On Sunday afternoons, she sits on a little bench right beside their gate, all dolled up. Sometimes she wears a strong perfume. Sometimes she just smells of soap. She likes wearing black, or skimpy, something that shows her hips and belly button. She chats with her girlfriends in a voice that seems louder than necessary, or they have giggling fits over private jokes only they themselves know. Anyone who passes by them and compliments her about her hair or dress, she acknowledges it with that distinct laughter that reminds you of rutting pigs. I realize “rutting pigs” is somewhat derogatory, but in my world it isn’t. It’s one way of saying it’s fun, visceral, arousing and innocent at the same time. Something inappropriate like that. And sensual.
When her girlfriends are not around, she focuses her attention thumbing her cellphone. Unlimited texting is all the rage, and she will use up every cent of that P25 Whole Day Texting promo some telecom has the genius to market. So she texts. The intensity you see in her face suggests an ongoing exchange with someone of absolute importance. The president of some First World country, maybe. Or some shirtless dude she’s recently “friended” on Friendster.
The deeper the afternoon gets, the greater her anxiety. The source of that anxiety is not visible. It only touches you as something electric and sad and almost hysterical. She’s laughing even louder now. She’s shouting “look at me! look at me!” except the actual words sound like “ha ha ha ha ha ha! giggle giggle ha ha ha ha!” When night falls, she becomes extra friendly: there’s no acquaintance, remote or not, that gets by without a flattering word, a kind note, from her. The small spontaneous conversations –mostly about shoes, food, favorite color, things you put on your hair, sounds that toys make when you stomp on them — are sustained in this way. Anything. Anything she’ll do just to be out of that house, outside that little life.
But it’s already evening. So at one point, when the night and a general silence have settled in the neighborhood, like an unspoken command to shut the fuck up, she picks up that little bench. She stands by the gate for a few more minutes, waiting for something, somebody. No one shows up, as usual. She steps inside. You hear the cold finality of the gate’s metal clang as it closes, like the lid of a sarcophagus, a tomb. The gate will remain shut. Until, of course, the next Sunday afternoon. Until something, somebody shows up. Until the answer walks down the road and speaks with her. But maybe not. Never.
{Image: Ryan McGinley}
How to mess with friends who don’t know crap about basic computer stuff. This happened not too long ago.
Friend: hey, r u online?
Me: it isn’t obvious, is it?
F: I’m trying to watch this movie on my PC. There’s no subtitles.
Me: what movie is that?
F: ghost town
Me: Ricky Gervais, British guy?
F: yeah, think so
Me: you’re using what player?
F: VLC
Me: then why do you need subs?
F: the dialogue, the accent, I can’t get to it
Me: okay, do this. Play the movie. Once it’s running, right-click on the center of the screen, a drop-down menu appears
F: okay, wait…
Me: can you see Audio?
F: where is that
Me: right above Video, in the drop-down menu
F: oh, right
Me: Audio, then Enhancements, then click “Remove British Accent”
F: where is this?
Me: I just told you
F: wait…
F: can’t find it.
Me: you can’t find “Remove British Accent?” are you sure?
F: wait.
F: nope, nothing here
Me: that’s strange. Should be there, though. You must be using an old version. Check the version. Click Help, then click About VLC
F: wait
F: where is Help?
Me: see the upper controls of the VLC. There’s Media, etc, then Help.
F: okay
Me: does it say there “Before Christ” or “After Christ?”
F: where do I see that?
Me: should be there under About VLC. It states the version of the software you’re using
F: I see only this
F: VLC media player version 0.9.9 grishenko
Me: dammit. That’s an obsolete version. Im sure that came before they put the “Remove British Accent” feature
F: fuck. Ricky gervais talks fast. I cant understand the guy’s saying
Me: alright, can you check Audio again, then Enhancements, then left-click “Change Accent” then choose “Apply English Accent of Person from Southern India”
F: ok
F: I don’t see it here
Aww, lookie that. It’s Andrew Tan, Megaworld Corp’s Overlord. Seems like only yesterday I was writing the guy’s “I used to be as poor as fuck, just like you!” speeches for the still-dirt-poor people at UE (he’s an alumnus). Look at him now. He’s all grown up! He could save a gazillion starving Filipinos, but he won’t! His kindness is for employees only!
I’m so proud of you, Andrew. So proud. You need somebody to make your daughter’s thesis so goddamn awesome, or you want a truckload of your money vanish like magic, you know where to find me.
Image is from the “10 portraits of power in Philippine business,” Rogue
magazine, March 2009.
I got an offer to write for Maxim
magazine. One of the blogs I write got their attention, and based on that blog’s “popularity,” and of course due to my awesome ninja writing skillz that almost always make me include the word “vagina” in the text I produce, Maxim’s top honchos probably thought, “Hey, we’re selling twat, this guy talks about twat all the time. Get him!”
I’m still thinking about it. Should I accept it? It’s flattering that some top editorial person from that men’s magazine would email you out of nowhere and not only wanna hire you, but also features your blog in the magazine’s March 2009 issue (it’s out now, folks! Guess which of the websites featured in The Internet Underverse page is mine). It’s a major relief from the usual “make your penis bigger!” emails I get. But while the offer is very tempting, I have lots of (unmentionable) stuff on my hands right now, and saying yes to the offer and not being able to deliver would be pretty sad.
So I said let me think about it, let me kill some chicken, offer it to the right anito
, and get some answers. I’m not playing a hard-to-get, look-who’s-talking douchebag, I’m just being frank about what I think I cannot do in the coming months.
But uncertain of the wisdom of my own decision, I sought the advice of three people I respect. I’m hiding their identities so they can still live normal lives after this blog post, merely referring to them as Gurus numbers 1, 2 and 3.
I went to Guru No. 1 and told him my dilemma. He said, “You’re a dick!”
I went to Guru No. 2, and he said, “Mocha has been making out with women and you’re here not taking videos of it?”
I went to Guru No. 3 and he said, “Just die.”
I’m totally confused – clearly, those three answers merely indicated how much these gurus admire me, and not giving me a direct answer. So like any normal person, I did something Nina Jose would have done on a Thursday afternoon: I went to Baclaran church. I said the prayer below:
Dear JC,
Please help me decide. Should I write about naked women for a men’s magazine, possibly including controversial information on WHERE BABIES COME FROM? Not as if I’m not already writing about naked women on my own blog every day, nor the lure of men’s magazine fame doesn’t excite me. It’s just that I’m trying to reach Level 50 in Nazi Zombies, and I seriously think that Maxim
gig would distract me too much I won’t be able to use the Ray Gun and the Deployable MG 42 as awesomely as I used to.
So help me choose between killing Nazi zombies and having a decent way to earn money rubbing elbows with hot female celebrities.
I’m lighting up 45 votive candles Baclaran church is selling here — promise I’ll come back and pay for them as soon as I receive an answer from you. Email would be great.
BTW, I like your hair.
Right now I’m still waiting for “enlightenment.” A Maxim
exec somewhere must be impatiently tapping his fingers on the mahogany desk, flinging sharpened pencils at the ceiling.
Meanwhile, there are hordes of zombies I must kill.
{Image: Skirmisher}
[Depending on the sense of humor of the universe at the moment, these text things may or may not have appeared in a recent issue of the Adamson Chronicle]
Hi. My name is JB Lazarte. I’m what you may consider a self-absorbed, self-obsessed, anal-retentive, English Nazi slash editor slash netrepreneur slash selfish bastard. But before I became this, a million years ago, I was a self-absorbed, self-obsessed, anal-retentive editor-in-chief of the cool student paper you’re holding. Now you call it the Adamson Chronicle
. Back then, in a time when dinosaurs roamed and ate slow-moving animals, we just called it “the paper.”
Ah, the 1990s. Good times. I was an easily frightened, impressionable freshman in 1993 when Arlene Villaluz-Paredes sort of told me to take the editorial board exam. Arlene was a hot new English professor back then, and I’m sure she still is now. That was second semester, maybe November 1993, when she tried to seduce me — “seduced” me with the idea of joining the paper. And because I was the sort of “retard” who said “yes” whenever people around me said yes, or killed frogs when other kids killed frogs, I didn’t need much convincing. In February of the following year, 1994, I took the exam. By May, I would receive the telegram (this was the state of the art before texting) informing me that I made it to the cut.
Fast-forward three years later. In 1996, maybe November, I remember this one afternoon, I was all alone at the Penthouse’s terrace on top of SV Building. For those who don’t know it, the Penthouse was the office of the paper, so chosen in the same way the location of Medieval castles had been chosen. The relative isolation gave the paper a kind of independence, gave it some perspective, probably balls, too. I remember the smell of coffee from the mug in my hand, the briny late afternoon breeze from Luneta, the lengthening shadows of the Jai Alai building, and me thinking, “How in hell does one serve as the editor of this place?”
Then as now, it wasn’t easy to find the answers. You were practically just a kid. Sure, as an editor, you probably have some facility with language, but that wasn’t good enough. Here’s an idea: hit William Golding’s Lord of the Flies
, pay special attention to how the children form some crude, even savage, kind of politics and self-government based on their instincts and early prejudices and fears, and you get the picture. The “savage insanity” of “managing” a supposedly independent student paper was, in many respects, very Lord-of-the-Flies
-y. There you were, barely understanding the first thing about justice and journalism, and you already have the “ginormous” burden of being able to publish all your foolishness. Note that I used the word “ginormous” in a non-boobs-related context. Which means I’m actually serious.
Back then I had only been beginning to figure out the opposite sex and what to do with the opposite sex (to borrow a line from Butch Dalisay), but already I was supposed to “enlighten” other students. Keep them on their toes. Make them aware of the world they live in. Crazy shit.
There was much controversy surrounding my ascent to the “top position,” as everyone considered it then. I won’t bore you with the details, but let me just say it involved melodrama, some amount of money, broken chairs, somebody important getting untimely knocked up, screaming matches and tearful confessions, and a really ugly woman who was my associate editor.
Even without the controversy, it was heady, sometimes oppressive, to find a moment and ponder the fact that you’re editing a student paper with much colorful history behind it. The Adamson Chronicle used to be so much respected. You enter a room anywhere on campus, you flash that Press ID, and ladies just begin throwing you their underwear! Alright, I’m exaggerating, but you get the picture. So for a totally awesome, incredibly charming 19-year-old kid that was me, it was a massive responsibility. It was also a good source of what scientists call “pogi points.” As editor, you called all the shots. The buck stopped with you. But of course, the sword was double-edged and it always dangled right above your head. You took care not to make mistakes. When you were unsure of what you were doing, you put up a good bluff and pretended confidence. But even with the best of intentions, you ended up doing only half of what you could have done, even less. And when the shit hit the fan, you stand up to take all of it.
At least, that’s what I believe I did.
Fast-forward three years more. In February 1999, dinosaurs were “dying” and I among them. When I left, the paper was on the threshold of many changes, and much of these changes would eventually kill it. We were breeding some bad habits, and the paper was running out of useful talent. It was getting more and more eccentric, eventually becoming a “pariah.”
Then there was the matter of filthy money. Lots of it. I mean, it wasn’t enough for the publication, but more than enough for anyone who needed to buy his baby a can of milk. Something silly like that. And depressingly regrettable.
Flashback, March 1997. My so-called “editorial board” was dominated by what people who study apes refer to as “dudes.” We were having fun at the Penthouse’s terrace. There might have been a bottle of hard liquor, a pack of fried peanuts, and some of us might already have been hammered. One of my editors, I don’t remember which, asked, “And what about the future?” Maybe I laughed at the question or maybe I responded to it by telling one of my painfully embarrassing sex jokes, but I do remember how we talked seriously after that. How some of us expressed certainty about the answers. The future seemed like a solid, well-paved, brightly lit road chiseled out of solid twenty-something sex -– for our individual lives and for the paper itself.
And then somebody said, “Like the Jai Alai building, the paper will stay on its feet forever.” Nobody laughed. Like with many of the things we believed in then, we thought it was true.
We took it for granted that we could always go back to that place, relive the moments, as easy as paying a friend a visit. We believed it could stay like that as long as we live, future “Chroniclers” just enjoying the nice things we’d leave for them.
And then I think I said, in a rush of optimism so common among us in those years, “Everything’s pretty solid.” Then a silence. Half-drunk, it was easy to stop talking. It was easy to just gawk at the views from the terrace. From this vantage point, everything seemed breathtaking. You’d think things would never end. And even tragedies, from that perspective, were so tiny they were unreal.
And then one of us stood up, took off his shirt, and shouted, “I’ll bet you all fifty pesos, I’ll jump of the edge. Dare?”
{Image: Clayton Cubat}
