“What shall I write?”, I asked myself.

A certain voice inside my head quipped: “write about the
Kris-James-Hope love triangle.” After several seconds as I was about to give my
first words on that hurricane of an issue, which is now, it seems to me, the
single most pressing among national concerns, another voice from within
whispered: “better write about Scorsese finally catching an Oscar, it’ll make
you sound more intellectual.”

Yeah right.

So I am just being obedient, a Kris-James-Hope reaction
paper should be left for the Sucalditic brains of a tabloid writer to ponder. And
writing here about Scorsese is something like wearing a nice pair of eyeglasses
while reading a hard-bound classic novel right in the middle of a busy
wet-market. Therefore I decided to write about the 10-hour city-wide blackout
instead.

They say that power outages methodically erupt during
pre-elections, not because most of us prefer to make love in the dark but
because some people can only count the votes when lights are off. The rampant
power interruptions only signal that the rehearsals for bigger and blacker
blackouts are up to swallow our hopes for fair and decent elections. “Elections,
my dear. Let us get rid of politics!”. Yeah, I read your mind.

So there I was, alone in the house without electricity, reduced
to a grumpy, sweaty loser. No PC, no CP, no TV, no friggy, no venty. That went
on from 8 in the morning ‘til 6 in the evening. I couldn’t stand it; I left the
house before lunch. For couples, especially the stereotyped poverty-stricken,
God-forsaken couples, sex can be an alternative. (common jokes on population explosion).
But for city-dwelling singles like me, who rely primarily on digital techies,
much is true about the devil finding some work for an idle hand -during
blackouts- to do. Several times I was tempted to do a choke-the-bishop self-help.
My mind can do a vivid replay of the most ticklish soft porns I’ve watched for
the last two weeks. EErk! But that was dirty and I’m a hypocrite.

Who would have thought I’ll end up dating a girl that day,
an old friend in a new package. Yet she is not worth a story. The armless boy
we came across ambling through the highway is more noteworthy. It can make a
good dramatic movie. That brings me back to Martin Scorsese.

The Academy Awards shunned Hitchcock all his life. The
greatest director of motion picture history according to film scholars has not
an Oscar to his name. The same thing is true about Scorsese– he is, according
to the vast majority of critics, the greatest director of American Cinema. But
he has never won an Oscar trophy for Directing, not until this year. Which
makes me sad, because I am one of his biggest fans. I thought, winning an Oscar
merely subtracts from him. With the trend of winners they have there for
several consecutive years, much of my respect for the Academy has evaporated.

Scorsese should have won a lot earlier. Two of his films,
Goodfellas and Raging Bull are among my all-time favorites, and in these two
films he showed a Godlike flair. I am yet to pride myself as a film critic but I
think you can trust me on this: Scorsese ties with Tarantino as the brainiest among
living filmmakers. But that of course is just an opinion.

Now where am I leading to? Should I always write a thought through
entry? Should I always end with a catchphrase?

OK.

I know it’s kinda late, yet I am sure many of you still haven’t
read or heard about this:

You are the person of the year; give yourself a round of
applause. Time Magazine has awarded YOU, shall I say US, the prestigious “Person
of The Year” title for 2006. The first time I heard about it, I laughed hard,
because it is funny, period. Of course the TIME Magazine can justify this joke
by pandering further: “for seizing the
reins of the global media, for founding and framing the new digital democracy,
for working for nothing and beating the pros at their own game, TIME’s Person
of the Year for 2006 is YOU.

Oh, that’s romantic of them; I want a hit of what they’ve
been smoking.

In the advent of Blogging,
Youtube, Wikipedia, Myspace etc. WE are not only changing the world, WE are
also changing how the world changes. The World Wide Web has been the tool for
collecting the small contributions of millions and making them matter. Somehow,
the internet has also helped millions of minds that would otherwise have
drowned in obscurity backhauled into the global intellectual economy. That
includes me absolutely, and you of course. I mean the YOU who doesn’t just
watch, the YOU who labors, the YOU who thinks and speaks and shares. Not the
passive YOU, who just lurks, who just receives, who just dies. I have no
problems with YOUtube being the 2006 “Invention of the Year”. I am one with the
many beneficiaries of that medium. But the “Person of the Year” getting into the
collective hands of players and slackers, is always questionable. If they would
call us all to receive the laurels, anywhere it would be, I’d be the first not
to show up. I wonder who showed up to receive it for “the Computer” in 1982. Is there any ceremony? Please enlighten me
on this matter, show me what a Person of
the Year is made of.

TIME Magazine salutes to all the wankers, haters and losers
of this Earth.

In other news, a friend of mine (Kim) is enraged at another
friend’s (Nino’s) fate in a recently-concluded  “campus talent competition”. In that campus, “talent”
has this very unusual definition: the ability to please any person who prefers Carmen
Elektra over Julia Roberts. I don’t blame Nino for joining the what is now
being branded by Kim as “trampfest”, or “crapfest”, whichever is more apt, as I
don’t blame myself writing here in Friendster. Nino is one of the most talented
guys I know, and he is not aware of how great he is. He does his art because he
loves it, he doesn’t do it to compete or to let the mediocrity in you shine. Sometimes
his ultra-meekness is giving him away, and some public exposure is healthy for
the ripening of the genius within him. Some exposures are detrimental, but
failure makes an artist. Some exposure could mean defeat, but hey, this is Earth.
Vincent van Gogh only had defeats here all his life. History vindicates.

When I heard that Nino will be competing in a campus talent
fest, I was more than excited to see and cheer for him. But it turned out I wasn’t
able. If I was there that night I could have shrieked to death protesting the
results, complete with German-tongued expletives. God didn’t let that happen,
he clamped my feet to where my nephew’s 1^st birthday party took
place. I had real fun there, tremendous fun, yet it never escaped my mind the
thought that somewhere out there, Apollo is sobbing, for one of his sons will
be shortchanged. I have little doubts that Nino’s bid for the campus title will
be thrown to the pigs. Not because he is a so-so, but because the judges of
that contest are dimwits, they can mistake an airplane for a bird, they are
pinheads and their idea of mind game is tic-tac-toe.

I am really tired of explaining why this world belongs to
them. The world does not work to reward true artists, for crying out loud!

All in all, Nino is a winner long before he competes.

Virna and I will be seeing each other tonight for the first
time, it scares the hell out of me.

Diosdado and her dogdamned daughter Gloria shared the same
fate: they failed to win another presidential bid after turning their backs to
their vows of retiring. Diosdado had lost to Ferdinand Marcos in 1965 while
Gloria lost it in a landslide to FPJ in 2004. Yes, the dogdamned elf actually
lost the election, she just won the massive miscount with the help of teachers
and canvassers of Martian arithmetic, the military of blinded loyalty, the
congress of unsound judgment and, who can forget the ominous voice of the
century, Virgilio Garcillano of Comelec. Although GMA is there in the comforts
of the palace, she was never in the hearts of the people. She hasn’t got the
trust of the vast majority. She simply stays in Malacanang by sheer mettle like
that of a mussel that is glued in the reefs of Pasig River.

Don’t you worry, this introduction will not go on for
another minute. All I am pointing out is our topic for today, which is:

“Word of Honor”. 

“Word of honor” is a mighty phrase. “Word” and “Honor” are independently
mighty as well. If you don’t hold on to your Words, people won’t Honor you, and
you won’t get what you want from them.

Three entries ago, I said I’ll stop blogging here. Two entries
ago, I took my words back and I am still writing up to now, hoping I’ll be
read. I am still the blind man in a blindfold in the dark looking for a black
cat which wasn’t there. Because I lied epically, I reaped an epical penalty: I’ve
lost three to five readers. For two consecutive entries I earned kamote for a
comment. Can anyone tell me what is more epically devastating than that? To see
that my entries are ignored is more than bankruptcy; it gives me stronger pain,
like the pain in winning the lottery only to realize that you’ve trashed the
lucky ticket. By the way, I don’t do business and I don’t bet on the lottery, I
can only empathize with bloggers.

Fortunately not all bloggers are as touchy as I am. I see
bloggers who continue writing despite scarce-to-none readership. And most of
the time, they write better-than-usual.

When I write poems, I don’t expect much observation from people,
since poetry is stricter and less comprehensible. Only poets can criticize
other poets, while everybody can applaud a poem. Praising an art is as easy as
1,2,3; critiquing it is as intricate as surgery. Only poets can extract the
hidden beauty from a poem that sometimes I am tempted to believe that the
masses cannot appreciate higher art, higher poetry.

So here comes blogging,
anyone can blog. Blogging does not require so much of a skill, and reading a blog
is no more than eavesdropping. When one is as confessional and dead-serious as I
am now, one appreciates attention. Good or bad comments are better than no
comments.

Don’t I sound so serious?

Three entries ago, I said I wouldn’t write here anymore. It
was on my part, a lapse in judgment. Each of us commits that classic folly
everyday of our lives. Have you not promised yourself to stop loving? To stop
smoking? To stop watching porno? To stop patronizing cheap teledramas? To stop
biting your toenails? To stop crying over spilled beer? I never had the courage
to stop writing, here and anywhere. If at some instances I appear to be
self-righteous, I beg your understanding. If at some instances I sound cynical,
blame youmanity. If at some point I am not able to give honor to my own words,
blame the words for they insist more than you do, that I should write more.   

***

Alas! My sugarfree is back on my embrace. We talked last
night for about four hours.

We are back to the ballgame.

Last year I turned down a Valentine date offer from ate’s
friend. Not entirely because I don’t like her; she is a very likeable person, I
just don’t like seeing myself dating with someone like most people do in such
seasons. I would rather pick any day randomly, and I’ll pick any girl that will
go my way, and I’ll pick any light-colored mood from the pocket of my heart,
and we’ll go anywhere and she’ll pay for all the bills, and I’ll bury the
moment right after. That’s my idea of a perfect date.

Last night, history repeated itself, another non-girlfriend
wished to have me as her Valentine. I gave her this almost cryptic response
thru SMS: “any number multiplied by zero
is equal to zero”. I meant nothing by it honestly. But she took it for some
contemplation as if it was some Russell’s paradox— the girl is fond of mind
games. We could have spent a lovely night playing chess or scrabble or sudoku.
I just threw that possibility without further thinking.

Why do I do what I do? Why does the chick run away from the
worm? Why do I push people away? 

We choose what feels better according to John Stuart Mill,
the father of Utilitarianism. And if I choose to be lonely when I have all the
opportunities not to be alone, then I am a happier-than-usual soul. But if I
choose to be lonely because I have no other choice but to be in the deafening
silence with shadows, then I should try art. I am neither of the two, at least
last night.

While millions of couples reddened the earth with millions
of kissing and fucking, I stood in front of millions (unless a covered court
can accommodate at least a thousand people) to celebrate the night the perya fashion. People crowded the plaza
to witness and experience a cheaper version of lova palooza, with their SK
Chairman hosting the party. Technically, I was not a lonely heart. I was with
people, and we were happy. You should know that public service is a lot more
rewarding than going out for a pseudo-date. Notice that I use the word “pseudo”
very often these days; there is phoniness anywhere I can’t help but see. And if
you cannot see phoniness in me, hello my friend, welcome to my family.

Going back to the party, it was a successful fund-raising
drive for the youth. Not only did it bring fun to my constituents, it also
guaranteed future funding of several projects for their welfare. Since we are
but a poor, ambitious barangay, such money-making programs are necessary to
amass sufficient funds to realize our single most important dream of building a
great pyramid that will house my corpse. Go ahead and ask them one by one if I am
joking. I am simply so much loved here that even my jokes like, “let us paint this valentine red with our
blood”, will be taken seriously. Luckily for them, I am no Jim Jones, I am
simply a bum. And I promise to the world, you’ll erect for me what history will
name: “temple of the bum” if not “the great pyramid of bum”. And every woman that
I have sex with will taste their share of immortality.

Pity on them who overlook(ed) me. Pity on them whom I overlook(ed).

The Valentine’s Day will stay in the calendar for as long as
there are hearts inside humans, but I’ll see to it that for the next hundred
years, as my mummified body already is lying in the middle of a pyramid, the
earth will rejoice more passionately in each celebration of…

…the ”Bum’s Day”.

Superadvanced happy Bum’s Day to all.

What do you think of yourself, Tony?

Tell me.

I think you are quite impressive.

But you know that it isn’t your being impressive I want you
to talk about.

What do you think about other people’s IMPRESSION on you? I
am prepared to hear an i-don’t-effing-care-about-them-dickheads answer. But you
can always try to avoid sounding so egocentric. You’ll sound more original
simply by saying "I’m human, I’m sorry if I tramped on you folks just to
satisfy my EGO".

Playing schizo is fun, but you are more of a SISA than a
Tyler Durden or a John Nash. I suspect that Kids like you really thought that
masking themselves with psychosis will give them a halo for a noggin. Well, in
your case, you don’t convince me. You are but a confused
can-i-be-your-boyfriend crock of a horseshit. You will have to skin your ass
and plea for mental incapacity before you can justify what you did to Kim. And
there can be no justification. All I need to hear from you is that you are
among the world’s dirtiest pigs, among the worlds bitchiest faggots.

If you really are ill at the mind as what your blog
desperately advertise to attract equally
desperate and ill-minded wankers like you and your alter-dicks, it is rooted on
attitude. Better stick your ass to your Manila,
Olongapo is a slaughterhouse for bearded sows that speak from the pussy.

We can be friends. Define friends.

Three nights in a row, I have been walking until daybreak.
Since my sugarfree is on for something more important than talking, we have to
abstain from each other. Her schooling, as it peaks, will stand our way. All I can
do for now is to walk what I cannot talk, under the biting cold of February nights.
And although nights are always longer without her, I refuse to draw back from each
journey— I refuse to escape from escapism.

***

Loving her is like wandering. I am not sure where to go,
where to stop. I am not even sure why I do it. A friend of mine theorized that
it is probably because I only seek adventure and I trust myself I won’t get
lost. But loving her is more than adventurism and getting lost, or gambling and
losing in the process. As much as I wander the streets with utmost diligence, I
love her with sheer prudence. I evaluate the feelings atom per atom.

***

1. Happy birthday sugarfree, I have but my heart for a gift.
2. Lovapalooza is waiting for me, tomorrow is sorrow. I’ll stand and watch swarms of lovers mocking my solitude.
3. Happy Ist Birthday Bon Bon, my cutest, smartest, and most beloved pamangkin.
4. Rep. Peter Allan Cayetano for senator. If I can vote a thousand times, I’ll give it to the man.
5. I am tired of Friendster. Dog-tired.
6. This will be the last blog entry you’ll read from the bum. Sadsadsad.

***

Jules: I’ll just practically walk the earth.
Vincent: What’cha mean walk the earth?
Jules: You know, walk the earth, meet people… get into adventures. Like Caine from "Kung Fu."

***

Those are lines from Pulp Fiction. John Travolta talking to Samuel L. Jackson talking to me. And I am still nodding to that.

***

Films had been my source of enlightenment; my chicken-soup-for-the-soul and my purpose-driven-life. I watch every chance I have as often as my mother does her Bible cutting. And sometimes I am tempted to apologize for my oddity (I know they call it oddity); I just don’t buy the nicety that films must be didactic and we must all be somewhat healed after each viewing. Didactic films such as I am Sam or Pay it Forward will make me want to puke. For me, the secret ingredient to a powerful film is the invisibility of intent; the more apparent the intent, the less effective. Execution over intention. That explains why I hardly attend the Catholic Mass; I can always predict what the preacher would say. But hey, before you suspect, I am no atheist, I am simply a bum, a God-believing bum.

In Pulp Fiction, they are all bums, they are all criminals. They are interrelated characters that collide in a peculiar way. The film is regarded as the modern-day Godfather and is attributed for its toying with chronology; an innovation that is being imitated but never matched.

I won’t be writing another review for this critically-acclaimed monster of a film, there are already millions of papers dedicated to explaining why it is so great or why it is allegedly overrated. I’ll be writing about myself instead, I only got 20 Friendster testimonials that try to explain why I am great or why I won’t do drugs, or why I am better than you who only read me without commenting; but I don’t really think they define me accurately, and I also think they are not quiet admissible in court.

***

I will walk the earth just like Samuel L. Jackson said; I will climb every mountain and ford every stream just like Julie Andrews sang, and any of you fucking pricks resist, I shall execute every motherfucking last one of you, as Amanda Plummer trumpeted.

It is a worthwhile experience being able to touch as many lives as you can, just by walking the earth. Simply hang around with the hoods, with the bystanders and start with them by being like them. That will give you license to get into their minds and hearts. I don’t talk about Jesusing, Gandhiing, Mother Teresaing. I don’t talk about sleeping with the lepers; be a leper yourself.

***

Yesterday, I was spotted by a pseudo-friend while I am singing with the hoods somewhere I can’t remember where. I was giving guitar lessons and lessons about friendships when she butted in “wag kayong maniwala dyan, tokis yan” (don’t believe in his lies) then she followed it with a cute giggle. She intended to joke but it went overboard. If she is a little kinder, she would have supplied us with fish crackers and soft drinks instead.

***

People do mistakes. People are judgemental. Most of them give me frowns because I do not confer with the norms. They look down on my marching in the streets instead of marching in the stage.They say that I am just reaping the penalties of defying the standards. Your standards? Na-ah.

If being a BUM is my penalty for defying your silly standards, let me choose this penalty.

Last year, as we were on board to Makati for a Book Launch in Greenbelt, a news flash thundered down our silence as the television is opened. Sons and daughters crying, frantic people appealing, rescuers rushing—suddenly all of us were stunned, and my heart drumbeated to the dramatic scene of shredded crowd. The death poll is expected to climb said the reporter as lifeless bodies were being piled for identification. Later did I realize that it was a scene from Wowowee’s First Anniversary Special in Ultra. What could have been a moment of celebration turned out to be one of the most fateful noontime in recent history. Seventy-one casualties is the official count, most of them are mothers.

But that didn’t stop us from our trip. We are on our way to embrace the good news so we better let go of the bad news for once. Together with two of my co-poets/friends, we proceeded to Powerbooks where our dreams of being officially ordained as published writers shall take place. Being first-timers in Greenbelt, we were a bit intimidated by the ambiance; plus with certain literary figures and media personalities present, we hardly get ourselves perfectly comfortable. We stood in distance for some minutes, until we saw the opportunity to socialize with our co-contributors from Emanila, and of course with the ever greatful Mr. Cayabyab, the company’s boss.

The program began with a poetry reading, a hired theatrist and a violinist serenaded us with enchanting music, poem after poem after poem. We only wished it is us who read the poems, since they are ours and we can articulate a more powerful interpretation of them. The reader did a good enough job anyway, his recital of Marlon Hacla’s ”Tinatawagan ang Mga Makata sa Ulap” gave me chills.

I am beginning to feel that you don’t read me because I annoy you. I used to think that you are just either being lazy or apathetic, or you only read from featured bloggers because it is highly suggested that they write far better than I do. Now I can surmise that the real reason why I don’t get your attention is that I appeared to have been begging for it. That I blog a lot bothers you; all 250 of you, my dear friendsters. Why do I say so? I, too, at one point in time, hated those who regularly update their friendster blogs. We probably have the same petty reason: we hate SPAM. And we consider it SPAM the unsolicited message from friendster that prompts us whenever our pseudo-friends update their blogs. The SPAM can fail our excitements as we expect important mails from important people. I reiterate: we are not interimportant people here, only interrelated.

I annoy you albeit you don’t read me, ironically. I wish I could do the same to GMA or to any of her cohorts. There is almost no chance that my writing can reach them. It can’t even reach my friends. My poetry is more potent I guess, but poetry attracts fewer monkeys. Our generation is more likely to appreciate the cheesiness forwarded SMS can offer. And no, I won’t be asking your numbers and send you SMS’s, in lieu of blogging, just to catch your attentions. Among the four screens (cinema, television, internet, cellphone), I value the latter the least, I hardly even text.

What is really annoying? Our political system. Yes, but it’ll bore you to discuss about it. What is so annoying about me? My name? My photo? My sentimentalism? My tryinghardy style? Tell me. And I’ll tell you what really is annoying, IMHO.

You won’t tell me here because you are too lazy to write. You are too lazy to even hit a single key that can save you from appearing ignorant. Hey, you are not e.e. cummings, try capitalizing words that deserve capitalization. And please refrain from using misspelled words like "kewl", "sux", "lyk" etc. They aren’t cute. And what the hell is using ellipsis to end all your sentences? … Try to learn what is that for.

Lastly, if you are to comment, put it here and not anywhere else. Don’t PM me like we are friends. I won’t add you if that’s what you like. Best that you can do is to find the word "annoy" in the dictionary and spend less time texting.

***

Once upon a time, a British writer said: "there is little point in writing when you cannot annoy anyone". Well just right now, the maxim is given a bad name by some people who insult the very purpose of writing. Yes, they can annoy but can they write? I would rather call it, "INTERNET GRAFFITI", what they and their keyboards manufacture with little thinking involved.

My cat can walk across my keyboard and randomly type the word S-E-N-S-E.

-o0o-
Currently thinking about Virna.
Currently listening to Mozart’s Variations on "Twinkle Twinkle".
Currently planning to ambush-visit Kim.
Last Call Duration: 28 seconds.
Unread YahooMail messages: 2120
-o0o-

I said I’ll be home for the rest of the day, well, the opposite has just happened. I toured the globe. And now I am home to blog about the trip. Or maybe not, I need some break. You should know about the fact that writing is as tiring as any other physical task; sometimes it is even more strenuous. Spontaneous writing is never easy unless you are under extreme emotions, say love, hatred or the ever faithful Sorrow. I say faithful because Sorrow had been with me for decades. And she shows no signs of resignation.

I have to admit that I longed for company these past few weeks. Since ate and her family decided to evacuate and live separately from us, I was left with three hundred thousand growling phantoms inside my chest. My days turned from black into black parade. (million fucks to My Chemical Romance).

Since I brought up “black parade” let’s talk about music instead.

Have you ever heard of the newest hit, the “black parade”, the overdone hysteria from My chemical Romance? If not, you are missing something of historical significance. Something as historical as the bay of pigs invasion or the holocaust. The key element is blunder and destruction.

If you can still remember, there is a song that goes like this:

“I am afraid of Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera, Backstreet Boys and N’Sync” the list should have went on and on. Well in my case, I used to be afraid of Lito Camo. Now I am horrified in the onset of these emopunksters who are capable of rousing the rabble towards the grand parade of mediocrity. I have to use another word for mediocrity because the word sounds so musical, so unfit a word to describe those suckers. I shall call them suckers instead, and from now on, SUCKERS.

My Chemical Romance made a great debut with the single "Helena"; it was 2005 I assume when I first heard of it. I was impressed with how they arranged the song in such a manner that punk music sounded classical. And of course its music video is equally a laudable art. A macabre, a stark visual metaphor about the marriage of love and death. I thought I’d love the band forever.

Until they went too far, far from what they can ever be. It is apparent that they wanted to move from an image to a superimage, from “boy band” to “Gods”. Well, “The Queen” is spelled G-O-D-S. And Freddie mercury is a Goddess. That’s the blunder; they tried to imitate the Queen. And they fell short. “Black Parade” sounded so pretentious, the lyrics is pointless, the music video is overdone and the production design is as majestic as a coliseum-sized black cotton candy. I almost forget to point out, their costume is lunatic.

I am not surprised that this song is receiving such an accolade from among the lesser mortals of this earth. This is their world.

“Black parade” is nothing but a good title and it has everything but “content”.