Taguro and Baraks Obama

PICTURE: The abnormally emaciated form of the family dog, Taguro. You just feel for the hapless creature. Pets are also people, in a way. If only they were granted of speech, they could make us realize that they are capable of strong feelings, of rationality. Taguro died yesterday from complications of food deprivation, a few weeks shy of being a decade-old.

***
On a lighter note, Obama finally had granted G.M.A. her Wish-Upon-A-Star. He even made it a point to come into the country himself for the presidential visit. But what's this!

Empacho!

What in-god's-name book are you reading?!

PICTURE: Lip Gloss does New Moon.

For this Christmas I received the following: a comprehensive how-to-speak-French set (6 CDs, a course book, and a free offer for a private tutorial session … abroad. How convenient.), a best-of-Larry-King-Live-interviews DVD, 2 fountain pens, and an entire collection of Bob Ong tomes. For some obvious reason, everyone thinks I’m a complete nerd.

Being the “complete” nerd they say I am, I am happy to announce that I just finished reading Macarthur in under an hour. A personal best among those books less than a 100 pages thick that I’d endured. Yeah, I know, I’m a slow reader. Like I finished Twilight for almost a month, when almost everyone sped read it for what seemed like hours.

Macarthur is a very compelling, gut-wrenching, visceral tale of a group of friends under the influence of their illegal vices … and before this becomes a review, I should stop here. (But I’m just going to say this: When stuck with a 100-pesos budget I suggest purchasing Macarthur than indulging a Starbucks frap. Why? Because I did. And, I guess, you more likely won’t feel betrayed in the same situation.)

Rejoicing like some medieval jester, I mentioned this great accomplishment of mine to Lip Gloss, my sister, and she replied, with a smirk crossing her lip glossed lips, “I am also done with my New Moon.”

Just between you and me, right before I started Bob Ong’s Macarthur, I saw her flipping through page 1 of that book. With the TV on.

Oh how Edward Cullen mystify and entrance his readers!

***
“I promise that I won’t read, or even touch, that New Moon.”

That’s the vow that I made to myself after cringing my way through the first book.

In all fairness it started off fine, in a Cinderella, Someday My Prince Will Come, way. I was even waving the book in the face of Lip Gloss, in a manner as to say she would totally dig it, but expressed no interest whatsoever.

Eddie Cullen’s confession that “(she) is exactly (his) brand of heroin” definitely added cheese, but still I trudged on. I guess those moments of “I won’t leave you forever” did it. Because after that, I had to drink coffee more than I used to in order to make it, crawling, to the finish line.

Then came the buzz for the movie, then the movie premiere, and then everyone watched it (even those who haven’t read the book, which includes Lip Gloss).

Suddenly the household couldn’t get enough of Eddie Cullen (or Bellie Swan, for boys tortured by their girlfriends to also appreciate the “essence” of the book). Barf. Lip Gloss, as I had told, just finished New Moon, and was begging mom to buy the third one for her. Richard XXX, who happens to be my brother and who turns to ashes when you offer him something to read, was actually holding – and reading! – the Twilight book. Shock of the year.

Now unless if I see my mom getting in the act of indulging this stuff of vampires falling madly in love with humans, I am going to stick with what I had promised. Oh wait, I think she just did.

The Arsonist's Carol

Just a while ago one of my classmates in French 11 texted me this. (I tinkered the first part a bit because it wasn't set to the right rhythm.)

Deck the halls
With gas and timber
Falalalala-la-la-la-la
Strike a match
And watch it glimmer
Falalalala-la-la-la-la
Watch the school
Burn down to ashes
Falala-lalala-la-la-la
That's the way
We play with matches
Falalalala-lalalala

***
Everyone, for the incoming New Year celebrations, be safe. I know some of you are already storing up boxes of firecrackers, so just a word of advice, handle them with the least care, please. And to those who plan in having a "quiet" merriment, like me (ay, sus!), let's just save up (and recharge) for next year.

Jeez, January

PICTURE: She's Paula Goodspeed, one of the biggest fans of Paula Abdul. One of the millions who believe that through American Idol they can be someone. When she auditioned, she was rejected, also by Abdul. Later she would commit suicide in front of the home of her idol.

***
And before you know it, 2008 and the last of the chicken wings just disappeared before your very eyes.

Here comes January with its promises of great changes for the year ahead.

I don’t know about you, but for me, January is the month … when television resurrects itself. December is always the “recap” month. Nothing fresh. And like all Decembers, this past month nothing good was on. Unless you dig 1,000 hours of reruns. Or perhaps some Luna Mystika or Eva Fonda for a change.

Two things which I am certainly looking forward to:
1.) Being a huge tennis fan, the new year means an immediate start of play. Just as November is to the NBA, July is to the EPL (English Premier League – Duh, football), and, uh – golf never seems to end – January is a pretty logical starting point for tennis. The talking point of tennis right now – the heated rivalry between the top-ranked male players, Nadal and Federer – will be placed under the test right after all the firecrackers in the world have been used up. That which will be held in Abu Dhabi. But unfortunately may not be televised here. So onto mid-January with the first grand slam of the season, the Australian Open. With the live telecasts just being appropriate for my schedule. (When I get home, Nadal, Federer, Ivanovic, Sharapova or the Williams sisters will most likely be playing. Cool.)
2.) The return of the guilty pleasure of all guilty pleasures – American Idol, one of the insane reality shows that tries hard to be sane. New format, new judge, new David Cook-level contestants (demigods), and new stupid weirdos which we expect will once again hound our brain cells for their fifteen minutes of shame. But, let’s admit it, lunches are going to be propelled out of our nostrils. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

***
While typing this I looked toward the corner where all of my mandatory reading materials were stacked. Quite the tall tower already.

The Of Which I Prefer Absolutely Anything Else, Even A Day Of Luna Mystika Torture, Than To Worry Of Them list:
1.) Listening exams
2.) How am I supposed to run to UST from UP and back in a span of just three hours … that considering the traffic that has no end.
3.) Three required attendance to concerts: where, when, who will perform, and how much!
4.) Poetry interpretations (just when you think reciting The Lord’s Prayer in Old English is already difficult, wait until you get to witness T.S. Eliot in his prime)
5.) And <*TANA-NANAN-TANAN*> Longinus’ tackling "on the sublime" (“Purposiveness without purpose” – Yeah, baby, yeah! “Excessive concision of expression” – Ha, ha … ano daw? “Speaking in the way of precept …” – OK, Keri pa. “Asyndeton, anaphora, diatyposis” – (*epileptic seizures*))

The realization has just set in. I think my retinas have stopped functioning.

Schadenfreude

: enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others

- a Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary entry

Move aside, Britney, Brangelina, Barack O.! Here is the real entertainer of the year!

***
In fact those three mentioned above should have a lot to be thankful for for the existence of such a term. It made them for what we think they are.

A month from now George Bush will move his sorry ass out of the White House. Mr. Incumbent President will be then the focal point of every pupil in the galaxy. If he's going to appear for American Idol, schadenfreude. If he's going to be thrown at with a stiletto, schadenfreude. If he's going to choke on a pretzel, the better, schadenfreude. Schadenfreude has made his entry to the position the more easier (Read: Sarah Palin. The political Schadenfreude queen.). And it will quickly make his image ... that even more uploaded in YouTube .

Britney. Well there's no need to mention Britney being associated with schadenfreude; she is it, the essence of it, personified. Bald Britney, Bimbo Britney, Cuckoo Britney, "Oops! She Did It Again!" Britney, "Get Out Of My FACE!" Britney - she's the works. And look at her now, because of all the media fiasco she was generating, we gobble all her crap up and she's, well, back.

Back? The most powerful couple in this planet is always up front. Them and their 20 children. Living their picture-perfect lives. If you think about it we might all as well scurry up for an adoption slot in a far-fetched country so we can feel just as blessed by God as the Jolie-Pitt bunch. But being flawless also means - I condemn myself for ever saying this - boring. Here's where schadenfreude does its magic. Angelina Gets Railed.

Tomorrow Angelina Jolie will be pregnant ... again, with triplets this time.

***
Along with bivouac and nimrod, schadenfreude is one of my favorite words. But unlike the two, it's not only good in the ears but is highly pragmatic.

I was in this shop. Posters of basketball punks, Katrina Halili, hand models, Katrina Halili, of a "You're only a man if you cut yourself up like a woman" advertisment, and Katrina Halili were all over the place. The guy running the shop was a real-life chatterbox, only with tartars protruding everywhere. He seemed to know everything there is to tell in the local showbiz scene: who is Piolo Pascual dating now in Sofitel, how big are Katrina's jugs, where in the world is Cedie, Ang Munting Prinsipe and what is the brand of Marian Rivera's wart removal cream. It didn't end with Marian's wart removal cream. He threw out all he had as long as his business with me was not yet through. I was also very much into the conversation that I didn't mind whether or not an asteroid will plummet at that spot. Snip here, Hayden Kho fornicating there. Wart removal cream here, snap there. It didn't take long for me to memorize that the brand of Marian Rivera's wart removal cream was Pristine Herbal Touch.

Entertained beyond reasonable doubt I gave the guy a nice tip.

When I got home the first thing that I did was to look in the mirror and to see what he had done.

"PUCHAAAAAA!!!"

Yuletide Greetings

PICTURE: From Hong Kong last year: "The festive spirit be with you all!"

***
You know Twilight isn't that good. Now this?!

One big piece of m***********: Click it ... or click it.

***
Yaya ... eeegaaad, my depressants, quick! I just heard from the Kapamilya news that my favorite Twilight will be ... NOOOOOOO!!!

Okay Angelina: quick! ... Here you go.

Hooo. Thank you Yaya. You're still a loser, by the way.

I know, I know. I'm such a loser.

Oh guys, there you are. Uh, uh, he, he, don't believe those things you see on TV, okay. They're not true. They just make things - and me - look bad, even if they're really not. I'm really an angel sent by Angel Gabriel to this earth. Right, Yaya?

(Angelina holds the only picture of Yaya with his boyfriend on one hand, a lighter on the other.)

Yes Angelina, you're an angel sent by Angel Galadriel to this earth.

Thank you again, Yaya.

Christmas is the season of giving, as they say. It's better to give than to receive. Take it from me: I'm going to give to a chosen charity my Dora The Explorer key chain. I'm so excited ... Aunt Delphine said she will arrive later with my iPhone, with Dora The Explorer as its customized skin! How cool is that!

But you know what sometimes, I actually envy Yaya. She has a boyfriend - even if she always tells it's only her friend. Well people say that, during Christmas, when somebody bathes you with love, your holidays won't be that cold. I don't feel my Mama's love and affection ... it's always Yaya and I. Yaya and I weekly ... (huhu). Well I hope Yaya rubs all of that loving to me later. She doesn't know this, but I've got a present for her. (See, I'm a good girl!) It's something I especially cooked up for her this Christmas - a fruitcake which I've added with something powdery.

Christmas is really here. Its nature is infectious; everybody gets in the act of giving. My neighbor drug dealer just gave me earlier a present. It's enclosed in plastic and he told me it's yummy. Now isn't that sweet of him. Since this is Christmas I want to share to Yaya this delectable treat. And so I've sprinkled some on her fruitcake.

***
Aw, isn't that nice.

Before Angelina gets all preachy, I want to greet everybody a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! If you can't understand English yet, Maligayang Pasko at Manigong Bagong Taon! If by chance, you came all the way from Paris, Joyeux Noel et une Heureux Nouvelle Anée! If you're the click-all-the-way type, and with the probability of 1/4,000, you're a Spanish blogger that stumbled upon this blog entry, then Feliz Navidad y Prospero Año Nuevo! Now if you don't apply to what I had said, and you still don't to the other possible 6,912, qosRaj botIvjaj!

I know who Bob Ong is!

If you happen to be living in a bat cave, and you're not catching up on your contemporary Filipino authors, then you probably don't know that a certain Bob Ong (or Roberto Ong) is respiring right now.

In fact if you just take notice of the lost traveler crying out for help in your cave then he may lend you his laptop and you can search Google for this special individual. Or for me to spare myself of pulling my poor superficial flexor finger muscles in typing another sentence, I will now give you his page in Wikipedia: here.

Bob Ong is popular. (When you're in Wikipedia, even if that means seeing that someone has inputted that you're married to King Kong, someone thinks you're popular.) "Popular," in the sense, not only by name but also in appearance. Almost everyone who has read his work thinks "Bob Ong should be popular." Problem is, no one knows who he really is, and to tell him, "Hey, you're popular!"

Until now.

I've just finished Ang Paboritong Libro ni Hudas. A ridiculously uproarious book. The CAT commandant, when messed with, shakes uncontrollably like centipedes will come out of his face. "If you believe in God" being a debate for ages. The fact that "kumakain ng kanin-baboy ang baboy." German shepherds, French bulldogs, and Filipino congressmen are worth 25T each. The "Bahay ni Lolo" in Baguio. On why barbers problematize the love life of Vina Morales. Such banats. But wait, Baguio, dogs, the fact that these could only be written not by an embalmer, but a writer, a witty writer? A person pops out of my head. Ow. Em. Gi! Can it be ...?

I hurriedly dialled a number in my cellphone. (Yes, a "desperate times call for drastic measures" situation.) I was giddy with anticipation: Please pick up. (*ring*) Pick up. (*ring*) Pick. (*ring*) Up. (*ring*) Damnitpickup! "Hello?" a voice answered. Being a second away from entering myself in an anger management program, I sighed. Then I could only muster a "Hi." (Then long pause.) "Oh, it's you Daryl." (Can anyone just pronounce my name properly?) And in the most courteous manner that I could have possibly done: "AreyouBobOng?" (Another 50-year pause. Probably scratching his head.) " Huh? What did you say? ... wha, wha ... I didn't understand ... how did you know?" was the response. Just I was about to answer his question I pushed the "end conversation" button.

So there. He might've misinterpreted my final question as "Have you had babang?" (Actually, babang is translated as "powder" in Ilocano.), but I left it at that, happy to "know" who Bob Ong is. Can you imagine: me and the Visual Print Enterprises people, the only people to know who he really is? I mean, I actually beat those hardcore Bobongers (if there is such a group) in discovering something we share as being in the same level as that of the search for the Holy Grail. They could be shelling out trucks of cash, calling for the services of those C.S.I. New York freakazoids, or resurrecting Sherlock Holmes, while I just needed to (awkwardly) balance my brains out.

By the way Bob Ong is actually ... F (where are the label of these damn keys; I can't see them) ...

Excuse me this is urgent: I must pee first.