I'd ask Clint Eastwood to go for a couple of beers and congratulate him for winning his second Oscar for directing, but because that would be like asking a septuagenarian to climb the Alps, or an amputee giving me a piece of his mind via his middle finger, or asking David Blaine to raise the dea... nevermind that..., I'd blog about it instead. Clint Eastwood films are, inspite of the usual tragic undertow, distinctly quiet. No post-effects flamboyance. No sweeping score. Just honest storytelling. I'll leave the blow-by-blow skinny to the bonafide cineastes. |
So here's to you, Mr. Eastwood, Oscar or no Oscar. You are living proof that so many good things can come from doing things in the last minute.
Bored. Bored. Bored. To death. It is possible. But before that, the death-rattle prelude. Well, at least, that's doing something. Better than this wretched stiffening, restless vegetating. Which brings to mind a quotable quote from an old college buddy ...
"If misery loves company, then we're a corporation."
My desk would be the arson's oasis. A stranger would mistake me for a workaholic. There's so much flotsam, layers upon layers of it, an ecological system is taking root I could tell. But work really has been piling up in earnest, my desk lilts and groans in sheer gravitational agony. During that one brief instance I had to surface for air, that rare weekday downtime, I found myself glued to the couchpotato's altar of worship. It's on Discovery Channel. I realized I've been missing out on my daily dose of the proverbial fact-stranger-than-fiction staple.
The Discovery program featured an ethnic tribe teetering on the edge of extinction. But what makes this particular tribe worthy of distinction, therefore, blog-worthy, is their off-tangent sense of fashion. What little remains of it anyway. The men of their tribe have their manthings casually concealed in footlong cylindrical wooden poles.
There. Fact is stranger than fiction.
The Jonathan Carroll blog quote epidemia. It's a pseudo-meme. It's a semi-meme. Soon, it will have thumbprints in everyone's blog. Resistance is futile. Bow down to superior wisdom.
"Be the person your dog thinks you are."
Japanese pop femme chimpmunks heard over a hundred times already I'm starting to see MTVs of it in my dreams, that's playing in an endless loop on my left.
Behind me, artificial strings, slow and bereft of percussions, typical pretentious new age music that hover above you as you lie flat and limp and whincing as a spa masseur treats you like dough in desperate need of more yeast. Again, that's playing in a loop.
And somewhere north-west of me, an angry mob of rappers dishing out their trademark hatred of the world. Also playing in a loop. And still, thankfully somewhere beyond that, is mainstream pop. It's an appliance expo in here, where everyday's a dismal musical abomination.
You must now realize, my power of focus is so finely tuned it's scary.
Is there any way to euthanasia February? It's an awfully short month, as the lifespans of months go, which should make it a big boon to salary-men everywhere. But February is a scoundrel. It hopscotches to the 29th. Please, give me a baseball bat and I'll make February sprint like it was leap year.
Failed relationships. Failed marriages. Happens. A lot. Nowadays. Joseph Campbell, in his opus The Power Of Myth, offers a theory. He thinks myth, well, at least the spiritual part of it, is an elixir of longevity to marriage. When living went from dial-up to broadband, the spiritual facet of our lives grew suddenly bulimic. He goes to the second largest population on earth to illustrate his point. In India, weddings take three days. That's a lot of curry. Anyway, after 3 days, nothing on earth could possibly rend the newly wed's union apart. "Cemented", according to Campbell.
3 days. Britney Spears got her numbers right. But got the idea all wrong.
The problem with a career in writing is it reduces your social life to zero, zombifies, petrifies, and it really gets in the way of serious blogging action. That's why I'm now considering getting in touch with the right kind of nutjob, preferrably in and out of the asylum, and with a real knack for ruining appetites, and giving him my username and password, to wear the highly-prized mantle of anti-static. Temporarily, anyway. Until I land a career selling pots and pans door-to-door. Or a sales clerk in a 24-hour convenience store and do graveyard shifts. With so much time to kill it would be a massacre. I would blog like mad and post episodic sagas of epic lengths. And, yes, lots of my brand of war-mongering, conspiracy theories, alien sightings, cosmic anomalies and Nippon fetish updates in between.
Some days, fate conspires against you. Normally, that would be Mondays. But there are exceptions. Today is a shining example of that exception. Think of all the synonyms of boring, string them together in a straight line, read, and you'll get the picture. HDTV sharp. Anyway, just an eternity ago, I was drumming my keyboard, when Le Muse cometh.
She's a miserable frau of impossible proportions. Spit-shiny boots, starch-stiff salt and peppers, and a swagger stick worn-out with abuse. She points her vicious stick at me and orders me to write. Imagining the consequential welts and hematoma of disobedience, I write.
She pulls out her PDA from her breast pocket, rubs her chin, then vanishes, leaving a fading trail of laughter and Richard Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" score. Off to inspire the next blogger stuck in a rut.
But little does she know, Anti-Static is a scheming bastard who's instinct of self-preservation is somewhat in the same league as breathing. I'll publish this entry. Then, resume drumming my keyboard until the clock strikes six.
Apollo Mission: "Houston, we have a problem..."
Command : "What's the problem, Eagle 1?"
Apollo Mission : "Err... Command? Uhrm... watch out for falling debris... "
The day I actually meet a person who loved "Battlefield Earth" would be the day I die.
More and more bumper stickers are getting more and more inane, vacuous, mindless and, worst of all, sponsored. Here's second-hand wisdom on the fly, in the tradition of "shit happens", but with the instantaneous efficacy of dinitrogen monoxide. Without further ado, go knock yourselves out...
4 out of 5 voices in my head say Go For It!
As a matter of fact, I do own the road.
Cover me! I'm changing lanes.
Get off my ass before I start to like it!
Horn Broken Watch for Finger
I'm a nice guy. My car is evil.
I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to work.
I'm Out of Estrogen And I Have a Gun
I don't care, I don't have to.
I have a nice body. It's in my trunk.
I may be slow but I'm ahead of you!
If everything is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane!
Pissing off the whole planet one person at a time
So Many Cats, So Few Recipes
I gave up drinking, smoking and sex - Worst 15 minutes of my life
A bartender is just a pharmacist with a limited inventory.
Always remember you're unique, just like everyone else.
Boldly Going Nowhere
Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines.
Few women admit their age, few men act it.
Go On, I will See You At The Next Light.
I intend to live forever - so far, so good.
If you can read this I can deploy your air bag!!!
If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.
Never eat more than you can lift.
Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.
There is no shortcut to anywhere worth going.
When all else fails, lower your standards.
You’re Just Jealous Because The Voices Only Speak To Me
This blog entry began with my secret plan of world domination and launching a new world order. One that would last a millenia. But, seeing the danger in this, I turn my thoughts to world peace, tantric pursuits, and that french fries go best with mayonnaise than ketchup.
Casanovas of the world, unite. Valentines Day. Chocolates. Roses. Chloroform. Come November, OBs and their nurses make busy, as the world gets repopulated anew.
30 grand is manna from heaven. To split it with 15 other people is madness. To use it for some leisurely pursuits, really lame ones, is conspiracy. To bet part of it in lotto, well, now, that is pure brilliance. Anybody lands the jackpot, we split it to 15, too. That's 5 million each. The chances are skrewey as far as fat chances are concerned, but since we're all screwed anyway, off we went, elbowing, muscling our way through throngs of sweat-stained millionaire hopefuls to get our lotto tickets. We shot off with our bundles of luck, giggling like school girls all the way back to the office.
That was friday, the draw was Saturday. To make a long story absurdly short, we all lost.
Good thing too, actually. I kept hearing voices in my head all the time. Lord of the Flies, they said.
During the last corplan, at one point, the facilitator, her smile a perpetual facial landmark, think the Joker, minus the genocidal urge and the slim physique that's to die for, asked us to mill around and tell each other's secret passion. Rendering "secret" rather moot, doesn't it? Anyway, with the company chairman hovering just within earshot, we all perfunctorily did as told, unloading secret passions with meta-human effort. I told all the profusely perspiring, vulnerable souls unfortunate enough to cross my path of unburdening my best kept secret.
And that is, I love donuts.
Grateful to hear a secret passion that's wholesome, maybe for the first time in their lives, and with a sigh of relief drawn from anywhere but the lungs, they moved on to the next shrinking violet without having told me theirs. Comfortable with this naturally-evolved symbiotic arrangement - I'll tell you my secret, nevermind yours - I went around with the renewed vigor of a man losing his marbles.
I love donuts. I must've been a cop in my previous life.
Santa ain't for real. That's a bitter pill to swallow. But the umbilical that linked my calloused wish-generating faculties to the concept of a jolly fat philantrophist was tougher to excise than I originally assumed. The last Christmas, the last straw. The details as to this rude awakening of sorts I dare not disclose here, for it would be an open invitation to bored shrinks who frequent this blog, or life insurance agents. Anyhoo, I have digressed far too long. Now, on to the real deal.
Not in any particular order. And definitely, not final.
Le Roi Danse (The King Is Dancing)
Wherever Louis XIV goes, the whole symphonic orchestra goes. The 17th century version of Steve Jobs' iPod.
Starring Charlton Heston. The last man without the cheeky, glow-in-the-dark eyes.
Flight Of Dragons
Animation. It's science versus fantasy! Supreme Warlock versus Math professor! The professor wins!
Lord Of The Rings: Return Of The King (4-disc)
Why the hell not.
The City Of Lost Children
Just to see if my salivary glands are in perfect working condition. Directed by Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet.
Wheels On Meals
I did get the title right. Jackie Chan, Yuen Biao, Samo Hung kung fu action. Nevermind the big bump in the title.
Life hurts a lot more than death. -- Jim Morrison
The seat of pain is the knee. It's loyalty is to gravity. Not the mind. It's the first to go, the rest just comes tumbling down. The knee is a rouge.
There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief. -- Aurelius
Science has no cure to emotional hurt, heartbreak. Loss. Prozac is but an anesthesia. In the long run, it is an expensive placebo. The cure is amnesia. Cauterize pain where it throbs and smarts. Amnesia, making the world a better place.
It's a real primal thing, watching someone get hurt. It's funny and accessible. -- Johnny Knoxville
I bet he hurts, too. Sometimes.
He who watches dusk meets he who watches out for falling debris. The reunion is not, by any means, to pat each other's backs for a-blogging done well, but we patted each others backs just the same. His reason for coming is migratory. Two words, mainly "pastures" and "greener". Oh, plus "sanity". The brief visit concluded with a couple of realizations. First, that there are deviants even among deviants. And, sometimes, the rare psycho can get in the way of a pink and supple career health. Second, smokers are a dying breed.
Oi! Duskwatcher! I'll see what I can do for you.
Now, where's that book, "Hypnotism ... For Dummies."
Curiosity is one of my finer traits which might, someday but not hopefully soon, lead me prematurely to the pearly gates. Anyway, for the time being, apocalyptic conclusions aside, here's my latest jaunt into the cave of the unknown. Took a Reverse Astrology test online, one of those hordes of meme that's been proliferating en masse lately. Okay, Astrology I can appreciate, the Reverse part, I don't have the foggiest idea. Anyway, reverse or no, the test engine yielded this result,
"According to our analysis, you are a Scorpio, Oct 23 to Nov 21. But you are certainly not a Libra, Sep 23 to Oct 22. You claim to be a Leo, but you are simply in error. Please consult your parents as to your actual birth date."
Which I intend to do ASAP. I can probably stand being Scorpio, paranoid snobs that they are, but I am immensely grateful, to the nth degree, not to be Libra. For many reasons. Here's one ...
"I'm a scorpion!", "I'm a ram!", "I'm a lion!", "I'm a weighing scale."
The Software Pirate's Motto
Burn 'em all!
Word to the wise, or something to that effect, courtesy of Cris Villanueva, barfly extraordinaire, and then some. Here's to you!
And really good at it, too. There's a nagging itch to Queer Eye, again, the blog interface. But this very Frank Sinatra's way of DIY is easier said than done. I am with-holding the urge to issue forth the SOS to all the King's men and their horses until Humpty Dumpty, poor, poor doomed bastard, has had a great fall. Which is most likely to be soon. Real soon. The links are appearing in the hotzone hinterlands of my blog, which mandates the use of a very efficient optic mouse with scroll and a modicum of fortitude.
Ahh... another Sinatra song coming ... "Let Me Try Again" ...
I need a drink.
So soon. So, so soon.
Fridays usually signal an end to blogging. Because domestic life is the usual, same old, same old. Not that that is a bad thing. Au contraire. Just that there isn't much to blog about, you know, the wife still thinks I'm corny, I still can't beat Mark my boy in King Of Fighters, whatever edition, my little Jiro, 5 months old that he is, thinks I'm always up to no good (in gibberish). And the maids, well, they think I'll bring my slovenly domestic habits to the grave. Though, my little dachsund is a little partial to me, I think. Those little scraps of leftover bribes still work their charm. And then, there's the nearby mall. And DVDs. And cable surfing. And the lost art of lounging around. Couchpotato heaven.
As a parting shot, before I ran off to pursue my weekend bliss, Milan Kundera sums up "Unbearable Lightness Of Being" in a few words: Routine is salvation. Not that that's my excuse. But it does make sense.
An officemate, yes, that's you, dear daydreamer, who's into this fine craft of blogging, gave me a nod to surface scan her blogspace, albeit, with the post-script fair-weather warning that it's not ... ehrm ... deep.
Welcome to the club... MY club. Please leave your shoes at the door.
I know "deep" when it stares me in the face, being its close personal acquaintance, but given the choice between a foray into the Marianas Trench or the absurdities in and of life, I'd go surface-tanning any day.
I'd plunge into the depths of the soul when there's enough vitamin D to go around, though. Makes living a tad more rich. Not necessarily more bearable. Nor, where practicalities are concerned, more convenient, remote control-convenient.
Just the same, everybody has a capacity to dig deep, beat Pablo Neruda in his own game, congressmen and senators included, and maybe, one or two celebrity stars.
So, blog away like there's no tomorrow. Here, we are beings of pure magic and visceral awe. Here, we are bullet-proof, heck, make that nuclear bomb-proof. Here, we are the laws of physics and fashion reality in compliance to our whims.
Someday, you'll say "Fuckit. Anti-static was right. Bless him."
I say, kneel, knave, kneel!
The infamous Arcbishop of Manila, the title, the name and his decades-spanning career is the (insert superlative here) paradox, I believe, of this age. Fate apparently had both left and right hands in it. Cardinal Sin. I still can't get over it.
Your mouse, in collaboration with your itchy digits, has lead you here. Conscious choice has nothing to do with it. You wish, no, you hope, fingers and toes crossed, to get the benefit of a quick seratonin-boost as dear ole anti-static continues his rampage of sarcasm and loathing. Wrong. This site is currently undergoing fumigation. So, while I attend to these hapless arthropods, I'll leave you with this one thought...
In New Order's Bizarre Love Triangle, where's the love triangle? And what's so bizarre about it?
I've seen this list a couple of years ago. I stored this in my old email. Old means it's now a defunct 0 kilobyte. Fortunately, an officemate emailed me this list quite recently, under the title New Words. Not so new now, is it? And not a real help to anyone anyway. It will not ease your chronic fits of psychosis. Beer still works better. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the crap archive... Here goes...
The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
All talk and no action.
Dopeler effect (n):
The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come very quickly.
Arachnoleptic fit (n.):
The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.
A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
1,000 synonyms to ... jacking off ... you know, choking the bishop, the blue baseball bat (998 more to go), etc. Yes, there is such a site. "worldwidewank". Things you find on the net ...
Yet, here's another ...
... The blog "evilsciencechick". No science. No chick. Just pure evil.
"Watch Out For Falling Debris".
Is there any point to this blog, you ask. Absolutely none. Which is the point exactly.
Allow me to illustrate with today's Food For Thought special:
This is not a good time to be a brand man for mayonnaise.
Is It November Already?
Now, Isn't She A Beauty
So, What's New?
Goblins, Rascals, Every Single One Of Them
The Anatomy Of A Rant
Spamblogger, A Word Or Two...
Garlic, All Is Not Lost.
Gaiman versus Caiman
Busy ... Busy ... Busy ...
Born To Snooze
Heres My Kokote
Is It Safe?
Something To Sing About
Streaks Of Light
Hire Me ... Please
Hyung Tae Kim
Happy Tree Friends
My Boyfriend Is A Twat
Home Star Runner
Albino Black Sheep
Triumph, The Insult Comic Dog