Of Precious Gems

The fourth episode of the Level-Up Brotherhood Salutations series of 2011.

I have always been taught that still water runs deep...that was until I met you.

We are often told that people who are noisy and loud are not always the smartest people in the bunch. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. People mostly think they are shallow airheads.

But you know how you get to meet a certain person who defies what you have always believed in? There is always going to be that one person who destroys any preconceived notion you form at the back of your mind. And you finally say to yourself that not all of what you were told are right. And how first impressions are not always the best. That’s what I think when I talk about Gem.

An Appeal To Those Who Shared This Photo

Caption: Thamsanqa Kitso Ndlovu's Photos Christians burnt alive by Sunni Muslims in NIGERIA...(Posted by Jillian Becker in Africa, Arab States, Christianity, Christians burnt alive by Sunni Muslims, Islam, Muslims, jihad).....PLEASE SHARE IT OR JUST UPLOAD YOUR OWN...BUT SOMEHOW SPREAD IT IF YOU'RE EVEN 1% CHRISTIAN — It is still not over yet!

The picture is not what it claims to be.

The propensity of people sharing links in various social media platforms has been quite a problem these past few days. It seems that with the advent of the social media era, we forget the power that we hold with just a single click—the ability to share and proclaim information as though they are the Bible truths.

100 Posts of Mental Solitude

It surprises me how I’ve become so dependent on technology to pass the time. Power has been out since 7 o’clock yesterday morning because of typhoon Pedring. The good thing about my cellphone, my ipod and my netbook being totally battery-drained is that I get to do more manual things like writing and reading. It’s torture to not be able to go online or watch movies. Without electricity and with nothing to do, time passes so painfully slow. From this whole ordeal, I realized I can’t live without technology. I love the rainy weather but I absolutely hate power outages.

I never thought that I’ll be able to see my 100^th post on this blog. Yet here I am writing through pen and paper under a candlelit stormy evening. Rest assured that such romanticized style of writing is not to commemorate the 100^th post occasion. The ghastly arms of our wall clock are saying it's twenty-five minutes after three in the morning. And I’m here writing in cursive at the back of old scratch papers trying to pass time. I figured that rather than die of boredom, I’d better do something productive.

And with not so much to do as to sit around in darkness, I decided to write.

Captured

It was dark when I woke up.

I tried to open my eyes to get a better hold of my surroundings. I felt a sharp pain in my temples—like someone was trying to drive a jackhammer into my skull. It was as if I woke up with a thousand tequila hangovers, only worse. I tried to blink as much as I could in the hopes that the pain will go away with each blink. But it didn’t. In fact, opening my eyes did nothing to absolve me from the pain or from being enveloped in darkness. For a moment, I thought I was just having a bad dream and any second I would wake up and everything was going to be fine again. However, the throbbing in my head suggesred that everything was all too real to be a dream. The darkness was all too real. I was sweating profusely and  I could feel globules of sweat trickling down the sides of my face. No one perspires this much in their dreams—I thought.

The Weekend Report

Well I went home this weekend after spending last week at my brother’s house in Valenzuela. Although I have to get used to this kind of set up and I have to start to calling his apartment my house from now on. I plan to stay at his place once I start working and going to school. Though Valenzuela is ridiculously far from Pasay where my work will be come October 10^th, it sure beats the hell out of having to commute from the more remote location of our family house here in North Caloocan. What I love about my brother’s place is that it’s more convenient and transportation is accessible 24 hours unlike here; wherein once the clock strikes 12:00 AM, there won’t be any more means of transportation available aside from abusive and overcharging tricycles and a few cows on the road (as in the Bos taurus kind) from god knows where. And you never have to worry if you ran out of food or if you go hungry in the wee hours of the morning since there are a lot of convenience stores available to buy what’s needed. I know how ridiculously shallow these justifications are, but they are kind of a big deal for someone who’s lived in a place so urbanely remote. Plus in Valenzuela, everything’s just an LRT or a short bus ride away from everywhere I need to be.

Dear John

He was always ahead of me. In the system of names he was always the first—always in the first row, always in the first group and always among the first lines. And I was always in his close second. I’ve spent four years of high school life being only second to this guy. We were always seatmates, groupmates and team mates. Which is why no matter how much I try to distance myself from him, consequences would always bring us together. If not the doings of the cosmic universe then the teachers certainly made it inevitable. Now as I think about it, I couldn’t be happier that our names are so close with one another. It is through names that I’ve come to know this guy and be friends with him.

Patience

The age old adage that says patience is a virtue is not true.

I would like to think so.
image courtesy of dennysfunnyquotes.blogspot.com

Virtues are assets that we can sometimes do without in this world.  Beauty is a virtue and so is faith among other beatitudes.  But one cannot live without patience.

Miss Universe Chronicles Part 3: How Costumes and Questions Bring Out the Ugly Side of People

While Miss Universe attempts to find the most beautiful woman in the entire universe, some parts of the contest bring out the ugly side of the people who watch it. It is disappointing to see how a contest that started out with good intentions can create so much air of bitterness and stupidity among some of its viewers.  Let’s take two examples.

Of Costumes and Crass

On one of my previous morning newspaper runs, I came across one article from www.times.com entitled Photos: Miss Universe 2011's Most Bizarre National Costumes. It was written by a certain Mr. William Lee Adams. As we all know, a part of the Miss Universe competition is where the candidates showcase their national costumes and this piece focused on that particular segment.  The article was composed of forty slides of pictures of the delegates during the national costume part of the pageant preliminaries. Underneath it was a small commentary depicting how the author felt about the costume.

It was supposed to be a tongue-in-cheek humorous take on how fashionably “tacky” the national costumes were. Let’s take a look at a few of Mr. Adams’ commentaries. Note that these were taken verbatim from his article.

Miss Ecuador — Claudia Schiess
A flock of chickens attacked her bed sheets, so Miss Ecuador tied the foul fowl to her head.
image and caption courtesy of www.times.com

Miss Nicaragua — Adriana Dom
Adriana thought this brightly-colored costume was a good idea until a group of school children mistook her for a pinata.
image and caption courtesy of www.times.com

Miss Thailand — Chanyasorn Sakorchan
If the hotel’s satellite dish malfunctions, Chanyasom will be very popular among the other contestants. Her headpiece gets amazing reception.
image and caption courtesy of www.times.com

Miss Universe Chronicles Part 2: Where My Tiara Lies

Let me open this by saying that I do not purposely hate the Miss Universe pageant. I am not here to lambast the said contest. In fact, to some degree, I honestly think that in their small, sometimes obscured way, they celebrate femininity and women empowerment—in the sense that they typify women as creatures both of beauty[i] and intellect. I’m sure that my feminist friends will kill me for that statement but I think that they do not objectify women. If we only let them parade in a bikini and ogle at their bodies and judge solely on the basis of their physical beauty, then probably yes, they are being objectified. If they are being forced to parade and dress scantily then they are in fact, being objectified. But nobody coerced these girls to join the pageant, they wanted to be there and compete. They wanted to represent their countries. And the Miss Universe, or as what its criteria for judging claims, is chosen not just for beauty and poise but for her charm and personality and most importantly her wit to answer a question in front of millions of people.

The objective of my ramblings however is not to talk about the nature of the beauty contests as it appeals to women but for gay people like me.

The fine, fresh and fierce winners of the 2011 Miss Gay Philippines Contest
image courtesy of metrosexualsociety.blogspot.com

Miss Universe Chronicles Part 1: The Major Major Fascination of Filipinos

“What is the one thing our society needs? 

That would be harsher punishment for parole violators, Stan. And...world peace”

-Sandra Bullock in the movie, Miss Congeniality

image courtesy of www.haro-online.com

Author's note: I was supposed to post something like this earlier, but in between Kpop addiction and completing my work requirements, I have found less and less time to post in this blog. I have already succumbed to the fact that I can’t keep my commitment of writing everyday. Sue me.

Pageants and beauty contests have always been and will always be controversial. It is scowled upon by the advocates of feminism, saying that the contestants are being treated as pieces of meat parading half-naked around a chauvinistic audience. That it objectifies women. That it creates an unrealistic and stereotyped standard of beauty and femininity. Detractors say that contests like these are outdated and have no social or cultural significance whatsoever.  The world is filled with problems bigger than what a cliché final question can answer. However, those who are into such pageants would argue that they do not demean women, in fact they celebrate them. These contests are a form of women empowerment in which they are represented not just as creatures of beauty and grace but of intellect as well. They show that women can look good in a two-piece bikini yet still answer hard-hitting questions. But then some would ask, why do women have to do this and prove their worth in these contests, why not men?

No matter how many people try to criticize beauty pageants, they are still able to get the attention of people on a worldwide scale. And we still continue to be fascinated by them.

In the Philippines, not to be informed about the results of the Miss Universe pageant is impossible. It’s inevitable like a Manny Pacquiao match. Everybody talks about it. I only happened to catch a few glimpses of the recently-concluded Miss Universe contest because my older brother and his girlfriend were watching it. And my Facebook newsfeeds were all about who was included in the top 16 and who was not. Who was gorgeous to stand a chance and who people think won’t make the cut. After the contest, the evening news had a thirty-minute special about it. It became the headlines of the newspaper the next day and the topic of many blog posts (like this one). When I went out for a walk, people in the streets were still talking about it.

A Cupful Of Raindrops

“Daddy, why does it rain?” asked the little girl while she was carefully resting her chin on her father’s lap.  They were sitting on a wooden bench and were sheltered by a makeshift roof outside a small flower shop. She and her father were caught unprepared by nature’s waterworks.

 She stretched out her tiny palms across the heavens and watched carefully as little drops of water splashed down her hand. It’s not the first time she saw the rain, her father thought. But as he looked into her child wide-eyed in amazement, it must have been the first time that they saw it like that. And the first time that they experienced the rain—together. The little girl cupped both of her hands to gather more droplets and soon enough, her small self-made bowl was already cupful of rain. She flashed a big smile as she relished on her achievement. And so did her father.

“Look! I have rain in my hands!” laughed the little girl—obviously proud that what she accomplished was something out of the ordinary. There was a certain twinkle in her eyes when she said that, a twinkle that you see in children when they learn something new for the first time. It’s the sparkle that gets lost as one grows up into the world—that of innocence. She twitched her nose as the splashes from her cup tickled her face. And with every drop of heaven that she caught, her small red lips let out a giggle that would have warmed the hearts of those who heard it. The kind that would send every parent rushing to their daughters and sons to hug them. But her father thought that the sudden gesture of a hug would only ruin a moment so beautiful. So he resisted the urge to embrace his daughter. Instead, he let her play with the drops of water that fell from the sky.

Sunday Morning

The numbers on my desktop time tray are telling me that it’s thirty five minutes after eight o’clock. Today’s a Sunday and a very sunshiney one.  The blue sky makes me miss the rainy days we had last week. I absolutely love the rain but I guess the warm weather is fitting to describe what lies ahead for me and for everyone.

Changing FB Relationship Status Faster Than A Speeding Bullet

With people relying on social networking platforms to connect with their friends and families nowadays, it’s easy to let others know what’s going on in your life without having to go through the trouble of physical confrontations. You can post what’s bothering you by posting a status. You can share an object of interest by posting a weblink or a note. Conversely, you can let other people know your sentiments about what’s happening in their lives by posting to their walls or by commenting on their posts. Facebook even lets you announce the name of your unborn children  to the whole world if you’re expecting. These sharing possibilities are what make Facebook tick. It’s what makes people you use them. And so with the opportunity of having a virtual audience of your own that will hold onto every personal update you have, you can also let the world know the travails of your love life, or the lack thereof.

Certainly one of the hardest questions to answer
for most people 

Wake Me Up When September Ends

September has arrived. And with it, heralds the coming of the “-ber” months that usually signify that the holidays are fast arriving. Ber months usually pass by quickly without us noticing, probably because of the anticipation everyone has for the Christmas season. We count the days, literally, for whatever it is that we are looking forward to. Gifts, shopping, family bonding, simbang gabi and the usual 13^th month pay for most are enough to keep everyone giddy excited during these months. For me, the coming of the ber months usually mean another year is about to end. Another year is spent wasting time. Another year is about to come with a new promise of starting over.

Starting over—I’ve always told myself that every new calendar I buy would be a new opportunity for me to once again regain control in my life. You know, make things happen the way I want them to. But every year, changes happen out of nowhere. Split decisions are usually made. And every year, promises I’ve made to myself are broken.

I’m hoping that this year would be different. I’m determined to make it so.  And so with this new hope, I’m excited about what lies ahead. The coming of this year’s ber months didn’t come as joyful as expected though and September came with a rough start.

A Goodbye to Bumhood (Prelude)

Bruno Mars' The Lazy Song has been my 

anthem for a few months now.

But soon, I'll be singing a different tune.

The four-day "long weekend" is about to end for most people. It’s a shame that the metro is still feeling the aftermath of typhoon Mina and most people we’re not able to go out and really enjoy their vacation. I bet people’s plans got screwed up and some out-of-town trips got cancelled because of this. Pity. Well, it’s not like I have such plans. I usually spend my rainy days cuddling under my covers and being online all day. I find it rather amazing that I can spend all day long being online and not get bored. Aside from being logged on to Facebook, there is an abundance of websites I usually frequent: forums, emails, online newspapers, photo websites and of course Youtube to name a few. This is why I find it odd when people say that they easily get bored with the internet. There are literally millions of websites that you can visit and equally a millions of things you can learn from them. For instance, just a few minutes ago I learned that GPOY stands for Gratuitous Photos of Yourself. It’s the term people use to describe the photos they take of themselves while camwhoring. So in that sense, camwhores can also be called Gratuitous Self Phototakers. Amazing isn’t it? I love how I learn new things everyday when I'm online. The net is such a wonderful place. I wonder how I’ll be able to survive a week without it...Shudders.

Anyway, I guess being an everyday online bum is a luxury I won’t be able to afford anytime soon. My seven-month "long weekend" is about to come to an end.

5th International Silent Film Festival: Nosferatu

Last August 26, my friends and I decided to catch the screening of the 1922 German silent film Nosferatu at the Shangri-La Cineplex as part of the 5^th International Silent Film Festival. The celebration was partly sponsored by the Goethe-Institut Philippinen along with other foreign and local organizations such as Instituto Cervantes, Japan Foundation, the Italian Embassy, Embassy of Greece, National Commission for Culture and the Arts of the Philippines and the Society of Filipino Archivists for Film. Aside from the said German entry, it also featured silent films from the Philippines (Brides of Sulu), Japan (The Dawning Sky), Italy (L’Inferno), Spain (Pilar Guerra) and Greece (The Greek Miracle). Each film was accompanied by a specific musical group for the corresponding musical score.  For Nosferatu, it featured German pianist and composer Stephan von Bothmer together with the FEU Chorale.

Learning my lesson well from the French Film Festival a few months back, I decided to inquire early about the tickets. Good thing I was able to get in touch with the institute through email and score 10 tickets for me and my friends along with their plus ones.  I have never watched a silent film in my entire life and I have always been curious as to how they were able to work their way through the audience without the convenience of dialogues. And the screening was free, so what have I got to lose?

English Is Not The (Only) Language of the Learned

Don't English Me, I'm Panic!!!
image courtesy of  spwakattakk.tumblr.com

Another name is slowly making its way to social networking and internet fame. Only this time, the act isn’t caught on national TV and fingers weren’t pointed on who’s to blame for such unfortunate grievance. But the offense is all just the same. It shows how a person puts his stature above others. Well, I guess the past floating car incident wasn’t enough for us.

Two days ago, James Soriano published an essay on the Manila Bulletin website tackling his fondness of being brought up in an English-speaking environment. Since the article was already taken down shortly after it was published, one can only read quotes of the original article from different sources. Why Manila Bulletin decided to publish such an article is beyond me. And why it was taken down a day after, is even more baffling. They should have not removed it from the site. After all, it is their responsibility to be open to all sides of the story in the name of unbiased journalism, no matter how elitist and arrogant-sounding as they may be. At the very least, the article did spark an interesting discussion among netizens. But MB’s lack of journalistic ethics is not the subject of my sentiments today.***

The Gay Address

Ladies and gentlemen, today I stand before you as an average gay man.

I have no intentions of saying that I am a proud gay man. Because truth be told, I am not proud at all. And why should I? Pride, when not practiced carefully, is a dangerous thing. It is both a vice and a virtue. Being proud means you think your stature is above others in some way, and honestly I don't think of myself as having such. The good side of pride on the other hand, lets you greatly relish the things you have done in your life. Still, I cannot be proud for something that I have no control of. We can be proud of our achievements and our accomplishments since we have worked painstakingly hard for them. Be proud of an award. Be proud of your work. But being gay is not something you extraordinarily accomplish. It is not something you aspire to. You don’t work hard to be gay. It just happens naturally. So I am not going to say I am proud, rather I embrace my being gay because it is part of who I am.

De Lata Party and Laptop Weekend

As I’m writing this, I’m fighting the urge to take off my clothes, turn off the lights and snuggle under my covers. Dear sleep, please stay the hell away from me. I haven’t done any writing over the past weekend and I’ve been trying my best to keep my end of the bargain. I’ve already broken my promise of writing here everyday. Well, I figured that people get a day off or two from work and so should I from writing. I already skipped almost six days worth of writing but I’m doing my best. I’m bad at commitments, I know that. So sleep, please come back after an hour.

Let me just say that to describe the weekend I had as fun would be an understatement.

My Unremarkable (?) Day

Today is one of those unremarkable, lazy days that you easily forget as soon as you wake up the next morning. It is uneventful. It's forgettable. Most of my time these days are spent like that.

Tatay Manuel

A Youngblood article from The Philippine Daily Inquirer really struck a chord, and an emotional one if I may say so.

It tells the story of Tatay Manuel, a farmer-forcibly-turned-fisherfolk from Hagonoy, Bulacan. The article was written by the author retelling his student days when he was still immersed in community service where he met him. It tells a tale of struggle that gets pushed down from mountains of tabloid headlines of corruption and Manny Pacquiao that it becomes virtually unheard of. Tatay Manuel was a farmer but money-hungry capitalists took over his farmland and made it into commercial fishponds. This forced him to work as the attendant of these ponds under measly working conditions. When social workers informed him about his rights as an employee, Tatay Manuel sought out equal and fair treatment from his employers. Sadly, he was among the first one to be laid off because of this uprising. Struck with poverty, he was forced to leave his children to a relative for them to be fed properly and this made his children hate him, being mistaken as a bad father who selfishly left his kids. Shortly after the author left the community to get back to his studies, he found out that Tatay Manuel was abducted along with 2 UP activists and was later burned to death. I apologize to the author for retelling Tatay Manuel’s story in a poorly-written summary so I commend him for writing such a wonderfully-moving piece. Certainly one of the few Young blood articles I’ve enjoyed reading so far since it has become the haven of shallow personal rants and romantic diary stories that are better left to be read in blog sites like these, not in a newspaper.

It was really a touching story. I remember when I was still in college and the stories I heard from my tibak (activist) friend Em. To rest ourselves from pharmaceutical calculations and molecular bonds, we would often talk about something like this as a breather. Tatay Manuel’s story is what compels activists like her to go to far-flung areas (they call it pamumundok) and help people with their struggles. When you really listen to what these Rambo-wearing, sweaty protesters have to say, you would understand the stories behind their chants and their big placards. That they’re not just out there and sticking it to the man. That they're not just not Communist naysayers of the government shouting nonsense. Struggles and inequities do exist in places our government chooses to ignore. And there are hundreds of suffering and silenced Tatay Manuels out there with the same story of oppression.

Tampo

Recently, a number of my close friends are wondering if I’m angry at them or if I harbour a sort of tampo. Seeing as how far we live from each other and how busy their schedules are, we maintain a Facebook group where we normally interact everyday. I usually comment to each and every post that they have there. Be it an interesting newspaper article that we read, a Kpop video that we unnecessarily critique or just some random gossip that we pick out from anywhere. And I also flood our group with my equal share of nonsense. But since Tuesday last week, I haven’t replied to any of their posts or comments. Since naturally they’re my friends, I reply to them when they post on my wall, yet I don’t comment on their statuses or on our Facebook group, even if they tag me. And since there are only 6 of us there and most of them are busy with work, it looks like the group was suddenly alienated.

Tampo, as defined by trusty wikipedia

Are We Destined To Be Alone?

Is my kind destined to be alone?

The Million Dollar Question

A forum question in PG4M posted this a few days back.  Having been recently singled (again) this got me thinking about the future. Should I have any reason to panic?

I don’t think so.

OMG! WTF! She's In a Bikini?!!!

A friend of mine posted this picture on his Facebook account today. The link is from a site called Hay!Men!Ang mga blog ng mga tunay na lalake.

The picture above shows an obviously old, blonde-haired Madame Auring dressed in a revealing leopard print one-piece bikini. To those of you who might have forgotten who she is, she was a favourite guest panellist among past talk shows when it comes to reading fortunes and tarot cards and foretelling New Year predictions. She also had an ill-fated love affair that was the subject of tabloid controversy. But just as others who have had their fifteen minutes of fame, she quickly faded into the background along with other has beens.

Now the picture at first glance, I must admit is quite shocking. Not too often do we see an old lady (God knows how old Madame Auring is) in a skin-tight swimwear showing her curves. It’s not something that we normally consider “pleasant” and it doesn’t follow our own brand of social norms, per se. I get that. I too had to fight the urge to cringe away from my monitor when I saw this. But what infuriated me is the way the link was presented not just in Facebook but also on the blog site that hosted it. Now, I don’t want to personally attack my classmate who posted this by calling him out on this and call him names. It wouldn’t solve things and that classmate of mine is a fairly nice guy. But I can’t help but wonder as to what the intention is in showing a link like this on Facebook and on that blog. Clearly, the point of the picture is to ridicule someone. But do we have license and right to even do that?

The Story of Qiu Ju

No, this is not a review. Sort of. I just had to let this out.

image courtesy of wikipedia.com

There are only a handful of films that stirs just enough in me to write about them. And The Story of Qiu Ju is a film that exactly does that. Directed by the masterful Zhang Yimou and starring Gong Li as the lead role, the film is about a peasant woman’s struggle to find justice. The story starts out when the village chief wrongfully kicks Qiu Ju’s husband, Qing Lai, in the groins after a verbal altercation. After the chief refuses to admit his wrongdoing and give an apology, Qiu Ju, who is far along in her pregnancy, decides to seek justice. She goes into town with her little sister and appeals to the rural court regarding her problem. The court orders the chief to pay monetary compensation for the damage which he obligingly does so but still refuses to admit he was wrong. Not giving in and refusing the money, Qiu Ju then travels again to the city to appeal to a higher court only to be disappointed and to be given the same result as before. But this does not discourage her so again she comes down from her rural province into the big city, and with the advice of a good-natured magistrate, she hires a lawyer to formally press charges. 

Henceforth, From Now On, Hereafter, Moving On...

Today, a friend’s post in her Facebook made me think a lot of things about moving on.

I wonder why it’s so easy for others to tell their friends to move on. I admit that before, I used to be one of those people who would just throw the phrase “Time to move on” too easily. Whenever a friend would cry her (or sometimes his) heart out to me about something lost or an ill-fated relationship, I was always ready to say my canned best friend response. Time to let go. Forget about it. Move on. I never gave it much thought, really. To my mind, I know it is right to say in a situation like that and as a friend I have to say  that to whoever it is that needs consoling. But after being in the same situation, now I realize that saying and knowing the meaning behind the phrase “move on” are two very different things.

One of the hardest questions I’ve asked myself so far is, how do I move on?

The Balcony Diaries

Entry#1:
August 5, 2011

5:15 AM

All the lights are out. Two of my friends are already lying face down on the couch and the comfy chairs that are carefully positioned on the irregular corners of this white living room. Only a few minutes ago, we were watching TV and drinking. Laughing at the insane mishaps we saw on television. Conversing about problems with our other friends, our past lives as kids. But the night gets the best of my two comrades. Sleep slowly creeps in and right now they are safely on their way to their personal haven of dreams. I feel like I’m being betrayed. While they lay there peacefully detached from the wide awake world, I am left here all alone stumbling in the darkness. 

Dissecting a Kpop Song: A Not So Simple Take on Super Junior’s Mr. Simple

 [Author’s Note: Since I have nothing better to do on a Sunday, I decided to examine the latest comeback single from Super Junior entitled Mr. Simple. And for my brain to finally make a move on to other pressing matters...]

Introduction:

Two of my college friends are avid listeners of Kpop (Korean Pop). At first, I do have reservations about this type of music for the fear of being called baduy (uncool) or being typecasted to be just a blind follower of what’s new and “hip”. Korean music is what sells with Filipinos right now, and it’s not going to die anytime soon. Just like Manny Pacquiao or the Azkals, they are inevitable media forces. If anything, I really don’t like joining media bandwagons. Aside from English, I don’t speak any other foreign language so listening to something I can’t understand a word of seems to be well, rather stupid and pointless. But whenever my friends and I would hang-out, every so often they would talk about these sorts of things and gush about cute boy vocalists and gossip about female ones. Since I really don’t want to be left out from their conversations anymore, I decided to give it a try. After all, I consider my music taste to be eclectic. I appreciate a good song when I hear it. And it doesn’t matter what genre they belong to or who sang it. I love songs from classics like The Beatles, ABBA, The Carpenters, rock bands like AC/DC, Bon Jovi, Aerosmith, U2 to boybands like 5ive, N SYNC to videoke regulars like Aegis and Celine Dion to name a few (Take Me Home Country Roads by John Denver is still a guilty pleasure of mine).  Hey, if it’s a good song, then it’s cool. Plus, I thought that listening to Asian pop artists can make me appreciate their culture more. So excuse me for promoting cultural diversity into my life.

So after checking out a few songs I came to realize that some of them aren’t half-bad. Although, the only way I can truly understand what their saying is for me to watch an English-subbed version of their music videos in Youtube (or if the artists decided to throw in an English phrase or two in the chorus), sometimes the music itself speaks volume. Catchy beats, well-played melodies and synchronized rhythm are enough to make a genuine music lover stop and listen. Sometimes, lyrics are not always what makes a song a good one. Add this to aesthetically well-produced music videos and fun, color-coordinated and sometimes loud and avant-garde fashion styles, listening and watching Kpop music is a definitely an experience that appeals to the senses.

Recently, Super Junior or SuJu, one of Kpop’s giant boy group, decided to make a comeback with a new single entitled Mr. Simple. Being the natural Kpop fanatics, my friends couldn’t get enough of it when the music video was launched online. After downloading the song and playing it in endless loop (redundancy intended) on one of our overnight hang-outs, it subconsciously became my LSS (Last Song Syndome). I must admit that as much as I detest SuJu for their recent remark on obese people, I find the song catchy. So let me try and dissect it more by examining the three main aspects of it: the music, lyrics and the corresponding video.

Japan: A Kingdom of Characters

The exhibit is open from  July 7 to August 20 2011
at the Metroplitan Museum in Manila.
image courtesy of cathsdee.com

Yesterday marked yet another spur-of-the-moment trips with my friends. Only this time, we decided to rekindle our cultured minds which have been slowly becoming dusty and rotting on the shelf, with a sudden trip at the Metropolitan Museum. Last month, the Japanese Foundation announced that it will hold an exhibit called Japan: Kingdom of Characters which will showcase prominent anime and manga characters we have all grown to love while giving highlight to a discussion on their social and historical significance with the Japanese culture. The exhibit promises to be quite a treat. Cartoon characters and social discourse, you can definitely count me in. The exhibit will run from July 7 until August 20. Naturally excited, I decided to inform my friends about it knowing that, like me, they will have a blast seeing it. We were set to go on one of the weekends last month, but in between sick babies, hectic work schedules, balikbayan barkadas, our supposed trip got cancelled in the last minute. So yesterday, after a night-out, we decided to finally cross it out from our to-do list.

We arrived at the Metropolitan Museum a few minutes after lunch. Since it was a sunny Friday afternoon, we were the only people in the exhibit, say except for the construction workers renovating the second floor (the MET Museum is being renovated and the upper galleries are closed to public viewing). The anime exhibit is located in the Tall Galleries, only a few short walks from the main entrance. With a big pink wall announcing its title in striking letters, it certainly catches attention. Sure enough when we got inside, a lifesize statue of Ultraman and Gundam gave us the feeling of being transported back to our youth. The exhibit is divided into three main sections. The first one shows a historical timeline of the many anime and manga characters that have emerged from different decades from the 1950’s to the year 2000. The next is a visual representation of a Japanese girl’s room overly adorned with Hello Kitty’s and many other kawaii (cute) characters showcasing how deeply they have penetrated the everyday life of the typical Japanese. The last part of the exhibit discusses the future of the anime culture with some audio-visual clips of the new generation anime made with new emerging techniques and media.

Mr. Lao, You Have Been Informed

Yesterday saw the birth of a new internet star. Unlike before, Ellen and Oprah had nothing to do with it and for once, nobody had to do a rendition of someone else’s ballad or dance a George Michael song naked. All it took was letting a car float on water while throwing blame on others on national TV and you have your own ticket to stardom. So move over Charice, we have a new overnight sensation and his name is Christopher Lao.

A Letter To My Younger Self

Dear Thirteen-Year-Old Al,

Congratulations for having lived past your thirteenth birthday.

You're going to be an adult in a few years and  I feel it’s my duty, as your wise, old self to warn and prepare you for the long road you will embark on soon. I don't want you to make the same mistakes I made. It’s going to be a long and confusing road, so you better buckle up. It won’t be a walk in the park, I assure you, but it won’t be all gloom and doom either. You’ll have tons of crazy, fun times, yes, but there will be those unavoidable moments that you will stop and feel lost. You’ll get hurt and confused. Despite this, you have to remember to keep on going. Time is the most valuable resource you have and you can never have enough or too much of it. If I rant too much please bear with me, I'm old.  I’m doing this for your own good. I have so many things to tell you and warn you about, that putting all of them in this letter will be impossible. I’ll try to put the most important things here. Remember that it is because I love you that I’m doing this. I hope you'll pick up a thing or two from what I’m about to tell you, so here goes...

One Rainy, August Morning

unfriending someone isn't always a bad thing
image courtesy of http://blog.timesunion.com 

I just realized that my ex unfriending me from Facebook this rainy August morning can be added to the many reasons why I love the rain so much. J

New Commitments and (Hopefully) New Beginnings

I have decided to keep my writing a commitment. The problem is, as easily as I get riled up with inspiration, I also lose interest all too quickly. This, plus the fact that I’m the biggest procrastinator I know, makes keeping this journal a massive undertaking. During those brief moments I find myself passionately thinking about something (or in rare cases, someone), I can easily whip up a few sentences that would serve as outlets to let whatever stagnant creative juices in my brain flow freely. That is, I can write with almost zen-like focus. Then after a few minutes of being in the zone, I get sidetrack with the most trivial things that I lose my momentum. After losing drive, I just stop with whatever I’m currently writing until the urge passes and then I move on to my next obsession. It’s an ugly trait that leaves many unfinished things in my life, I know. And to be fair, it doesn’t happen to my writing alone. In Filipino, I’m one of the many people na madaling magsawa.

A Night Owl's Musings in the Sun

The Confused Night Owl
image courtesy of clipartof.com

I don’t know what to do when the sun’s up.

Today I woke up half an hour past five AM. Usually at this hour, my body clock would tell me I should get some shut eye or I should be very sleepy which will indicate that, at the very least, I would be off to dreamland soon. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been struggling to keep my body clock in order—to have a normal, constant bed time and consequently a rather expectant time to wake up. But sleep always eludes me. Eversince I’ve worked the night shift from my previous job, I had never been often awake to see the sunrise or watch the morning news. Lord knows I wanted to change that. I’ve manipulated my sleeping patterns, the time I go to bed, even my bed itself so that I can have a normal bedtime like everybody else. As much as I want to maintain order in this aspect, I simply can’t. I maybe suffering clinically from a sleep disorder for all I know but I could never sleep at night. I always sleep when the sun’s up and wake up when it’s dark. So overtime, I’ve come to accept that I’m a night person and I eventually embraced that. Waking up at night seems to be part of who I am.

But today’s different. I finally managed to wake up in the morning.

Tajo Chronicles: A Reprise (Part 3)

Episode Three - Goodbye.

I am practically running because I'm starting to get late for our dinner. I don't want to keep you waiting. I'm sure you want this done and over as much as I do.

“Are you mad?”, you ask without so much of a hi or a hello as I'm settling in my seat. 

You came to the place ahead of me. It's the same pasta restaurant where we had dinner that night I officially became your boyfriend. As I look in the neon sign and that red plaid table cloth, a feeling of familiarity creeps in. You even managed to get reservations to the table where we had dinner the last time, the exact same one outside. I can't help but notice the aroma of fresh pasta cooking and the smell of the outside air—a combination of smoke and monsoon breeze signifying the much awaited break from the long dry spell. On top of the array of indistinct smells is the sound of distant traffic of the metro. All of them, sight, sound and smell are mere repetitions of memory. Yet unlike before, we are sitting here under different circumstances and with different emotions. This is certainly a bad case of déjà vu.

The Long Long Journey Into Turning Silver

PROLOGUE: 

I decided to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday a little differently this time. It's very traditional, almost cliche, for one to spend every birthday with his friends or family--eat themselves full or drink themselves wasted every year. And being an occasional social conformist, I am no exception to the birthday paradigm. But this year, I decided to celebrate me turning silver using a different approach. There are certain ages that you really have to celebrate as if they are milestone achievements and for me, turning 25 is one of those. After all, you only get to be silver once. I feel I am *officially* an adult. Gone are the days when I can easily blame youth for poor decisions and irrational judgments. I'm no longer a kid, that's for certain, but appearing like a kid is a whole different story.

The inspiration came to me a few days back. After a few shots of  Don Enrique Tequila (the 750 mL which I have yet to finish) I suddenly had an epiphany. It's amazing how alcohol, although responsible for most broken noses and bar fights, can sometimes spark a stroke of genius. Since I have been pondering on the thought on how to celebrate my birthday differently this year without spending too much, I realized that in order for me to fully understand what it takes to be twenty-five, I have to go back. I have to go back to being twenty-four, twenty-three, eleven, and so on. So I decided to put on a little adventure trip to revisit the places that has the most memories. Memories--childhood memories, youth memories, yuppie memories, the good and the bad and the ugly. Just like any other nostalgic sentimental young man out there, a lot of places have become part of my memory bank but I narrowed the list to twenty five, for obvious reasons, and I wanted to finish the journey before the day ends. 

So, I decided I'm not going to spend anytime with my friends or family on my birthday. That day will be a special bonding time with myself, an alone time, a soul search if you may. I'm going to visit the 25 Places I love the most.

My Birthday Greetings

Since I have a habit of making non-traditional birthday greetings for my close friends, they decided to return the favor. Below are three of  the most creative (and my most favorite) birthday greetings I received from my friends.

My Surprise Birthday Cake :)

The Catholic Trademark - A Response to a Satirical Article

The sacraments, the prayers, even the bread and wine have no holiness or power unless properly franchised by the Catholic™ Church.

-Cebu Archbishop Jose Palma, President of CBCP Commission on Franchising and Life (COFAL)

The above quote is from an article denoting the recent attempt of the Catholic Church to trademark the term “Catholic™”. Apparently one has to be careful now from using the term haphazardly as he will become liable for intellectual property infringement if he uses the term without care, or without the proper notification to CBCP.  The above quote strikes me as a severe form of hypocrisy and it well suggests arrogance. It puts Catholicism above all other religions. To say that other forms of prayers and religious rites not preceded by the Catholic™ Church not "holy" is morally wrong. And to use the word “franchise” in the same context as with the words “sacraments” and “holiness” suggests lack of tact and insight from the one who said it.

Of Lone Pair Electrons, French Films and Being the Fifth Wheel

The Lone Pair Electron -
available yet  has no one to bond with

Last night, as I went out with a couple of my friends and their partners, I was reminded of the concept of “Lone Pair Electrons” during my college chemistry days. In its simplest terms, lone pair electrons are those electrons which, although readily available, are not bonded with other atoms—hence the title “lone” in their name. ­­­­­­ As they exist alone in conformational space, they are like the mavericks of chemical structures. It made me think that in the macroscopic real life, lone pair electrons are in a way, like the token single friends who are reluctantly tagged along when someone goes out with his or her partner. Although not romantically bonded with any other individual, they are crucial in holding the composition of their respective groups together when going out. Being the only single person in our group last night, I felt like the lone pair electron of my social clique’s chemical structure.

What I Learned (or Not) in College – A Retrospect

A few years ago, I entered college with a dream of becoming a doctor.  I can still remember the exhilaration I felt almost eight years ago, when I received the news that I was accepted into one of the top universities in the country. It was surreal then as it is now. I was dead set on someday donning a white laboratory coat, stethoscope slung around my neck and a matching name plate affixing “MD” after my surname. That was my dream—and I finally had a ticket of achieving it.

Counting Sheeps

Five in the morning and wide awake.

Enveloped in darkness.

Small drops of rain outside yet no breeze.

None today. 

None tonight.

It is as humid as with the afternoon sun.

I perspire.

The gentle ramblings of the fan, steady and soothing,

as it kisses the heat off my moist skin.

In the still blackness I see nothing

Why I Say Yes To Divorce

While reading my daily dose of news, I came across one article that quoted Representative Rufus Rodriguez of Cagayan de Oro on the legalization of divorce:

 “[If divorce is legal] Children will grow up with only one parent. That’s the worst punishment we can give to our children.”

It is in fact a heartless punishment to let a child growp up with only one parental figure. Kids should be reared and nurtured by two people: primarily, a father and a mother. That’s how it's always been and that’s how it should be.

Tajo Chronicles: A Reprise (Part 2)

I opened the door that leads to my refuge.

As I walk inside my small, cramped bedroom, I see that things are in the usual disarray as I left them yesterday. My clothes are still scattered on the floor and my old books are still arranged chaotically in one side of the room. My tangled bed is still exactly the same. Everything is unchanged as I left the house.

I am still the same, I suppose.

Or am I?

  I plunged myself to bed eyes closed and recalled the night that was and how it made all the difference in the world.

Episode Two - The Night That Was 

My Improvised Friday Night Clubbing

Ugh, it’s a Friday night and I can’t go out. Apart from being too lazy to travel a good hour to get to the clubbing spots, I’m flat broke these days. And when you see your friends’ Facebook updates saying how excited they are to go out, or when they send you SMS invites and you reply that you can’t tag along, it takes frustration to a whole different level.

Being the type of person I am, I am not to be outdone. I decided to make my own clubbing experience tonight in the comfort of my own bedroom.  So I gathered what was necessary, locked the door, took off my shirt and enjoyed myself to my own version of Friday night clubbing - home edition.

The Improvised Clubbing Set-up

Bleed

Tajo Chronicles: A Reprise (Part 1)

Episode 1: Starfish and Snowman at the Movies

I can’t help but notice myself smiling as I hold on to the railings of the train. While my body moves along with every vibration, halts and motions of this silver carriage, I feel the beat of my heart racing as I come closer to my destination. I keep on telling myself to pull it together but anticipation floods over my being.  I feel my limbs trembling, beads of perspiration start to appear on my forehead as I stare on each sign that tells me I’m becoming one station closer to where you are. They are like pale ominous signs of impending doom, ghostly and eerie; but in this case I remind myself that they are bringers of something good. Those station signs bring me closer to you. My tall, thin frame gets squished and shoved by the numerous passengers boarding and getting off the train but I don’t care. I just keep my stare focused on those ethereal plastic signs. At this very instance nothing else matters:  just you, me and those signs.

Strawberry Fields for MM

The third episode of the Level-Up Brotherhood Salutations series of 2011.

“Hi, I’m MM!”

I looked at the girl who just uttered these words. I haven’t spoken to anyone aside from my seatmates and I certainly I haven’t asked this girl what her name was...but she said it anyway. I looked at her with an indifferent gaze and examining her stature, I wondered how she could’ve passed on as a college student. Standing like a 14 year-old girl, with short hair and a headband, she certainly looked out of place amongst the people in the room.  Her blue backpack appeared grotesquely larger than she was. She was fragile, and as soft-spoken as she was, she offered her name to a complete set of strangers. That was bold, I thought, for someone so little.

I’m sure you already had a fare share of “bansot” jokes; most of them courtesy of me. And I’m sure you must have heard almost everything about your height. I’m a bully, I know, and I’m not going to stop bullying you. But I ridicule you with awe and respect, with love; like that of a big brother to her younger, vertically-challenged sister. I am reminded that behind this little girl stands a person so tall and magnanimous, she has accomplished so far and so much in her life.

Having had the opportunity to be one of your closest friends, I am reminded that brave people do come in small packages. There’s Napoleon Bonaparte, Alexander the Great, Pharaoh Amenhotep III, and then there’s you.  We all had a tumultuous college life, with all of the Brotherhood members having their own epic story to tell. Each war story grand in its own right, but yours has got to be the most victorious of all. You came, you saw, you’ve fallen countless times but you have definitely conquered. I am truly humbled and proud at the same time to be your friend.

As the world celebrates your twenty-sixth year, I would like to express my numerous “thank you’s” to you. Thank you for the knowledge you have imparted: all things political which helped me become the philosophical man I am today. I owe you to be the person responsible for awakening my socially-relevant self. You were my biggest political influence. Thank you for imparting your vast knowledge on the culture and the arts, on literature and all things intellectual, for they helped me become the cultured man I am now (choz! J). Thank you for sharing your life, your numerous heartaches, your frustrations, for they remind me how human we are in the world. Thank you for sharing your achievements and triumphs, for showing us, your friends, that no matter how life treats us all, there is still a way to triumph above all things unfair and unjust. Thank you for always being a loyal friend.

Do you remember the time you wore a motorcycle jacket on our Pharm21 class? I laughed so hard and I teased you about it all day. We wore white uniforms and seeing someone with a jacket that a renegade bounty hunter would wear (especially if that person was you) seemed very funny to me at that time. But as I go back to that memory, I realized that it wasn’t surprising at all. It was not funny. It was very fitting, as you have always been bold and brave of a person, a maverick.

So cheers, to the smallest bravest person I know on her twenty-sixth birthday!

Happy happy birthday, M!

  

Your strawberry fields are definitely forever.

See how small she is?
Oh Pong  'wag kang magselos, alam mo yan!

Insomnia

I want to close my eyes

and fall into a deep slumber.

Yet your far voice whispers

in my ears.

The way you laugh when I kiss you,

your moans

how you say my name,

so forceful.

Haunting

as if you never wanted to let me go.

I remember how you smell,

the taste of your neck, your chest

Intoxicating and delusional.

Wild.

I want to close my eyes

and fall into a deep slumber.

Yet I feel the ghost of your hands touch mine

locking my body,

into an embrace I used to remember.

In the dark

your warm moist breathing in my ear,

the rise and fall of your body

your heartbeat.

Your fire revisits me at night.

I want to close my eyes

and fall into a deep slumber.

But my touch

tongue, soul

searches for the contours which are yours.

My warmth searches for your warmth.

I see you. Here. Now.

Yet I cannot hold you.

Nothing but a mere shadow.

Walls.

Distance.

Our bodies lay next to each other,

both devoid of passion.

Both trying so hard.

I want to close my eyes

and fall into a deep slumber.

Go back to a time, to our time,

 to our sanctuary

where I am yours alone.

Bring me back the memories you promised.

Make me feel

alive.

Loved.

But you are gone.

Because I'm Too Lazy To Clean My Room, I'll Blog About How Dirty It Is Instead.

I am living in a crime scene.

Or that’s how it appears to be.

It is noon. I wake up and I see my room is not as clean and organized as it used to be. I have always known myself as a well-organized person but seeing my room in such disarray makes me think otherwise.  I have been telling myself for the past few weeks that one of these days I’ll clean my rathole, but whenever I feel the urge to get up and get a broom, I sit down, close my eyes until the urge passes. Procrastination sets in, laziness gets the best of me and the room stays messy. People may call it a pig sty, but I call it necessary chaos.

I sleep on a futon mattress. Since I have problems sleeping on high beds, I choose to situate myself closer to the Earth when I rest. Physics tells us that a low center of gravity makes an object more stable in its balance. And since I’m deathly scared of unnecessary heights, I choose to sleep closer to the ground.  Looking at my “pseudo bed” I notice that I’ve been sleeping on a half naked foam, meaning there’s no bed sheet per se; just a thin yellow cover that stretches across the bed. I look at my three pillows, and none of them are wearing their respective pillow cases. I look for them and I see them over a stack of clean laundry that’s been delivered to my room a few days ago. That reminds me, I haven’t folded my laundry yet.  A few inches from my clean clothes are the dirty ones. Disgusting, I know. I see dirty underwear, soiled shirts and pants only a few inches away from the clean ones. How I haven’t mistaken wearing the dirty ones is beyond me. 

I look at my walls. They’re supposed to be white, but I can’t tell what their color is now so I’m going to pretend  that they’re still white. I see a couple of inside-out jeans hanging over a nail I’ve put on the wall and you can still see the mud stains at bottom part.  Creepy.  What’s creepier is, I can’t remember the last time I wore those jeans. Next to my muddy pants is another pair of jeans, a sando, a pair of shorts, a scarf (don’t ask) hanging on one single hook.  I walk over to it and smell if they’re still good. I can’t tell.

Over to another corner, I have the spot where I put my shoes. Good thing some of them still look like footwear albeit the week-old mud marks and sand dunes building under them.  Then I see my Chinese helmet toy resting on one of my shoe and the black box where I keep all my important papers resting on a pair of slippers I’ve been looking for for the past couple of days. Hello tsinelas, there you are!

I then see my gray messenger bag sprawled open at the tip of my mattress. It’s still wet from the last time I went out, so naturally it left moist traces on my bed. I don’t even want to look at what’s inside the bag. I see a pair of dirty underwear sitting next to it. I can’t remember if they’re mine though. Upon closer examination, I think they are, though it’s funny how I can’t remember when they started looking like *that*.  I turn my head to the side and I see a three foot-pile of books arranged beautifully like a stack of Jenga blocks. One wrong move or a renegade fly sitting on top of it would cause the tower to tumble down. From where I’m sitting right now, I can see dust building on the covers-which means I haven’t done anything remotely intellectual for quite a while. I better catch up on my reading.  Next to my “smart”books is my magazine rack with folded and torn issues of men's magazines. There are cobwebs on top of the rack. Open pages. Ear dog page marks. I guess the universe is sending a not-so-subtle message for me to read them too.

I almost stepped on an empty bottle of Tanduay Ice next to an entanglement of electrical sockets and cords.  I better return that bottle soon as I tend to forget these sort of things. I also noticed a pack of maroon Gudang Garam cigs, which I bought two years ago, next to a recently-reposed hard drive. I bent over to check and to my surprise I have a few more sticks left. Oh joy! If only I can find where I put my lighter. I lift the two day-old Abante newspaper lying next to me only to find it wasn’t there; but I did find the missing toe of my Kratos God of War action figure. That cricket lighter is bound to show up here somewhere. As I reach for my phone, I also see a bottle of Mojitos gold tequila next to my bed. On top of it is the shot glass which acts as the bottle cap because I can't find that stupid bottle cap anywhere. As I raise the bottle, I was thrilled to see that there still an approximate ten milliliters left. I promised my lips that it would taste that sweet liquid later on, after I’m done cleaning my room, if ever I clean it. Last drops are often the sweetest and pack the strongest punch, you see.

Now as I look at the chaos around me, I can’t help but ask if there is a need for me to clean up my space and organize my life. 

Should one be happy living this way?

If only mankind is smart enough to invent a self-cleaning room or a machine that has the ability to go to a parallel universe where your room is clean and organized, I wouldn’t have these thoughts.

Where’s that damn tequila?

Your Honor, exhibit A