little boxes made of ticky tacky

It’s appalling how tv series have flipped in a disturbing three sixty turn… ten year old girls kissing, little boys jacking off, teens doing the deed, suburban moms selling weed. Nonetheless, I’d have to give it up for the show Weeds, for its bold & uninhibited depiction of modern America. I remember a time when the word ‘Hayop’ would entail a beating from the mtrcb censors. Now, we can freely curse & mock our heads of state. Haha

The theme song is appropriate too:

1. Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

2. And the people in the houses
All go to the university,
And they all get put in boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
And there’s doctors and there’s lawyers
And business executives,
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same

 I thought it was one of those folksy songs intentionally made to sound like an oldie. But Lord Google says it’s a song written in 1962 ‘that lampoons the development of suburbia and what many consider its bourgeois conformist values.’

[That’s a good LSS, relative to cheap korean pop, if you ask me]

*   *   *

We love Bejeweled Blitz.

We love Regina Spektor.

And oh, yeah… we love each other.

‘oh ten

This year I will be less angry.

you are Princess Fiona, but NOT the cameron diaz alter ego

This is a hate post so beware furry & fuzzy creatures I am unleashing the Ogre within.

I think as a rule, you wouldn’t want your little brother to have anything to do with a girl who’s unlike you in certain degrees…

And by unlike, I meant:

– she’s OLDER than you;
– she’s more than likely UNEMPLOYED;
– she may be girlfriend-material but she’s the type that metamorphoses into a monster once knocked up;
– she’s one of those types you can picture as a loving (& menacingly protective) wife but NOT a caring mother;
– her facial expression doesn’t spell Ambition or independence;
– she sees ONLY my brother & has zero socializing skills.

thaw & defrost

I’m not much of a caffeine fiend and my coffee consumption is limited to not more than 4 cups in an entire month. So this morning, with a runny nose & a full tummy I decided I just wanted a burger & coffee for lunch (3am Mla time). The end result? An unexplained nervous feeling…sort of like I have an anxiety disorder. But 1 small cup of coffee is hardly enough to give me that kick huh? And the hot drink didn’t do much for my runny nose either.

Our new fave for this week is Regina Spektor & we heard snippets of some songs. This one got my attention because..well, just check out my previous post.

And people make you nervous
You’d think the world was ending
And everybody’s features have somehow started blending
And everything is plastic
And everyone’s sarcastic
And all your food is frozen
It needs to be defrosted
You’d think the world was ending
You’d think the world was ending
You’d think the world was ending right now

I just got back from Legazpi & it’s no joke, really, travelling on a bus w/ the temp of Alaska with meagre clothing (and by meagre I mean 2 shirts & a seemingly ample TerraNova knit sweater). The travel time was around 12 hrs, by the way.

Anyway, it’ snap back to reality for me. I had a great time in my hometown. I left my heart in TonShingWa drive…

the famine of the right hemisphere

ive grown tired of eating out of styro plates, tired of the monotony of days. I’m tired of fragile plastic forks & deep fried chicken that taste like the convenience of manufactured society. Yet again I find myself in the isthmus of a quarter-life crisis & self-pity. Nowadays what sustains me is my new girl-crush Tina Fey & …. uhm, my boyfriend.

Haha. Not so funny when you’re in my shoes. I have always been morose, like, I take downers every six hours mistaking it for aspirin. And this three sixty turn towards the sunny side, injured my right brain, slightly, I guess. I had wanted to do a One-poem-a-day exercise but have been just circling around the idea. Now it’s all tangled up & I have NOT started.

…now I’m reduced to balancing a Parker pen on my desktop while I’m working; it’s a way cooler goal to avoid toppling it over than actually climbing the friggin’ steep corporate ladder; which is all bullshit, by the way. That’s general knowledge.

The Cobain-Groban project

Collect twenty four termites. Put up an ad for twenty four mean, bibulous but hardworking wood munchers.

Halve them into two teams.

Set aside in glass containers.

Get two blocks of wood; same size & type. On two different soundproofed rooms, prepare a stereo & set them at the same volume.

Room A & B should get one block & a dozen termites.

Now we subject them to music.

Room A rocks to Groban’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring; whereas Room B resonates with Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit.

After 3 minutes, and make sure the music stops simultaneously, remove the dirty dozen from each block of wood. (You might want to get twissors or surgical tweezers to pry them from the assaulted wood)

It is advised to drop the little rascals on a pyre to ensure their death. If you’re a pacifist, just leave them in their glass cages & have them munch  the material until they eventually give up trying & succumb to death. Yeah, like that’s any less cruel.

Anyway, it is no longer my business how you dispose of the artists.

Prepare a framelike material & put the woodblocks side by side.

Label them: Cobain - Groban.

*  *  *

an apology

 there’s something selfish about grief over a death. Part of you sympathizes with the family, part of you — it may be the greater part– shifts to ‘what if it was me who lost someone?’ Then the grief just shifts to fear. Then you get a grip of yourself & you feel selfish.

While at work on the Thursday shift (maybe between 1am & 3) I was browsing through my brother’s Facebook friends list. I saw my niece, Ponjap. I looked at her photo & I weighed the question whether to add her or not.

I chose not to, because we haven’t talked in such a long time…

That’s such a lame reason. Made even lame-er by the fact that she passed away.

They told me she died at 1pm yesterday. I only found out tonight.

I don’t know how to process this information & I feel guilty of this inability to mourn.

But the fact remains. I love her.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s all that counts.

~when you’re gone, the pieces of my heart are missing too~

darn, t’was like looking for papercups at a hardware store

Saturdays should really be spent awake. This way you don’t feel that a day from off your meagre weekend has been stolen from you.

I say this because I get off from work on Saturday morning, & resume Monday nights.

Anyhoo, this weekend (& i usually start with that, because between Mondays & Fridays I feel that life is on hold) my not-so-little-little-brother & I went out. He’s in town ’til tomorrow night. I love how he’d never find it too expensive if a meal fulfilled his gastronomic delights. We are actually alike in that department, if the food is good, whatever price si right. [Woah, I was surprised he still ordered pizza after devouring roasted ribs] We had dinner at Gumbo on Saturday; Sunday we had late lunch at The Old Spaghetti House (too bad it was past 2 pm & so we couldn’t get the Much for Lunch offerings). And then we had dinner  at MXT where Notcha had a hefty meal of Beef mami, siopao & siomai.

On Sunday p.m., we scoured the appliance centres & kitchenware stores (sadly mostly fronted by salespeople who had no idea what a blow torch or cooking torch was). Mom had long wanted to have a cooking torch; but it wasn’t available in Legazpi. We didn’t find it anywhere, not at Megamall or Robinson’s. Notcha (of course it was Notcha) bought it for Ma, just this afternoon. He found one at Shopwise near our apartment.

Here’s our loot from the weekend:

The laptop bag’s for me, the mp3 player’s for Tot, & the butane-run cooking torch is for Momma )

[To follow - photos of Notcha & myself. But mostly of Notcha & the food we gorged.]

Asimov is right

if we feel inconvenienced by this natural calamity which lounged on our weekend, something that will last a week to a few months,–think about the discomfort of living like this in permanence. This is a morsel of the inconvenient truth, people. As Asimov predicted, soon the skyscrapers of Manhattan will be submerged in water…& what of this archipelago? Poof. Nada. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Or better yet, defy it. But then again, pessimist that I am I’ve surrendered to the fact that it’s too late. We did the damage; we all knew it would come to this we were just stubborn homo sapiens thinking let the next brood worry about that.

And now here we are.

Here we are.

And soon. . . We WERE here.

09.21.09

Can’t wait for the 2-hour 6th season premiere. Let’s see how it all plays out. House. House!

*     *     *

So, my Chandler Bing downloaded House songs, randomly, that is. ‘Coconut’ hit me with a mean LSS at one point. It’s cool, though. (I’d rather have that than loop ‘Nobody But You’ in my head. wtf?)
Here’s a really rad site that lists the song titles, artists, & even on which scenes theyplayed.

*     *     *

 My baby sis is turning 3. Wish we could throw her a party! (Which calls to mind a short Bubble Gang skit with Michael (or was it Ogie?) saying: Did you notice that sixty percent of children’s party attendees…AREN’T children?)

*     *     *

 Work sucks. But that’s an old song.

*     *     *

This time next year I’ll be stewing in my own jaccuzzi in my 24-bedroom mansion which has a 5-minute distance from my monster main gate… Or I could be in Legazpi eating mom’s killer brazo de mercedes. Either one would be ok.

moolah moolah

What’s the differential diagnosis for an average overworked & underpaid 9 to 5 employee being bored by the idea of wealth?

Seriously, I think that’s what happened to me as a 26-year old millionaire briefed the room on how he got from point A to point B (or should I say Point C to Point PhP?)… I’d say I’m  a bit interested, but not all too enthusiastic.

*   *   *

I wouldn’t trade Legazpi for Tagaytay. No siree. Manileños love to drive up there for a decent out-of-towner because it’s chilly AND it’s near. But I don’t get it. There’s not much to see there. Just as the Grand Canyon is nothing but one big hole in the ground, I think Tagaytay won the elavation bet with the gods of topography, who failed to anticipate the need for an 11th commandment: Thou shalt not steal revenue from a neighbor’s asset. If you can’t catch a view of the Taal lake & the elfin volcano from there, what’s there to see? Sure you can visit the restos & bars & coffeehouses, heck you can get those anywhere. The climate? Stand before your fridge, your daddy oh sure can use a break from your begging gas money.

 *   *   *

I am getting a daily dose of House, 1-2 eps a day. This is one of the few things you’re never gonna get tired of. If I happen to catch a rerun when I’m seventy, I swear to God, I will fall right into the pit of nostalgia & ehem, how my Veto gave me seasons 1 thru 3 original DVDs. wink wink!

I’m trying to complete all 5 seasons before the 6th ushers in by September.

*     *     *

hunched

Text from “Sister Wendy’s American Masterpieces“:

“Apparently, there was a period when every college dormitory in the country had on its walls a poster of Hopper’s Nighthawks; it had become an icon. It is easy to understand its appeal. This is not just an image of big-city loneliness, but of existential loneliness: the sense that we have (perhaps overwhelmingly in late adolescence) of being on our own in the human condition. When we look at that dark New York street, we would expect the fluorescent-lit cafe to be welcoming, but it is not. There is no way to enter it, no door. The extreme brightness means that the people inside are held, exposed and vulnerable. They hunch their shoulders defensively. Hopper did not actually observe them, because he used himself as a model for both the seated men, as if he perceived men in this situation as clones. He modeled the woman, as he did all of his female characters, on his wife Jo. He was a difficult man, and Jo was far more emotionally involved with him than he with her; one of her methods of keeping him with her was to insist that only she would be his model.
   

the science of crowd control

Commerce has its shrewd ways for crowd control. Let me share my theory. Pull a chair, sit down & hear me out. This is of utmost importance.

It will take you more than 120 seconds to separate the films of a 711 hotdog wrap.

The subliminal message encoded on there from retailer to consumer is that you have to labor for it. A hotdog sandwhich for a meagre 19 bucks… Man, you gotta stand there & prod the plastic sheets open for an eternity.

But it doesn’t end there. Somewhere, some higher intelligence is at work. This is actually crowd control 101. Only 2 cashiers and oh so many customers… Hmm… yeah, how bout we place this really impossible wraps for the hotdog, the siopao & even the doughnuts. Genius.

a cross section of indecision soaked in formaldehyde

I’m uncertain. I’m sorry. I can’t even meet you halfway. I know it hurts you, but it hurts me even more knowing that I have so much but can give very little. Thank you for hanging around. I’m sure I’ll get to it some time. But there’s always the danger, always, the impending possibility of you getting tired. We all have our breaking points. Impatience will brim; and I, disabled and scarred, will get what I deserve. A thing I plausibly want in secret- solitude.

Asimov, the villain in the atmosphere is vicodin

House is nearing another chapter, only one ep left. You lose a quarter of your left hemisphere if you don’t watch it, or if you’ve not gotten around to being a fan. Not convinced? Ok, watch one episode. Just one. Let’s see if you don’t get hooked. (If you don’t, that indicates  weak comprehension, and that’s irreparable). Fine, go back to your slapstick & soap…

S05EP20

Throngs of pre-teens, and all varied age groups eating up the road shoulder and causing traffic jams. Alay-lakad has become nothing but a truckload of bullcrap. Ask the girl in high cut chucks and micro-mini shorts what it’s all about…oh yeah that’s right, why bother? She doesn’t know shit.

Show of hands people…who here can name Pinoy religious practices-slash-traditions that are actually solemn? Huh? Right.

*   *   *

My Kutner Quotable Quote:
When your life is shitty from the start, you’ve no way to go but up.

And then he plants a bullet on his left temple. Not that I’m jumping into the bandwagon of pissed-off fans or critics seeing the death as pointless and seemingly written only to create a “very special episode.”

C’mon. If he were written out of the show by malpractice or… or if he decided to explore other opportunities then the exit wouldn’t be as imposing. As memorable. As significant.

Kutner is my favorite of the three [second batch] fellows. Actually, his character is a bit unripe for the kill. But then again, the mystery is what made him interesting. There are bits of his life snuck away in dialogues but there was never an episode that divulged his concrete personality. I condemn the Here Kitty episode, it did nothing for Kutner. It sort of added a trait–his being superstitious. And that was that. Absurd, if you ask me.

I admire the people behind the show; how they can sacrifice a major character for a kickass season finale, as with S4. My take on the whole writing Kutner off is that every tv show can & will write-off characters either because the actor portraying it is leaving the show, or the character’s death pushes the pedal to the floor. Think about it: of course you’re pissed that Kutner died. Errr. shot himself dead. You were blindsided. No one saw it coming. A good viewer would wait it out, see how the next episodes come along. Maybe it’ll fit into place. I’m saying, you can’t hate the episode because a major character died. Can’t you feel that? There’s a pang of sadness in your heart for Kutner & the rest of the gang. There’s a sliver of light into House’s softer side… If nothing, that episode was a crevice to a more awesome season.

Kutner’s crashing on a different "House" now

 
Let us offer a moment of silence for Dr. Lawrence Kutner.

die…die in futility (insert exclamation point here)

Voldemort,

How is it unclear that I abhor you? That I have long grown tired of you? I hate your sms asking me casual things, like, ‘Where are you going to spend holy week?’ Or months back, ‘Do you have plans for Valentines?’

I hate how by casually raising these questions you dismiss the gravity of your iniquities.

Your efforts will die in futility.

With everything else, good luck in your endeavors.

the person you misplaced & refuse to be found,

C

proofreader’s inset: too many question(mark)s

There I was, a smirk on my face as the world ended.

It was like reading a poem that felt beautiful but I knew it was never to be as pellucid to me as it would to the poet. There you are, a homo sapien in a theatre watching a very apparent possibility & you’re incredulous. Hey I’m going to die before that even happens; or man, if we’re all going to die at the same time, then no one’s gonna give a fuck if I die. Truths that are inconvenient –we naturally evade. We’re only human.

(…but we keep paving over paradise,
    ’cause we’re only human…Oh yes we are… ~Mraz)

I have to agree with this guy, when he said that: An apocalyptic dream sequence is equally powerful and effective. But then it all goes wrong, and what appeared to be a tightly woven plot takes a sudden dive into nonsense of the highest order. Where we could have reasonably expected a logical conclusion (within the science-fiction rules that the film had set up) we are instead cheated out of anything resembling sense.

What he meant was, Cage’s character is an astrophysics professor, and the movie subscribes to science and logic but then the storyline steers to religion and faith.

But you gotta admit, the winged creatures looked awesome at their ascent.

When quotes flood my inbox, quotes that has something to do with God or the bible; either I read it in passing or delete it without scrolling down. I think faith is not something we should wrestle with in our brief lives. It’s not about believing in God or a god; i think it’s about doing good and not causing pain. About being productive but not at another’s expense. About pursuing happiness & contentment without upsetting The Balance of Nature or whatever the fuck that means.

But I digress.

*   *   *

And from that, we jump to the coetaneous (perhaps boringly so) subject of love. It’s such an ordeal to ask yourself: Am I in love? Not to mention dangerously, pukingly corny. But really, think about it. How can you tell? If there was a mathematical equation and a metric system for it then you’d be able to quantify how much you hate your ex, hate yourself for making that mistake, and how much exactly–how deeply–you’ve fallen into the pit of …dare I say it…love?

But then again if it could be quantified then it wouln’t be love now, would it. It’d be like measuring your blood sugar or taking your goddamn bp…

The trouble with failing your first relationship is that you’re as skeptic as hell. Instead of accepting your partner’s words & gestures, you tend to always scrape through the simplicity of it & always dig deeper and decipher subliminal messages. You’re constantly looking for signs that’d tell you this one is different. That you two, actually, stand a chance.

There’s also the matter of seeing yourself in your partner. How he is to you now was how you were with your ex. Does that mean, this time, I will be the cheating party? I know that’s so unlike me. But again, how often have we felt like strangers to ourselves?

Perhaps a stronger reason for my incredulity is that my partner is so certain I’m THE one–and that’s how I was with my ex. I was certain; but look where it got me. That’s it: I’m skeptical of him because I see my trusting self in him. The one who got hurt. I keep failing to shift dimensions. This is here & now. This is not HER. It’s HIM.

I’d ask myself if I am happy, but it’s past 10 on a saturday… Don’t even get me started on that.

Peace out.

i’ve a quarter in my pocket

Eto ang sabi ni Nerina…

I’ve a quarter in my pocket, I’m advancing to the booth
I am picking up & hoping that I talk to you. ~Halfway Home