Good morning

To sunrise and cloudy skies, to missed calls and dialed numbers, to erring lovers and betrayed hearts, to trials and triumphs, to work and traffic and bosses, to friends and acquaintances, to wishful thinking and answered prayers, to coffee and bacon and cheese—good morning.

Hell, I'm busy.

I AM busy, so this would be quick.

I am reeking with work (just loooovvvee it!), wrestling with my own thoughts and having a freakin’ senate committee up my head. Have you tried brainstorming by your lonesome? I find it weird when I talk to myself (weirder if I answer back), so I’ve created Another Me (taller, more buffed, and tad more hung—though I’m quite a loader myself awready…).

It’s wonderful and it works, A.M. churned out lotsa cool ideas and they are all amazing!

We are tidying up some loose ends for our pet projx and we are presenting ‘em tomorrow to the Big Boss. It’s really nice to see your creative juices squeezed from your own pores.

...and then later

Ruminating on the heart-wrenching, mindfuckery of relationships, I slip to my Carrie Bradshaw mode—I couldn’t help but wonder, why do we choose to hurt when we can choose to forget? I believe it is totally the Conspiracy of What If’s. What if you can still save it? What if one succumbs to change? What if you compromise? I often speak the courage of my conviction and I often wear my putrescent wounds up my sleeves (and fuck yeah, I cry too), but I am as guilty as you are of this crap. And then I came across an old entry from my journal and it all made sense…


"Tatlong letra, tatlong hakbang papalayo.
Paano nga ba lumayo kung minsan ko nang
inukit ang pangalan mo sa puso ko?
May dahas ang kalungkutan, may hagupit ang pagtangis
—tumatatak sa isip, nagmamarka sa gunita.
Hindi sapat ang lumayo kaya’t humukay ako ng libingan.
Inilibing na kita. Ipinagluksa.
Wala na. Tapos na. Nyeta ka."

Whaddaf*ckin' hey!

THAT’S exactly what the moon said the night Sister Bitch Destiny waved her naughty wonder wand and reduced everything into friggin’ coincidence.

I got a hottie hook-up getting down and doing the-hot-and-dirty inside his RAV4 last night. We were parked on 3rd Street, a leapfrog from GGS, my old condo where I’ve lived in with The Ex. I got off the Ravy after our exchange of bodily fluids and phone numbers, and then what do I see?

You guessed it right.

The Ex made an apparition in his sloppy tank top, and ew, boxer’s shorts. Whaddyaknow, the vermin is still style-impaired—will somebody tell him that he is ACTUALLY wearing his underwear outside his hermetic, godawful pit?!

S & M, anyone?

DATELINE: Saturday Weekend.



IN my desperate attempt to recoup from being Ms. Amity (that turned to Amityville horrors!) the night before, I’ve conspired with my friends O1 and O2 to go back to Malate and regain my lost brownie points.

I was so sorry for being nasty at people’s lousy fashion sense (or lack of it), tasteless taste (I always pontificate: Never argue about taste especially with people who doesn’t have it.), and free loaders doubling as social butterflies. I concede, WTF, I was bad.

The cosmos was right on the dot. I got my comeuppance right smack center where I was the night before.

I can be attention-whorey at times, but not like this. In a sea of pink men rustling around O Bar, Top & Bottom and the nearby Chelu, an intoxicated burly blonde affam (foreigner) dressed in black came up to me. He was wearing a black leather jacket and tight cigarette pants with leather bands crisscrossed on his chest (a lone cock ring was holding the leather X together). The letters S & M painted on my mind, I was suddenly gripped with a sense of clear and present danger.

He barged straight at me with a strange naughty grin on his face, his hands zero’ed in to my skinhead and caressed it like Manang Bola’s crystal ball.

“UTTERLY SEXXXY!!” he exclaimed. He then planted a peck on my cheek, his breath befouled with alcohol and whatnot.

“Are you a master or a servant?” he asked. And before I could say anything, he was grabbing my arms and petting my head.

My words of wisdom: Uh-oh.

I froze.

He was making a scene. O Bar’s trusty waiters and door bitches were just watching for any eventuality and I was sure they would come to my rescue, but my good friends O1 and O2 were on Power Puff Girls mode. O1 hugged me in faux lover mode, while O2 was ready for anything.

When O Bar's muscled bouncer started to make his way to our table, S & M guy hoisted himself back and disappeared in the crowd. Whew.

One word: karma.

Ugh.

Bad.

DATELINE: Friday Weekend.



WHISKED in the middle of Malate at the fabulous O Bar, my conversation was punctuated by ho-hums and my enthusiasm was on a coma—I was bored to my skull while everyone else was high with their terrestrial emote mode reachin’ nosebleed heights.

Resisting all temps to swig on alcohol, I gunned “I don’t wanna…” to friends and “Not tonight…” to roaches offering free drinks. But no sooner than my fave waiter Vil could open his mouth and ask for my order, I mumbled “Red horse, pare..” like any jolog canto boy would quip.

G, my friend slash fag hag extra ordinaire handed me—what appeared to my alcohol-free vision—an innocent chunk of ugly pastry.

“Brownies, gagah!” and shoved it into my mouth.

After three horsies, more roaches and lotsa cuentos, I was waving my friendly dirty finger at hotties and snarling at poseurs (whose idea of fashion was big buckled belt and, aargh!, suspenders that made them look like smurfets copycats--bite me, I’ve had devil in a brownie and stupidity in brown bottles).

We were on our way to stone’s throw away Mafia and Bed Club when a free loader (there are lots of them disguising as friends) barged into our direction chumming me up for VIP entrance in the clubs (I can bring in two guests). I, in my altered self, pointed at my two diva friends and snapped “DYOSA! DYOSA! DYOSA! IKAW, DYOSAH KA BA?!!”

Tsk, tsk. I was so bad I can smell my own conscience rotting.

Signing ON...

EONS back, I had a stint as a faceless spinmeister for radio. I was basking with anonymity, but nevertheless enjoying the klieglights with a bevy of listeners who were gungho’ed and mystified over “Louie Magicano.”

I eat and breathe music back then—it’s one slice of my colorful life that I would PLAY, REWIND, PAUSE, and REPEAT again and again given the chance. That chance came knockin’ on my door again. I am now back in radio—well, kinda.

I don’t go on-air, but it’s triply challenging. My new job requires not only the rudiments of a four-hour boardwork, but the round-the-clock, think-‘til-you-get-f*cking-brainfreeze kinda thing.

I am at the helm of megging the challenging role that my very dear friend, Joe d’ Mango has bequeathed me. His shoes are very large to fill, ‘coz Joda is one helluva guy. No mincing of words, no pretty adjectives and adulterated emotional hoo-ha, but Joda is just too good for words.

Every day, my office door reveals wonderful new surprises—friends from the past and new ones—Sgt. Pepper of 103 ½ MAX, Ron of Hits 99.5 RT, Joey and Miles of Magic 89.9, Glenn of The Mellow Touch. Geez, who knows who else this door would bring me.

I just love my new job.

This is a new challenge for me. I am hoisting my red flag, all ready gearin' for battle. I am stepping onto the arena, just too ready and eager to bleed.

Movie Review: “Ang Lihim ni Antonio”

(A succinct critique of the film written by—ehem—my friendiva, Lex, with tempestuous literary promise for cineastes and high dick peek quotient that will drive packs of vhaklers to Galeria and partake on restless rampa to resurrect the glory days of Miramar. Ugh.)




Tinigasan ako.

Repartee

(Conversation With My Almost-Boyfriend)



HIM: I'm goin' to Sing, will be gone for some time. Workstuff.
ME: Say hi to Towel Club.
HIM: (Smiles wryly.) I hate to go, but I must. I'll find you when I get back.
ME: How will you find me if I am lost myself?
HIM: I don't wanna read between the lines...
ME: Then don't.
HIM: Is this the end of line for me?
ME: I dunno, I'm in the middle of nowhere myself.
HIM: I'll find you...

A zebra lands on this writer's block

(or How To Write A Longish Title And Stare Endlessly At A Blank Page)



BLANK. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Try as I might to wring up any creative juice from the left side of my brain (the so-called creative rim of my thoughtful existence whereupon my muse, er, my Lothario rests), but all I can squeeze is a sad title to succinctly capture my dilemma.

I’m consoled with the idea that my leftie is not unimaginative and dry, but simply slobbering in sloth and refusing to cooperate. Sigh.

There were times when my friends would gather around me, court my ire with a vile idea or simply solicit my opinion on just about anything, and words would leap out like stray dogs copulating on a free-for-all road trip orgy. Surely, there are moments when I’m incited to draw a comment and I can summon the lightest remark into a marmoreal epigram.

Not now.

Okay, I concede, I am a petulant writer. It takes more than a heave of depression or confetti of happiness to make me write. Capricious and indulgent, I am when I write.

For instance, as in this instance, I cannot pound straight to my computer, I write longhand. When the thoughts are laid on paper, the tedious task of transferring the written words into computer characters takes place. This is when the editing commences, or as I want to put it, when my manuscript is self-mitigated, mutilated and castrated. This process proves to be cost-effective. The eternal lull, the endless staring at the blank page, the heavy conversation with myself and the ceremonious consumption of bottomless Taster’s Choice coffee, they don’t feed on electricity.

Did I say I was fastidious? Just like my friend Jessica who has the penchant for writing on leather-masked paper or my mentor Rene O’s fondness for lined yellow pads, I can only write with one particular pen. It’s the Zebra J. Roller .07 MX.

My zebra, to date, has written three books, four or so columns, a number of articles, dissertations, autographs, profiles and reviews (but mostly musings).

It sounds tacky and cliché—this zebra has taken many a reader for a ride, you included, haha. This zebra has driven me from my dessert of ideas to the drought of my writer’s block.

Now, if only I can find something to write about…

Pamhinta Trivia

SOURCE: My Unreliable Observation


90% - mahilig mag-shopping sa FnH
80% - may nude pic sa g4m (pero walang face)
70% - nagpa-foundation at concealer
60% - mahilig mag-gym at magbabad sa sauna
50% - mala Regine Velasquez bumirit sa karaoke bars
40% - mahilig manood ng America’s Next Top Model, Project Runway, at Janice Dickinson’s Modelling Agency
30% - mahilig mag-topless pag sumasayaw sa ledge
20% - pumuputok sa masel
10% - keri makipaghalikan sa babae
100% - makati pa sa gabing Bikol (Rx: 2 tablespoonfuls of Caladril 3x a day)

Bi Trivia

SOURCE: SMS from Kaze


90% - call center agents
80% - never pa-nagka-girlfriend
70% - nurse or nursing student
60% - may nude pic sa Friendster
50% - may m2m video sa celfone
40% - claims that they are discreet, but they aren’t
30% - name or nick starts with ‘J’
20% - two-timer
10% - discreet talaga
100% - bumabasa nito ay napapaisip now…hmmm…