So I'm on house arrest (of sorts). The absence of maids means that I am the maid by default. Therefore leaving the house is out of the question. I really need to get my hands on a good book. Soon. The gray matter in my brain is turning green already (mold? mildew?). It may even start sprouting mushrooms.

The thing is, what is a good book, exactly? And how do I find one? Before this, I could get by with the recommendations made by the professors and other academic types in Ateneo, friends who actually read, AND my own taste. But now, I fear I don't know my own taste anymore. No, wait, that's not true. Actually, what I want is something different (and still fantastic), which I wouldn't normally choose if it were all up to me.

I want something new, something that can get me excited again (ahh, to hear the wheels in my brain start turning once more), something that inspires fanaticism and a passionate lust to buy/read/know everything related to it. Yep, I want something as all-consuming as all that. Chronic boredom, you know. It may help alleviate the pain.

Any suggestions?

Oh yeah, here's another story on blogs and a funny piece caricaturing the (over-rated) reaction of the US's so-called homeland security .

I found two interesting words that have apparently developed another side to their definitions. Curmudgeon and Avatar. Avatar can now be taken to mean (especially in reference to cyber space) a hacker, a computer whiz kid, a net-surfing demigod. Curmudgeon, which already implies ill-tempered people full of resentment and stubborn ideas, now also means angsty kids -- which we seem to come across a whole lot of in these our worlds (real, virtual, blogosphere).

Someone just asked me what the story is behind blogs. Link to blog history here. Are there any other blog hosting sites besides this one? Well, yes, but this is the best so why go anywhere else? But then, if you must, you must. Weblogs is one of them.

I rechecked my gayness level through the spark's test, and can you believe it actually increased? I am now 52% gay. (It used to be just 42%.)

To the people who seem really interested in "The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy", email me, because I have the .txt and .pdf files on hand. I can send them to you or upload it or something.

I just realized that I am supposed to cook our dinnner. I have no more ideas left after the tandoori. Maybe I'll just make them corned beef or something. Or spaghetti. Pasta is always easy if you have all the ingredients in commercial form.

You know, blogging is turning out to be good writing exercise. Unlike my un-blogger webpage, which is exasperating to keep very current because of the html and all the coding involved, this is is just type in and you're done. Very conducive to journal-writing. Actually, very conducive to writing, period.

Hurrah for Rij, who has volunteered to write up my blog index! It will be up and running soon, so you don't have to threaten me with list expulsion anymore.

Hold on people, I will put up a blog index soon. It's just such a hassle to write up links to all of your blogs. That endeavor is no joke, you know. So, here's a proposition. I will put up a blog index right here and now if someone else writes it for me. If not, you'll just have to wait.

And yes I have lot of free time, mis amigos, but I am also a lazy couch potato.

Whoa. You do have a lot of free time. Mutual accessibility was a good idea. Whatever gave you the idea that you're not as smart as you thought? I'm not denying, confirming or even considering the validity of that statement, I'm just really curious.
Write up a link to my blog and I'll write up a link to yours.

I am not as smart as I once thought I was.

Do you know how damaging this kind of realization is???

Okay, I am going to say my piece and then keep quiet for as long as I can.

I take offense at people who go on and on about how they hate posers and yuppie-shitfucks who pretend to be artists just because they can write in decent english, have read a so-called deep book, have joined a "cool" band, or have rediscovered their "selves" through soul-searching with the aid of a chemist.

I also hate the posers but, damnit, enough is enough. All I hear nowadays is fuck the posers, fuck the yuppies, fuck the conyos and a general fuck off to the world.

So you see a briefcase-weilding guy wrapped in the corporate uniform of Ortigas thumbing through your favorite comic book, ahem, graphic novel. Or a rich-socialite-writer-wannabe buying "By The River Piedra...". I say let them be, and be happy that they have finally awakened from their pathetic hibernation in the cave of social clones. (Given, ofcourse, that they actually read what they buy.)

Enough is enough. It is a fad for them. Let them have their moments of enlightenment. It will pass. Meanwhile, get off your own artistic high horse. Just wait for the exodus back into the country clubs (by day) and Makati clubs (by night). It will pass.

And then we can go back to our own little autistic worlds.

I just realized that a few of you will inadvertently miss the pictures because my image hosting bandwidth is only up to 5000 kb per diem. So sorry, the later you check in, the more likely you won't see anything I guess. Alas, alas, my sister has left.

And breaking news: Our nice old maid fell from a chair while she was putting back the screens on the windows. Being the eldest and "in-charge", I had to drive her to the nearest clinic, where she was told to rest for a couple of days and have it x-rayed. So we are left utterly maidless (because I sent the unfallen one to see the the one who fell home safely), and therefore cookless, which means I have to cook. Woe is me.

I have decided to try my luck with an Indian dish -- tandoori chicken. After all, my other sister (the one who isn't six years old and still in manile with me) doesn't know how a proper tandoori should taste like and so if it bombs she really won't know the difference. Besides, chicken is all chicken to her anyway.

Good thing we already have rice.

And actually we still have leftovers from last night, so if my tandoori sucks that much they can just toss yesterday's dinner into the microwave.

Or order a pizza.

okay, to cheer me up at the impending departure of my six-year old sister and parents to fantabulous Boracay, I am uploading my favorite pics in random order:



(maita, trix, me, polots and rt)



(me, trix, kathy, rt and maita)


Then again, maybe I can just immigrate to some tropical beachy country and sell beads and stuff. I've had some experience anyway:

(me and maita)
And the weird thing is, the buyers wanted to have their pictures taken with us. Go figure.

Okay, yes, yes and yes. I have a LOT of free time. What do you expect? I'm a newly graduated, still unemployed person. So bite me.

And finally, I can post pictures. Thank you for the tip on village photos. Here's my number one favorite Boracay pic taken the summer of 2001 (Trix, RT, Marco and moi):






Well, now, on to commenting on other people's blog entries. My friend(s), ever have that quasi-almost-epiphany in the middle of some drunken revelry with your usual inebriates (okay, so I'm not sure there is such a word)?

I distinctly remember this one instance. It felt like the whole world was dancing and I was on top of it and I was completely at peace. I was flying higher and higher and I was actually scared my head was going to bump into something, but then the celieng had been cut out of heaven. I felt like I was going to touch infinity. I felt like the doors of nirvana had been flung open in my face. I felt like I could hold the meaning of my life in my hand. I felt utterly content, like I really loved the whole frigging world.

Which led me to conclude that I must be extraordinarily drunk or stupendously high, but then I realized that I hadn't taken anything which made me completely SOBER.

And then it was as if I didn't really know what I was doing there, or what was hapenning. All I knew was I was me, and I suddenly had this amazingly powerful sense of self-awareness. But then the dopey guy I had been trying to avoid suddenly attempted to strike up a conversation, effectively wiping out the gate to enlightenment by his mediocre foray into small talk.

That was exactly how my last date went.

RIJ, do not be that dopey guy.

If she feels like she's on to something, she will only resent you if you stop her. Nevermind that you honestly don't think she's good enough. ( If she isn't then you really have nothing to worry about, now, do you?) The truth of the matter is, it's not your life. It's hers. And although you may have the best of intentions, good intentions aren't what she wants or even needs. She needs to go out there and explore herself, and try to see if she can make a dream come true.

She's right. You will get in the way. I'm sorry to sound patronizing, but I know you. You're too, umm, protective of the people you love. You never want to see them hurt, or mistaken. But she needs that, I think. She wants to hold the world, or as much of the world as she can. Stop trying to make her into "your girl". She isn't yours. I don't think she ever really was.

I'm sorry. You told me to be as blunt and as brazen as possible, so there you go. Honestly, dude, this doesn't seem like you're MO on love. The blog entry didn't even seem like it was written by you. I think there's something deeper here you're not telling (or typing, as the case may be). I won't pry (I never have and I won't start now).

Last thing, you don't need more girlfriends.

Rij, do you know of any webhosts that will do what you said? Please advise. I read your blog updates, and have commented. Will comment more fully (hehehe) here soon.
JR, we were friends. You, of all people, should know that. And it's not just MY sea as you put it. It's your half of the species. Let's just blame it on genetics -- ;ack of certain chromosomes and all.

Notice how people write "it hit me" like they just had a flash of insight from out of nowhere, when in fact you know they've known whatever it is that hit them for a long time and it couldn't really have hit them in any way, because if they didn't know this thing that purportedly hit them, they would be iredeemably stupid?
It's a bad habit, I know. I promise to stop. Or at least, TRY.

So a word about the gibbons. I was watching Discovery channel or National Geo (forget which, they've melded into one in my mind like extensions of each other), and there were these gibbons the Thai Environment Police (or something similar) caught from illegal traders/vendors/pet owners. The environmentalists were trying to rehabilitate them for life in the wild but it was a bit rough going because the animals had become addicted to amphetamines (which made them look alert as opposed to their normal and natural napping state), had amputated bodyparts, and were so dependent on humans for food, shelter, and just about everything.

But the animal lovers persevered. The gibbons were put in a large cage in some forest in Thailand so that they could get accustomed to the wild environment. They were weaned from human interaction, and had to get their food from strategically and cleverly located baskets which were scattered on the tree tops and hidden in bushes.

Finally the day of the cage openning came. You'd think the gibbons would be scrambling out or something. It took quite a while for even one adventurous primate to even step outside the door. And when it did get out, it went running back in again in less than 2 minutes. They didn't want to leave the comfort and security, and not to mention safety of their homey, cosy cage.
And think about it. Why are they being released anyway? Who's to say what's natural and what's best for them? Us? With all our flawed logic? Isn't what's natural, what comes easy for you? If you never really knew the wild (except as a baby) isn't that something like throwing a 12 year old Chinese boy who may have been born in Guangdo (or something) but who grew up in England anyway, right smack in the middle of China even if he only knows a smattering of Chinese? Is this really the right way to righting out our mistakes?

But that's not really my point. My point is, this is just like human behavior. We seldom step outside the cage (of society, yourself, whatever). And when we do, we come running back in again. And who's to say that we actually should step out? Well, I don't know. Look at them monkeys.

Which leads me to conclude that we really are still animals. We've stretched and expanded the dilemma, and we've even taken it to higher plains, but in the end it's still the same dilemma. We've rarely gone beyond it.

So I guess were just gibbons, only less hairy, less noisy (some of us anyway), and a little smarter -- I think.

My parents are going to Boracay tomorrow. Shit. I know, I know, it's a piece of crassly commercialized land, exploited and fading into a shadow of its former self. But I still like it!
I wish I were going! I'd love to post a few of my favorite boracay pictures, but my web host blocks images linked to the blog. Rij, your expertise right about this point would be nice. And yes, Gamitan was directed by an Atenean.

I'm trying to streamline my website and my blog so that both can be accesible from each other and that they, well, sort of become complimentary. I think I'm doing okay.

Anyway, I read The Philippine Star just now, and ofcourse I just barely skimmed through the "important" parts and dove straight in to YS and the other Lifestyle/Entertainment sections. I don't want to be depressed again. After all, headlines never seem to bring any good news, and you always feel like life is hopeless and the bottom has been removed from our downward spiral so that we will be continuing on it in perpetua.

So, anyhow, I read Paula Nocon's article, and I sort of liked it. It spoke of men and women's changing tastes toward them - fickle, fickle.
And it hit me. Iam 21, and I've never been in a proper relationship -- quasi-flings not counted. It's not that I'm ugly or stupid, it's just that I'm still caught up in my own hopes of my own version of the fairytale. (Ofcourse this fairytale also changes with time, fickle, fickle.)

For some reason, I never seem to really connect with anyone -- except ofcourse the "off-limits" guys (ie friends, your friends' boyfriends, your friends' ahem, "bestfriends"). All I really want is a connection that isn't always biological - or anatomical for that matter. Someone who won't stare at me dumbly when I say persona non grata, someone who doesn't take his conversations watered down, someone who won't utter inane and irritating remarks when I mention some new book/poem/project that I'm into, someone interesting and takes interest in things outside of the stock market, politics, cars, drugs, alcohol and parties, (even if it's just occasionally), someone who can just talk without turning everything into a joke.

Ofcourse, someone who actually reads would be good too. Ditto for some form of passion for whatever artistic self expression. And someone who thinks about things.

Rolled up into a passably good-looking, passably well-off, passably smart package and delivered at my doorstep please.

Yes, like hundreds before me, I find that the hunt/wait for Mr. Right could be made so much easier if I had a Mr. Right Now.

Okay, so as it turns out, I'm not yet done with Beena's write-up. Apparently, I didn't cover the things that were "required". But she still wants me to do it, which means I have to do it over. Over the weekend. Well, if I had a social life, I should probably complain and gripe and whine to the high heavens -- and find some excuse to get out of this to boot -- but as I don't, I will look upon this as another opportunity to relieve my chronic boredom.

Got any suggestions as to how I can weave in "I partied, I studied, I had fun" into this thing?:

Beena’s write-up
Beena is the indisputable proof that life (or fate, whatever) is just not fair.
It would be so much easier for us mere mortals if she spewed out an attitude problem, or was a snob, or a juvenile delinquent, or a condescending little Ms. know-it all. Then maybe we could gripe about this edgy fashionista’s quadruple B combo (beauty, brains, breeding and a good bank account) with a clear conscience and justifiable gusto.
But she’s not, and we can’t.
Beena is too much of the comforting good friend you’ve had since prep (talking from experience). She’s the party girl who leaves the nightlife with nonchalance just after the last man standing has collapsed into a stupor, and yet can magically metamorphose into Ms. Colegiala who will help you get a higher grade than you can manage by yourself on an exam even if you dated your computer three nights in a row, and she was at varying scenes of hedonistic bacchanalia. She’s the keeper of your memories, the nice girl with the crazy brain, the ever-accepting friend, the loving, caring, generous version of Angelina Jolie (or any other actress you fancy), the genuinely smart, sincerely affectionate, truly talented human being who will unabashedly follow her own heart and blaze her own trails and make her own life worth living while we watch and marvel at how she delivers her soul on Earth with all the adrenaline rush of a car race down an uncemented highway who might crash but will never burn because she’s one of the avatars of heaven.
But then again, at the end of it all, words are futile.
After all, Beena is just, well, ummm, Beena.

I should write a manual on how to lose 18 years' worth of (my parents' monetary contribution to) my education in six months.
I've read all the faded and dated National Geo mags in the house. Actually, I think I've read just about all the readable bits of paper in the house. Give me a few days and I'll probably be starting in on the Tom Clancy collection -- forgive me, literary goddesses. I have developed serious addictions to Cartoon Network, Nickelodeon, Disney Channel (only because of The Weekenders and Alex Cappelli --> who is 3 years younger than me BTW, which just shows us how unfair the world is), Disovery Channel, National Geo and Animal Planet. Occasionally I do remember that I'm supposed to be neither child nor geek and sneak in some Channel V, MTV or UnTV (notice how they all end with the same letter). Invariably though, I just find myself glancing at my watch too many times to see if I've proven my gen xyz-ness enough to go back to watching the special on whale blubber.

When I feel like my insides are about to crawl out of my skin, or my brain is ready to jump from inside my skull (a sure sign of creeping mental degradation), I watch a movie. Usually, I emerge with a profound regret for the loss of my 80-100 bucks (me with my 20 peso flick memories). Then I move on to some form of bacchanalia with my equally useless friends. After all, everyone needs a support group.

And then I just sink into that plush seat in front of the vivid screen of my computer and try to rationalize my plight in life. Or try to engross myself in some fictional world that I will try to recapture with miserably inadequate words.

And then, to save me from feeling too sorry for myself, I just make my mind numb with the idiot box.

Repeat as necessary.

And after fixing up the layout/template of the blog -- well, sort of, I sign off. Finally. Actually, it's my bro. He wants to use the computer so badly, I know it's just killing him. So, well, being the nice ATE that I am, I will graciously give in.

And so life goes on. To those of you who actually pray, a good word for me would be nice. The decision on my master's proposal is up soon, and I'm seriously on my knees, begging for acceptance. If the review committee could only see what a wretchedly pathetic sight I make right now, I'm sure they'll take me on just out of pity.

Do you know there is, apparently, nothing good in our local multiplex (Alabang Town, for the curious folk). Poor little, unemployed (unless you count my random tutoring sessions a valid job), friendless, and bored me. Arghhh.... the horror.

An internet book review called it the first in a five-part trilogy. I was instantly intrigued. Apparently the author had intended it to come in three parts, but perhaps just couldn’t stop himself from writing books four and five. Meanwhile, the press and the publishers still kept on calling it a trilogy and conveniently forgot that a trilogy means only three, and stops at that number. It is this sort of irreverent disregard for logic that propels this book in the hundred and one directions of space, time and pan-dimensionality.

Consider the premise: Arthur Dent, clad in his dressing gown (the unequivocal British touch, for what other nationality will condone its men sleeping in gowns?) rushes outside one morning to find that his house is scheduled to be obliterated to make way for a road. As he expresses his outrage and obstinacy by lying on the mud in the direct path of a bulldozer, his friend of some five years (Ford Prefect) talks him into getting a drink by making one of the bulldozing team lie on the mud in his place. The pair then proceed to the bar very near Arthur Dent’s house and order alarming amounts of beer. Strengthened by a few pints of alcohol, Ford Prefect then reveals that in ten minutes, the world will end.
The next scene finds them in the midst of chaos, involving an alien race called Vogons who are telling the Earth people that their planet is to be destroyed to make way for some kind of space road, and that the demolition notice had been released as far back as fifty years ago on the nearest demolition office somewhere four light years away and that if the Earth people can’t be bothered to take an interest in local affairs then it is all the Earth people’s fault.
This is where the adventure and the hitchhiking begins. Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent traverse the infinity of space getting entangled with improbability drives (the invention of which, incidentally, makes all space roads obsolete), and planet-making planets (of which, again, incidentally, the Earth was a product). They also discover, along the way, that the Earth was but a super computer built by mice whose sole goal was to come up with the ultimate question, the answer to which had already been derived (after seven and a half million years) by another computer called Deep Thought. The answer, ladies and gentlemen, is 42.

Ahhh yes. This book is arguably the funniest, and most sensible bit of nonsense Britain has ever produced. On one hand, it is humorous and witty, and prods people to ask questions they might never have asked/forgotten they had asked/ didn’t know could be asked. On the other, it shows the idiocy of dwelling on questions if that means forgetting that there is such a thing as a life to be lived and experiences to be experienced and generally just a whole number of other interesting things to do. It shows us how arrogant and egotistical we must be to actually believe that in the impossible-to-measure infinity of the universe, we could be the highest form of life in existence (life couldn’t be that dumb), and that the removal of Earth from being would actually merit a second thought.

It brings down mental barriers and exposes serious loopholes in the very fiber of rationality and reason, discards the rules of logic by asking us the importance of logic in a place where neither time nor space (nor brainwave pattern) is absolute, and finally tells us in so many words, that although we were born but hapless, pathetic bipeds who might have evolved from almost brainless amoeba, we can actually live to be flying, free-thinking, galaxy hitchhiking bipeds who must still call amoeba our ancestors but only in a whisper, and only when we really must.