I have a very strange fear of the 3’o clock habit on TV. I guess it must be the image of Jesus with those white rays (which I initially thought were scary magical thorns thrusted into Jesus’ torso), the background music or the voice of the prayer leader.
Which is weird because I was quite religious once. There was a time when I prayed the rosary everyday and I went to Church for spiritual guidance or peace of mind. There were visits to Manaoag and belief in the powers of the holy water. In grade school it was fashionable for little gays to be part of the choir and I was quite one of the favorites because I had the pre-puberty girly voice. Now, because of puberty and cigarettes, I have the tranny voice: from opera, I went operada. We sang “Oh Mary, the queen of love, our way to loving son…our beautiful way to the loving son.” (sounds like a gay song, actually) My mother had extremely conservative aunts from Makati who did a weekly Sunday check-up if I attended mass.
Ah ewan. Basta, I was quite religious when I was a kid.
Except for that time which I will always fondly remember as a foreshadowing of my future spiritual life. In grade school the Campus Ministry Office was maniacal in organizing masses and other paraliturgical events, and in one ocassion I was designated reader for the Responsorial Psalm. It was a special ceremony attended by other religious people such as priests, nuns and gay students from other schools. It was solemn, just the way Sister Mary Anne the Organizer wanted it. Until my turn to read the Responsorial Psalm. It wasn’t for any particular reason, really, but I started giggling while reading. I tried to get a hold of myself, which resulted in an even more hysterical laughter. From the podium I saw Sister Mary Anne furiously staring at me—it was more than enough to make me realize that I was in deep trouble. The thing was, my reading was consistently interrupted by bursts of laughter to the point of actual crying. I do not recall if I got reprimanded for this. I most probably did.
In high school I sort of stopped going to mass because I was reading a lot of filthy unrequired readings which corrupted me. Except, of course, for the school-wide masses which were mostly hilarious because my classmates always made asses of themselves. And there’s Days With The Lord, which was only meaningful to me because of my thoughtful friend Bro. Dunne who always sent me birthday greeting cards containing the image of the Laughing Christ. Most of my classmates thought the Laughing Christ seemed like the Laughing Stock Christ (we had hysterics seeing Omar imitate Jesus Christ). It looked like a perfect environment for the birth pangs of existential crisis. Chiz!
As we grow older we start questioning why we do the things we do, especially the things our parents (or conservative relatives) instructed us to do. Like going to church or saying prayers or, simply, liking God. And then some of us realize that, unlike other people, the things we do doesn’t mean anything to us despite our best efforts at seeing The Meaning in the things we do.
And it’s not just because we get our hearts broken or lose our jobs or start watching Woody Allen movies or, basically, discover that we live in a messy world. (Tignan ninyo si Dr. Phil.) This is not about bitterness. I am talking about not seeing anything even if things aren’t that bad. Whether you are hurt or not, the leap of faith is trickier than being convinced to purchase the Fat-Free Express. As a lot of annoying linguistically-lazy people in this generation would put it, “Wala lang.”
See, this is what I was telling LJ a week ago. I don't like what I write. One moment I am talking about something, and then next minute iba na. And I am not really impressed by how I express myself--I think years of not writing have made me sound juvenile and walang-kalatoy-latoy. Dyos ko!
To be continued.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Monday, August 23, 2004
hitler as a boy
In my keep is a book called “Hitler and Germany” which I found buried underneath a pile of bundled papers while organizing my books. Technically it isn’t mine, as it belongs to the Ateneo High School Library. It’s not like I stole it or anything. I never even borrowed the damn thing. I suspect I got it accidentally from the last school days of 4th year high school, when we all had to vacate the classrooms. In high school you always find something weird in your desk, especially if your classmates are salaula (a word we all learned from Miss Purita Martin the High Priestess of Ateneo High School Chemistry) and they expect you to take care of their stuff for them.
On page 9 is a photograph of Hitler when he was two years old. For a two-year old I thought he looked freaky until I realized that some crazy Ateneo High School vandal drew the infamous Hitler moustache above the little kid's mouth.
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
On page 9 is a photograph of Hitler when he was two years old. For a two-year old I thought he looked freaky until I realized that some crazy Ateneo High School vandal drew the infamous Hitler moustache above the little kid's mouth.
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
Monday, August 16, 2004
queen in barrio weddings
As a kid, part of my filial duty was to go to San Carlos, Pangasinan with my dad to attend social gatherings in barrio Buenglat. My father grew up there so he always got invited by relatives and people I don’t really know. It’s a place where every year somebody gets married or gives birth to a child or finds an excuse to slaughter farm animals.
And I was the maarte city boy who always complained about heat, dust or brown water. For me, the most terrifying part of going to the barrio was the part where everybody eats. The rice tasted funny and the dishes were basically slices of meat swimming in oil. Still, I love eating as an activity so I usually gorged myself with bibingka, green mangoes and Coke. And wedding cake, if there was any.
I remember these things because I am currently listening to Queen’s Greatest Hits. Queen is staple in the barrio weddings of my childhood. They’re the frontrunner of a whole provincial wedding musical genre which includes “Stairway to Heaven,” “Soldier of Fortune,” and “Hotel California.” My male cousins from Pangasinan call this music Slow Rock because, according to them, “pwedeng pang-slow dance.” Hmm.
There’s this very memorable wedding where, during the reception, “You’re My Best Friend” (a song which reminds of the Coronet science films we watched in grade school and high school) was being played. In retrospect, it was tacky but very romantic. The highlight of that wedding, of course, was the traditional dance of the newlyweds. The couple danced to “Losing My Religion” by REM while the sponsors fastened P500 bills to the bride’s gown.
This was the mid-80’s and I was a slightly uncynical kid who didn’t think human relationships have a shelf-life. Many marriages fail (sometimes, tragically) but “Bohemian Rhadsody” is forever.
And I was the maarte city boy who always complained about heat, dust or brown water. For me, the most terrifying part of going to the barrio was the part where everybody eats. The rice tasted funny and the dishes were basically slices of meat swimming in oil. Still, I love eating as an activity so I usually gorged myself with bibingka, green mangoes and Coke. And wedding cake, if there was any.
I remember these things because I am currently listening to Queen’s Greatest Hits. Queen is staple in the barrio weddings of my childhood. They’re the frontrunner of a whole provincial wedding musical genre which includes “Stairway to Heaven,” “Soldier of Fortune,” and “Hotel California.” My male cousins from Pangasinan call this music Slow Rock because, according to them, “pwedeng pang-slow dance.” Hmm.
There’s this very memorable wedding where, during the reception, “You’re My Best Friend” (a song which reminds of the Coronet science films we watched in grade school and high school) was being played. In retrospect, it was tacky but very romantic. The highlight of that wedding, of course, was the traditional dance of the newlyweds. The couple danced to “Losing My Religion” by REM while the sponsors fastened P500 bills to the bride’s gown.
This was the mid-80’s and I was a slightly uncynical kid who didn’t think human relationships have a shelf-life. Many marriages fail (sometimes, tragically) but “Bohemian Rhadsody” is forever.
smoker
Two nights ago my room smelled like an ashtray because I invited my friend Peachy to watch drug-related videos with me. We smoked several packs of cigarettes and consumed several glasses of rhum-coke (I’m just going to say it: she brought a bottle of Tanduay) while discussing the current object of her whatever. She smoked twice as much as I did but I thought our combined efforts at putting an end to our lungs emitted so much smoke that neighbors could easily suspect that my house was on fire--not that my neighbors would call the firemen if the house was really on fire. Not that there are actual competent firemen in our area.
I used to think that smoking cigarettes is bad. Now I know that smoking cigarettes is bad. There is, I think, something idiotic about wanting to start smoking. Why would someone, despite awareness of its life-terminating effects, get into this nasty habit? I don’t know. But I just did, which makes me idiotic.
I started smoking almost two years ago. I assure you it wasn’t anything like wanting to look cool or being won over by smoking friends. I wanted a procedure that will keep me awake from 1:00am to 5:00am so I can review for my boring Philosophy classes. At the time I was doing backstage work for a play about evil military men determined to annihilate a peaceful, divinity-loving tribe in the Northern mountains, and the rehearsals usually ended at midnight. After rehearsals I had to stay awake to read for my 7:30am Philosophy class, where the possibility of being called for an oral recitation was enough to make me squirm in my seat. Caffeine proved to be inadequate in keeping me up so I bought my first pack of cigarettes. Forget lung cancer, I thought then. Just don’t be Fr. Ferriols’ object of wrath.
As with most starters, I did the “hithit-buga” way (puffing without inhaling) of smoking which looks silly from a chain smoker’s point of view. I have been told that “hithit-buga” usually signifies that the smoker is either a beginner or just pure show. And so concerned Peachy patiently taught me—with demonstration, like it was the most natural thing to do—how to smoke properly, that is, to make make sure that the smoke gets into my lungs. Sometimes you just need a friend to help you kill yourself.
I remember Fr. David telling us in class—I think it was a class on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, but then again every Fr. David class is a Nicomachean Ethics class anyway—that the Ateneo Smoker’s Garden was really meant to make smokers look like specimens inside an aquarium, where people can view how ridiculous this collective suicide is. If the Ateneo Smoker’s Garden is an aquarium then I certainly have sat beside janitor fishes and squids (mukhang pusit).
I used to think that smoking cigarettes is bad. Now I know that smoking cigarettes is bad. There is, I think, something idiotic about wanting to start smoking. Why would someone, despite awareness of its life-terminating effects, get into this nasty habit? I don’t know. But I just did, which makes me idiotic.
I started smoking almost two years ago. I assure you it wasn’t anything like wanting to look cool or being won over by smoking friends. I wanted a procedure that will keep me awake from 1:00am to 5:00am so I can review for my boring Philosophy classes. At the time I was doing backstage work for a play about evil military men determined to annihilate a peaceful, divinity-loving tribe in the Northern mountains, and the rehearsals usually ended at midnight. After rehearsals I had to stay awake to read for my 7:30am Philosophy class, where the possibility of being called for an oral recitation was enough to make me squirm in my seat. Caffeine proved to be inadequate in keeping me up so I bought my first pack of cigarettes. Forget lung cancer, I thought then. Just don’t be Fr. Ferriols’ object of wrath.
As with most starters, I did the “hithit-buga” way (puffing without inhaling) of smoking which looks silly from a chain smoker’s point of view. I have been told that “hithit-buga” usually signifies that the smoker is either a beginner or just pure show. And so concerned Peachy patiently taught me—with demonstration, like it was the most natural thing to do—how to smoke properly, that is, to make make sure that the smoke gets into my lungs. Sometimes you just need a friend to help you kill yourself.
I remember Fr. David telling us in class—I think it was a class on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, but then again every Fr. David class is a Nicomachean Ethics class anyway—that the Ateneo Smoker’s Garden was really meant to make smokers look like specimens inside an aquarium, where people can view how ridiculous this collective suicide is. If the Ateneo Smoker’s Garden is an aquarium then I certainly have sat beside janitor fishes and squids (mukhang pusit).
Saturday, August 14, 2004
married life
My good friend Jai got married a couple of months ago, and just until last week I haven’t heard news about her. When I visited her I brought ice cream as a bribe so she’ll forgive me for totally forgetting her birthday. “Of course you forgot my birthday,” she told me, “I know you too well.” And so I got to spend some days with her, doing the catch-up talk about marriage, jobhunting and Philomajor days gone by. (Ewan ko lang sa “days gone by”)
As punishment for my unthoughtfulness, she made me watch the video footage of her wedding where, for the Offertory Rites, I got to walk down the aisle with the cast of Golden Girls. What a wonderful way to foreshadow the future. Roaring laughter from the couple when they saw the scene where the priest was giving me his blessing. Jai told me she even noticed me making a face, like I didn’t want to be blessed or something. I have to destroy that video soon.
We are both incredibly bored these days. She can’t do many things because she’s expecting to give birth in less than a month while I can’t do many things because I am stuck and very lonely and I don’t know where to begin. Of course, I am glad that she’s happy with the changes in her life. To show my support I drove her to the grocery and, yesterday, we bought a crib for her baby. I still don’t know what I felt when she informed me that her husband will be calling me when the crucial hour of her labor arrives. She wants me to take pictures of her covered in blood. With pleasure, Jai. However, I secretly don’t want to be too helpful to avoid looking like the satanic neighbors from Rosemary’s Baby.
Jai knew that shopping for her baby didn't elicit maternal instincts from me. She understands perfectly.
As punishment for my unthoughtfulness, she made me watch the video footage of her wedding where, for the Offertory Rites, I got to walk down the aisle with the cast of Golden Girls. What a wonderful way to foreshadow the future. Roaring laughter from the couple when they saw the scene where the priest was giving me his blessing. Jai told me she even noticed me making a face, like I didn’t want to be blessed or something. I have to destroy that video soon.
We are both incredibly bored these days. She can’t do many things because she’s expecting to give birth in less than a month while I can’t do many things because I am stuck and very lonely and I don’t know where to begin. Of course, I am glad that she’s happy with the changes in her life. To show my support I drove her to the grocery and, yesterday, we bought a crib for her baby. I still don’t know what I felt when she informed me that her husband will be calling me when the crucial hour of her labor arrives. She wants me to take pictures of her covered in blood. With pleasure, Jai. However, I secretly don’t want to be too helpful to avoid looking like the satanic neighbors from Rosemary’s Baby.
Jai knew that shopping for her baby didn't elicit maternal instincts from me. She understands perfectly.
friday night with high school friends
A few hours ago I was having drinks with my straight friends from high school. We went to Cloud 9 (which screams Ateneo high school days) to eat their overrated sisig, drink bottles of beer and enjoy the fact that we were the only people dining there with the exception of a 20-something couple accompanied by a dog. We guessed the rain drove customers away. Then we made fun of the waiter who looks suspiciously like Mr. Bean—not to his face, of course.
I’ve never enjoyed myself that much in months.
I always thought my high school classmates were a bunch of idiots governed by their dicks. When I am with them, it’s like being in American Pie movies except that my high school friends can out-kababuyan American Pie. But I love them because their silliness is out in the open, no pressure at all to sound intelligent, no conscious effort of revising thoughts. Often we contradict ourselves, hurt each other's feelings, say sorry, and then move on. In other words, together, we become stupid high school kids again.
Jaypee, who is into rough things like basketball and motorcycles, shares an amazing discovery:
“Alam ko na ang technique sa mga malalamig na lugar (say, Sagada or Baguio) para hindi ka masyadong ginawin.”
“Ano?”
“Maligo ka.”
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
“Totoo. Yung unang buhos lang ang malamig. Pagkatapos ng unang buhos wala na.”
Since it has been a long time, we did the natural (or obligatory) kamustahan. What ever happened to whom? Who is seeing who? Who turned out to be druggies? Who banged who? All the crap which I plan to avoid with my other friends. They almost always ask me for love advice--they probably think I'd know better because of the Philosophy classes and all--but I end up saying idealistic things which I would never do in a million years. When we talk about relationships and falling in love, we do not get too sentimental—a stupid punchline which can very well be a fart will send us laughing our hearts out.
They are politically-incorrect despite my unmistakable gayness, and this I do not find offensive at all. I prefer this than people showing empathy even if they do not know me personally. In fact, most of the “gender-sensitive” people who surround me have absolutely no idea of who I am, demonstrating their ignorance by treating me as a “special” friend who does funny stuff very similar to a dog doing tricks. They do not see the limits to my flamboyance (yes, there are), and, given this, they expect me to act in a certain way. Some are even disappointed when I turn out to be "not too gay." My high school friends do not bug me, asking me cliche questions about gayness. They make fun of me, I make fun of them. We all make fun of ourselves.
I’ve never enjoyed myself that much in months.
I always thought my high school classmates were a bunch of idiots governed by their dicks. When I am with them, it’s like being in American Pie movies except that my high school friends can out-kababuyan American Pie. But I love them because their silliness is out in the open, no pressure at all to sound intelligent, no conscious effort of revising thoughts. Often we contradict ourselves, hurt each other's feelings, say sorry, and then move on. In other words, together, we become stupid high school kids again.
Jaypee, who is into rough things like basketball and motorcycles, shares an amazing discovery:
“Alam ko na ang technique sa mga malalamig na lugar (say, Sagada or Baguio) para hindi ka masyadong ginawin.”
“Ano?”
“Maligo ka.”
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
“Totoo. Yung unang buhos lang ang malamig. Pagkatapos ng unang buhos wala na.”
Since it has been a long time, we did the natural (or obligatory) kamustahan. What ever happened to whom? Who is seeing who? Who turned out to be druggies? Who banged who? All the crap which I plan to avoid with my other friends. They almost always ask me for love advice--they probably think I'd know better because of the Philosophy classes and all--but I end up saying idealistic things which I would never do in a million years. When we talk about relationships and falling in love, we do not get too sentimental—a stupid punchline which can very well be a fart will send us laughing our hearts out.
They are politically-incorrect despite my unmistakable gayness, and this I do not find offensive at all. I prefer this than people showing empathy even if they do not know me personally. In fact, most of the “gender-sensitive” people who surround me have absolutely no idea of who I am, demonstrating their ignorance by treating me as a “special” friend who does funny stuff very similar to a dog doing tricks. They do not see the limits to my flamboyance (yes, there are), and, given this, they expect me to act in a certain way. Some are even disappointed when I turn out to be "not too gay." My high school friends do not bug me, asking me cliche questions about gayness. They make fun of me, I make fun of them. We all make fun of ourselves.
Friday, August 13, 2004
the question concerning technology
It's a very chilly morning, made chillier by the fact that, for several minutes, my computer monitor stopped working for no apparent reason. I guess my monitor is more tired than me. Hmm, what else is there to say....
Leave it to me to demonstrate just how idiotic one can be when it comes to techie stuff. I have been using computers since grade school (Wordstar and Woody Pop) but my acquiantance with the damn thing is limited to pure word processing or internet surfing or, my only physical workout, Minesweeper. One of my biggest fears in life is to have to explain the byte heirarchy to someone, and I don’t have the slightest idea of what “cache” signifies. Every now and then I would have delusions of knowledge of my desktop hardware only to get the adequate electric shock to bring me back to my techno-moron reality. That, or I would have something explode (like a scanner, a monitor and two voltage regulators--sana'y nasa mas mabuting lugar sila ngayon).
If there seems to be something wrong with the computer, I nag at it or, in less charitable moments, I hit it. (This, I believe, has something to do with the Woody Allen upbringing I started giving myself many years ago.) This is what I am with computers despite those computer classes from high school.
Luckily I know a couple of people who are knowledgeable in the technological phenomenon. I ask them questions about computers which they promptly answer, not that this guarantees any actual understanding on my part.
I am currently operating with a very stylish laptop which I bought a few months ago: a 14-inch iBook G4. This purchase, despite generating questions like “how do I use this thing?” or “should I have bought the slightly smaller one?” is proving to be amusing because I don’t have to share it with someone else. It is purely mine. I just wish I won’t break it or something.
For now, the most relevant question concerning technology is: Meron bang Minesweeper para sa Mac?
Labo.
Leave it to me to demonstrate just how idiotic one can be when it comes to techie stuff. I have been using computers since grade school (Wordstar and Woody Pop) but my acquiantance with the damn thing is limited to pure word processing or internet surfing or, my only physical workout, Minesweeper. One of my biggest fears in life is to have to explain the byte heirarchy to someone, and I don’t have the slightest idea of what “cache” signifies. Every now and then I would have delusions of knowledge of my desktop hardware only to get the adequate electric shock to bring me back to my techno-moron reality. That, or I would have something explode (like a scanner, a monitor and two voltage regulators--sana'y nasa mas mabuting lugar sila ngayon).
If there seems to be something wrong with the computer, I nag at it or, in less charitable moments, I hit it. (This, I believe, has something to do with the Woody Allen upbringing I started giving myself many years ago.) This is what I am with computers despite those computer classes from high school.
Luckily I know a couple of people who are knowledgeable in the technological phenomenon. I ask them questions about computers which they promptly answer, not that this guarantees any actual understanding on my part.
I am currently operating with a very stylish laptop which I bought a few months ago: a 14-inch iBook G4. This purchase, despite generating questions like “how do I use this thing?” or “should I have bought the slightly smaller one?” is proving to be amusing because I don’t have to share it with someone else. It is purely mine. I just wish I won’t break it or something.
For now, the most relevant question concerning technology is: Meron bang Minesweeper para sa Mac?
Labo.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Introduction
I am not too crazy about online journals but I figured I might amuse myself with this one. I hope this is not as bad as I projected. Somebody shoot me if I utilize any of those gather-your-friends or meet-new-people kind of online services.
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