take anything away from Travis—at least he had the decency to wear a nice suit for their date. Moral lesson: porn movies are best enjoyed alone.

 

9) Check, Please – Being John Malkovich

Let’s face it—Maxine is a cold-hearted bitch. Which is why it’s so confounding as to why Craig still chases after her despite her constant denial of him. She finally gives him a chance and agrees to go out with him, telling him to meet her at a bar called “The Stuck Pig.” Poor Craig gets exposed to Maxine’s crude frankness—she immediately asks him if he likes her tits, and when he said “no” out of courtesy, she questions if he’s gay and threatens to leave. Craig manages to get over this hump, but when their conversation turned to Craig’s job (he’s a puppeteer), she immediately asks for the check. I think “rude” is an understatement here, but hey, it’s Craig’s fault for chasing after cold-hearted bitches. Moral lesson: Don’t be a puppeteer (bitches don’t dig that).

 

8) Such a Super Lady! – Fargo

I’m still wondering why Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) agreed to meet with her Japanese high school classmate, Mike Yanagita (who’s a bit cuckoo, if I may add), whom she hasn’t seen ever since she got married. Everything is awkward from the start: Mike just couldn’t help revealing how much he likes Marge ever since their high school days, saying that she’s “such a super lady” and that he’s moved on after his wife died of leukemia only months ago. Marge manages to hold him at bay, but can only look on helplessly as Mike begins to break down and moan about how lonely he’s been ever since Marge got married. Talk about pathetic, especially when it’s revealed later on that he made up the part about his wife having leukemia. Moral lesson: Don’t be emo. EVER.

 

7) In the Dark – Clerks

This is one’s worst nightmare—something goes wrong before the date has even started. In this case, Caitlin arrives in the convenience store an hour early for her date with Dante, who went home to change for their “big” date. She decides to take a pee in the convenience store bathroom while waiting, despite Randal’s warning that the lights go out every 5:34 PM. Dante arrives to find her in a delirious state, saying it felt good to do it with Dante right there in the dark bathroom (and she did all the work herself), which puzzles both of them, seeing that he’s just arrived on the spot. Let’s just say that an old man had earlier asked to use the bathroom and brought some porn magazines with him, which explains why Caitlin had to do “all the work herself.” And needless to say, she suffered from shock trauma after the, um, incident. Moral lesson: Never get too excited before a date.

 

6) Candlelit Dinner – Hannibal

Ah, nothing could be more romantic than a candlelit dinner, with fine wine on the table and classical music playing in the background—unless your host is Hannibal Lecter. The unlucky person is Clarice Starling, half-drugged inside an asshole lawyer’s house and forced to wear a nice gown for a sit-down dinner with the cannibal himself. One has to marvel at the doctor’s flair for preparation, though—the setting is romantic, albeit a little creepy. But he commits a definite no-no for a date: he brings a third party to the fray, in this case the owner of the house, Paul Krendler, being wheeled around in a wheelchair. God, do I really have to say what Hannibal did to this guy? Moral lesson: Third parties during a date are always OUT OF THE QUESTION.

 

5) For John Lennon – In Bruges

After securing a dinner date with the gorgeous Clemence Poesy (who played Fleur in the Harry Potter movies), Ray (Colin Farrell) makes good on his promise to reveal what he does for a living (which is killing people for money), and she does the same (she sells drugs). A match made in heaven, right? Or hell, I suppose. During dinner, Poesy just can’t stop smoking, which makes the couple in the neighboring table badmouth her while she’s in the bathroom. Naturally, as any guy would do, Ray gets into a heated argument with them (“This is for John Lennon, you fucking Yankee cunt!”), and punches them senseless (yes, even the girl). With dinner cut short, they head straight to her apartment, where Ray gets held at gunpoint by her ex-boyfriend just as they were about to make love. Well, Ray subdues and eventually blinds the guy, which is a fitting end to a rather chaotic evening, but he still wins her over with his “bravado” and “machismo.” Guys, don’t tolerate this—he only got away with it because, well, he’s Colin Farrell. Moral lesson: Keep your cool, especially if you’re a hit man (although being aggressive impresses girls sometimes).

 

4) Peeping Briony – Atonement

This one isn’t exactly a date, more of a spur of the moment that eventually caused the lives of these two people to go down the drain thanks to the misunderstanding of a nosy brat. Robbie and Cecilia finally realize their feelings for each other in a dark study, and give way to their passion right there (another lesson to be learned here: even if you really can’t hold it in, GET A ROOM!). Since this is a movie, they don’t lock the door, and someone walks in on them while they’re in the middle of their sexy time, in this case young Briony, who has been led to believe that Robbie is a sexual predator after a series of misunderstood events. I can’t help but cover my face every time I watch this scene: just seeing Robbie and Cecilia straighten their clothes and head out of the room without even glancing at Briony is enough to assure me that this is one very humiliating experience. Moral lesson: Always lock the door!

 

3) Adrenaline Shot – Pulp Fiction
“All I have to do is chew with my mouth closed…” This is what Vincent Vega said to Jules when he finds out he’s going on a date with their boss’s wife, the voluptuous Mia Wallace. Though determined not to screw around with her, he got more than he bargained for—after having a rather normal dinner in a retro bar (complete with weird dancing) and going back to her pad, Mia overdoses on heroin while Vincent is in the bathroom trying to strengthen his resolve not to fuck her. He manages to revive her on the drug dealer’s own house, after giving her a risky adrenaline shot. Not exactly an all’s well that ends well scenario; this is one date you’re thankful you never experienced yourself. Moral lesson: Never leave heroin in your jacket pocket, especially when you drape the jacket around your date, who also happens to be a druggy, spaced-out chick.

 

2) Psycho Ex-Wife – Vicky Cristina Barcelona

There are some bad dates in Woody Allen’s seductive tale of sex and unfulfilled love, but the cake has to go to Juan Antonio’s (Javier Bardem) and Vicky’s (Rebecca Hall) final date. They’d just had lunch in his backyard in wonderful Barcelona, and Juan Antonio, who’s a painter, goes to show her his paintings in his house. Vicky, who harbors a secret love for the suave painter, finally gives in to her emotions and the two of them kiss, only to be cut short by gunshots fired at them by Juan Antonio’s psychotic ex-wife, Maria Elena (played by the goddess, Penelope Cruz). Luckily, the crazy ex-wife can’t shoot to save herself, and she’s subdued by Juan Antonio after a short struggle. Moral lesson: If you have a psychotic ex-wife running around and carrying a gun, make sure to wear bulletproof vests 24/7.

 

1)   Don’t Tell On Me – Little Children

Probably the worst date ever. Everything is not going well for Jackie Earle Haley in this film—he’s a convicted child molester, he’s hated by his neighbors, and he lives with his mother. Oh, and he’s never been on a date. Determined to get her son to settle down, she fixes him up with a girl for dinner in a nearby restaurant. Dinner goes well as the two of them seem to click (both of them had suffered nervous breakdowns before), and we viewers give a sigh of relief. After dinner, they drive around the neighborhood in her car, stopping in front of a playground. His date starts to say how much she enjoyed being with him, and she turns to face him—and he’s masturbating. To make matters worse, he threatens to kill her if she tells anyone, and as he finishes his thing, she looks like she’s about to suffer another mental breakdown. Needless to say, there won’t be a second date after this mortifying experience. Poor girl. Moral lesson: Um…don’t masturbate during a date?

 

For all the hopeless romantics out there who can’t get over their own bad dates, I hope this list helped. I don’t know about you, but it certainly helped me (but now that I think about it, I think I did pretty good in that date…damn, I really don’t know).

I should be finishing my flash fiction for Fiction class (actually, I haven't even started yet), but instead I came up with this. These are the three most despicable Filipinos according to sir David Lozada of my History 165 class (and I agree wholeheartedly with him). Guys, do not tolerate any of these people, or I will go Andres Bonifacio on your ass.


3) Daniel Tirona
- This guy is the most elitist freak in the archipelago, and his elitist attitude caused the chain of events that eventually led to the death of the Supremo of the Katipunan, Andres Bonifacio (together with his brother, Procopio). Here's how it all went: Andres Bonifacio and a small band of Katipuneros go to Cavite to try and get the rural Katipuneros to their side, since the rural areas of the Philippines were having great success against the Spanish colonizers. But to Bonifacio's horror, there's a council being held in Cavite, saying that they will hold an election to determine the new officers of the Katipunan (even though Bonifacio is already the Supremo). But Bonifacio, being the honorable man that he is, agrees to hold the election, so long as the people in Cavite will respect those who will win the election. So as expected, those fucking Caviteños only voted for Emilio Aguinaldo and other Caviteños for all the other positions, but Bonifacio showed respect by not being a bitch about it. Despite losing in all the positions that he ran for, he was able to be voted (with the slimmest of margins) for Secretary of the Interior, I think. And this is where Daniel Tirona, the talking asshole, came in.

While Bonifacio, the supposed Supremo of the Katipunan, was being sworn in for his position, Tirona suddenly rose up from the audience, pointed at the Supremo, and said "This man didn't even finish his schooling! And yet we're letting him run as an official for the Katipunan? I have a friend here, he's a lawyer. He's perfectly suited for that position."

Well of course, Bonifacio was livid, because even though he never got around to finish his schooling, he was one of the intellectual elite of that period in Philippine history, having mentored himself (he can read Les Miserables in its original language). And Tirona, the talking hairy asshole that he was, just spat on what Bonifacio said when he agreed to go on with the election--that no one should disrespect those who get voted. Bonifacio was ready to shoot Tirona then and there (he should have, because scum like Tirona deserve to be shot between the eyes), if only he weren't restrained by his companions. Then in his anger, he declares, as Supremo of the Katipunan, that the election that just took place will be null and void. After this, he storms off and leaves Cavite altogether. But it doesn't end there, as you will find out later on, thanks to Tirona's unbelievable idiocy.


2) Pedro Paterno
- Sir Dave said that if you look up the word "turncoat" in the dictionary, you'll find Pedro Paterno there in fine print. A former member of the propaganda movement (together with Rizal and company), he was the one who offered to be the intermediary for the Spaniards when the Katipunan leaders were hiding out in the caves of Biak-na-Bato. He basically offered himself to the Spaniards, giving his service to them so that he can convince Aguinaldo and the others to a truce, and the Spaniards embraced him. And on the way to the mountains, you know what he did? He had two porters carry him on a hammock on the way up the mountain. Well, he had to chill, you know.

So yeah, Paterno managed to convince Aguinaldo and the rest of the Katipunan leaders to a truce with the Spaniards. But he doesn't stop there, as is typical for a turncoat. When the Americans were invading the Philippines and it looked like the Spaniards were losing, he sent feelers to the Americans, saying he supports them. And when Aguinaldo came back from exile and resisted the Americans, Paterno sent feelers to him too, since it looked like Aguinaldo had a chance of winning (HA! Highly unlikely). So in a nutshell, Pedro Paterno was willing to suck anyone's cock as long as the person is in power and has lots of come to give him. When there's no more come, oh my God, a new and healthy dick to suck right there! Better suck that cock now!


1) Emilio Aguinaldo
- I don't get why this guy is a national hero. According to Abinales' "State and Society in the Philippines," Aguinaldo is a "brilliant general." YEAH RIGHT. Just how much shit does that statement amount to? Megatons, actually. Aguinaldo is NOT a brilliant general. The only reason why people are saying this is because unlike Bonifacio, Aguinaldo won some battles against the Spaniards (yeah, Bonifacio always lost). But according to Sir Dave, the only reason why Aguinaldo always won at the start was because in the rural provinces like Cavite, there were only few Spanish guards manning those areas, so Aguinaldo was only fighting against 20 or so Spanish soldiers who weren't even fully armed compared to Bonifacio who was fighting in the main stronghold of the Spaniards (Manila) and was therefore facing the main force of the Spanish armada. And if there's anything that Aguinaldo was great at, it's running from the enemy. He did it with the Spaniards, and he also did it with the Americans, where he would always run up to the mountains for cover because he's such a cowardly dick. What a pathetic strategy for a brilliant general. LET'S RUN! THE ENEMY IS COMING! And he also made his last stand at Imus, Cavite, which was a dunderheaded decision because Imus was open to attack from all areas (they would have been better off in the mountains, where Spanish warfare was ill-suited). Of course, thanks to the brilliant general's great decisions, they lost, and were forced to go into hiding in the caves of Biak-na-Bato.

Tell me, do those things make Aguinaldo a brilliant general?

And of course, highlighting the idiocy of Aguinaldo would be his ordered executions of Andres Bonifacio and Antonio Luna (supposedly the best Filipino general of that period). I don't know why he killed Luna, but Bonifacio's execution had to do with the election held in Cavite, when Bonifacio declared it null and void. An emissary was quickly sent to Aguinaldo (who wasn't at the election that time) who told him what just transpired, so Aguinaldo quickly ordered Bonifacio as guilty of being treacherous to the newly elected Katipunan and had them captured. So while Bonifacio and company were on their way to Batangas, Aguinaldo's party caught up with them and they were dragged back to Cavite, tried in a court trial which was obviously a sham, and sentenced to death in the Maragundun mountains. So I now come to the conclusion that:

Aguinaldo = Dickhead with a Cleft Chin

Seriously, Aguinaldo caused the downfall of the Philippine Revolution. Bonifacio would have been a far better commander for the Katipunan (well, he founded it in the first place).

Procrastinate. By reading this. Haha.

Well, finals week is threatening to drive all of us off our rockers and threatening to blow off our knickers, looming over the horizon like a gigantic manifestation of everything that human nature is programmed to hate. As a result, everyone is busy preparing for his or her execution, leading to everyone becoming unapproachable you'd think you were bathing in melted cow manure for the rest of the school year so the only critters you attract are flies and those noisy, loud-mouthed, annoying geeks ("Hey! You're one of us now!"). And everyone also develops looks that all say "Stressed Like Hell" in bold Helvetica font, which is another way of saying "I will fucking kill you if you as dare approach me in this really stressful period of my life."

Yeah, everyone I know is busy nowadays. It's becoming a trend, actually. Everyone is either busy mapping out his/her plans for the summer (which include fucking around in beaches or bathing under the sun until he/she gets the perfect cancer), completing a dissertation on the complexities of how society reduces the individual to a mindless drone, or attempting to understand philosophy (HA! I got another B for the 2nd long test! Take THAT, you sore losers). They always cower behind this "busy" excuse that I won't be surprised if they suddenly wear tags that say "BUSY" in Impact font, together with the small red "No Entry" sign beside it ala Yahoo Messenger. So in turn, I'm made to look as if I'm some slacker with nothing to do when everyone else seems to be busy bracing themselves for the second bubonic plague or something.

But hey, guess what? I'm busy too. Hell, I have a whole lot of things to do, so screw all of you busybodies out there. You think I'm not busy enough for you, huh? Well, take this, you completely stressed-out somebodies. Here's a list of all the things I'm supposed to do for this week.

1) Philosophy presentation about our JEeP experience. Basically I just have to philosophize my JEeP experience; in other words, spew out a whole slur of bullshit for 10 minutes tops.

2) FA 102 orals. Basically I just have to name some important movement in the history of literature and squeeze it into my own writings like a banana then I can go away scot-free.

3) Come up with flash fiction with several parameters involved for Fiction class. Yes, I have to join in on this "flash fiction" trend in order to fulfill the laziness of contemporary readers to read 3-pages-and-above works.

4) Convince everyone that the term "flash fiction" is so vomit-inducing and is just a marketing strategy because it supposedly sounds oh-so-cool-Jazul. Because when you hear someone say "I'm writing fiction--not just any kind of fiction, but FLAAAAAAAAAAASH fiction. Suck on that, bitch," you immediately worship that person for jumping the bandwagon and being a trippy idiot.

5) Reflect on why I hate the word "workshop" so much. I love the workshops themselves, but "workshop" just sounds so gay. Oh, I just answered my own question with that last sentence. That's less one thing to do for this week.

6) Finish my list of "Songs that will make you dangerously suicidal." So far I only have 12 songs for the list (yeah, most of them are Radiohead songs, no surprises there).

7) Finish this blog entry, because I haven't written one since all my fingers were cut off while cutting my fingernails with our ten inch-long knife in the kitchen sink. Yes, I am typing this entry with my nose.

8) Wonder what the world will be like if everyone's heads are filled with flames and they're all running around screaming words that can be substituted with #, %, ?, !, &, or $ instead of actual letters.

9) Imagine what a toenail with a little dirt on it would taste like (but that's about as far as I go--no actual tasting).

10) Think of what the next item on this to-do list will be.

11) I also have to open my mouth at least once this week. And make a sound come out when I open my mouth. Oh, and to direct that sound to a living, breathing person, even if that sound sounds like "grghhfdfll."

12) Ride our newly-bought rocking-horse for 3 hours (as in RIDE, not what your perverted mind is thinking).

1,027) Fight off the angels that have taken refuge in our home. There's three of them, and they've drank all the coffee and made the place so ridiculously bright that I couldn't even open my eyes an inch without screaming "GAAAAAAH TURN OFF THE HEADLIGHTS," except those aren't headlights but are actually manifestations of these angels' divine status and an homage to their cliche portrayal in sappy movies that are stupid enough to portray them as winged creatures that look like as if they glow in the dark. As to how I'll drive them away from here without being the recipient of the Wrath of God, I have no friggin' idea.

1,028) Beat my cousin in a game of ping-pong. YOU'RE GOING DOWN, BITCH.

See? I've got a shitload of stuff to do, just like all you busy people out there. Who's a slacker now??? I own all of you, because there's no way possible that you can be as busy as me. I am now the grandaddy of all the busy people in the world; all of your required papers and orals don't count for shit when compared to my to-do list.

You're probably asking now, "Did you just skip from 12 and go all the way to 1,027?" Yes, I did. You see, I just have so much stuff to do that I couldn't just list all 1,028 things down, right? Well, time is against us busybodies, so yeah, I had to. I can't even remember most of the stuff I'm supposed to do; I'm just so goddamn BUSY with a lot of other stuff, and this Finals week thing is only adding to the shit pile of things that could make my hair fall off one by one.

So to all who think I'm just hanging around and doing nothing, I just pwned you in the ass by my undeniable busyness. IN YOUR FACE!

Seth Rogen in The 40-Year-Old Virgin said that the best way to talk to women is by just asking questions (or being like David Caruso in "Jade"), because women only love to talk about themselves. So this basically means that all you have to do to worm your way into a woman's heart is by asking them if they know the fundamentals of quantum physics, if they know Immanuel Kant's categorical imperative, if they can pinpoint the exact location of a cat's pancreas when one dissects it, if they can calculate how much longer the sun can last before it burns up and leaves us all freezing to death...

But seriously, folks. What Seth Rogen's character in the movie was saying is that guys have to be the ones doing the steering--in other words, he has to be the one to push the "right" buttons that would hopefully serve as the "Open Sesame" to a lady's heart. If you ask the right questions (questions that aren't probing enough to suggest that you're interested in sticking your dick out and doing the old in-and-out then and there), the lady will feel comfortable in your presence, because as Seth Rogen said, women only care about themselves and they'll find it nice that a guy is interested in them. They only want to talk about themselves.

In a way, this is true. You know what a woman would choose over a bottle of perfume and a lonely, loveless guy? Yeah, she's likely to choose the pink blush-on to cover up her pimples and self-absorbed nature. Sure, most women seem nice and compassionate to guys, but really, it's all fake. A facade. It's not genuine. They don't give a shit about guys who are pouring out all their bitter emotions out to them; don't let their sympathetic faces lead you to believe that they're actually feeling for you, because they're not completely. You know what they're feeling? They feel bored when a hopeless guy does this, and they think, "What a loser." Of course they suppress these thoughts, unless they're desperate themselves.



Initially, girls just don't care for guys. I'm reminded of Emmanuel Levinas' philosophy about the responsibility for the Other: we are responsible for the Other, but this is not a reciprocal connection. The "I" is responsible for the Other by approaching the Other, but it is up to them to feel responsible for us, the "I". A woman's common philosophy is that the guy has to show his genuine care and concern for the woman first, before the woman can show her genuine care and concern for the guy in return. It's up to her to decide whether or not to reciprocate this connection between them or not.

And no woman likes a whiner. All those guys who think they're losing the battle against life? According to my stat sheet, you'll all stay as hopeless romantics for the rest of your lives unless you uncork your head from your asses this instant. And you're not likely to get any girls in, let's see...FOR ALL ETERNITY.

Women are looking for someone strong, someone who can stand up for himself, because they're thinking that this guy would stand up for them too in the long run. They don't find boring losers appealing, those leeches who think a relationship with a woman will answer all of their problems. These "hopeless romantics" will stay that way for the rest of their lives, especially those idiots who talk about "just being there for her, loving her but his undying love is always ignored" will get you nowhere unless the girl you're chasing is as desperate as you are (which is rarely the case, since the girls that these kinds of guys chase after are out of their league and the ones who love them are the ones they don't like).

What these losers fail to understand is that just being intensely in love with a girl won't be enough to cement a relationship with her, won't be enough to get her to love you back. If love is all you have to give, I'd advise you to just dig up your own grave and have yourself buried alive. You're fighting a losing battle. Saying to someone that you "love" them won't be enough, you have to show it. Which would explain why some girls still don't break up with their boyfriends even if they're already assholes; they see something in the guy, something they like, and I can only assume that it's because these guys aren't dependent on the girl as much as hopeless romantics are. In other words, they're strong-willed people. Hopeless romantics (or emo people)? They claim they'd rip out their hearts for the girl they love; really, that would a greeeeaaaat gift to the one you love. How fucking thoughtful.

Because really, those who claim they'd "do anything" for a woman are out of their minds, because women don't really want guys to throw themselves before their feet; that's like slavery to them (unless the girl is desperate too, or is a gold-digging bitch). What women are looking for are guys who are funny, conversational, and will make them feel good about themselves (although not necessarily the "bolero" type). Not to mention those who are strong in character, someone who can stand up for themselves, someone strong-willed, someone steadfast yet sweet at the same time. Women don't really see these qualities in hopeless romantics, with all their ridiculous poetry and suicidal intentions for the sake of LOVE. The Silent Bob approach, or the mysterious, "silent water runs deep" demeanor doesn't really work (it creeps women out most of the time), which is sadly what these hopeless romantics are going for. Being "nice" to a girl isn't enough, get that in your heads.

But what's even more sad is the fact that most of these sad sappy suckers refuse to listen and just go on doing whatever the hell it is they're doing for the sake of their "love." I can't really blame them; it's what they want to do, it's what they believe in. Their mentality is to put themselves down again and again in the hope that one day, their "loved one" (or more appropriately, the one they "obsess over") will notice them in all their grief and sorrow, and will take pity on them and "love" them in return.

We're not in the movies, man. This is real life.

The music geek will say to me, "Album covers? Album covers?! They don't matter; what matters most is the music inside those album covers. They can stand alone without the art." While I admit that what really matters is the music and that you don't really need to buy the CD (just download it off the 'Net), album art still plays an important role. Some of the greatest albums of all time have the best artwork to go along with the music (The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's, The Rolling Stone's Exile on Main Street, etc.), and I can say that these covers really helped boost the status of these landmark albums.

Good album art isn't just eye candy to guarantee sales for an album--good album art is evocative, meaningful, and uplifting despite its kitsch classification, and is sort of the "preview" for what to expect in the album. It's something you could stare at all day; not just because you love how the colors and composition conspire to create an elegant and cool design, but more importantly there's something in the artwork that strikes a chord within you, tells a story, or dazzles you with its wit. The artwork may not be universally appealing, but what makes it "good album art" is that it paves way for personal interpretation and satisfaction. This is why mainstream college rock band's album covers will never be held in high esteem--the likes of Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, Simple Plan, and Panic! at the Disco don't really put that much thought into their album covers (basically, all their album art is made up of overused Photoshop effects), because frankly, they're all pieces of shit-for-brains.

Here are some of my favorite album covers, in no specific order. I have a lot more, but I only chose from the albums that I personally have (so basically I stare at them a whole lot).

Gimme Fiction - Spoon
I'm a sucker for minimalist works. Spoon's fourth album has a cover which is a more exotic and darker take on Little Red Riding Hood (the ominous composition ironically making Red Riding Hood seem sexier). Framing the red hooded figure against a white background and superimposed with the band name and album title, the artwork feels ominous and (I dare say this) sexually charged. It's all in the bloody red and the sliver of the figure's face, and you can't deny it: it is seductive.



In Rainbows - Radiohead
...and I'm also a sucker for colors. Well, the album title says it all, but there's something else about the cover of Radiohead's acclaimed sixth album that makes me love it so much. It manages to be organic and refreshing despite not being able to resist showing off our technological/digital era. The album is as awesome as the cover, by the way.



Elephant - The White Stripes
Another simple yet elegant design. There's a childlike charm pervading the whole album art, with Jack White dressed in a cowboy's(?) outfit and Meg crying like a little girl, both of them sitting on what appears to be a trunk (with the usual "III" at the bottom). What impressed me about this cover was the shallow yet witty meaning of their poses--their positioning is meant to look like an elephant. Hence, the album title.



Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like A Peasant - Belle & Sebastian
I don't really know what attracts me to this album cover. Maybe it's the light filter of yellow, giving the rather ordinary photograph a radiant and glowing appeal. Or maybe it's the supposed idea of a "dual" personality that the photograph is trying to express (although it's done rather poorly). Maybe it's the weird angle of the photo. Or maybe it's the cute chick at the right. I don't know. I just know this appeals to me, and that's all there is to it.



Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots - The Flaming Lips
A title as playful and imaginative as this one deserves nothing less than a colorful artwork that captures the weirdness of most of the songs included in the album. It's a delightful blend of bubblegum colors, with fruity pink and light turquoise melding with the custard yellow, creating a delicious ambiance to complement the equally luscious instrumentation of the album. And of course, there's this huge pink robot. Wonderful.



Parklife - Blur
I just love this photograph, how it captured life in motion, with the mostly warm colors contrasted with the deep black fur of the dog on the left and the blue uniform of the other. You can almost feel the dogs running at you.



Surfer Rosa - Pixies
Once again, graceful motion captured in a snapshot. Aside from the lady at the center of the photograph being naked from the waist up (man, that is one hell of a body), there's a macabre feel that dominates the picture--the background is grimy and cracked, with a cross hanging at the right side and graffiti and random scratches filling up spaces here and there. It perfectly sums up what's in store in this album--morbid and deathly images have always been Frank Black's favorite themes to impart on us.



Remain in Light - Talking Heads
It's all about the faces. This is obviously inspired from "Seen and Unseen," one of the songs in this great album, a song about "changing one's face." The cover shows the solarized faces of the band members, almost reminiscent of the Beatles' Let It Be. It just looks so unique, a great concept coming out of the mind of David Byrne. It's all about the faces. And being plastic.

Tomorrow is V-day, and it's a big deal for most people out there. I saw two funny dudes walking along Ateneo looking like a modern Mexican troupe, without the Mexican hats and flea-ridden mustaches. They looked like normal Ateneo students, only they looked desperate and sad, not to mention stupid. One was holding a guitar, and the other a bouquet of flowers. Jesus, whatever happened to innovation and creativity? That "harana" thing phased out centuries ago, as far as I know.

And the prices of the flowers being sold in the caf (where some KSPs sang "Crazy for You" as some form of commemoration of Friday the 13th) cost almost as much as my weekly allowance. Php 450 for a single bouquet??? There's an economic crisis man, only stupid people would waste that much money, which a lot of students did, of course. I mean, what's the point in buying flowers for girls? You're wasting money, because girls won't have any use for all those roses and daisies or dandelions or pussies or whatever. The reason girls find flowers from guys so sweet is because they're thinking "Oh, how sweet, he wasted his money for me!" And their heads will inflate. But then again, most girls only say that so the guy won't lose face.

How about the loveless? What are some of the fruitful things they can do considering they'd be boohoohoo lonely on V-day? They should practice sublimation, which means the act of turning your frustrations into something productive. A way of distraction, one could say. Here are some tips for what the loveless can do on V-day, and none of these involve suicide. Sorry to disappoint some people out there (because there's not much use for a dead person other than ground fertilizer).

1) Stare at a blank stretch of wall and reflect on how overrated Valentine's day is, how it has brainwashed a whole lot of people into believing that love could actually happen on that day, which is a one in a million chance by the way (which they would argue is worth the risk anyway, which is also bullshit, by the way).

2) Imagine how Valentine's day is actually taking place on a parallel universe that is quite similar to reality and that all the people who advocate this day are actually life forms with different biological structures unknown to science. In other words, they're ALIENS.

3) Create a secondary world for which to situate these aliens in. The world has to contain magical elements, completely disregarding every established scientific law or philosophical inquiry that has already been established in this world. In other words, it has to be completely NON-REALIST. It can either be a fantastical setting or a dystopian setting ala sci-fi, whatever tickles your pickle.

4) Take a piece of paper and a pen.

5) And, here we go...brace yourself for this...holy shit, I'm gonna shit my shit up, I can't take it anymore...this is freaking intense, man...here we go baby...the next thing you have to do is...que dramatic entrance music first...

6) Speculate.

7) After "speculating," write it all down. Write down your completely non-realist ideas and turn it into a coherent narrative that completely attacks the whole notion of a "Valentine's Day."

8) And after all is said and done, sell your soul to Dean Francis Alfar. He'll welcome you with open arms, because he'll have another soul to "speculate" with, as if ordinary fictionists haven't been "speculating" for centuries.

Easy, write? Instead of thinking of suicide like my friend Pin (which I advised him not to), just do the following steps and you'll forget your lovelessness in no time. But if you're a lazy sleazeball, you can always take the drink-a-whole-case-of-Red-Horse-overnight alternative.

Oh, and Happy Friday the 13th to all.

When I graduate (well, hopefully I’ll graduate next year), I’m going to offer myself to the producers of ABS-CBN. I’ll tell them, “Hey, you know what? It’s always been my lifelong dream to come up with my own telenovela.” After looking at the blank looks on their faces, I’ll try to drive the point home even more. “It’s been my dream to become a screenwriter for an ABS-CBN telenovela!” Hopefully, they’ll already get my point, and they’ll welcome me with open arms.

 

They’ll probably ask why the hell would I want to write a new telenovela for them. Well, it’s simple, I would say. Because I’m a Creative Writing major in the Ateneo! Writing is my passion! I want my writing to change the world!!! (after which I would wish for a sound of thunder in the background for a more dramatic effect). But they’ll just stare at me with looks that say “Change the world? Through writing? You kidding me?!” So I’ll just kiss their asses and say, “Sirs, I know how to come up with a whang-bang she-bang show that will assure the masses that they will remain poor for the rest of their lives because this show will see to it that their brain cells will be reduced to near zero.” And the producers’ eyes will widen and they’ll exclaim “Whoa, we don’t think it’s possible for you to impress us more, you’re fucking HIRED!” And I would jump in joy and twist my ankle upon landing.

 

After my foot’s in a cast, they’ll ask, “But do you know how to write a screenplay?” And then I’ll kick all of them in the groin one by one because saying such a thing is INSULTING to a Creative Writing major. I’ll say in a dictator-like voice, “Of course I know how to write a screenplay! I have a freakin’ degree in Creative Writing!!!” and then they’ll cower in fear. Nah, they won’t. Those producers breathe money—they’re not going to be scared of some scrawny, dandruff-infected writer.

 

 

So I would start work on a new telenovela. But wait wait wait! the producers would say, waving their arms in alarming fashion. What the fuck is it? I would ask, because writers don’t want to be disturbed during the process of writing, it should just be him and his art, nothing else. But of course the producers don’t know this and never had the intention of knowing it in the first place. They will just say, “You don’t have the checklist yet!” Checklist? I’d ask. And they’d tell me about it, and I would be so overjoyed because with that checklist I would be able to finish the script of my telenovela in 30 minutes. I will be so thankful to them that I would shake their hands and weep before their feet, because all my life I’ve agonized 24/7 over revising stupid short stories and poems that never ended up in Philippine Free Press or Philippine Graphic or even in Heights. And then they’d ask “What the hell is a ‘Heights?’” and I’d just shrug and say “Just some critique group in Ateneo” and they’ll laugh and say “CRITIQUE GROUP?! Whoa, are we on MARS now or something? HAHAHAHAHA”

 

After we’d had our little fun, the producers will be very helpful and give me the checklist of all the things that must be included in the telenovela. The checklist will be as follows:

 

-          Love story with a male and female lead (you have no choice—the actors have already been chosen beforehand)

-          Social class difference between leads (female lead preferably poor, like a damsel in distress)

-          Villains must be against their love

-          Main villain must have an “evil laugh” (“mwahahahaha” or something like that)

-          Sometime in the story, someone must suffer from amnesia

-          A major villain must “die” sometime in the story, but must be “resurrected” later on

-          Make the lovers quarrel sometime in the story for an “element of suspense”

-          Continuity errors are forgivable (in fact, don’t mind them at all)

-          Must ALWAYS have a happy ending, with the lovers succeeding against their villains and being reunited

 

With this checklist, I would breeze through the scriptwriting process in less than the time it takes for me to crap on the toilet after eating a whole box of 18” Yellow Cab pizza. After I’m done with it, I would just think of a title for my new telenovela. The producers will say that it must be a phrase that sounds really desperate and sad when said in a low voice, like “Pangako Sayo” and “San Ka Man Naroroon,” because poor people would be able to identify immediately with these titles due to the fact that it feeds their fantasies that help them forget about their poverty, especially those longkatuts and chimays who drool over telenovelas day and night. After I had thought up a title for my masterpiece, I will give it to the producers, and they will throw it in the garbage can and just retain the main plot and give the director free rein to do whatever he wishes with that main plot.

 

But I will still be overjoyed, because they will pay me money in the form of cold, hard cash—cold, hard cash for writing a script in 30 minutes. It’s the easiest money I will ever make. And I will now have bragging rights over all other writers out there who are killing themselves for their passion of writing. I will jump right in front of their faces and say “HA! ROT IN POVERTY, ASSHOLES! KEEP ON DREAMING THAT YOU’LL BECOME NATIONAL ARTISTS IN THE FUTURE! GUESS WHAT? THAT AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN!” And I will wave my not-so-hard-earned money in front of their faces and say “You want some of this, huh? YOU WANT SOME? Poor you. POOR YOU! GET IT? WAHAHAHAHAHA”

 

And all the writers will cry themselves a river because all they have is their art, and no money. As for me, I will be laughing my way to hell, for I have just sold my soul to the Devil.

 

 

 

 

There are days when I just don't feel like talking. Days when words are almost pointless, as if there are better things to do than opening your mouth and running off some garbage from your mind to your tongue which would eventually find its way to the world and would hopefully land on someone's ears, and hopefully that person is listening, and hopefully that person is not just pretending to be listening but actually heard and understood what you said, and hopefully with what he/she's heard and understood, he/she will agree with whatever it is you just said, and since you've both reached an understanding you'll be hoping that the connection you've managed to make between the two of you won't just be temporary and would last for a while, and by "a while" you really mean "quite a long time" because you don't want to be lonely and just talk to yourself all the time, which would say that what you're really doing is just searching for a friend or someone who will take the time to actually listen to you. Because that's the point of talking anyway, right? We all want our words to be heard by other ears, not just our own ears. Because what's the point of having an Odyssaic conversation (your say something, only to come back to yourself because there's no one there to hear it)? Talking to yourself all the time has got to be the saddest thing that could happen to anyone.

Have you ever had the feeling that everything you say isn't really getting you anywhere, that the other person isn't really getting anything from you but just pretends that he/she does? Those looks on their faces, how they slowly sag in disappointment after being in a state of anticipation and curiosity at first. When you open your mouth their expression just sags as if saying "Oh...that's it?" as if they were expecting more. Then they'll agree by nodding their heads, pretending they like what you just said, but their faces don't agree with their actions. I don't know, it's really depressing.

Don't you feel wary of closed toilet stalls? I really am, the same way I'm wary of all closed doors. It's this nagging feeling that comes over me when I see something closed--I feel this desire to know what that damn door is so keenly hiding from me. Especially if it's locked. I'll bang on the door all night if I have to, although this is inadvisable if you don't want someone suddenly opening it and pointing a gun at your face.

Anyway, back to toilet stalls. It feels awkward to enter a public bathroom and finding out that there's no one else there--you have the bathroom all to yourself. But then again, it's still awkward when you see that someone else is in there with you. What the hell, let me just put it this way--men's bathrooms are and always will be creepy places. It's just that the silence when you're all alone inside the white walls of a public bathroom is nerve-wracking, and it's really weird if you're peeing in a urinal and there's someone next to you. And you never know when someone would just bash your head on the wall while you're peeing and just fuck you up right there in the bathroom, pounding your head on the sink, driving your face to the mirror, and shoving your head inside the toilet bowl. Bathrooms have lots of hard surfaces, so be wary.

I digressed again. The silence in a bathroom is unusually disturbing for me, especially when there are closed toilet stalls. Take what happened today, for example. I entered the first-floor bathroom in Gonzaga without a care in the world, and there was no one else in there. I unzipped my fly and peed my heart out in one of the urinals. I was letting my mind wander, letting it drift off to weird places, when suddenly I heard someone fart from inside one of the stalls. It was a long, crisp fart, with the perfect trill to make my ear drums vibrate for minutes. Then it was followed by another equally long fart. Then the sound of shit plopping softly on the toilet water. Followed by more farts and shit plopping on the toilet water.

I hate it when that happens. I'm there, minding my own business, then suddenly images would flash across my mind and I would feel curious. Intensely curious. I would feel this desire to know stuff about the person taking a shit inside one of those stalls, and I would ask myself any of these questions (or all of them):

1) Did he hear me come in?
2) If so, is he embarrassed like hell?
3) What did he eat?
4) What is the color of his shit?
5) Is it snake shit or King Kong shit?
6) What is his facial expression while taking a shit?
7) Was he forcing the shit out of his tiny asshole or just letting it slide through?
8) Is he turning purple?
9) Are his fingers clenched so tightly that his knuckles are turning white?
10) How long has he been in there?
11) Was his loud fart intentional or he just wasn't able to control it?
12) Is he sweating so much?
13) Is there someone else in there with him?
14) If I knocked on the stall and asked "Hey man, how's it going in there?", how would he react?
15) Is he secretly cursing me now since I unceremoniously barged inside the bathroom while he's still in the process of taking a shit?

I always feel sorry for the poor inhabitants of toilet stalls. They think the coast is clear when they first come in, but then when they're about to let their bombs fall, someone suddenly comes in after them. I know how they feel. Just a tip for those who suddenly feel the urge to take a shit in Ateneo: go to the Bellarmine hall bathroom, 3rd floor. There's nobody in there all the time.

Do you realize that the word "hear" has the word "ear" in it? Jesus, that is creepy.

Do you also realize that the word "devil" has the word "evil" in it? What the hell is going on here?

And do you realize that the band "The Fray" really sounds like the word "gay"? Painfully funny, yeah.

People would do just about anything just to get away looking scot-free. It’s all about maintaining a clean image of oneself, to not come out as rotten to the core. That’s what euphemisms are for, right?

 

It’s exactly like how Filipinos name toilets as “comfort rooms” or “rest rooms” because they feel the word “toilet” is slightly revolting. Of course, it’s really fun to come up with nonsense euphemisms like “comfort rooms” even if you don’t really “comfort” yourself inside said room. Or naming it “rest room” when there are no beds or velvet sofas in sight, just boring white toilets and sinks. People should sue, you know, for public misleading/misinformation. Another delightful euphemism is saying that people are “horizontally-challenged” as a polite way of saying that they look like a balloon ready to burst any minute. Or politely asking how many people are hiding inside the fat person, because there’s no way in hell that one can be that fat, right? Or like saying how one is “plastic” when what you really mean is that that person is a direct descendant of Lucifer, the Devil King himself.

 

It’s really fun to come up with euphemisms. It’s like painstakingly wrapping a ton of cow manure in colorful wrapping paper. It’s like giving someone a box filled with balled-up dog shit posing as chocolate. I mean, you don’t just throw shit in the face of people, right? They might as well be polished and gift-wrapped if you’re going to throw it in someone’s face.

 

The best euphemism of all is the classic break-up line, delivered in gushy romantic flicks that I soooo love to watch, when a couple finally reach the end of the road and decide to call it quits. Well, one person from the couple, at least. I just remembered that KFC commercial, with the so-hot-I’ll-bang-her-all-night girl saying to her boyfriend in the commercial (cue dramatic voice and watery eyes), “It’s not you, it’s me.” Some people would even go so far as to say “I’m sorry, but I’m not good enough for you.” Clap your hands for their courage, please! *canned applause*

 

Ahhh, sounds so melodramatic. All that’s needed is some American Idol-sung ballad that’s getting heavy airplay on MTV for background music, and it’ll be fit for a dumb telenovela in ABS-CBN. Especially since the classic “It’s not you, it’s me” really translates to “I’m sorry, I wanna break it off because I’ve grown tired of you. Pinagsawaan na kita. Gusto ko ibang babae/lalake naman. Sorry ha.” As for the secondary classic, the “I’m not good enough for you,” that’s even worse, since it really means “Sorry, but I just don’t have the balls to say that I’ve run out of love for you. Therefore, I’m not good enough. Which is pathetic, by the way.”

 

Everyone doesn’t want a complete meltdown or a hysteria fest when breaking up with someone, so of course these euphemisms are still around, just to soften the blows. But are they really softening the blow for the poor recipient of the hare-brained “It’s not you, it’s me” shit? No. How can you call that softening the blow, when you’re being as clear as a bucket of mud?

 

Imagine yourself as someone who hears “It’s not you, it’s me.” I don’t know about you, but I’ll go “What in fucking hell are you talking about?!” I mean, what a foolproof way to confuse someone. When you hear that horseshit, nothing is cleared, because you don’t know what caused the break-up other than a gay confession from your significant other claiming that the problem lies with him/her. In other words, there’s no exact thing that you can blame for the break-up—you don’t know where you went wrong or what went wrong, it’s left out of the picture, and you’ll be groping for answers. If you’re a guy, it’s better to hear that you’re boring and stupid; at least you know where you went wrong, unlike the crystal-clear “It’s not you, it’s me.” It’s like watching a porn movie without even seeing a money shot, or a Michael Bay film without at least one major building exploding for no apparent reason.

 

As for “I’m not good enough,” seriously, what are you, a saint? Why get into a relationship in the first place, if that’s how you were feeling all along? Was it just a fling, and you’re a player? If you claim that you just realized that you’re “not good enough” in the course of your relationship when you get to learn more about your partner, then I should do a chicken dance in front of you, where I flap my arms chicken-style and hop around and do some chicken noises in honor of your cowardice. If you’re not good enough, then try to be good enough if you really love the person, it’s as simple as that. But I have a better solution: just don’t say it. Just break it off or be fucking honest, don’t say you’re not good enough and never will be, because you may have a pea for a brain, but you don’t need to brag about it by resorting to stupid break-up techniques that don’t make sense.

 

This is just my take on these things, I’m not speaking for anyone, since I’ve never been in a relationship and never been subjected to such idiocy (Haha! Sucks on you, losers). But seriously, couples really have these weird ways of complicating things. I think it’s better to just say “Sorry, but I really don’t think this is working,” because it implicates both the people in the relationship. But wait, that only happens when couples have a mutual understanding of their failures to each other. When it’s only one person, he/she can always add “for me” after that break-up statement. That way, he/she won’t be as vague as my Philosophy teacher.