The Journey Home is Where the Hatred Is

When going home from work I don’t usually pass by SM Megamall, but yesterday I was there because I needed to buy something. If I was to go home by my usual route, I had to walk 20 minutes from SM Megamall to the side opposite of Robinson’s Galleria. I was tired then and wasn’t willing to do all that walking, so I decided to take another way home. Since there was a Metro Rail Transit (MRT) nearby, I went there thinking that the train would get me home faster and - don’t laugh - with less stress. 

Big mistake! I soon found out that the MRT was the most vicious public vehicle I’d ever ridden on. The train was so packed, that not only was I standing, I was also sandwiched between unpleasant smelling middle aged… middle aged… err, what exactly do you call middle aged people with oily face, vinegar stench and  tonsured head? Whenever the MRT stopped, crowds bustled in and out of the train, and there were shoving and bruising. Everything was disorderly. I got tired out from being part of that chaos. Once I got off the train I didn’t find the train station therapeutic either. The place was hot, and the air felt and smelled like it was made of evaporated human sweat. I also found something about how people blank-facedly march their way out to be very sci-fi, in the creepy “this is how robots come out of the assembly line” way. 

And then I had to take the public jeep home. That sucked, because the driver drove more recklessly than someone under influence. He drove very fast, I felt like he was moving faster than the speed of light, with the accompanying psychedelic images of stars and swirls and spirals and weird shapes and blinks. I wanted to throw up. Also, the driver often stepped on the brakes very abruptly that the passengers were hurled off their seats many times. I think I was losing my mind. Evidence? Outside the jeep, I saw a girl riding on the motorcycle, and she looked so much like Liz that I almost greeted her. The girl also wore glasses, had girly curly hair and had a very determined look. But Liz on a motorcycle was a sight that’s completely an affront to logic; it would make more sense to see her riding on a magic broom. 

Anyway, going back to the driver, he nearly ran over a couple of pedestrians and he almost crashed to a bus, yet he acted like he was the gung ho Hollywood hero, and was swearing very loudly to his “offenders”. I hated his choice of songs too as they were the type of cheesy rock songs (which, doubtlessly, was by Queen) most drivers like to play to feel like they’re the most hardcore beings alive. And as if he wasn’t satisfied with making us uncomfortable, he had a devil-may-care attitude to everything, and he wouldn’t stop driving and let us get off his jeep until we shouted para five times and into his ear. 

When I reached home, I had no choice but to abandon my plan for the night, which was to draw vector arts that my brother needed. I also intended to write something, but my head was shot. You know what made the difference between coming home with and without a functional mind? It’s this one wrong decision of taking the MRT. So what I’m saying here is, be careful when deciding, as doing so unwisely can ruin your day. Also, taking the MRT is taking the hell train. Avoid it if you know what’s good for you.

Jade Visions

“Pull over!” signaled the cop. 

“What the hell?” my brother said, looking perplexed. 

“Sir, you sped past a red light. Gimme your license.” 

“What red light?” 

“Don’t you see it? It’s there, on that pole.” 

The red light wasn’t there on days before today, and since it was camouflaged by the pole’s shape and color, it wasn’t very visible. 

Defending my brother, I said “He couldn’t have seen it. That’s not a very visible signal light now, is it?”

Voice trailing off , the police said, “Sir, there’s a sign indicating that a new signal light is installed there.”

I turned my head around and looked, but couldn’t find any sign, “Sign? Where’s this sign?”

The police fell silent.

I continued, “Also, what were you doing just loitering on the roadside when you knew that there’s a new signal light? Shouldn’t you be pointing it to all drivers instead of just hiding, and only appearing when the opportunity to confiscate our licenses comes?”

Again, the police fell silent, but he took away my brother’s license anyway and wouldn’t return it unless we pay him a hundred.

My brother unintentionally violated traffic laws. He’s honest about his oversights, yet his license got confiscated.

The police told lies yet he stayed as a police.

This is how our country’s justice works.

Empty Barrels

This happens whenever I take the bus home: The TV is on and is tuned to a local TV station (more often GMA than ABS). I’m not a fan of whatever show the TV plays, but whenever it takes its break, I squirm. I have to suffer through another batch of advertisements. Why is this bad? Because I will, without a doubt, get to see barrages of pointless government propagandas.

Take the recent “Spread the Charity”. It is by a “charity” organization and it shows montage-styled slideshow demonstrating all of President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo’s charity. Ha! Tagging PGMA with “charity”? That’s like tagging Fox News with “afrocentricity”! Of course, there’s a token Lion King knockoff percussion song or a token Pachelbel’s Canon knockoff violin song playing, as if inspirational music and images alone are enough to convince Filipinos that they live in a progressive nation, and that they have the best president EVAR. 

And this isn’t an isolated case. Our government does self-promotional advertising all the time! When they’re not doing it on tv, they’re doing it on newspapers. And if not, they’re plastering their faces all over egocentric posters while some ridiculously big texts detail out that this project is their courtesy. Heck, sometimes it doesn’t even have to be projects. Sometimes it’s just Christmas greetings, because all it takes is a greeting for us to know that the governments care for us. Isn’t that right? 

I despise that. It’s the most useless thing. What other countries do that kind of stupidity? Not Taiwan. Not China. Not America. Not Thailand. Not Singapore. Not Australia. Ok, Burma does it. That strengthens my belief that our government is emulating theirs. 

But let’s put aside the nitpicking, and talk about why our government does these propagandas. 

So, why? It is because this is their way of fending off our hatred. See, whenever they assault you with their brand-spanking-new - yet ugly - propagandas, they try to tell you that they care for the people. In reality, though, you should take that as cue to start watching the news, where you can see them facing scandal allegations (in other words, don’t be fooled by their very classic diversion tactic). This “Spread the Whority” ad, for example, came out between the NBN-ZTE Investigation and the Rice Crisis, both of which are unresolved issues, much thanks to our system’s incompetence. And were you ever at an LRT station when the rice shortage outcries were loudest? There were Department of Agriculture ads – which, predictably, had PGMA’s face – saying “Pagkain sa bawat mesa” (translation: foods on every table). 

I’ve been to many different provinces, and, regardless of what province, every time I ask their dwellers if they think our government is doing enough for our country, I get a unanimous and resounding “no”. That’s just how much everyone distrusts our government. The posters and the ads are the government’s easiest way to hammer home the point that “Hey guys, credit me for this achievement at least”. The problem is, those achievements are, more often than not, so minuscule, that without mentioning them you wouldn’t even notice any difference.

“Oh, there are now street lights all over Caloocan City? That’s supposed to be done decades ago, but since Mayor Recom Echiverri wants us to know now that he’s finally gone and done just that, and then emphasizing on his posters that ‘this is where your tax money go’, three cheers to him!” 

The way things are going, we’ll never come to rely on our governments to let us feel progress while they do their jobs silently. Funny that they should insist that we quietly focus on our “economy”, when they can’t shut up about what they’re doing. 

And I’m going to question this “this is where your tax money go” hoopla. I ask, uh, to where? The lights, or the posters? You want to know how much it costs to get advertised? Expect to pay at least 5-digits - and this is a very generous estimate – and it’s not out of the ordinary to pay 6-7 digits. And it’s even more expensive when you advertise yourself on newspapers and TV’s. You’ll have to pay millions for that. 

Have you ever entertained the thought that those propagandas may be from your tax money? This isn’t very implausible, eh? But even if they weren’t from our money, I can’t help but enumerate the too many ways the expenses could be spent better. Every time I see another L.I.M. poster I wonder about the schools that could’ve been renovated. Every time I see Sonny Belmonte’s posters, complete with his douchebag grinning, as if smug about the way he never leaves his seat, I wonder about the homeless. Every time I see another Bayani Fernando’s very manly and pink Gwapo crap, I wonder about the many roads that could’ve been paved. Let’s repeat this ad infinitum, while thinking of the oil, the disabled, the rice, the facilities, the railways, the classrooms, the education, the drainage, the electricity, the advocate groups, and the hungry, that the funds could’ve supported. 

By the way, the ads they make are lame and dishonest. It’s too bad I don’t have the pictures, but you can always use your imagination. First, let’s recall Dept. of Agriculture’s “pagkain sa bawat mesa”. It’s more like “pagkain sa aking mesa” (translation: food on my table). There’s also an ad by Recom Echiverri, saying “Welcome to the historical city of Caloocan”. Hah! Welcome to the hysterical city of Caloocan! I’ve never heard of anyone saying “Yo, this Sunday is really quiet. What say you we head to Caloocan and get cozy?” And there’s also a “Boxing sa QC” poster, which is an event promoted by a councilor. I wish I could show you how stupid it looks, what with it showing a councilor - who only visits the ghetto when election time comes - in topless and fully flabby glory. I could go on and on. 

Sadly, though we can call things out on our blogs, what’s to stop our government from continuing the whoring? There’s too little we can do but lament. But if you have a spraycan lying around and you want to practice your graffiti skills, you can tag those self-promotional posters. And don’t you go feeling any compunction now for vandalizing government-funded properties; after all, they have, for the longest time, been vandalizing our sensibilities.

EDIT: I submitted this to Filipino Voices.

This, I Love

In a mellow tone (Ben Webster)

In a mellow tone
That’s the way to live
If you mope and groan
Something’s gotta give

I was at the coffee shop (why is it always at a coffee shop that I hang out in lately?) with this really cool girl yesterday. She knew I liked this coffee shop. She knew I liked the couch that she intentionally avoided sitting on yesterday. She knew I really like that indecisive moment when I was taking my order because there were just so many drinks to choose from. And as we conversed by the table, I confessed something I’ve kept with me for years already. 

I told her - and this was when a very romantic song was playing - I told her, 

I am madly in love with saxophones. 

I am so in love with it, to the extent that I ask myself, what won’t I give just to turn back to when I was at a younger age and learn playing it? Sure, Kenny G’s been using it pretty horribly and I don’t fancy Dave Koz’s music either, so let’s just classify them under anyone’s list of “people let’s forget exist”. What’s not to like about saxophones? Jazz giants played saxophones! John Coltrane, Sonny Rollins, Ben Webster, Charlie Parker, Jackie McLean, Stan Getz, Wayne Shorter, the list goes on and on. 

*Nightdreamer closes his eye and plays air saxophone while doing a duck mouth, which makes him look incredibly stupid* 

Sure, I’d also love to rewind time and then learn piano and trumpet too as they’re another two of my favorite instruments, but the saxophone’s lure is unsurpassable. How? Did you notice how it’s built like a tube that slopes downward, and then sveltely goes up again? That has an effect on how it sounds, and it sounds enchanting. Enchanting in many ways like, whenever a note like, say, re, is played, it becomes more like a re-flat transitioning to the natural-re. Like, how when in different volumes it sounds like two differing instruments - soft and it’s like a cat purring, loud and it’s like gospel musicians’ bordering-on-raspy singing. It’s just about the only instrument I can think of that be crooning one minute and then ferocious the next, and in both times be sensual. No wonder it is commonly associated with lovemaking - in a blunt and pithy manner it depicts the different moods taking place when two bare bodies exchange odes with their fluids. Okay, that metaphor was horrible. 

So, did you listen to Ben Webster’s “In a Mellow Tone” that I uploaded and posted above the writings? Beautiful, isn’t it? Which reminds me, I need to do a next post on my All Jazzed Up series. So how about you? Do you have a favorite musical instrument?

Blood Count

Good grief. 

With the kind of blog posts I’ve been doing lately, I wouldn’t be surprised if I get many awful distinctions, such as “crappiest blog ever” or “blog that falls the deepest into the abyss of suck”. 

And I’m not fishing for compliments. I honestly feel that my writing is at its worst.

Cast My Fate to the Wind

Blue in Green (Miles Davis)

June 1, 2007

She was pretty cool to me before, and I was happy because I felt like we were beginning a beautiful friendship. But then post-vacation, after the time we were at each other’s presence, she refuses to talk to me. She didn’t answer when I sent her text messages and when I tried to call her. It was just very strange. While this may read as if I was being too persistent, I actually wasn’t. I’ve only tried to contact her thrice, and all I was trying to do was to thank her for her hospitality.

January 2, 2008

I came to the office today a tad earlier than usual. A new organizer sat atop my desk. It was left there by a girl I used to have a huge crush on (I was out of work the previous 2 weeks, so I didn’t see her when she came to visit). Why did she have to leave an organizer on my desk anyway? Such a painful reminder of her. If she wants me to remember her, couldn’t she just phone me and say, "I have something to give you let’s meet up somewhere"? Yeah, me and my silly fantasies.

So… thinking of this girl made me feel miserable. How could she be so friendly with me during the vacation days, and then treat me like I was a phantom after that? I was bothered by this for several months, because it’s not the first time I’ve met such kind of person, and I’m certainly not the only one who’s ever been "befriended" by those who do it only because I was a convenient way to shake off boredom. At modern times - or maybe just in an adult’s life - this happens a lot. Overnight friendships. One night stands. Something about how ephemeral all the warmth of such companionship never fails to depress me.

January 15, 2008

Sometimes the funniest things happen in my life. I was just complaining about how unexciting my life was when this happened: I saw that girl again.

We recognized each other, and she greeted me with the same hospitality that I recall was her characteristic. So we spoke to each other a bit. You know, the typical "comment allez vous" stuff. I really should write "how are you" instead but since I just ate French bread, I was still feeling a tad French-y. She recalled coming to my office two weeks ago and leaving a gift on my table, and she wondered if I had received it. I said I did. I never told her that I did not throw it away, nor did I tell her that I had been mad about at her. I do hope that she hadn’t read my blog. But I’m going off-tangent so, back to us. It was a conversation of two people treating each other professionally, meaning we’re pretending to like each other more than we really do. Or, at least I don’t like her as much as I appeared. I hope she likes me though.

She also said she’s being transferred to another department. She will now accommodate Makati clients instead of the Ortigas ones, although I could still contact her if I wanted to. Why, guess what, girl, pfft! I’M GLAD TO HEAR THAT YOU’RE BEING TRANSFERRED! Guess I won’t be seeing you again now that I won’t even try to contact you so out of my life you go mwuahahaha can I ask you out some time?!

May 19, 2008

Woman, you ought to know how annoyed I was when I heard that you’re coming here at an unspecified time tomorrow. I was neck deep into finishing the job assigned to me, you see, when that announcement was made and it disrupted all my train of thoughts. I spent the rest of the day fumbling about, not convinced that I wasn’t having a nervous breakdown, although somehow I made it home without being carried by stretchers.

May 20, 2008

Despite saying too often about how much I don’t like being reminded of you, the rest of me are more fond of you than my words would admit. They like you so much, that I need not see you to know you’re already here. I can sense you from the way you speak, that unmistakable Ilonggo-accented Filipino words being muttered like the way a saxophone could play any notes beautifully. My brain suspends thinking about all mundane things they pass off as logic when you’re present. Every time you giggle the sound of it reverberates inside my ears for hours as if I need to let marinate every nuances of it. You look like a splotch of colors in the middle of an unused canvas that begs to be painted. 

Did you notice, the moment you held my elbow, that I was incapable of talking, incapable of thinking straight besides wishing that this moment lasted longer? Did you count how many times I said something very random and how I would get embarrassed after that? Did you realize how frustrated I was that I only have to remember 5 minutes of the span of time we talked because that was how long it lasted, because the world had set to expedite this meeting? Why did you have to leave so soon? 

I wrote too often about my reluctance of seeing you again. Today I realized that these words were flatulence, and that I was a fool all along for not being honest with my feelings. Truth is, I was indescribably glad I saw you last Monday, even if I didn’t know if the smile you gave me meant anything, because that smile could’ve been just a fake bankteller one. But that didn’t matter. It also didn’t matter that I knew nil about you. The time you got on that cab, and as I watch it drove farther until you were merely a dot, I felt a sense of loss, a loss of vibrancy in my already dreary life. It only proved one thing that I was all along too hesitant to admit: I felt strongly about you.

I have taken everything in. And that’s why I’m letting everything go.

If you’ve been reading my blog and have been aware of this love-and-hate dilemma I trouble myself with whenever I think of you, know that I have let go of the hating and I will no longer hold you accountable for whatever anger and sadness I have felt in the past. That is all you need to know, and I can accept whatever that happens, even if it means never seeing you again. Sure, I still want to know you better, and if I can meet with you again I would feel terrific. But if that never happens, I’ll be fine, and will still be cheering on you from afar. Because, like how Toni Morrison said it, sometimes, seeing your kind of beauty is enough. I don’t need to photograph, paint or even remember it. I don’t need to write about it or even have someone to share it with. I just let go, because I can.

Huh?!

I think I need to get a life.

Harharhar? Harharhar. I can totally hear it, my haters laughing diabolically and shouting "YOU SAID IT! I TOTALLY AGREE FOR THE FIRST TIME WE AGREE AND GUESS WHAT EVEN IN AGREEMENT I’M PATRONIZING YOU!" Yeah, well, shut yer trap.

Disclaimer 1: I’m not sure I have haters

Disclaimer 2: And I’m not sure I know of anyone who speak in all caps and without pronunciation.

But anyway, I just want to dive into the psyche of someone who might be my enemy. I don’t have a lot of enemy. Except maybe some random trolls from the message board communities where I am active. There’s this one, actually, from i.ph’s forum. His name is doink, which from now on I will consider as the name of anyone who hates me. I don’t really consider doink an enemy because I don’t feel remotely threatened when doink’s around, but doink could be someone who dislikes me. So imagine if I’m doink who reminds me of clown who then reminds me of a bunch of psychotic people with creepy looking noses. Imagine if he or she - does not have to be a guy - harbors ill will towards me. What would a doink want to tell me?

"Nightdreamer, I just hate how freaking styoopiz you act! You post your blog with a certain swagger, with a certain devil-may-care attitude, that I find obnoxiously obnoxious! You cook up a lot of metaphors and think it will amuse people! I hate you! I’d like you more if you post more pictures of women showing their breasts, but you absolutely have no sense of humor, criticizing hollywood movies, slating Paolo Coelho, disliking Harry Potter, always overthinking about stuff! You never write about things everyone else is writing about! You’re such a nonconformist suckass! You make absolutely zero sense! Your debating skills is like that of Rambo! You never flood your blog posts with pictures of teh funniez! You don’t have enough lolcat pics! You don’t even joke at all! You smell like spit! You $#@@@$$$ and ((%#@#%%# but still !@#%%#$@#$@# like #$%!@$@#$ you @#! You pander to giggling women with your retarded bluesy love posts! You post too many pure text blogs! You’re too skeptic about blogging! You never recommend other sites to visit other than videogame sites! You should blog more about politics and Che Guevarra! You’re racist, classist, ageist, sexist, animalist, plantist, clownist, nudist, fafaist, bigotist, rapist, assist, sophomorist, sandlerist and ipis! You never know how to sit back and enjoy watching porn! You’re an asswiping cynic! I hate you, and I’m totally lacking sleep because you never blog about me! You have zero sense! You hear that? ZERO! You think you’re clever?! YOU ARE NOT!"

*doink stomps feet as if wanting to destroy the planet* 

…

Point taken. I do need to get a life.

DIsclaimer 3: I really don’t want to know what someone like doink would be like.

Dewey-Eyed

Yesterday was a bit tiring, but it was the good kind of tiring. Nighttime, a Zamboangan family who our family consider as friends came to my place to visit.

Things were pretty typical. My mom and their mom were comparing notes on how they cook (they’re both fantastic cooks as far as I’m concerned), and we had a dinner with dumplings as the main course and some fresh watermelons as desserts. Those sure were scrumptious.

This family also have a 5-year-old daughter, named Tisha, and she kept bugging me when I was doing my chores, like doing the dishes, cleaning the table, and wiping Buddha statues.

While I was wiping the statues, she kept looking at me and asked: 

tisha: What are you doing, brother?
nightdreamer: I’m bathing Maitreya.
tisha: But why are you doing that? 
nightdreamer: He needs to be clean too. You don’t like taking a bath?
tisha: No! It’s a chore!
nightdreamer: But if you don’t do it you’ll stink the entire day, do you know?
tisha: Yiii, stink! Do not want! 

She kept following me even as I was at my own room organizing my stuff. And she saw that in my room there were 3 shelves where I display all my toys, like Transformer robots, anime figurines, animal figurines and toy cars the size of a matchbox.

tisha: Toys?! You’re still a kid!
nightdreamer: Oh yes, I’ve always been a kid.
tisha: But you’re not a kid!
nightdreamer: I am! I’m, like, only 5 years old!
tisha: No, you’re not!
nightdreamer: Yes, I am.
tisha: No! You’re 1000 years old!
nightdreamer: Hah, how could I be that old! I’d be dead when I become 1000!
tisha: Then you’re 100!
nightdreamer: Do I look like a 100 year old guy to you?
tisha: Yes you do.
nightdreamer: No I don’t. I’m 5, I tell you!
tisha: Fine, you’re 7!

And then I laughed.

You Gave Me the Mood Indigo

There’s this bit about Truman Capote that never ceases to amaze me. According to him, he can remember 94% of his conversations with anyone. And while I can only wish to share his genius, his superb writing skills, and his ability to document about killers in non-judgmental way (see: In Cold Blood), today I can gloat about being able to remember more than 94 percent of the conversations I had. 

Because it was you who I was talking to. 

Despite having said too often how much I don’t like being reminded of you, the rest of me are more fond of you than my words would admit. They like you so much, that I need not see you to know you’re already here. I can sense you from the way you speak, that unmistakable Ilonggo-accented Filipino words being muttered like the way a saxophone could play any notes beautifully. My brain suspends thinking about all mundane things they pass off as logic when you’re present. Every time you giggle the sound of it reverberates inside my ears for hours as if I need to let marinate every nuances of it. You look like a splotch of colors in the middle of an unused canvas that begs to be painted. 

So you did not come wearing that white clothes after all. So it was red. So you made it apparent that the color of my cheeks was trying to compete with that red polo shirt you’re wearing every time you say something too cute. Did you notice, the moment you held my elbow, that I was incapable of talking, incapable of thinking straight besides wishing that this moment lasted longer? Did you count how many times I said something very random and how I would get embarrassed after that? Did you realize how frustrated I was that I only have to remember 5 minutes of the span of time we talked because that was how long it lasted, because the world had set to expedite this meeting? Why did you have to leave so soon? 

But you said you might come back tomorrow. I can tell you this much: I was at the edge of my seat this entire day, probably anxious, probably too fearful, probably could not feel the ground no matter how hard I stepped. Yet if pressed to say whether or not I want you to come back tomorrow, I’m sure you know how I feel. I’m sure you know that remembering the things we talked about in five minutes is less than satisfying to me. I’m sure you know how much I cursed the taxi for arriving too soon. I’m sure you know I’d like to spend more time with you, if only to test how long I can sustain remembering 94% of what you say. Maybe if our conversation went for hours, I’d still prove to be better than Capote in that regard, but I’d still not be satisfied. 

Isn’t that right, woman?

Heart of Mine, Be Still

Remember (Hank Mobley)

Woman, you ought to know how annoyed I was when I heard that you’re coming here at an unspecified time tomorrow. I was neck deep into finishing the job assigned to me, you see, when that announcement was made and it disrupted all my train of thoughts. I spent the rest of the day fumbling about, not convinced that I wasn’t having a nervous breakdown, although somehow I made it home without being carried by stretchers.

But let’s talk about you. I resent that despite my insistence to not think much of you anymore so I can let go of bitter memories, you are some of the things that have clung to my recent musings like barnacles to barge. What irritate me more about you are why I become so invigorated whenever I wonder about you, why I keep thinking with certain fondness of all the possibilities of the day when you’ll come comes, and why I keep recalling the way you promenade gracefully and the way your smile makes me delirious like I wouldn’t believe. We’re not close. We haven’t spoken for months, and days of your absence haven’t exactly been reassuring to me that you think much of me as I do you. So what’s going on, then? Why the uncertainty, mixed with resentment, then hopefulness and anticipation?

I have a request for you, woman. Don’t try to act cute by wearing that diaphanous white clothing that I saw you wearing a year ago. I try to avoid talking to people about what my muse looks like, after all.

My Encounter with Rabid Paolo Coelho Fangirls

A while back, I went to my favorite bookstore so that I could vacillate about whether to buy a certain book or not. It’s easy to find where I am when I’m at this particular bookstore – if I’m not browsing the classics’ corner, then you’d find me at sci-fi’s; and if not, then children’s, philosophy’s, art’s or comic’s.

So anyway, I was skimming the first few pages of some books, when a bunch of giggling and attractive women walked briskly to my direction. Deluded into thinking they’re giddy by the chance of their lifetime to finally speak with me, I hand-brushed my hair a little and ahem’d as if to make my voice baritone-ish. It was a few seconds later when I realized just how foolish I was acting, as I saw them actually dashing to the books they wanted to buy, as if these books will disappear if not immediately attended to. These books were next to me.

“Okay, fine,” I thought, “I can still strike a conversation with them if they start asking aloud for recommendations.”

But I merely have to overhear small parts of their yapping, to realize that they’re determined to buy only one author’s books, and I can’t recommend any of his books at all. And of course it was Paolo Coelho’s, whose books seem to be regarded as the must-read for every caffeine-consuming and coke-sniffing college undergrad. I was flummoxed by what these books were doing near me. I suppose it’s at this point when I should tell you that the bookshelf where they’re located at were filled with heavy classic texts, like novels by Chinua Achebe, Margaret Atwood, Albert Camus, Anthony Burgess, Truman Capote, Jack Kerouac and Milan Kundera. I’m trying not to sound snobbish here, but I’ve never heard of anyone reading Paolo Coelho, and saying “Oh, his books remind me of The Fall, In Cold Blood and A Clockwork Orange”. And really, the titles of the books should be enough to tell you the tones of their contents are so far removed from The Alchemist, that the bookstore might as well put Harry Potter besides Fight Club!

So what of the girls? Well, as I said, they’re very attractive, but they also sounded like the most empty-headed valleyspeak-tongued ditz. So this first girl who was light-skinned, had long straight hair, wore high-heels, had great legs and smelled like Dandelions, said “Oh my God, Paolo Coelho! Did you know ba that I so like reading his books noh? I feel so saya whenever I finish his works! Grabe, he’s so classic!” Uh, compared to the books beside Coelho’s? Even at the more modern contemporary-corner shelf next to them - where I was - was teeming with Chuck Palahniuk, Haruki Murakami, and Orhan Pamuk, all authors who wrote intelligent stuff that actually criticized the society and had any urgency. Where are the intelligence and the urgency on any of Coelho’s work, like The Alchemist, Veronika Decides to Fly, and By The River Pasig I Sat Down and Puked?

The second girl who was bespectacled, beige-skinned, and sporting a Lisa Loeb look, wistfully remarked, “Alam mo, I really love to read short stories. What kaya kuya Coelho book has them?” (KUYA COELHO?!) Uh, there’s a Truman Capote collection above you, a Portable Jack Kerouac below you, a Margaret Atwood collection above you, and even after the quake beside you, and you choose Paolo Coelho? The third girl seemed to be the only one who doesn’t like Paolo Coelho. It’s too bad, though, when she said, “I don’t read books eh, they’re so nakakatamad”. Now that’s the most depressing. I’d choose someone who reads Coelho to someone who completely doesn’t read.

And not to propagate a stereotype or anything, but the girl who didn’t read was the boobiest. Her breasts were so big they could hold a book! Holy mothers! Anyway, you know where Paolo Coelho’s books should belong? Next to The Secret and Dianetics! And, yeah, way to dodge a topic, Nightdreamer!

I left the bookstore with Choke chucked inside my bag, and with more chips on my shoulders.

Too Early for Epitaphs

… but here are what people say about me anyway. And why am I doing this? I just wanted to feel good about myself, is all. This doesn’t happen often, so don’t worry.

“He’s childish and smart. He’s the childish kind of smart” - Liz

No, I’m not! I’m the childish kind of dumb! See my lack of affinity to attractive single women for reference!

“Everytime I hear his name, Disturbed ‘Prayers’ plays on my mind” - benj

Funny, I thought my online handle would remind people of the song based on, you know, my online handle.

Err, I meant the song my online handle is based on.

Night Dreamer (Wayne Shorter)

“Does Nightdreamer have a twitter? I likes him. Hugs?” - riajose

“You have a way with words.” - ozy

Yeah, like the “scroow joo grammers!” way with words.

"This guy is crackers!" - every civilians

Yes, yes he is.

“Picked up a copy of Fables, volume 1 of a collection from DC Comics’ Vertigo imprint. It was suggested to me by Nightdreamer and so far all the things he’s recommended have all been money.” – Brad

Will put that blurb on all my future novels! If I ever write one!

“I’m really envious of your gifted hands.” - Twinkle

Err, it’s not about kinky things.

“How’s my favorite student? ” – Iris

I never was absent on your classes. But don’t look at my attendance record!

“This guy has a fabulous number of pick up lines.” – Vivian

Says the bomb.

“he has this uncanny ability to bring out the best and the unseen” – Rache

I’m not a spirit medium!

" i think he has a crush on all da girls he know… even me! " - Seulki

Who says!

"He’s my best friend, and I would love to see a movie with him criticizing all the plot holes" - Michelle

It’s words like these that cheer me up when I feel so alone. *sniff* My God, I’m such a loser. 

“This guy is kinda shy, and at least he’s honest bout it” – Patrick Co

Again, not about kinky stuff.

"So so mushy. Hehehe. But I understand the feeling " - J

I’m not mushy. I’m hardcore x0x \m/.

Ok, that totally doesn’t fit me. 

“I believe he is someone you can talk with about anything.” – Patrick Ty

Not true. I refuse to talk about 2 girls 1 cup.

And don’t ask me what that is.

May is the Magic Word

In other countries, when people think of May, they think “clement weather”. Where I live in, however, May follows April for being the most torrid. But everything is different this year. It’s just a good two weeks into this month and already I’ve seen dark clouds depriving the noontime its usual summertime brightness. It’s affecting everyone’s mood and behavior: same time last year, I was accustomed to seeing off-duty invigorated yuppies jollily march their jolly way home, but all I see this year are facial expressions as gloomy as the shades of the umbrella they are covered with. And I’m at a circumstance that’s unprecedented in my entire life: my skin is shedding as consequence of the sunburn I got late April, and at the same time my skin is tingled by the rain’s pitter-patters. The contrast coming together felt peculiar, at best.

In a conversation I had with one of my old friends, I jokingly mentioned that this May ain’t May enough, and my life ain’t May enough either. If I am to write an autobiography, this month of 2008 would, hands down, be recorded as the nadir of my life. I have never felt so dead, so languid, so hopeless and so desolated. I wake up each morning with a hollow-like sensation running all over my spine, probably as a result from the world’s refusing to cooperate towards every decent person’s hope for peace. Everyday, I read news of catastrophes and food crises, I see “charity organization” televise shameless paeans to undeserving politicians, I hear passersby talk about unimportant thing as if oblivious to all the problems the world at large is suffering from. Nothing is determined to give me an honest and non-delusional happiness, and at one point I was so down and sick of everyone’s apathy, ignorance and colonial mentality, that I shut myself from the world for 2 days. The nadir, and that is word getting used a lot today, is when I’ve had a shouting match on the telephone with a person I very dearly admire. Yes, I am officially depressed, and as you can probably guess, this is not sadness so piffling as to be called emo. This sadness is more real than that, and I’m too tired to rely on vices and consumerism for respite.

I wish I could get away from everything, to where monies, credit cards, fast cars and government propagandas are meaningless. I want to spend a day surrounded by nothing but the color of water. Or maybe go to a place where I could be lying on fields of grass and under a tree, drowning myself to the music of birds’ chirping, leaves’ moving, and cows’ mooing, and the plants and I each taking part of the circulation of air. Or maybe I could be seating on sands, watching the yonder sky change its color from light blue to auburn, and breathing in a smell of brine. But these places all seem so far away, and like Stevie Wonder who is blind, I could only see them by the visions of my mind. I ask myself just how often modern people get to live days that look exactly as Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” described. It is May, when the world is supposed to look like seventeen. How come it feels nowhere like that?

Conversation About Wedding (Disclaimer: Not My Wedding)

newlywed_friend: nakita mo na ba onsite ng wedding ko? (translation: have you seen the onsite [video] of my wedding?)
nightdreamer: yep i saw it
nightdreamer: gorgeous!
nightdreamer: fairy tale-ish
nightdreamer: cutesy!
nightdreamer: hollywoodsy!
nightdreamer: titanic-sy, the non-disastrous part!
nightdreamer: epic!
nightdreamer: supernatural!
nightdreamer: sublime!
nightdreamer: heavenly!
newlywed_friend: anu ba yan! (translation: what the heck!)
newlywed_friend: ni rate mo ba? (translation: have you rated it?)
newlywed_friend: comment mo nmn (translation: post some comment on it please!)
newlywed_friend: hehehe
newlywed_friend: lagay mo yan lahat sa coment (translation: put all [of what you’ve mentioned] in the comment!)
newlywed_friend: heheheh
nightdreamer: sige mamaya lang. i can’t watch youtube sa office. (translation: ok I’ll do it later. I can’t watch youtube vidz here in the office)
newlywed_friend: ok
newlywed_friend: sus ano ba yan corny nmn ng manager mo (translation: sheesh what the hell? your manager is so corny [translator’s note:err this makes more sense in Filipino than in English I suppose])
nightdreamer: oo nga eh mas corny pa sa akin. (translation: oh yes definitely, and cornier than me to boot!)
newlywed_friend: correct!

Message from a Disillusioned Blogger

You are getting tiresome. You were cute back when you were a kid. In each waking moment your curiousity is peerless, and you spent each day wide-eyed, full of energy to hear what others have to teach you. 

But now that you’ve grown, you suddenly sound like a college freshmen who think they know everything and think they’re the only important people. You’d rather argue your case than listen to someone else’s. You refuse to sympathize those who are not living like you; you suppose people should try to understand your self-centered world instead. You think each problem can be solved by the stock-quotes you can pull out from your favorite philosophy or New Age books.

You have redefined blogosphere, changed its name to smugosphere. 

I wasn’t aware that good writers are supposed to be self-satisfied. I knew them as people who would fuss about how bad their writings are even if everyone disagrees because deep inside they, writers, are always aiming to surpass themselves. I miss the days when a person is worth being called a good writer only if established by real words-of-mouth, and not by online traffic. I miss the days when writers weren’t hermetic and they lived among people of different professions.

But now, with you bloggers self-proclaimed-as-great-writers hogging oh so much limelight, you are all self-congratulatory and acting high and mighty, as if blogging puts you above others. You’re so stuck up. You troll on other people’s blog to mock their work by posting personal jibes disguised as “constructive criticism”, and then you shove your also-popular blog, or maybe your participation on a widely popular forum, as to why you speak with “authority”. And then you keep dichotomizing journalists to your kind thinking there can’t ever be a concurrence for both groups.

Well let me tell you this: I don’t care who you are, if you can’t put a lid on your braggadocios, I won’t ever take you for a writer - your page rank, your popularity, your nomination in "Influential Bloggers awards" and your intimacy with the thesaurus be damned.

I’m Hopelessly Clueless

So I was at the coffee shop last Friday, and at the next seat and facing me was this pretty girl. So she was alone for a long time, and so was I. And she seemed to be just looking around. So there was me, that was Nightdreamer, and I could hear my chest pumping louder than the coffee blenders of this shop. What did I do? I freaking wrote about her! I wrote about how she had a laughter that my memory would associate as the sound of euphoria. I wrote about how her smile felt like the kind of unrestrained grinning I get when I feel good about my achievements (of which there aren’t many). I wrote about all those cheesy poetry crap that wouldn’t be very out of place when sung by glib musicians trying to pander to teenage girls. You know, these were really productive as opposed to taking initiative and attempting to talk to her.

And then a while ago I got on a bus, and then this pretty lady also got on a bus. So she was wearing a really low cut top. So there was me, that was Nightdreamer, and I can’t decide what was worse: my limited grasp of fashion terminologies, or my tendency to give my eyes secret detours to her… her eyes! We even had eye contact once, and all the time we were shoulder-to-shoulder. And for some reasons she looked at my direction so much I became self-conscious. What did I do? Why, I watched the TV and laughed wryly about this poor kid who was wishing for the president to do something to our country’s education. Because, it’s so important that I evoke a wiseass image! Oh dear!

People who have only been with me in my college days will say "preposterous" after hearing this, but I’m very shy around women. And you know what’s funny? I didn’t use to be like this. I used to be confident, and I wouldn’t hesitate to approach those gorgeous women who are coming down along the road, just to say hi. So I really don’t know why I’ve become so shy around women ever since I’ve graduated. It is true. It’s like after I’ve removed my toga, I’ve also left behind my extroverted self, and have become introverted since then. And this was almost three years ago. Right now, I’m utterly clueless when it comes to trying to open up to one hot mamma that happens to be around the area.

I mean, how exactly do I introduce myself to someone that I find attractive, in ways that would make her remember me, and with her having a lasting positive impressions of me? I’ve always bothered myself with those questions, by my, perhaps, naive notion of if I am to know a girl that girl should definitely keep in touch with me, as opposed to us just delighting in each other’s company today, and then forgetting each other tomorrow. So, idealistic expectations aside, I really want to know how to do the things cool guys can do to last long in the conscious part of a woman’s mind. How do I start? Do I ask something so arbitrary as "do you have a blog?" and then follow that with "I have one, and it’s the Nightdreamer, and it’s sort of cool when the author puts some effort on his writing (not true in this post), and the author also sorts of dig you". Or what? Help!

Kevin Garnett Sucks Meatballs

Until now, people who know me only through this blog wouldn’t know that National Basketball Association (NBA) is high on my interests. I follow the NBA very closely, watch plenty of games, and am updated with its news.

And anyone who’s been at proximity to me for the past 2 days knows how much I wanted Atlanta Hawks to defeat Boston Celtics. I like Atlanta for being a team where the players are young, athletic and hardworking. It doesn’t matter that, of all teams that are in the playoff, they’re the ones with the least impressive winning record.

The Hawks came mighty close to upsetting Boston Celtics - the team with the greatest winning record - before they suffered a devastating loss in Game 7, but as far as I’m concerned their performance had been more than impressive. It’s too bad that they’re out of the playoff race now, but I can deal with that.

But I can’t stand this player from Celtics. I’m referring to Kevin Garnett (KG). I am so sick and tired of his obnoxious yelling, chest-beating, angsting and frontin, and I am so sick and tired of the press falling over themselves to praise this guy.

You want an example of the stupidity that happens whenever KG does something foul? Go watch this video. Just listen to how the commentators looked for excuses to say that KG was "right".

So I don’t get it. Surely the commentators saw KG just standing there and waiting to shoulder ram Zaza Pachulia, and they were still saying that this was not a dirty play? And KG still think he’s right, going back to the bench and giving high fives to other players and acting smug. And what did the authority do to Garnett’s misbehaviour? Nothing. Meanwhile, two days ago, a player who finger poked Lebron James got suspended.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is presented to you by NBA, where double-standards happen. Where you only have to be KG to be called "passionate" when you do something foul, whereas, if you’re Iverson and you do the same thing, you’re called "ghetto". You only have to be KG to escape suspension when you shove the referee. You only have to be KG to be called "keeping his cool" when you don’t retaliate to an angry player, while if you’re Dirk and you back down from an altercation, you’re called "soft". You only have to be KG to be called "unsupported" when clutch moves aren’t made in 4th quarter while if you’re T-mac you get roasted to oblivion by the press and by bloggers. You only have to be KG to sucker punch two teammates of T-Wolves without earning suspension. All his shouting and raging and fury-ing are just "intensity", but all of Rasheed’s similar behaviors are "shenanigans".

Yeah, because what NBA needs is the media sucking KG’s balls for not playing like a center, for not having post moves, for his suburban jump-shooting. Never mind, that media never criticize him for his shouting like a moron, for his throwing ignorant "There’s a saying in China. Sayonara" or "Lemme bring the AK and the grenades" comments when he’s trash talking, for his slapping the floor like a retard during 2000 Olympics. Because, ladies and gentleman, KG is that player America is proud of.

My Cherie Armor

I wasn’t thrilled by Iron Man’s movie trailers. Although the 3d-preened armor was attractive, scenes of American soldiers being self-congratulatory while at Afghanistan, of Iron Man flying with two F15’s (?), and of Tony Stark - the guy who wears the Iron Man costume – fooling around with some chicks, weren’t. Oh, great, another American Flag-waving flick! I bet the world can’t wait for more! So, I went to see Iron Man just to mock it, much prepared to curmudgeon it at lengths. 

And what do we get here now? Almost no nitpicking, and my ass being Repulsor-blasted.

Who cares about "official posters" when it looks so much cooler inverted?

I’m not saying that Iron Man is perfect. It has two flaws (okay, so much for the "no nitpicking"). Firstly, this movie is just like the part 1 of every superhero movies. Secondly, the antagonists lacked depth, and were unimaginative, stereotypical and slightly unbelievable - take the scene when the main villain donned an armored suit similar to Tony Stark’s. I wonder how he could’ve learned to use this complex machinery in a matter of seconds, when Tony needed few days. This, when the movie had established that Tony was a better engineer than everyone else.

So, since I’ve laid down that the movie was formulaic and had shallow villains, what made it a success? In a word: details. Details like, despite the idiotic trailer, the movie was mostly neutral with regards to militarism. Details like the absence of cheap one-liners, maudlin yearbook quotes and corny romances. And - this one’s most significant - details like the steady transformation of Tony Starks, from a hedonist who only cared about the limelight, to a hedonist who, deep inside, believed he’s destined for greater things. In the film’s beginning, he was a detestable war-mongering head of an arms industry. But after being held hostage by terrorists, who were armed by the very weapon he manufactured, he changed from someone who basked in the arms industry to someone who renounced it. 

And I bought into it, all thanks to Robert Junkie Jr, who played Tony Starks. Most people only remember Robert’s tabloid drama. They forget that he’s a great actor. Everytime Robert laughs or hoots or screams or wisecracks, I’d completely believe that this is how Tony would react on certain situations. He also seemed thoroughly enjoying his role. Tony was very well-developed, especially since he wasn’t portrayed as flawless. Even as he donned the Iron Man suit, he’d still constantly showed signs of immaturity, like how he would screw up in using his technologies, and how he would do arbitrary things that bewildered everyone. 

There were loads of fan-services tossed in, and nods to what direction the sequel may take.  I hear that they intended to make this a trilogy, which may include Tony’s battle with alcoholism, and the appearance of War Machine. Personally, I’m excited about them, and that’s a good thing. But what’s more fantastic is that at no point did I expect to enjoy Iron Man. And I did enjoy it, enough, that I was actually delighted to say “more, please!”

They have to stop putting scenes after the end credits though. I swear, that gimmick is getting old and it’s just a cheap ploy to have audiences stay while names of people they’d never remember keep rolling on the screen.