So nasa tabulas na ako. Kung gusto mo pa rin akong mabasa, bisita ka lang dito.

Good: Happiness can nowadays be bought. Bad: For one-night-stands, with you your own pimp imposing the price. Good: Friends can nowadays be bought. Bad: They can buy you too when you go broke and they go lonely. Good: Money can’t buy me love said the Beatles. Bad: What’s the opposite of money? Shit? Can it buy me love? Good: All your money won’t another minute buy, sang Kansas. Bad: All your minute won’t another peso bring, sang the bum.

If I have the money, I am eating a chocolate cake now beside the keyboard. If I have the money, I am phoning Julie in Dubai . Or  I’ll fly to Dubai. Then  I’ll take her to Greece. We will fly by the hot-air balloon. See, only money and vehicular
accidents make people fly. Oh, catapults too. But then again, you also
pay for vehicle and catapult rides. Money is not happiness itself;
instead, it is a potent vehicle towards achieving happiness. You know
what? If I have the money, I’ll pay you for reading this.

I haven’t got any money right now. But I am expecting a shower of it next week. Well, I have to make good use of it since I am now counting down to the last few months of my stay in office. I am not always an SK Chairman who receives honoraria without burning calories. Someday I’d be a prince or a pauper, depending on how I make use of my life. I can’t tell what kind of life awaits me in the future. But I am sure it would be less happy without friends, without money, without somebody.

Good: I am happy being a bum. Bad: I am a bum.

Finally, here are the things that made me happy early this year without money’s help:

10. Ronato Alcano following his 9-ball world title with another championship in world        8-ball open.

9. Wowowee beating Eat Bulaga in noontime ratings game.

8. The Leyva kids.

7. Mike Defensor’s self-incriminating campaign advertisement.

6. Kim learning Beatles’ Blakbird

5. The mockumentary film Borat.

4. Democrats finally taking over the  US legislature.

3. My nephew Bonbon’s first year.

2. Rep. Alan Peter Cayetano’s consistent good standing in 2007 senatorial surveys.

1. The sugarfree experience.

If I will pursue filmmaking, I cannot think of any better
partner than Kim. We do not always concur on concepts, but we always arrive at common
conclusions, after each friendly battle. Kim is naturally a humorist, if not an
absurdist; she excels in the art of ridicule—far better than the celebrated
Zafra. Her alphabet consists of fresh paradoxes, and she juggles them with
precision, creating a string of jaw-dropping flair.

This entry proudly introduces the first part of the ambitious
project Kim and I agreed upon to pen. A product of a brainstorm in YM, this is
not the first of the many bizarre products brought by our combined witticism. (The
single-scene marathon of nose-picking-turned-self-mutilation, arrested by Liszt’s
Mephisto Waltz behind a great white canvass, remains to be my favorite.)

Below is not a shared concept, I expect that Kim has a better
(I mean wittier by better) idea of how to stir the interests of the audience within
the first few rolls. Anyway, here’s a piece of my contribution for the said
project:

(Full cast in chorus, looking straight up to the camera,
thirty degrees angled to the west)  “Our dear viewers, we would like to stress
three things first before we could go on amuse you with our brand of entertainment.
First, this is an art film, unless you know what is meant by art I recommend
that you do not finish this. Art is not always entertaining, Jim Carey is.
True. It is not accidental that this sounds like a Lemony Snicket warning, we
are really concerned that the sheer oddity of this film may lead you into a
suicidal state of mind. But worry less since a recent scientific research
suggests that a dose of Adam Sandler can remedy neurotic disturbances films
like this one cause. Two, unbeknownst to you dear folks, we are unpaid
non-actors here in a non-commercial effort, so we are less obliged to act
convincingly; after all, this film is not made to convince you for nothing. Our
purpose is just to disturb you; we are not here to tell any story, we are not
here to make any relevance. This is pure Dadaism put into motion picture; we
promise, shortly after this, we can all be happy again. And finally, we give
you enough time to reflect and reconsider watching this, despite our cautions, and
see for yourself what we may accidentally mean, or what you may accidentally
find in this obscure little charade.

“Back to your posts!” from somewhere shouts the writer. (reading
their scripts, each of them will hurry to their respective places) (after all
is set—freeze frame) (eleven seconds of cosmos murmur then the background
music plays, preferably an unfamiliar tune or an original composition, while
the camera takes snapshots of each of the cast raising flashcards that bear their
names for the opening credits) (everyone smiles).

-This is originally written in Filipino-.

I won’t discuss the entire plot here for the sake of
business. But let me remind you that our business is not of capitalistic
nature. We do this primarily because we seek attention. If I speak about the
plot this early, you might as well give up on us this early. Your attention, or
better still, your appreciation is our business. We are postmodern artists in
search of mature audience. See you in YOUTUBE, back us up on this.

Suppose we lived together in the same house Kim, I wouldn’t like
it. Not because I don’t like to live with you, it’s the concept of house that I
hate. If destiny will ever put us entwined somewhere, I wish it would be
outside the walls, outside confinement. But of course in such circumstance, you
might not even survive. You are a domesticated cat, while I am a nomadic bum.
You are reared with certain customs, while I am bound to fritter away with time
and space. If we live together, each of us will perhaps be deprived of livability. Must
we therefore be thankful that we live separately? Yes, unless we really care to
consider the word adaptation. If frogs estivate and squirrels hibernate, why
can’t we learn to adapt, given the strong motivation of love, which is more
than merely animal drive?

From biological reckoning I now move to a chemical one—
just think of a mayonnaise, and then you’ll remember that the vinegar and oil
are naturally immiscible. We are immiscible as we have suggested several times.
But maybe in our situation, love will emulsify us the way the egg yolk does in
the mayonnaise. 

Now from Chemistry I will proceed to Physics. (up next is Newtonian Infinitesimal Calculus)

I also like to talk about the universal law of “opposite
attracts” but, I learned from observation that it is only true in magnetism. Much
had been disproved in its relation to sociological nature of humans. Do you
always see geeks grooving with the gang, or feminists toasting with the pimps?
But we are not that extremely opposites, we are actually identical in so many
aspects. It is just that we are at odds in finding a crossroad where our
requirements for surviving together will meet. We always mention spiritual
union, of indestructible ties that bound us. Yet we never really struggled to reach
each other physically, we relied too much of the intangible.

Now I retract from an earlier presumption. Suppose we lived
together, we could have had loved each other better that it is useless for us
to sign on certain terms. I would have had my Dolby-Surround laughs; you would
have had your grumbles over crumbs of bread and misaligned rugs. We could have
had the longest pillow-fight in history. We could have had tussled for
remote-control ownership. We could have had invented the freakiest board game.
We could have had fathered another artistic and philosophical movement. We
could have had revolutionized music and cinema. We could have had killed a cat
for no reason, or experimented on tasting human meat and charged it to
experience. We could have had hated each other occasionally, or even threatened
to kill each other with a pointy gleaming knife. We could have had moments that
redefine friendship, if we lived together earlier.

Now if we live together, whether in a house, in a forest or
in the streets, we put to test our hypotheses. Will physical closeness deepen
our need of each other? Or will it make one or both of us bland and reduced?

Now is the time when I challenge you. You are legal now, you
deserve independence. You always had the key to free yourself, get out. I do
not say get out and abandon your world; I say get out and meet my world with a
closer look.

Meet me outside, where I can share with you the spectacles
of true friendship.

I write this in response to your blog entry, which made me
cry. I’m sorry if I failed to visit you yesterday, my migraine put me to sloth-like
sleep. I am very much excited to film our version of free hugs campaign, let us
schedule a meeting with Lee. Mwah.

Six years ago, Conrado de Quiros wrote what many critics
claim to be one of the cleverest articles written in the history of Philippine
journalism. He titled it: “Rich country, poor country”. It was just last
year that I stumbled upon that masterpiece, and it is just right now that I am
inspired enough to attempt to write my humble version of it, only with a
different title and with a totally different subject.

Yesterday I asked Pinkle to help me out on this. She just
gave me a no, saying she herself is confused having been caught for so long in
the ambiguity of love towards a friend. Then I remember a song where Sergio
Mendes asks: “What do we mean to each
other, am I friend, am I lover?” I asked that question, after
introspecting, to myself once more; and this is how I answered:

Lovers, Friends.

by Lolito R. Go Jr.

When we are lovers, we wake up and greet each other good
morning; the phone will bridge our distance for the rest of the day, that’s if
we cannot see each other and go places; we will talk until the sun sets,
exchanging glances, physically or thru avatars; then we will seal the day with a
kiss, either physically or thru emoticons. When we are friends, we wake up and
greet each other good morning; our souls guarantee that distance nor down servers won’t
separate us for the rest of the day; that’s even if we are not able to see each
other and wander across the earth; we will walk until the moon rises to the top,
either we are together or apart, believing that walking is worth more than talking,
and the moon is better than the sun; and then finally, we’ll seal the day with
an embrace, either physically or thru those cute little smileys, as the breeze caresses the
grass.

When we are lovers, we are a couple. When we are friends, we
are one. When we are lovers, there are no rooms for third parties. When we are
friends, there are plenty of seats for expansion. When we are lovers, we look
forward and forget. When we are friends, we remember and understand. When we
are lovers, there are regrets in the end. When we are friends, there are
memories behind. When we are lovers, we arrange game plans. When we are
friends, we just thrive over time. When we are lovers, we promise the moon and
the stars and the comets and the rings of Saturn. When we are friends, we promise
only loyalty. When we are lovers, the world is not enough. When we are friends,
the words are not enough. When we are lovers, we dream of Paris. When we are friends, we live in Paradise.

When we are lovers, to love somebody else is infidelity.
When we are friends, to love everyone else is hospitality. When we are lovers, we
are jealous. When we are friends, we are hopeful. When we are lovers, the tears
are brought by insecurity. When we are friends, the tears are shared in bliss.
When we are lovers, we complain and squabble. When we are friends, we laugh
over troubles.

When we are lovers, we lie and mask the fix. When we are
friends, we say the truth and face the glitch. When we are lovers, there are
ifs and buts. When we are friends there are only musts.

To be or not to be continued …

…you’re comments are needed.

He smiles at everyone; he has thirty-two pearly white
reasons to do so. I am not his dentist but I assume he has a complete set of teeth;
he had been the hygienic boy I knew from day one. From head down, he is clear
of any noticeable flaw. His physique promises a modeling career, if not a
showbiz career. And he will never be a pain in the neck in the business, he’s an
honest gentleman; humble and soft-spoken. He can easily get along with any
creature.

I knew the boy very well; we grew up in the same community. Living
two houses apart, we’ve had indelible moments shared. We are childhood friends,
to put it simply. I witnessed how he turned from an effeminate, mumbling lad
into a brusque, handsome teenager. He witnessed how I metamorphosed from a
singing, skinny child-prodigy into a longhaired potbellied bum. He played a
supporting role back in the mid-nineties when I was having a puppy love affair with
his sister. He was less involved, but he never complained about it. He trusted
me and respected me as he has trusted and respected the world around him.

Like any childhood friendships, we have invented a world of
our own. I still remember how we graced an old, abandoned house with our own
idea of macabre architecture. I still remember how his ate would blush whenever
I playact an evil-possessed bastard and how he, a loyal fan, would marvel at my
most pedestrian of illusions. He was a more gullible playmate than her ate, and
I was but a guilty nasty trickster.

Their feeble wooden house by the riverside is now a proud,
stable concrete. But the place to where it stood will always keep the history
of our adventures, our supernatural yarns. To the grains of sand our playful
steps were intricately stamped and our voices were registered in the silent of
the waters. We wallowed and wrestled and gamboled and danced to the tune of our
laughter. We had hard and low times of course, but childhood is only meant for
cute lamentations. I cannot come up with a bitter tale from among the fleeting
stardust moments we’ve had.

But this will not continue as a heartwarming reminiscence.
This is a sad true story.

There is a boy named Daniel Joseph Bantique now resting in
peace. At eighteen, he could have been elsewhere. Yet his life is drawn to be a
very short one. He died in a motor crash while driving home from Mabayuan, Olongapo City, just meters away from a funeral
home. He suffered a broken skull which deformed his face. The rumor has it that
he drank and drove after a tearful breakup with his girlfriend. His wake will be seeing its final dawn today. I will be there just like I was there all along.

Just recently, I asked my Ate: “How would you react if
I die for the same purported reason Joseph died? Would you welcome the girl to
my wake? My Ate is quick to
respond: “No. If she shows up, I’ll have
her skinned. Of course she exaggerates, but I can see her utter disgust to
the thought of it. Well, that is beside my point. My point is I am a potential
candidate for the drink-and-drive-to-forget drama. Well, in my case I am only
capable of the drama. I don’t and won’t drink, and I don’t have anything to
drive with. Oh I forgot; I have a cat. If she’s a horse, I might have been an
equestrian. Just forget about it.

Joseph’s story rings a loud warning about life’s
uncertainties. The first is about the uncertainty of love. One day he and his
girl are exchanging sweet morning greetings, then came the night they are
doomed to bid goodbyes. I can only speculate on that matter, but I believe it
was a very sudden change of hearts between them, and its aftermath was a literal
sudden death no one ever thought of. That was the other warning: death is very
unpredictable.

Actually, part of my anxiety is due to the fact that I used
to drive as fast as hell. An avid follower of Discovery Channel must have heard
these words: “I shouldn’t be alive”. Yes,
I was given a second life. My motorcycle diary is filled with accounts that
range from police chases to death races. I have ugly scars on my patellae and
tibiae that can speak about them. I was a daredevil and with speed I used to
play recklessly. But now I learned to prize the life. I gave up driving after
the horrible accident at the Bicentennial Park, SBMA, October of
2005. God is great, I got away with only a sprained ankle. Not too many people
will live to tell the story of such a high-speed crash.

Here I’m still alive, still aching, still bleeding. Here I’m
still alive, I live to experience more torture. Life is sometimes more dreadful
than death. At least death brings sympathy, some people live without the sense
of comfort. At least death draws company, some people simply languish in solitude.
At least in death, flowers pay visit; some people live their lives dry and
colorless. I think of Joseph and I think about the void he left in his family,
in his community, in this world. I always hear people talking about how they
will miss Joseph and how their lives will never be the same again in his
absence. I couldn’t agree more. I just think his death only reaffirms the old
saying that goes like this:

We do not know the value of a thing until we lose it. But I won’t
end it just like that. I think I know the value of things or persons before I could
lose them to death or any other inevitable end. It is actually my value I’m
having a hard time assessing.

Dear Moon,

I love you.
I’ve died so many times yet I love you, I still love you. I die everyday because I can’t reach you; and you, being merely a moon, do not seem able to
offer a hand. I can give you imaginary hands whenever I like, but I don’t like anymore of imaginations. My brain has given up on me, I was just fooling myself. Our love, as an idiom puts it, is a cry for the moon. You can see, the deaths I talk about are merely hyperboles; the bittersweet me, an oxymoron; and you, being the moon, an overused personification.

Poetry becomes me; I see only metaphors when I look around. When I say I love you, I am not even sure whether it stands for something else. Forgive me, but sometimes I make poems I don’t understand myself. But this I understand completely, dear moon: I am bidding you farewell.

You became my moon because you cast a light so little even a candle can outshine. I understand, you are a distant thing, and my great grandmother is a more distant star in the vast galaxy. I failed to realize that you shine not just for me. I should have paid the loyalty of the little candle, who had been with me in the darkness for a long time, now she is but a melted past. And I hope you, yet to become a past, only changed a phase.

I never had you, we never had each other—but, I, love, you. I’ve died so many times just by thinking about it: how I love the moon, and why the moon cannot love me. You said you love me and I refused to believe. Oh, I did believe it, but I only felt a love of a moon. A love so quiet, so removed that if I cease to become a poet, I will never ever feel. You know already about the infirmity of the smoke, the frailty of a ghost. Things only you can decipher. There are things we shared because we knew, there are things we knew because we shared. I think I can never forget about the whirlwind romance we had for days despite all these.

Tonight, I write to you for the last time. I can imagine how sweet it is if you cry. You said it pains you losing our chance, like it leaves you another crater to the heart. Yes, it pains you finding another one in a matter of minute. Yes, it is sad. I doubt my absence ever saddens you, but then again, I doubt my own doubts.

You will remain up there, and I’ll be down right here. The sky is vast, turning a blind eye on you is almost impossible, but loving you is not less impossible anyhow. I gave you so much space, that’s how you viewed it. No. You have it before I can ever give it. And I believe you always have the freedom to hurt me just by pursuing what may please you. I love you and I only wanted more
of your light, but a certain pull has kept you away. It wasn’t the gravity, it
was the opportunity. And now that the opportunity has flown away, I say goodbye. I won’t urge myself to continue and give it a fight. You didn’t wait, you didn’t fight. That’s how sad you can get. Spare me of the crocodile tears,
please. Don’t give me sadness for an excuse.

Dear moon, be happy instead.

Because from now on, I’ll stop gazing, I’ll stop weaving metaphors for your beauty. I’ll stop calling you moon and any other fictitious names like sugarfree. I’ll stop cracking hackneyed jokes. I’ll stop broadcasting you over blogs. I’ll stop stealing from your precious time. I’ll stop phoning you, you won’t hear my high-pitched voice again. I’ll stop contesting your ideas and laughing over your judgments. But I confess: I am actually weeping right now.

Dear moon, I thought you’ll need recuperation first before you are ready to love again. So it goes without saying that you’ve been healed. I honestly think you owe it to me that you are healed, or I am just being too confident. You made me believe we are working out well, I can wait for years if it calls for it.

You love me but I gave you enough reasons to love someone else more? I know nothing of those reasons. You provide such reasons for yourself. Your only crime is that you didn’t love me enough. My only crime is that I was too laid-back on you? Where is the love?

It hurts but I’ll be fine, I swear.

Your dear sugarfree.