The Paostian Deal

... is why my colegiala-beyond-repair sister keeps befriending homeless people.

As sprouts we were taught to be always ready to lend a helping hand to the less fortunate. But is it really too much to ask for a quiet weekend without the side of eternal high school-ness? At the end of a sweaty, grueling 50-hour workweek sprinkled with last-minute scorching summer days too, the last thing one needs if only to salvage sanity is a litter of hair-rebonds, Disney Channel and Paris Hilton. Waking to the nerve-killing shrieks of 21-year-old die-hard fans of Pinoy Big Brother Teen Editon Plus is cherry on top of a Coocooh-kies & Shit ice cream. Somebody telephone the nearest dog pound.

This is the third time I got on a jeep with a circus fugitive playing with a Rubik’s Cube. First, scarves on a scorching 3PM. Now, rainbow-colored plastics before brunch. I would’ve tolerated a PDA from teen exhibitionists, but no, the commuting poops decided to show off their geek side. Fine, I get it, lady—you have a magnificent brain and I only have split ends. I don’t care if you can solve the fucking 3x3x3 in 2 seconds even without looking at it. But between us, I’m not the one selling rip-off make-up behind some one-level department store counter no one ever really notices. Get off my jeep.

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Speaking of stores. Why in screwed sanity are there NO trash cans in SM Mall of Asia? A million football fields in size and no bins for used tissue? What, they want the visitors to leave their DNA samples on the floor? This is why SM can never be more than a huge, over-hyped grocery store. Well I guess it could be worse, had they posted “No littering” in every corner. Gargantuan idiocy.

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Will everybody freaking-please stop playing that guy version of Always Be My Baby? Overkill. OVERKILL.

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And while you’re at it, could you also please commence the universal signature campaign to kick Cesar Montano out of the television? And of bottled water endorsements? … and into oblivion? If there’s one thing that can make taxpayers-who-deserve-good-TV-entertainment-at-least-after-office ask, “WHAT?”, in the most hardcore way imaginable, it’s Cesar Montano.

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Break-ups. Bad for the heart, good for exhalation. But, after high school, do we really still need public display of dramatic, overflowing bitterness? Everybody screws up. Admit that you did, let her go—let it go—hire 49 sluts if needed, then go find your next failure. Or a cave where you can’t bother anyone else. Ridiculously picky dweebs have very limited access to the very busy streets of Real Life.

Or better yet, let's nick this post, "Honesty." Since it's what this quickie update and this video is all about:


Somebody had to crack sooner or later. A few like the now-fabulous Marian Rivera are simply brave enough to step aside the overpaid limelight for a while and be human. There might be hope for showbiz personalities, yet. Very. Nice.

P.S.
Those who "defend", shut it. Clearly the woman doesn't need you or your pathetic "concern". Stop sharing her moment and go get dirty yourselves. Moths.

Thing is, a favorite TV show says, there are some things people refuse to admit because they don’t like the way they sound. Like, “Monday.” Or, “Payday’s still a year away.”

Or, “I have neighbors.”

I spoke too soon. Just when I thought our 10,001 BC-native neighbors had finally shut up after sensing the world’s—my—utter loathing towards their barbaric 24/7 sound-making of brawls, pot sessions and sex talks, no shit, here comes the evolution: the kids. Apparently, while the adults were staging unnerving aerobics sessions to the tune of Barney’s in the morning, dreadful videoke rounds in the afternoon and absolutely pathetic drunken fights till the next aerobics crap, the fledglings were watching attentively, taking notes and learning the ropes and some. Now their Day has finally arrived.

I know I should blame it on raging hormones, but an all-out “band” practice at 1AM? Shouldn’t they be in the dark masturbating or making out or something? And why is it always Parokya Ni Edgar? Well I guess I should be extremely grateful it’s not Hannah Montana they’re humming out but come on—ONE A-M? By the front gate? THREE INCHES FROM MY ROOM WINDOW??

In high school I was also a Parokya fan. Although my thoughts of Chito usually involved me resting in his arms after a concert or us exchanging green jokes over cocaine. The band’s songs are like the local, less dramatic-but-still enjoyable versions of Maroon 5’s or Daughtry’s. Or straight versions of Kylie Minogue’s. The songs are closer to the heart, because of the language used, and as one who spent some teen years tapping desks to PNE’s beats, I kind-of-understand how today’s pubescents get mesmerized and think of nothing else but singing Buloy and feel astig.

Except when they pound drum sets and endlessly set up electric guitars—and yelling “Tara, inom tayo (Let’s get drunk like our grandpas)!” every 5 minutes—from midnight till the first rooster sings. And yes, the sex talk is there as well.

The kids are taking over. I’ve to wait 7 years for my plans to be non-child battery.

Why we always can’t leave things be even when they’re not hurting us is still a mystery to me. Why we can’t simply enjoy simple things without being dramatic is taboo. We are masochists and we love complicated lives. We get off that way.

Take for example, a simple invitation. Let me repeat that: A. Simple. Invitation. NOT a death threat. NOT a subpoena. NOT even the results of an HIV test. So how in screwed existences would it make us so uneasy that we turn into a crime investigator who just gobbled three packs of caffeine—dry?


And all that shitload. I remember something in Philosophy class, that “begging the question” is a fallacy. That you’re a bird-brain wuss when you answer a question with another question. Now, in my universe, acting like such an imbecile when thrown—passed—an invitation is the same. The choice between gratitude and mistaking yourself for Paris Hilton even comes later. Either you’re in or you want to be forgotten is all an invitation wants, N.O.T. a blasted question in return.

It’s the other deadly sin.

The summer + tropical country + over-population heat is murdering my cells and I entirely can’t be any slower.

This happened the other week, when I woke up to a very intriguing… dawn. Wait, is 4AM dawn or is it midnight doing overtime? Anyway, cuckoo, I was supposed to wake up and get up that early because I had an early day at work. More than it being a Monday doesn’t make it peculiarly something else, it’s how I awoke that made it intriguing. You see I woke up to a dream… about Judy Ann Santos. I know. Weird. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve no real problem with that actress-celebrity. But WTF was she doing in my dream? The last time I talked to that woman in person was about 10 months ago. And we were talking about bread. Apparently this is how delayed my subconscious has become: Interact now, remember a decade later.

Anyway, the dream. Juday and I were in a wash-slash-dressing room and we were washing our faces. Then we talked about cosmetics, facial care and—wait for it—how she admires my skin. In that dream itself I knew I was dreaming. Then the follow-through: I turned on the tube to have company in the breakfast table. Then. I saw. What was on. Ghostrider. A.k.a. Nicolas Cage At 439: Hollywood Goes Botox-Free.

What in the world could this mean? Dream Moods tries to help me makes sense of that morning:

To see one’s face in a dream, says the site, means you’re hiding the real you from other people. Hmm. But if do let out my “true self”, then the world will be less, less, LESS populated what with me taking good care of all the idiots messing with my nerves—including smokers getting sick because of their hobby and complaining about it. Not bad a message. On the other hand, it could also mean your “willingness to deal with problems in your life.” Hell yeah, I am very much willing. Truck exhausts, be prepared.

Water symbolizes life. If you’re “splashed by it” in your dream, it shows your need to be revitalized and be more expressive. I am hell out of the current shtint—shit stint—at work right now. Check. I have told the powers-that-would about it. Check. They are working with me to fix it. Bullcrap.

A woman in your dream, DM continues, signifies “nurturance, passivity, caring nature, and love. It refers to your own female aspects…” I knew it. It’s the estrogen. And everybody else keeps denying it. Oh well. On the other hand, it can also mean temptation and guilt. O-kay. Yet I’m no Eve—for I’d have taken that reptile home as a pet instead of playing hypocrite.

To see Judy Ann Santos in your dream means you’re having a soap opera overload. But Beauty & the Geek is so addictive, and Philippine news always catches me in the morning!

To see your reflection in the mirror means you’re mulling self-perception. Guilty. I’m too nice: Maybe I should just shoot dog owners in the village regularly-losing-their-pets-and-finding-them-in-our-laundry-area and get on with our blasted lives.

Washing one’s self means pride on “social life and personal endeavors.” HOGWASH. Five days a week I rot in an UN-air conditioned office in the middle of a rice field only moss can grow on, play Tea Party with officemates who obviously hate one another, then almost never see Friends because they just want to stay in on weekends. When your colegiala-beyond-repair sisters’ OhMyGod! Gang pay your house a pest visit. Also that dream element could mean getting rid of “unhappy experiences or emotions in life.” Now there’s a perpetual job.

So what of the follow-through? I certainly don’t fancy Nicolas Cage—not that I fancy Judy Ann either, sicko. Only one message I could think of: There’s always a nightmare after every dream.

Tycocoon: I have a great idea for a business.

Jeep butterfly: Okay let’s make some money...

Tycocoon: Masculine wash!

Jeep butterfly: Wha?

Tycocoon: You know how everyone’s a fan of feminine wash. I’m thinking, why not make one for men, too?

Jeep butterfly: Your fascination with male gonads intrigues and throws me off at the same time.

Tycocoon: Think about it—it’s proper hygiene for everybody!

Jeep butterfly: Something tells me your face has gotten tired of pH5 and wants to try something more, say, familiar…

Tycocoon: It’s perfect! I even have an advertising tag already: (in the vernacular)


Jeep butterfly: You hangout in Malate way too much, pal, way too much.

There’s a reason why I never initiate conversations with some entities—and it’s because these beings have a hearts as brittle as their brains that they don’t sense not being liked when it bites their nipples.

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The other day, in a jeep, a tall, dark guy who looked like a tall, dark smurf sat right across me… with his thighs spread. Wait, that’s an understatement: His torso practically occupied the entire bench. WIDE. For the rest of the trip. Talk about shrimp on a platter. I wasn’t sure what message the cosmos was trying to send, but definitely I’d go for better cartoons.

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I get it that you’re a Disney-Hallmark native, I can’t help that lost cause, but what’s with “kiss your mom for me” on Mother’s Day? Are you crazy? Or plainly, icky sick? She doesn’t even know you exist, creep!

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I knew it: the flick Iron Man was a big tease. But not Clobberfield tease; more like, American Idol-winner tease. You know, you think it’s huge but it really isn’t. At all. I’m on a break from hanging out with my be-muscled friends, but watching Robert Downey Jr. trotting around with those huge cysts all over his body—while Gwyneth Paltrow whispered her lines here and there—man, I didn’t know Tony Stark was a frustrated bouncer. Chills on the spine.

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Speaking of AI. I’m standing my ground: David Archuleta must die. If the voting people will get rid of Syesha Mercado this week, then I’m okay with letting the airy David Cook win. But the US seems to burst with dumb colegialas-who-fall-for-closet-fags that my wish could remain just a wish… In that case, here’s another wish: rename the show, American Twink.

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Acid rain has been pouring since 1852. Now you cancel weekend pot sessions because of a drizzle. What, we’re ashamed of our gremlinealogy now?

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Adam Levine is steamy cute, alright. But somehow I just can’t forgive him for sounding too Chipmunk-y sometimes.

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At work, when you’re asked for a “purpose” for a vacation leave and a “reason” for a sick leave, what do you, uh, say? For real. It’s bugging me.

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So after 8 months “trying it” in the company’s marketing group, our try-hardest president has tasked me with his most idiotic of-utmost-priority to-do shit: put pictures on a Friendster profile background. I know. I’m too astounded to describe my feelings further. But I guess I have something new to say in my next job interview: that I finished AB Friendster.

Period.