海角七號 Cape No 7

When I first heard 海角七號 (Cape No 7) uttered—which is a month ago when I was in Taiwan and at a family reunion—it instantly became an unforgettable movie name to me, because everyone within earshot lit up and then lectured me about how successful it was (the movie, not the earshot, though I guess the earshot was also successful given the reaction). My parents, aunts, uncles and cousins, in the rare moment when both the young and the old agreed, dropped trivia about how it’s second to Titanic as the highest-grossing movies in Taiwan’s cinematic history, and how it will be remembered for the next 20 years, and how I could be so stupid for not having heard let alone seen it. I called foul, coz I’m not stupid! I just hadn’t been catching up to Taiwan’s pop culture, and clearly I had to do my assignment by watching Cape No 7. Thank you, condescending relatives!

So last Sunday I took my first step to the path of “getting my haughty relatives to stop calling me a banana (derogatory term for Asians who are overly ‘Westernized’)” by watching that numerical Taiwanese movie that they can’t stop gushing about. The first thing I thought about was probably irrelevant to the movie itself: why are so many movies numbered 7? There’s Magnificent 7, there’s 7 Samurai, there’s Seven, there’s 7 Years in Tibet, there’s Nana (o yay, I’m now the wannabe-nihonjin), there’s Snow White and the 7 Dwarves, and now there’s Cape No 7. Where’s all the love for 6 or 9? Why can’t it be Cape Number Sixty-Ni… nevermind.

The movie begins with the scene of a Japanese ship leaving Taiwan. An unnamed Japanese teacher narrates his love to Kojima Tomoko (a local girl whom he met when he was in Taiwan) and his regret for leaving her because the Japanese occupation is ending. It comes complete with a soft piano background music that will get the New-Age loving crowd to pause the DVD so that they can Google-search Cape No. 7’s OST and download it illegally. Fast forward—or resume button, as would be the case of the aforementioned New-Age hippies (probably the least cool kind of hippie)—50 years later to the present, and we see Aga, a frustrated rocker, cussing, getting gonzo with his guitar, and then riding his motorcycle from Taipei back to his hometown Hengchun, which takes 6-8 hours in real life, but since we’re not watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas we don’t see road trips (and drug trips). Born to be Wild doesn’t play here; instead it’s a song with clumsy English that Aga sang in his unsuccessful gigs.

I keep talking about music because music takes a big role in the movie, as you’ll read about later on.

We go to Hengchun province and here we are introduced to the movie’s quirky characters. I want to be done with the enumeration, so I’ll be quick in describing them. (Not Kojima) Tomoko is a Chinese-speaking Japanese model whose current gig is to guide obnoxious tourists. Uncle Mao is an “elite” postman who’s too old for his job, so the jobless Aga got manhandled by his stepfather, who’s also the town representative, to take over the posting duties. Rauma is a short-tempered police who beats people up but is still nice compared to the police from the country just to his south (i.e. Philippines). Frog is a mechanic who has a crush on his boss’s wife and you’ll often see her cleavage, but I’m not posting the pics here, and you can’t make me! Malasun is the prototypical ingratiating door-to-door rice wine salesman. And Dada is a 10-year-old pianist who gets kicked out of the church because priest says her playing is too hardcore! (Dada is the Chinese for Big Big. Aspiring rappers may want to steal that name because it’s hood-to-the-core, yo! Who knows, maybe you’ll even make it big in Taipei. I can just hear it, “NOTORIOUS DADA RIPRIZANT!!!”Just remember to pay me royalties: I suggested the idea in case you’re forgetting.)

Anyway, soon, Tomoko’s agent tasks her to organize a concert in Hengchun for a Japanese band, but since the town rep wants to give the Japanese band an unforgettable presentation from his own homeland, he forces her to assemble a local band to perform the opening act. She gets Aga, Uncle Mao, Rauma, Malasun and Dada together, and since they are of different backgrounds and have contrasting personalities and musical skills and tastes in music, they drive her nuts.

In the middle of everything, Aga sucks at being a postman. He doesn’t deliver the letters, but dumps them on a box in his room. There is one package that needs to be returned to the sender because it’s addressed to a place that does not exist, but he opens the package anyway and reads the contents – which are seven unsent love letters the Japanese teacher wrote to Kojima Tomoko.

The story is not what you’d call “high-concept” and it won’t appear on avant-garde sci-fi compendium. It’s also not the acid trips that are Wong Kar Wai’s (thankfully that also means no Zhang Ziyi, who’s become a one-trick horny pony). Instead, it’s a straightforward love-story-slash-musical, and anyone who has seen movies from either genre can predict its outcome. How much you’ll enjoy the movie really depends on how much you can care for the characters, and I’m rather disappointed that this movie is only strong in characters and not in plot.

The seven unsent letters I mentioned way back drives Aga—hey, guess how he’ll feel about the present Tomoko—but they do little more than be the MacGuffin. They do sporadically lead to scenes of the teacher narrating his undeclared love to the past Tomoko, but these scenes are not poignant. They’re clunky and melodramatic, and they take you away from the downer-to-earth present, of which they have little to no connection or significance. I can forgive the plot being predictable, but I can’t ignore its weak and distracting transitions from past to present.

Using that phrase “down to earth” again. I think much of the movie’s success comes from how real the characters are, although that quality may be lost to the Western viewers. Its greatest accomplish is the empathy it has for the lifestyle of the sleepy-towns in Taiwan countryside; no wonder that it resonated with millions of Taiwanese viewers. As someone who’s lived in Taiwan’s provinces, I can imagine bumping into any of its characters in real life. In short, I really liked them…

Or most of them anyway. Alas, I hated Aga. He treats Tomoko, his stepfather, and everyone in his band like crap even when they’re trying to help him. Nobody is spared from his hostility cracks. He doesn’t even bother doing the work he’s paid to do. He’s just another in the long line of jerk male protagonist that Taiwan shows are getting since the 90s. I think a longer discourse needs to be written about this subject, but the short is this: why are Taiwanese so fond of the emotionally-charged, antisocial, self-absorbed, effeminate, menial-labor-hating, Strawberry generation asshat who smears angst on everyone he meets by disrespecting his elders and hysterically spitting-and-shouting to the girl he “secretly” harbors feelings for? Wow that’s a long sentence. First there’s Dao Ming Si in Meteor Garden, and now Aga, plus a whole bunch of copy-pasted Taiwan “love” dramas and movies that are aimed for brain-dead youths (that I had to be tortured with since even Philippines’ TV stations are force-feeding me with these shows). I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hang out with this kind of clown in real life, and yet there are these shows where he’s the hero who gets all the girls? And we’re supposed to sympathize? Hello, he may become a wife-beater! Are you Taiwanese women masochists and do you seriously fall for this kind of guy? Is my not being one the bloody reason that I’m still single? I don’t think it’s my looks, because I think I’m rather good looking, you know. I don’t get it. But I digress so that I can comment just one last thing about Aga: his abrupt transformation from a jerk to an okay guy is unconvincing. I’m not buying it.

Music is really a very subjective thing, so it’s hard to suggest that my opinion of it is the gospel truth (as should be the case!). But anyway, this movie has a band in it, so music plays a central role in it. Near the movie’s end, the casts play a few songs. I find all of them disappointing. In the same way as how I’m sick of Taiwan shows’ male protagonist, I’m tired of Taiwan (mostly Mandarin ones) pop music because they always follow the same format: one upbeat rock or dance number, and then one middle-of-the-road ballad. Most of the casts here are unknown actors, so you can consider this movie indie. Yet, for something indie, the songs sure are trite.

At this point, it’s fair to say that I’m ambivalent about Cape No 7. I recognize what made it tick and why it was met with resounding success. I’m glad I watched it and its memorable characters. But, if you ask me if it’s the best movie of all time, or just simply the best Chinese movie I’ve seen, I will tell you that I never claim a movie with a protagonist I want to punch in the face my favorite. Make him someone I want to get behind, and perhaps I’ll be more favorable.

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.

Peevish Blogger Blogging Peeves Part 2

I just found out that the more I read blogs, the more irritable I become. 

Why? Hoo boy this will be long I hope your boss is away talking to someone less important than you, my dear readers. Don’t call me glib. I don’t mean it.

The world of blogging (which I refuse to call the "blogosphere" unless I intend to demean blogging in general, but since I am demeaning it today, what the heck, blogosphere, toodles!) is not as good as it’s cracked up to be. Sure, it’s the paragon of “free press”. With that comes the tendency for blogospher0rz (my term for toodle bloggers. Don’t steal it.) to become as pestiferous as their wit has limits. It’s troubling to look at them because what they do have no place in prints. 

So, yes, this is about blogging peeves again. I hope this doesn’t come out on monthly basis because I can only handle so much hate. Why I have so many blogging peeves may come from my cynical nature, but I doubt that: I’m such an optimist after all (look, I’m awesome, okay? All right, you too, if you’re my follower. Now for those who are out of the loop, we have to enlighten them, because otherwise their blogs will do nothing but emit fecal carbons, and those will expedite global warming. Just kidding!!!) Actually, I’d love to think that these annoy only me, but the truth is that I hear of others not liking what they see in the blogging community too. Anyway, I want to voice my complaints, especially considering what has happened to me a few days ago, as you’ll find out shortly. Like my post from last month, I’m listing down some bothersome blogospher0rz’s habits. 

4. Writer-frontin’

It’s what I call people who think of themselves as amazing writers they’d do everything to remind people that. I’m not talking about those who say it jokingly either; I’m talking about those who mean it. They think they’ve such a handle of humor that even when they put a period (as in “.”) they expect readers ROFLing. Worse are those who treat their profile like it’s their resume perhaps for street cred purposes, and won’t stop emphasizing the writer part. [Sorry but I don’t believe in publicity by notoriety, so I’m not going to post the links] I’ve seen the worst case of that from someone who has a pen-in-hand image as a header. Hoo boy, what unassuming genius! Curious of what such illustrious luminary have to write? Well, nothing! Just Google News copy-pastes! I bet that guy wakes up everyday thinking “zomgz I ignored teh alarmz now my fellow bloggers has ta get delayed upd8s of teh recent headlinez WAAH (insert crying smiley)”. If he has something considerable to say about these news then he’s at least worth something. That’s not true. He once posted about global warming, and said he doesn’t believe in it. And that’s it! No substantiating facts, no theories of his own, but pure minimalistic “I don’t believe in it”. Whoa how Al Gore has fallen! Somebody award this “writer” a Nobel Peace Prize please. 

The lesson here is that you shouldn’t writer-front if you can’t show the skills to back it up, or else you subject yourself to the mockery of meanspirited bloggers, such as me. 

5. Award-committees

All right, readers, I want you to pause for a minute and let this question marinate: what do you have in mind when you hear the word “award”?

Cream of the crop? Life changing? Established beliefs shattering? Eureka inducing? Bee’s knees? Cat’s meow? Owl’s pillows? 

Now go here (provided you can wade through the clunky design, something I’ll nitpick later) and choose some random award winners, then come back to me. 

Exactly.

I cast suspicions on many award-giving bodies. Grammy, Oscar, and Metro Manila Film Festival are examples, but I am by heaps more dubitable about “Blog Awards” (again, I won’t mention what specifically). I don’t care if a blog invites more clicks: I care about the content. Not everything with many clicks is good read, and not everything that is good read gets many clicks. If you ask me which one deserves the award more, I’d say the latter, because they do deserve a wider audience. That’s why I find it distressing that that’s not what’s happening. You would feel the same way if you are among those who want independent films to flourish. 

It does not help that these blog are awarded by votes. I wonder by what kind of people. I fear what I might find. 

Meanwhile, there are those from my dope blog list. All very fine writers, thank you very much. The catch? No award crapolas. If any of you from my dope list is reading this, heed, then: you don’t need awards to prove that you’re somebody. You might want to read liz’s aspersions to blog awards for a more in-depth analysis of this debacle. 

I’m beginning to think that blogs with awards are nothing but cloying sellouts that do not know how to write without pandering to everyone. If this becomes consistently true (want to know if it is, based on my experience so far?) I might want to deliberately avoid these award winners. Screw popularity contests! 

6. Plagiarists

There’s a thesis paper waiting to happen whenever word of plagiarism is uttered. 

And then, that thesis paper will be plagiarized. 

I’m not a fan of bloggers copy-pasting their contents from another source, but there’s nothing wrong with doing it if you do cite the source.

And so you would understand why I’m not pleased if, of all people, advocates or political pundits (who are supposed to be more sensible than the average yuppie scumbag) take my photoshopped image of Gloria and claim it as their own and use it for their own selfish purposes. Yes, this I did not expect because it wasn’t a big deal for me to make, but apparently it has become notorious. As for me? Nary a mention. Good job, guys, I commend your ways of trying to unseat a president accused of stealing. In the meantime, don’t over-introspect. 

7. “Public service announcements”

When I open Google news or Yahoo news, I expect to be informed about the current events. But when I open a blog, ah, I expect to read an opinion, and it helps if it’s creative and well-thought. 

I shun blogs that speaks of nothing else you can’t read on today’s newspaper headlines - the exception of that is when it’s a political article substantiated with well-researched information, or approached at an unusual angle, but even for such, I have only a limited appetite (and I think I’ve heard enough of Lozada. Wake me up when something happens). The blogs that delight me more are those that talk about topics not heard on coffee shops everywhere. 

The stupid fact of life in blogging is that when you see a new Google news article, everyone’s going to write about it. How is your opinion going to matter more than the million other’s then, if you don’t even express it in a creative way? We don’t need you doing public service announcements; we need you offering some insights. 

Anyway, bloggers who do nothing but talk about ebay auction of Britney’s hair or about Justin and Scarlett are not going to find a spot on my dope blog list. 

8. Bandwagon

If you’re going to dwell on semantics, then yes 7 and 8 are identical. I see the case of 8 happening when someone blogs what everyone else has been blogging, but this in a more general sense that just the Google news headline. 

It’s not that complicated. Just go to many blogs and see their last week’s entries. You’ll find everyone talking about their Valentine’s Day. Now I admit I did something like this for VD, but that’s a short story, yo! Same goes for Christmas and New Year. It doesn’t always have to be about holidays: at the release of the latest blockbuster movies you’ll find mounds blogosher0rz talking about the same movie. It applies to whatever is chic, be it music, movies, fashion, or books. There’s nothing wrong with covering such topics (although it does reek of being bankrupt of ideas) if you can offer fresh insights about them (which counters the bankrupt bias). Sadly, that doesn’t happen a lot, as some talk about them just for the sake of being able to talk about them. For instance, I read one embarrassing “review” of Corrine Bailey Rae’s “Put Your Records On”: 

“Really cool. Simply sublime.” 

I mean, how is that going to inform anyone of what to expect from that song? “Sublime” is such an overused praise, it’s sublime. I hope my blog is sublime. I hope you’re sublime. I hope we all get soaked in subliminal sublimity. 

Banters aside, this does not annoy as me much as the rest of the peeves I’ve listed, but I’m still troubled in finding how little people try to come up with new ideas. Have you seen American Psycho? The main character became psychotic because everyone was always talking about the same thing: what’s hip. 

9. Bad design

I’d love to tell you that the writing’s the only thing that matter in blogging, but that’s not true. Your blog need to look presentable. The texts have to contrast from the background to a certain extent, but not so much that they hurt the eyes. Please de-clutter your blog because I hate to find you being mocked by Web Pages That Suck. Take away those unnecessary ads. Even better, take away those cheesy animated GIF’s, good Lord! Don’t make your blog look like something straight out of Microsoft Frontpage! And for the love of all that is holy, DO NOT USE COMICS SANS!

Peevish Blogger Blogging Peeves

My friend calls it the New Year Slump™. It’s what happens after you’ve had too much fun that, when holiday ends, you start to get the blues as your life descends to normal - also known as, unremarkable. That’s essentially my life-since-2008, summarized.

Something like that always puts me in a bad mood, to an extent more so than when I’ve been unlucky. At least when predicaments happen, I can easily write about them, throw in some funny/angsty punchlines, learn a few lessons, and receive words of kindness from supportive commentators (eyeing Schumey - yay!). But when life’s a bore, how could I write about it without in the process getting bored too? Picture a bored writer writing boringly about how boring his boring life has bored to bore him boringly about boredom. It’s like you dreaming of yourself asleep while dreaming of yourself asleep while dreaming… All right, save yourself from the migraine. Don’t even visualize it.

Times when you’re bored, de-stress by directing your thoughts to a hate (hehe I’d make a fabulous psychiatrist). Law of Attraction practitioners would tell me "shouldn’t you be reading The Secret instead to learn its lessons"? Why, that certainly isn’t very productive. You’re going to see me getting pissed off about reading a book that wants me to be foolishly happy. Things that try to please but achieve the contrary rile me up the most. Plus I’d be angry about spending money on an overprized toilet-paper. That’s more anger than I could manage. Wait, why am I talking about The Secret? Did anyone just blog about it?

So the hate I’m going to tell you about is my blog-related pet peeves. If you’ve been into blogging yourself, chances are you know of the habits of several bloggers. I find some of these habits downright loathsome, and I won’t be surprised if others feel the same. So I hope that in this post I’ll be able to express what, perhaps, others may feel but have never said aloud. I will also offer suggestions for those who find themselves guilty of said habits but have the sense to change for the better.

And I will not list spamming as a pet peeve. Duh, everyone hates spams! Even spammers hate spams. That’s not pet peeve at all. That’s universal peeve.

Anyway, we shall begin.

“Blog Hopping”

They are strangers-to-you showing that they have visited you by writing a “blog hop” on your tagboard. Sometimes they’ll write a one-size-fits-all praise such as “nice blog” or “cool blog”. They may even request to exchange links with you (this one is the least annoying because at least the honesty is there).

You may think that these people are validating you in their little ways, but that’s not true. They only want readers, and in their desperate search for those, they establish their presence everywhere they go by posting in as many tagboards as they can, hoping to lure the authors of the blog they visit to their own chasm. Attention is all they want, really. They don’t care for your well-being at all – ask these blog-hoppers if they’ve read your blog and see if you can get a candid yes. They’re just cold and impersonal clicks-happy dimbulbs who orgasm in every increment of their Page Ranks.

Of course every blogger wants to get as many readers as they can, but I do believe in a less rude way of inviting readers. That is, if you want to be noticed by me, the way you can do it without veins protruding on my forehead is to read my blog and post a RELEVANT comment! Make me think that you’re capable of stringing two words together and that you’re not a keyboard-slapping moron. Think my blog is too long? Fine, go find someone else’s!

Look, if you want your link in as many blogs as you want, the only way to do it is to WRITE SKILLFULLY! Can’t do that? Don’t blog! Think you aren’t good enough? Get an Elements of Style and go read some books! If you write anywhere like Caffeine Sparks or Liz or Schumey or Brad Gallaway or Brackenbeard or Wits or Fence or Cai or Virus or… gee, everyone from that Dope Blog list of mine! If you write anywhere like them I’d be the first one to add you! I’ll even ask you to autograph my chest. I’ll even be cordial enough to post on your tagboard, saying, “I’m going to add you”, without any intent of asking you to do the same but only of letting you know you’ve a fan, And if you like my blog, I’ll be happy too. That’s link-exchanging, the refined way.

The ones who link exchange the “amateur” way should consider river-hopping too. As for Raul Gonzales, he should jump into a cistern of boiling mercury - his own spit, incidentally.

Link Flooding

Imagine if you have to read a Crime and Punishment that has a word in different color per phrase:

He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her being whipped across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he felt choking, his tears were streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with the whip across the face, he did not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he rushed up to the grey-headed old man with the grey beard, who was shaking his head in disapproval. One woman seized him by the hand and would have taken him away, but he toreher and ran back to the mare. She was almost at the last gasp, but began kicking once more. himself from

Can you imagine going over a hundred pages of that?

Yet for some bizarre reasons, some bloggers like to overwhelm their posts with links. They probably do it to appear…er… well-read? Well-clicked?

I mean, geez, what, are they trying to emulate Wikipedia? There’s a reason why wikipedia’s called “an encyclopedia”. You go there for reference! You don’t go to most blogs for the same reason.

I saw the most severe case of link flooding while reading someone’s travels. Imagine that. It’s not even a case study, so I don’t know what it’s trying to be. Maybe, an “obscure” diary that requires stupendous “supplementary” reads?

You’re better off writing in a way that requires the fewest side-reads. If you’re talking about something that requires a lot of sources, just put the links at the bottom, just like in prints.

Page Rank Moaning

People who moan about page ranks, they’re like Britney Spears, except, with panties on.

I’ve heard of the importance of Page Rank for business sites and for pro-bloggers blah-de-blahs. That’s fine with me. I do, however, take issues with bloggers who keep moaning about page ranks. They go to tagboards outright asking others to increase their traffic, and they incessantly write blog posts about wanting to increase their page ranks. Really, sometimes I just CTRL+F, search for “page rank”, and when there are results I turn off the window immediately. Haha.

Here’s a simple truth in life: we hate whiners (and by whiners I mean those who groan aloud but do not offer solutions).

Just think of it this way, do you like to constantly visit a kid who always bug you to buy him an Optimus Prime because his dad wouldn’t?

If you find yourself constantly moaning about page ranks, I give you the cardinal rule of blogging: write better.

My Streams of Consciousness

My gibbest challenge in maintaining a blog is to post an entry AFTER a long vacation. Though I can say a lot about those days, I do not know how to express it in a way that does not sound either euphoric or languid to the point of boredom and inaccuracy.

Grammar polices might already bug me to correct at least one word in the previous paragraph. No, sorry, I do mean "gibbest" and not "biggest". Yes, I feel the most like a castrated cat when faced with the challenge of posting post-vacation entries. Does that make sense? I'm sure it doesn't.

So hello 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). To be more accurate, she's given it to everyone in the office, but I do hope, anyway, that she cares for me more. Hoping is not a very bad thing, unless when you're a New York Knicks fan.

Er, why are you giving me that look? You're surprised that as misanthropist as I could be, it's amazing that I could still adore someone? Shut up. So, about my ex-crush. Oh geez, I just mentioned that word. I loathe calling people ex-crushes because that implies my defeat, if not annihilation. It's true in this case. Oh what in the world am I saying, it's just the second day of the year and already I'm feeling blue. You ain't been blue, no, no, no... Er, no singing. It must not rain in spring.

("Nightdreamer, will you please be more focused?" That's harder than you think, folks.)

Why does she have to leave an organizer on my desk anyway? Such a painful reminder of her. I wanted to throw it away, but it looks very embarrassing to be emo in the office (I'm not sure if emo doesn't look embarrassing elsewhere). 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"? Yes I'd say yes in about yes the same number of times yes James Joyce said it yes in the last hundred pages yes of Ulysses yes. Yeah, me and my silly fantasies. So… thinking of this girl made me feel miserable. She was one of the unpleasant memories of 2007, which has otherwise been a good year for me. Normally, when disappointments like this happen, people go "let go and move on". I'm not doing that right away before reflecting on what went wrong, because there's a lesson here, kids. Now open your Aesop's Fable, I'm about to tell you about this foxy lady.

[Yucky pun]

We don't work in the same place but it was in a company vacation of early 2007 that we met. Or, rather, she met our company as she booked our excursion. She and I established rapports in those few vacation days and we hung with each other a lot. We inevitably had to leave and to go back to doing the bugger of a deed that pays you but consumes your soul. Work, in other words. To keep us in touch, we added each other in Friendster. The first week since, I tried to contact her so that I could thank her for giving me a wonderful time. That was all I was trying to do, but, bizarrely, she NEVER answered my call, or replied to my SMS's. She even deleted me from her friends list. Why? If I was being too persistent, I would understand. But I only tried to call her twice, SMS'ed her once, and messaged her in Friendster once. I even reviewed my messages to see if there was anything in them that offended her. Can anyone tell me what's wrong with "Thank you for giving me a great time in the past few days"?

I was disheartened. How could she be so cool with me during the vacation days, then turn into a Medusa-whose-stares-turn-people-not-to-stones-but-to-phantoms after that? This bothered me for a lot of months, because it's not the first time I've met such kind of person. And I'm certainly not the only person who's ever been "befriended" by those who do it only because I'm, for the time being, 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. People do not even TRY to keep connected anymore. Why even bother creating a social link in the first place if you're not going to give some attention to the other? Were we even like that back when our lives weren't dominated by coffee shops and the technological marvels of communications? Do they actually bring people closer?

[Ask your philosophy teacher. But, perhaps, they wouldn't know. They're hermits.]

It just annoys me. Readers, treat those you meet more as human beings than as fireworks. None of us are ephemeral displays of fancy, exceptions being if you're Sean Kingston or Paris Hilton or other tabloid-whores (the verdict of what's so fanciful about them is still pending). The rest of us deserves attention more often.

Anyway, the organizers this certain girl had handed out landed on a certain forlorn guy. The organizer says "Patio Pacific" but it's formerly known as Pink Patio. When I was on Shanghai (QUIET! THIS IS RELATED, I SWEAR!) there was a Feng Shui professor who suggested that I should buy a Pink Pixiu (I didn't buy it, though). Pink Patio. Pink Pixiu. I'm starting to think that someone is out there doing a practical joke on me.

It was nice knowing this girl, and I had memories of her, but we only passed each other by like ships in the dark. She has embittered my vacation twice, but it's ok. This time, I will no longer allow myself to chronicle her as the last (and the most - it's so trite to say "last but not the least", that lasts are now somewhat assumed to be the most) thing about my vacation. I still have a lot of better things to say about my Christmas and New Year, before I move on. Now, if only my thoughts on those could become more coherent in the next few days.

At least writing about her wasn't that hard.

Not verbally, anyway.

Desperadas

Ladies and gentlemen, let me present one of this year's entries for MMFF. Directed by Paul Wilson Gardon, it stars Ruffa Gutierrez, Rufa Mae Quinto, Iza Calzado and Marian Rivera, and it is about four women who… ah what the heck writing synopsis is so boring, so please just read it elsewhere. 

I give you, Desperadas. Click that link, view the trailer, read the synopsis, and then come back to me.

My thoughts?

This is a fantastic showmanship of creative prowess! It totally does not remind me of Desperate Housewives. In fact, this movie's name couldn't resemble that sitcom less! 

Seriously, what is the deal?! Movies like this are made, and then nominated for MMFF (which should stand for Many Mucus Festering Forward)? Should I be saddened that the Philippine cinema is, once again after a Billion times, imitating another popular Hollywood show? Should I be amused that this particular movie is aping a show that has not been very kind to Filipinos? Should I laugh at how movies like this are considered "worthy of accolades"? Or should I be angry that it stars Ruffa Gutierrez, an obnoxious celebrity hall-of-(in)famer? Gee I am so ambivalent SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME DEVELOP MY EQ WALA AKONG E-KYOOOOOO!!!!!!!111111111111111 

It's bewildering how a lot of Filipino directors refuse to pitch in any original ideas, and instead they are content on copying international films. Why? Don't they feel any shame? It's like none of them ever want to take risks and make movies that change people, and all they do is create formulaic "sure box office hits" that do not have any relevant messages, but will sell anyway because people will eat them up so they could see all these sexy actresses and corny scenarios. "Nevermind that we're giving our film industry a negative image, as long as we can earn money and party at Embassy who cares about creativity and all that jazz, right?!" Huzzah! And speaking of sexy actresses, I wonder if Marian Rivera wasn't selected because of her timely popularity. If this movie made last year, would the director even choose her and not Angel Locsin? DING! Didn't think so myself; I guess the only thing important these days is if the actress appears on Men's Magazines™ or not. 

You know what, we need a Desperate Housewives episode that has Teri Hatcher saying, "OK, before we go any further, can I check these scripts? Just to make sure they aren't, like, from some film studio in the Philippines?" And then cue the picket lines of outraged Filipinos crying "racism" and "bigotry", the blogs tossing highfaluting vocabulary (or is it vogue-call-bull-gallery?) to spite American producers for not understanding our real talent, and the fandom-ish comments saying Americans are "gaytards". Then the American producers will counterattack by presenting "Lupin, Asian Treasures, Marimar, and Zaido" as evidences, but Filipinos will curse them anyway for their insensitivity, until someone from the government will "level" the debate by delivering a boring ass speech! Everyone will kiss and make up, and it will back to business for everyone until history repeats. That will be something worth watching, definitely better than wasting your bucks on Desperadas. 

I wonder if we'll get Bayani or Dr. Bahay or Tulak Sampaguita next year.

The B-Word and the BB Blues

Hey, do you recall a time when Friendster's bulletin boards were filled to the brim with funny, sensible and insightful people? Feels like an era past, doesn't it? Nowadays all I ever see are people selling bags, surveys from people with the IQ of Paris Hilton (not you, Chester. Hahaha), ANNOYING RED-HERRING CHAIN MAILS ABOUT GETTING MARRIED, dalagas complaining about how awful their yearbooks are, or whiners who post multiple messages whining about people spamming the bulletin board (see the irony there?).

But a particularly retch-worthy one, sadly, came from one of my closer real-life friends. Her bulletin post's title read "My Personalized Licensed Plate Number Says 'BITCH'". 

Why are so many girls tagging themselves with that word lately? I suspect that they don't know what bitch means and that they're just using it because Tata Young (with her song "Sexy Naughty Bitchy Me") and her contemporaries - i.e. pop icons with no brains or sensibilities whatsoever - made it trendy. It just reminds me of Sean Krapston trivializing the word "suicide" (don't get me started on this!). Upon reading my friend's bulletin post, my reaction was, "Great, just another in the long line of girls who think bitch is a word of female-empowerment."

If she actually bothered to read the dictionary (and try etymology) before using that word indiscriminately, this is what she'll find:

Bitch

–noun

1.	a female dog.

2.	a female of canines generally.

3.	Slang. a. a malicious, unpleasant, selfish person, esp. a woman. b. a lewd woman.

4.	Slang. a. a complaint. b. anything difficult or unpleasant: The test was a bitch. c. anything memorable, esp. something exceptionally good: That last big party he threw was a real bitch.

–verb (used without object)

5.	Slang. to complain; gripe: They bitched about the service, then about the bill.

–verb (used with object)

6.	Slang. to spoil; bungle (sometimes fol. by up): He bitched the job completely. You really bitched up this math problem.

I know that bitch has recently become a slang denoting a woman who, according to Urban Dictionary, don't give a flying f*ck anymore and that can and will be cruel to man. And hey, it's cool if a woman wants to verbally slam the male sex - even if males are conceived and parented by females (see the irony again?) - and instead of bad parenting she blames males' shortcomings to hiphop videos and Sly Stallone movies. What do I know, right? That still does not justify using of the b-word. She can use "dominator" or "dominatrix" or "menefreghista" or "misandrist" or "bad girl" for all I care. Why does she have call herself bitch - a word so thoroughly reviled, that people may interpret it as whores? Would she also want to be called puta? Or should we, like always, favor the anglicized (harrrrr)?

Girls, if you advocate equal rights, you owe your gender more dignity than to call yourselves bitches. Otherwise, please do not react when you hear Isiah Thomas's moronic remarks.

In case you didn't know, he said "It's acceptable for a black man to call a black woman a bitch."

Life's a bitch, innit? 

Whammy - Push Your Luck

Dear Whammy,

Thank you so much for supplanting all those teleseryes Kapuso airs from 6-630. Now I can fall into deep slumber during these times.

As to why it wants you to exist, I don't know. Why it believes this show is riveting, I don't know.

I don't even know what your point is.

You claim to be an exciting game show, but you are as exciting as a dinner with mannequins. All you require of gamers are for them to press buttons. Incidentally, you push the wrong ones. You're technically like videogames, except they have a lot more going on than a bunch of obnoxious celebrities yelping "Money money ayoko ng whammy STOOOOOOP!". And you bet we enjoy seeing celebrities win a bunch of monoblock chairs or fishball showcase. That's very important. Your occasional attempt at "intelligence" also fails when all you require are for gamers to answer brain-dead trivia questions. Besides offering us pure joy as Vandolph gets showered with slimy goo, you have even the hosts bored. You have no grasp to what an entertainment is.

I revise my stance. Go away. I prefer watching (while criticizing) Le Robe to tolerating another minute of badly CG-ified monster laughing in that generic hoarse monster-y voice.

All the best.

Driving

Okay, so today's topic is about driving in Metro Manila (MM). 

I don't pretend to be clever, but normally I try to start a post with a snappy first paragraph. Today I am indecisive. I could say driving in MM is more fearsome than exploring the underground city of Edinburgh (then title it "The Long Halloween". Ooh, the horrors!). Or I could say our traffic is our own Iraq War. Or I could say the state of our road is the reflection of our society. Or I could say there's a deeply disturbing psychology about the boorishness of those bloody drivers. Or I could say there are more accidents on our roads than there are questionable Mattel toys (now that's really stretching it). Or I could say there are more Stephon Marbury's here than any NBA columnists could shake their thesauri at. Or I could simply say I hate driving in Manila. Right, the last one's the simplest. I'm sticking to that then.

I hate driving in MM (not because I hate driving, but) because…

(Gee, I hate spelling these out because I risk sounding like I'm insulting your intelligence - which isn't my intention - but pardon me because I'm just doing this in case any foreigners are reading)

…traveling in Metro Manila is more chaotic than reading a Chuck Palahniuk's book. Why? It's because of bad vehicles, poor traffic engineering and the patchy pavements – the lunar module was invented by a Pinoy; bet he didn't have a hard time experimenting.

And then there are the travelers, who are arguably the greatest malefactors.

Jeepney drivers: They're anarchy, personified. They accelerate as they please, swerve as they please and unload passengers as they please. They ignore traffic regulations, and the cops just ignore them. There’s even a belief that they pay monthly fees so they could act above the law.

They don't even care about other people. When you toot your horn they won't recognize you. On the other hand they can't get their hands off their horns. They also play loud and awful music on some subpar superwoofers they got from Raon.

They also don’t use their headlights.

Bus drivers: They're like jeepney drivers, except they use their headlights. So they're not as boorish, but that's like saying North Koreans are freer than Burmese.

They're more insufferable because they act like the big guys on the road. Buses are larger than most cars, and since the drivers know full well that they won't be quite as damaged if they collide with most cars, cue the super indiscriminate swerving.

Bikers: They should be called "Crevice Hunters", although the sexual innuendo should be, um, stripped.

In their utter disregard of their own safety, bikers are the most irritatingly opportunistic: where there's passage, there are bikers. Bikers are very troublesome because even when car drivers look at their side mirrors they won't be able to anticipate bikers who zig and zag between other lanes and vehicles (as though impersonating the chess horse). But by far the bikers' most annoying habit is their tendency to pass behind a car that's backing. Would it kill them to wait, huh?

Just how stupid is that?

Cyclists/Horse Carriage Drivers: In most cases, they exist only because their customers are too walk-phobic.

The unanimous criticisms are that they don't only slow down those vehicles behind them, they also travel in directions opposite of the road. The horse of the carriage pees and poos anywhere.

Rich and spoiled drivers: They worship speed. Their favorite trilogy is not the thought-provoking Godfather or the fantastical Lord of the Rings; it's the one with cars. What do the call it, The Dumb and the Dubious? They think that just because they got fast cars and hot babes (who are only in it for the blingblings), they could do as they please and treat the road like their private race circuit. So cue the Pimp My Ride rhetoric, the obnoxious driftin', the pulled-down shades, the "Mad Skillz" tautin', the dust-bitin', the slurs-throwin', the faux street-cred forkin' and the crunks-blastin'! And try not to get on their bad side lest you risk being cussed at.

Bloody obnoxious, these posers! If they’re so interested in gangsta-frontin' then why not just live in Tondo?

Cops: Your Philo 101 should teach this:

Who is more loathsome: the clueless driver who unintentionally violates vague traffic laws, or the slacking cop who comes out of hiding when the opportunity to fine the said driver arises?

Pedestrians: who pop out of nowhere and can't read signal lights. 'Nuff said.

Writing in agony

A friend of mine has just finished the first draft of his novel and because he thinks I might be a good critic, he's sent me the files. I thought it's going to be hard times for me because I abhor reading books on a monitor (to date, I've only finished 1 e-book) but I'm also too reluctant to waste papers and printer inks.

And so, I'm quite surprised that I was able to make it past a hundred pages (out of 150, I guess that's a novella then) without batting an eye. I'm thoroughly impressed with his work! I would love to give a brief summary of it here but I promised him not to tell anyone yet, though I'll be glad to advertise his book once it gets published. For now, I commend him and his work (so far).

At the same time, that only leaves me frustrated. I know how hard it is to write a novel, but it's also something I've wanted to do. Many people think I'm weird because I often space out and become quiet. What they don't know is that I woolgather. A lot. I have plenty of stories and characters made and stored in my brain, and I would often assert that my daydreams are productive because I will write about them someday. I've started writing a few, but because of lack of words/skills, abundance of bad lucks, or sheer dissatisfactions, my works are either lost or trashed.

When I was a kid, I did write, but I didn't consider it anything more than a pastime. I've only started to fall in love with writing when I've started blogging two years ago, which wouldn't happen if it wasn't because of my female best friend's VERY persistent urgings (she's blogged since the late 90's I think). It's only then when I actually spent time developing my writing skills. To be honest, I never even thought that my other blog would last long - it's two years now and still alive, though no one ever comments there. That's an achievement, but I fail to find reasons why I should be smug, since I'm not even close to finishing a book. And in case you're wondering how I could want to create stories but not want to write, let's just say I used to want to commit those stories to another medium.

The longest I have gone was write four chapters (plus prologue) of a story involving spirits who combat catastrophes. Unfortunately, I lost the draft. Apparently those spirits lost to a flashflood of computer viruses. My other stories didn't fare better. I would often write the first chapter, revise it over and over, and finally decide it's trash and promptly erase everything. Oftentimes I would blame myself for not taking writing lessons earlier in my life, but the fact is that I did but I churned only soulless essays like how Kenny G's churned soulless jazz (he still does that). Unlike Kenny G though, I didn't earn a penny. I bemoan not falling in love with writing sooner. I could've been more capable. Yet, I don't stop imagining (there are reasons why I called my blog NIGHTDREAMER, and it's not just because of Wayne Shorter), and it feels like my heads about to burst with too much ideas that don't have any outlet of release. 

So here I am, whiny, yet busy, lazy, aging (24 after a month) and distracted, unable to do what I want, and bitter that my friend has finished what I've barely started. While he's currently editing his draft, I am wistful yet lost in inaction.

Le sigh.

Lady Misfortune

Deep Night - Sonny Clark

Today’s entry won’t be like everyday else’s. There won’t be a fancy pretentious opening statement, no pseudo-poetry or some kinda Quixotic phrasings ripped straight from the lyrics of a jazz standard (oh all right, I’m taking a shot at Murakami. Heh. His Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is riveting). I’m doing none of that, because I’m weary. Nay, that’s inadequate. It’s more like I’m punch-drunk with tandems of bad lucks that do not want to end.

Series of unfortunate events do have a beginning (heh). Mine began last Tuesday as I tried to finish the final book of Harry Potter within two nights. I succeeded in that, while also realizing that the book was a dud. Just imagine the stupidity.

Actually, my anger with the series’ denouement was the least of my troubles. Since I spent a week not getting enough sleep, I became groggier, until I contracted cold and fever. Makes sense - the Pottermania fever must pass after all.

I had planned to spend the weekend going out with someone. And by some weird whirlwind of events, it was my ex-crush who agreed to go out with me. The day came, and I met her, accompanied by two of our former classmates. One is actually her girl cousin, the other is a guy who's been their kith for a very long time. (For the sake of anonymity, I'm going to assign them pseudonyms. Trish is the ex-crush. Daisy is the cousin. Chad is the guy).

I haven't seen any of them in ages, so I was delighted that we could all meet up. I've never been a close friend of Trish, and I was happy that I was given this chance to reconnect with her. I no longer want to be her lover, but we can always be just friends, right? To be honest, everyone (including Daisy and Chad) from my school knew that I liked Trish. I courted her for two years, but was stymied by how aloof she was to me. We hardly talked to each other, and when we did, our exchanges rarely lasted for more than two minutes. Realizing the futility, I eventually quitted. This was back in the high-school days. Eventually, another guy (pseudonym: Kurt) ended up becoming her boyfriend.

It's been more than 7 years since.

The first hour of our meeting was okay. We were catching up. We updated each other on how we and few of our other classmates are. Although nowhere near as animated as an exchange between Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker, this was better than my “conversations” with Trish from way back.

Trish also frequently asked Chad about her ex-boyfriend, since they were close friends - she hasn't let go. This was also why she and Chad started doing something very annoying. They would whisper amongst themselves. And when that's impossible, they would refer to the ex as “ghost” (0f course this is about Kurt. What kind of dumbass do they take me for anyway?). It was clear that they were deliberately keeping me in the dark (I'm sure of it. Her cousin, Daisy, knew all about it herself, though she didn't participate in the discussion quite as much). Not wanting to pry into matters they clearly don't want me involved in, I had no choice but to play dumb and be quiet.

What I find bewildering is why they keep doing these today. I don't mind not knowing a secret but if they don't want to let me in on it, was talking about it on this very day so important? They see each other all the time, I haven't seen them in five years, so why should they keep doing that? Didn't they realize just how rude they were?

Did they also think that I was dense, that I couldn't figure out who this “ghost” is? Paris Hilton could've deduced their “secrets”!

I had better time with Daisy, who also wasn't my close friend. Unlike Trish, Daisy made conscious efforts to strike conversations with me, perhaps realizing that the rest of them were making me – and perhaps herself - out of place. She was fun and was more endearing than Trish. Ironically, we ended up splitting into two groups and traveling separately. Chad and Trish still talked about Kurt while the rest of us secretly schemed to get Trish her birthday gift - it was Daisy's idea and I didn't resist it. What's ridiculous is that I paid for a birthday cake and a gift. Talk about foolish sacrifice that don't amount to jack squat. See that, Trish, I'm totally caring for you while you and Chad douche around about Kurt! Ain't life grand?

We parted ways and I came away with few realizations. No matter what I do, Trish is one bridge that I can never never cross. I stopped courting her for precisely that reason, and what has she learned all these years, that it's still ok to treat me like a steaming pile of garbage? As for Chad, I'm disappointed at him. Chad and I actually saw each other 3 years ago, and it was very cool hanging out with him, which makes it baffling why became a royal jerk today. I didn't meet Kurt, but if this is the kind of Trish he ended the relationship with, I give him my congratulations. Now for Daisy, I am thankful for her attempts to prevent this outing from becoming a total disaster for me. It actually was, but like anodyne, Daisy made the pains more sufferable.

In retrospect, I really should have just gone out with Daisy alone, so that the rest of them can spend quality alone time worshipping Kurt.

Oh, so you think my tirades have ended? You're naïve.

After the outing, I felt iller. And so I spent the rest of the weekend lying on bed, recuperating.

And although I haven't fully recovered, I went to the office a while ago. Now this is like a normal Monday and everybody knows Monday is a worker's most dreaded day, so it may be pretty normal for everyone not to be in high spirits. That wasn't my problem.

My problem is our office's pest control, which blows, quite frankly. I am in no way exaggerating this, but throughout the day, over fifty tiny little roaches crawled on my table. My coworkers also had the same problem. And take note, we also used to have a watercooler that doubled as a swimming pool for these cute little critters. So I took the initiative to tell “the mistress” this problem. But instead of offering me any assistance, she was so willing to blindly defend my company's cleanliness by enlightening me with an “acerbically witty” (i.e. sarcastic) comment on how I'm not cleaning my table. Err, I hope she notices that I rarely put any food on my desk, and why she chose to scold me while ignoring the gluttonous bunch who eat during work is a mystery Stephen Hawking and Sherlock Holmes combined couldn't solve (well, actually they could. An infant could. Try “theory of favoritism”.) I'm not even asking her to become a house-maid and that she should wear aprons and wipe tables. All I'm doing is reporting to her, hoping that she would contact a Pest Control Service. So why did she have to resort to cheap retorts? Did I need that? If sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, hers is definitely the nadir of it. Would it kill her to actually do something while shutting her trap?

And this ends the short accounts of the last five days. Have my series of bad luck ended? I don't know, but nothing has been done about my table yet.

Mental Block

The adage is that time heals wounds, but can time heal mental blocks? How, then, does one account the eventual downfall and oblivion of one-hit wonders?

Mental block is very bothersome if one spends each day doing things that need mental faculties. The brain is subjugated by hazes. Getting to do anything is like researching inside a smoggy library. Worse still, like migraine, the cause of mental block has for centuries dumbfounded scientists. Yeah, I made the last statement on the fly, but I'm sure that's actually the case. ^_^

When it strikes, even if I tried to think, all I can come out with are incoherent words or phrases.

I'm too busy on top of having this stupid mental block (It's been two weeks now, but I haven't felt any improvements). Like my brain, my life has become disorganized.  To speak thereof, I've been trying to write, design, read and program, but my effectivity has reached an all time low.

I need a resolution. I am a man who wants more skills. Of the moment, I want to be able to work with Flash and Illustrator. I also want to polish my writing. And then, there's drawing, which is also an essential skill if I want to be able to create beautiful vector arts (essentially what Flash and Illustrator is meant for). The worst part is that I have to cram all these in my already tight schedule, and my work has nothing to do with any of the above skills that I'm trying to develop. Am I an overachiever? Maybe the more appropriate term is "over-daydreamer".

So what do I need? Well, first of all, my mind badly needs to go back to its optimal state. How I wish it could come sooner.

And believe me, that's the only half-assed concluding sentence I could come up with. Did this blog make sense? The more appropriate statement should be: When is the last time I ever made sense of anything?

14 Random Peeves

1. Don't pronounce my surname as "Jao", ever.

2. Yes, I'm a vegetarian. That doesn't mean I'm ignorant as to be unaware that there's no such thing as a "Chicken Flavored Ice Cream". You're neither clever nor original in being able to come up with that "joke", because I've heard it a billion times, and it wasn't funny the first time.

3. No, I don't hate you, but I'm not applying to any Igenportals or other pyramid/"networking"/insert-vogue-jargon-synonymous-to-pyramiding companies. That's final.

4. When I ask hard questions (take, for example, "What is the source of suffering?") I want to hear well-composed thoughts and cases, and not easy answers. If that should take time, then use all the time necessary. Just don't feed me with platitudes. And security blanket (statements) MUST go to the laundry.

5. I can handle expletives, but I hate guys who cuss misogynistic remarks in the presence of women.

6. Emotion is not a fashion statement. Stop feeling so special when you get all depressed and suicidal.

7. You're not a writer just because you're an eventologist. For that matter, you're not an -ologist just because you specialize in something.

8. Stop pretending you're so sharp, panache-y, artistic and elite just because you know a few French phrases, monsieur.

9. When in movies and formal occasions, dammit, put your phone on silent, whippersnappers!

10. For the last time, Starbucks is not a techie expo!

11. Don't lecture me on how in watching a movie, instead of analyzing, I should just sit back and En-JOYYYY. That's the laziest justification, ever.

12. Don't send me any cheese-spirational or "cute" SMS's unless you're absolutely sure it's witty.

13. When I say I don't watch MTV, I don't mean I don't like music. I don't like watching someone flashing their bling-blings, pimping their rides and scoring strippers. I don't like watching someone grudging on some sort of garage while jumping around and wearing angst-y trash-everything facial expressions.

14. Those tight tanktops F4 wears are yucky. I can't stress that enough. 

Move On Up - Curtis Mayfield

Behind the Scenes

Moment's Notice - John Coltrane

Thank God they have left!

As of writing this, the CNA crew has just scampered away. I couldn't be more relieved!

The shooting didn't turn out as I expected. It wasn't grand and the host (if any) was rather low-key. Thank goodness, because I don't want to imagine how the guys in the office will act had the host been someone like Pia Guanio or Iya Villania (though I'd love to have Sam Oh come pay us a visit. She's the coolest host ever, and we know each other). I still HATE this experience. We were taut, and it felt very unnatural and suffocating. I was right in believing all along that with cameras on, we were nothing but thespians, putting on a show that we're more productive than we really are (and I can't say I'm free of guilt, as I played my role in this stupid facade). All along, I was thinking "I can't wait for everyone to act normal again."

Going through all this only fostered my belief that Reality TV isn't real or organic. Who's buying all the notion that the participants aren't putting a show anyway?

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

Because our boss is a well-known photographer, he will be featured on a scoop. We, the employees, just received an announcement stating that CNA (Channel News Asia, a Singaporean cable channel) will be here in the office tomorrow morning.

And so we are required to be punctual and to do abso-positi-lutely nothing besides work the whole time, to project an illusion image that we are very productive.

Appearing on TV should make me as excited as someone about to give birth, but I couldn't care less even if it's CNN doing the scoop. I'm not a TV guy, and have this been local TV or Fox News, I might have erupted snide remarks, Tyler Durden style. Why do I hate TV so much? Because it's so fake! The materials there are screened, cut, edited and censored, until the only messages left are that the world is okay, the government is okay, life is one big beauty contest and that we should binge on mass-consumerism (all of these, of course, are mere skimmings of the surface). I don't need all these junk. Step into the real world and I'm always met by contradictions that are never televised.

Anyway, the last thing I need is to see my colleagues acting phony, with all these obligatory gussy-ups for a pursuit of fame. Alas, being around them has made me acutely aware of what they may do. They will dress grandiloquently and feign formality just to be mediagenic. And, of course, they'll pretend that everyone is in good terms and that there's no such a thing as cliques or demarcation - not the truth. That should be a sight to behold. Imagine, candor compromised by artificiality for the disguise of “pleasantry” (which is synonymous to “perfection”, which is always based on personal and cultural biases).

As for me, I wouldn't EVER trade my real identity for a made-for-TV mask. Lost in the marsh flooded by censorship, deception and dishonesty, I believe in sincerity, or in the immortal words of Gil Scott Heron, “You can be so very beautiful when you are who you are”. We are sheep, but let's not BAAAA to a deceitful shepherd, eh?

A Spot of Bother

You Know My Steez - Gang Starr

My prayer today went like this:

Dear Lord, forgive me for I have miscommunicated. When I posted yesterday's entry, I didn't sincerely mean I want to have another bad incident inside the bus. It was a sarcasm. 

I'm not having much luck with bus rides lately. Yesterday I was put in an awkward situation, but that's trifling compared to what happened today, which was just plain annoying.

Today's bus was quite unlike yesterday's. Each column of this one had two different chairs (there were two chairs on the left and on the right). They were comfortably spaced and had adequate leg rooms between different columns of seats. Things looked good, so I thought today's journey was going to be smooth. I was yet again proven wrong.

A person skinnier and smaller than I am took the next seat. As the bus moved, I started to notice that this guy was taking too much space. His legs were spread so wide that his knees would push mine aside, and he leaned considerably on my seat. Whenever I tried to nudge him back to his own space, he'd push me so he could be back to where he was. When I inched away from him, he'd take another mile. It's like he's totally gay for me. I couldn't even tell him to stop taking my space, because he had an earphone. To avoid body contacts with this annoying prick, I ended up being cramped way into the corner (as I was at the window seat).

What the hell is his problem? This wasn't even like a bus whose seats weren't clearly divided: as each columns had TWO chairs. I thought it should be pretty obvious how much space an individual should be occupying. Was he dense or what? If he was as big as Shaq I would understand, but he's not taller than me, so he definitely didn't need to take 30% of my space! Did he think that he was a king or something, lounging on two chairs like that? He's just plain irritating and obnoxious!

Damn, I'm so ticked off!

How Are You?

Do Something - Macy Gray

Since I'm in yet another dry spell, I figured this is a good time to get reacquainted with my readers (if any) and start good vibes with by asking the common "how are you".

Work has been monotonous and rife with politics. I have to deal with our office becoming a tabloid rumor mill. Funny how much people judge you based on assumptions they have of you. I daresay how much do they know me ba? I'm not telling them to look at themselves before singing the Eric Clapton blues, you know, about accusing others, because I'm assuming they're smart enough to know that cliche and to put that into practice. To think that "professionalism" is such a vogue word, its principle is often elusive to those who tries to project it. And before you scream "hypocrite" I haven't criticized my boss (who doesn't belong to the rumormongers). I can't say say the same for those band of rumormongers; don't they have anything better to do? I'm sorry about letting off some steam and I'm not going to do this often, but I just needed to vent.

I find my respite, during my free time, either by blogging or by being buried in a book and being tuned out of the surroundings. This habit led me to finish many books: 7 in total since Harry Potter 7 got released, and I've yet to read Harry Potter 7.

Then there's web design, a course I take on weekends. I thought last week was the deadline for my web design projects. On Friday night I meticulously applied all finishing touches, readied the project for submission, only to learn that the instructor intended to give us a week extension. And I slept 2AM because of FINISHING ON TIME! ARGH! As a result of cramming, I felt groggy the whole weekend. On the brighter side, I'm happy to announce that I've become quite better at Photoshop than when I started. Our next subject is Macromedia Flash and I can't wait to learn that. I may even study in advance.

Among all the work, study, and community service, I hardly have time to play videogames. But when I have found the time, I play a few hours of Dragon Quest VIII (which I intend to finish) and Sam and Max (the first 3 episodes I've beaten, and I'm currently at the 4th episode). On the other hand, I'm less busy this week than the previous, so I'm trying as much as I can to make this week fun-filled. As for the  7 books I've just finished, I might write about them soon. My next book? Probably Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk.

So, how are you guys doing?

Harry Potter and the Annoyed Reader

religious - musiq

What bothers me is the disturbing trend Harry Potter has started. Since its release, it’s impossible to go to any university or office without hearing conversations about Harry Potter. It’s everywhere, and it gets annoying when you’re at the restroom, only to hear someone wash his face while conversing to his friends about how book 7 ended (which I have heard several times now).

I’d like to think that one of the joys of reading a book comes from the suspense of not knowing what’s going to happen (and how rewarding it could be if the denouement turns out unexpected). But these days and ages, it’s become nigh impossible to read a popular book without its details already spoiled, unless if you’re the first to have read it. Is this the reason why people line up for the new Harry Potter: so that they will be the first to know what’s happened and will spoil the story to those who haven’t read while they feel their ego boosted? Why deprive the enjoyment of those who want to read but couldn’t afford it immediately? Why all this disrespect?

Also, does everyone have to follow the media hype? Is everyone out of touch with their own preferences that they just have to keep following the trend, without discovering the gems on their own? What happened to the time when those who go to the bookstore go to different sections scrounging for the book that speaks to them, regardless of whether or not it’s popular? Nowadays, the only books that people ever buy are those humongous hyped bestsellers piled in front of a bookstore: Harry Potter, The Secret, Laws of Attraction, Da Vinci Code, Rich Dad Poor Dad, The Alchemist, etc. I’m not saying these books are inherently bad, I’m saying that it’s likely that there are other books on the similar subject matter that could be better than all these. And yet people don’t take the trouble to read Bartimaeus Trilogy, Faucoult’s Pendulum, or Siddharta.

As for my assessment in Harry Potter series, I like it. I find the concept very appealing. However, I'll be damned if I just stick to Harry Potter without exploring other works of fiction and I can't remember a book release ever reaching the anticipation level of Star Wars. This guy here prefers bookstore quiet.

For me, the beauty in reading a book comes from its giving each of us a different experience. Everyone has their own biases and interpretations. It doesn’t matter how much a book has sold, if it doesn’t communicate a message appreciable by the reader then it doesn’t serve its purpose. A book isn’t supposed to be like technology where the latest is the best; it’s supposed to be like a t-shirt, in which only the person will know what fits him/her. Old or new, it doesn't matter. It doesn’t have anything to do with what sells and what everyone else likes. Just imagine if everyone is wearing torn jeans. How crazily monotonous would the world be then?