TO BE CONTINUED

This Blog continues in Anaksapatero!

I HATE FRIENDS

"It's true! My invisible bunny friend told me so!"

"Oh that's impossible my dear."

"What? Invisible bunnies?"

"That you have friends."

*******

I don't need you. I don't need your twisted wisdom. I don't need to consult you for anything technical. I have never asked you for anything that I have to work at repaying you back for. What have I ever needed from you? I feel I can really live without you and I have lived without you. But you keep coming back, and well just get me upset with your inane stories and your childish tantrums and your uncouth opinions and your insults. Then when I begin to move away because I have been sick of all your bullshit all these years, you run after me and is suddenly all sorry-like.

You make up for your stupidity with apologies and explanations, which I don't really care for. But because I am by nature "a nice guy," I let you hang around me again. After all, even if you don't realize it, and nor will you admit. YOU HAVE NO FRIENDS LEFT. YOU ARE ALONE.

There lies the reason why you keep coming to me and cling. I can handle being alone. I have been alone so much in my life that being lonely is my status quo. Having to deal with other human beings is a chore for me at times when all I want is to be left alone.

My mother will attest to the truth that the only reason I am a very social person is I studied how to be. Naturally, I am a loner. I'm okay with being alone. You? You can't handle being alone. And, you can't handle treating people right either. I mean if you did something pretty substantial for me, I would remember it right?

Nope. Nothing there. Just annoyance, insults, tantrums, bullying. That must be it. You are a bully, a bully that can't handle being one, so you use arguments, being a brat, running roughshod as your means of keeping relationships. You thrive in the arguments, the conflicts. You are an anger-whore. A hate-eater.

Maybe as a child you were dropped, and when you came to, you decided that to get your way, to get your parent's attention you had to be a screamer, a bully, an emotional blackmailer.

That has been your favorite pastime recently. Blackmailing me with emotions. And honestly, I'm a little sick of it. But I can't tell you directly how I feel either. All you would do is thrive in the resulting argument, throw a tantrum and then blackmail me all over again.

I can't walk away either, because you won't let me. You will track me down all over again and stick like a bad rash. Blackmailing me all along the way.

In short, I am trapped. I know I am, but I think it's time I told you what the hell you have been doing to me. The least you can do is offer me your younger sister as a sex slave as partial payment for services rendered.

Friendship? Bull. This is an act of terror.

ONCE YOU GO BLACK...

Congrats Obama. I keep telling people that you are not black. You are the first colored president that America has ever had.

You see in my opinion, Americans use the descriptive "Black" to refer to the African Americans who are decendants of the slaves their forefathers had.

You are not descended from slaves. You are descended from an African man, but one who is educated and is well-off. Not one who came from slavery. You are thus, colored in my eyes. Brown specifically, just like me.

You grew up in Indonesia and in Hawaii further making you not "Black" You were exposed to a very culturally diverse culture in your youth. Your foster father is an Asian, and that would have given you an insight into the milleniums worth of wisdom that Asia has.

Hawaii is also a great place to grow up in. Hawaiians in my opinion are some of the least racist and prejudiced people in the world. I mean they call everyone cousin! And being an islander myself. I know they mean it when they say that. So again, you are not "Black" in my opinion, you are colored.

As Americas first colored president, there is no one better than you. I say this with no rancor toward the others who have tried. But you fit the bill. No pun intended.

I mean, here you are. Colored, but not "Black" thus you do not carry a grudge for being a slave. You know of conflict but is not scarred by war. You know how to deal with Asians from childhood experience. The Africans consider you a true brother, and for sure the islanders consider you a cousin. You just fit. A world president if I have ever seen one. Sorry Dubya, no offense.

Yet I also feel you are not weak. No one who has survived an Asian school, or surfing in Hawaii can be considered weak. You are also a father. A good one who knows values because your mother would have shamed them into you, and your Asian father would have pounded them into you.

You know of God. Not just the Christian God, but the polytheism that lies in all the other cultures in the rest of the world.

I know you will do good. I've been okay with you since I heard you were the one chosen. I was actually for you, but not Hillary.

True, my opinions don't matter, after all I cannot vote in America, and I would never wish to. But if I had to, I would have voted for you.

I'm not being so arrogant as to say I give you the go signal to do your work. You are after all your own man, not some puppet.

Here is to your win. Here is to your promise of Hope. Which in this Pilipino's opinion you have already fulfilled by simply winning.

Here's my two cents worth. America is colored. It has always been. It's about time that it was once again ruled by the colored. Not by the whites, and not by the blacks either. The conquered when seeking revenge is usually worse than the conqueror.

Let's compare: When a white president wins, the whites celebrate. When you won, the Africans celebrated, the whites celebrated, the Asians celebrated, the islanders celebrated. The blacks celebrated too because you indirectly are theirs also.

All you missed were the Chinese and the Indians! Don't worry about the Arabs and the Jews. There is just no pleasing those snobs sometimes.

Now hopefully you won't be assasinated or impeached or anything like that.

Mabuhay ka!

WHAT IS THE QUANTUM OF SOLACE?

I haven't seen the movie yet, and don't worry, there isn't a spoiler here. Because my source is the printed story. So do read on. I haven't really read anything on the new Bond Movie yet, but I did some research and found in my wife's family's extensive library a copy of "The Quantum of Solace" as written by Ian Fleming. Real books, not online.

Surprisingly enough it wasn't a full size short story like "A View To A Kill" or "For Your Eyes Only" and it is nowhere as long as the "Goldfinger" Novel that I found the book with. The "book" was a tattered, heavily aged fragment of its former self. A compilation it seems of the short stories by Ian Fleming which had "Quantum of Solace" right before "Risico" which I read right after "Quantum of Solace" because it was so short.

Well here is an explanation of what "Quantum of Solace" means according to the short story. The scene is the Governor of Nassau is talking to Bond over a few drinks right after a party hosted by the Governor. They were simply talking about a person that the Governor met during his career that had an interesting marriage. Bond was sitting on a chair across the Governor who was sitting on a low chintz couch. Between them is a coffee table filled with glasses and cups from the other guests who have already left. Both are enjoying Whisky Sour. The Governor is enjoying a cigar while the bored Bond has just sat a little straighter. His interest in the story piqued.

Here is the excerpt:

The Governor paused and looked reflectively over at Bond. He said, "You're not married, but I think it's the same with all relationships between a man and a woman. They can survive anything so long as some kind of basic humanity exists between the two people. When all kindness has gone, when one person obviously and sincerely doesn't care if the other is alive or dead, then it's just no good. That particular insult unto the ego--worse, to the instinct of self-preservation--can never be forgiven. I've noticed this in hundreds of marriages. I've seen flagrant infidelities patched up, I've seen crimes and even murder forgiven by the other party, let alone bankruptcy and every other form of social crime. Incurable disease, blindness, disaster-all these can be overcome. But never the death of common humanity in one of the partners. I've thought about this and I have invented a rather high sounding title for this basic factor in human relations. I've called it the Law of the Quantum of Solace."

Bond said, "That's a splendid name for it. It's certainly impressive enough. And of course I see what you mean. I should say you are absolutely right. Quantum of Solace - the amount of comfort. Yes, I suppose you can say that all love and friendship is based in the end on that. Human beings are very insecure. When the other person not only makes you feel insecure but actually seems to want to destroy you, it's obviously the end. When the Quantum of Solace stands at zero. You've got to get away to save yourself."

*****

How is your Quantum of Solace?

GOODBYE ANTONIO

I just found out earlier that Antonio is dead. Antonio is one of the "pseudo-cousins" of my wife's family. According to initial reports, he got a heart attack and a stroke. That's what biologically killed him. But after talking to him the last time, I think I knew what really killed him. Him not being able to do what he loved.

He lost the use of his left arm in a motorcycle accident not too many months ago. He has been undergoing treatment for it thence, and has resorted to acupuncture to bring the arm back to life. Before that, he was, according to what little he was able to talk to me about, a piano man, a tinkerer, a percussionist, an anarchist, an audiophile. And having to live with the pain of an arm gone wrong was what might have done him in. I know that if I was in his shoes, that would kill me.

We shared breakfast the last time I spoke to him, I made him coffee and a sandwich while we talked about the merits of magnetic versus optical music storage. He also told me how his arm got to be what it was. He spoke to me about music, and his eyes lit up from the usual dull depressed look of the deformed that they usually had when I told him about my passions in music. He was even kind enough to tune the kids' guitar, with one hand, by ear.

I remember asking him, guitar in hand that day: "Hey piano man! Can you tune a guitar?" "Of course!" And he proceeded to do what I thought would have had to be a two man operation. He can't make a sandwich for himself, but he tuned that guitar in minutes, all the while giving me pointers about it.

That day, he inspired me in a way that I was not able to really tell him. He became what he wanted to be. He did what he wanted. He lived life. Broken, battered, and bruised; but unbowed. Thank you Antonio. Wherever you may be doing lounge right now, break a leg.

PRETTY SUICIDE

One of the pseudo-cousins came by today and related by way of conversation that their neighbor's pretty, hot and tempting daughter hung herself by the neck till dead when she found out that her parents were getting an annulment of their marriage.

Of course I knew she was a hot thing because the cousin, who is very knowledgeable about girls in a sense said that she was in the local colloquialism artistahin (can become a TV/Movie actor). Well pedophilia and necrophilia aside, the issue here is not the girl being "p.h.a.t." nor the sudden end of her entertainment career, but her demise by her own hands via a hemp necktie.

First of all, it's a shame that such a young, and according to the story, a very possible fine piece of ass had been taken away so suddenly. As the cousin said, she had everything, and still, she did what she did. I guess the problem is that kids always blame themselves when the relationship of their parents fail. So to prevent any more future babes from being Satan's concubine, I would like the kids who are reading this to pay full attention and read slowly, because I will say this one time only: IF YOUR PARENTS FIGHT ITS THEIR FAULT, NOT YOURS. EVER. DON'T FEEL GUILTY FOR THINKING IT WAS YOURS. YOU CAN'T HELP IT THAT YOU ARE STUPID. JUST LOOK AT THE TWO NUMBSKULLS YOU CAME FROM. NO SURPRISE THERE. IF YOU WANT TO STOP YOUR PARENTS FROM FIGHTING, STOP TALKING TO THEM FOR A WHOLE DAY EVERYTIME THEY TUSSLE. IF THEY ASK WHAT YOU'RE DOING, HAND THEM A NOTE WITH THIS MESSAGE OR SOMETHING LIKE IT: "I'M LETTING YOU FEEL WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF YOU KEEP FIGHTING, ONE DAY YOU WILL TRY TO TALK TO ME, BUT I WILL BE GONE. I WILL EITHER BE WITH THE OTHER PARENT, A LOST RUNAWAY, OUT WITH BAD COMPANY, HELD BY SOCIAL SERVICES, OR DEAD BY SUICIDE. I'M HOPING YOU REALIZE BEFORE ITS TOO LATE THAT YOU ARE DAMAGING ME. NOW EITHER ADAPT TO ONE ANOTHER OR GET THE DIVORCE PAPERS NOW AND LET'S KILL THIS FAMILY."

I remember as a teen that when I heard my parents fighting for the first time in my life, on an issue that surely could result in an annulment, I was distraught, I cried, I got drunk. I ended up in a cheap girlie bar watching very ugly, very cheap whores dancing to a red light bulb. Very badly dancing to a red light bulb.

Let's just say that after that horrid experience, the next time I heard my parents fight, I just stuck with being distraught and I always went outside so I wouldn't end up throwing up because of the sight of ugly whores. But eventually I confronted them and told them that I would rather have them beat me physically than the hurt they were giving me inside, I reasoned that at least bruises heal. They stopped.

What our pretty suicide could have done, rest her soul by the way, was to not take it so hard. Maybe that's what happens when kids are sheltered too much, too dependent on their parents. I don't know.

At least now, those two idiots who were thinking of getting an annulment now don't have to worry who gets to keep the daughter. Plus the father won't ever have to worry trying to explain to her daughter someday why her ex-classmate is now her "Tita Mommy." Or the mom would not have to explain why they have a young strapping new driver, who ogles her by the way when mommy is not around, even though they don't own a car.

WHEN YOU HAVE NOTHING TO WRITE

The one thing I hate about blogging is the need to come up with something to write every now and then. I guess the topic of the blog, if your blog had a singular topic, say a blog on tropical cacti would be easy to maintain, you speak about the topic at hand and that would be that. But having a rant column like this one is at best a lesson in futility. Trying to keep up with it and not being able to. Choosing a topic to speak about, and eventually not being able to post something because its just so personal.

In local terms: "Sabog" roughly translatable to calling something as scattershot. You just don't know what it is about and what point it is driving at. Like this blog. After awhile I find myself irritated by it as it seems all I do is speak about nothing and vague references to events in my life. Well, that is what this blog is about in the beginning anyway: things that happened in my life that I wanted to share with the internet. Not really having a point about it because this is my personal rant page. But truth be told, I want to change things about this blog because of what has happened in my world in the last month.

I find myself at a crossroads once more, because I have once again managed to somehow become unemployed. The fates like toying with me for some reason. I feel I am being readied for something in the future. I am not sure what it is yet, but I am sure that I will either end up as some hybrid erudite or a cosmic platypus. Sigh.

BLINDSIDED

It was a Thursday, not a Tuesday, but yes, it was around four P.M., so I guess Baz Luhrman was right (Did I speel that right?). Your choices are half chance. I'm trying not to berate myself with what happened, nor am I trying to congratulate myself for it. A rebel being punished for rebellion is like a bird being awarded for flying.

But the fact is that, as my friend Aivie said, I should acknowledge that what happened hurt me. Yes it did. I don't want to mull over it though, because there is a part of me that loves lashing out whenever I get hurt. I guess everyone has something like that too. A need for vengeance, a need for the redress of wrongs, real or imagined. Thus I don't want to mull over it too much, lest it affect my judgment in the next few weeks.

But mull over it I do, and what comes to me is a simple fact. Patience is dependent on the intelligence of a person, the more intelligent a person, the more patient he is. The more wise a person, the more patient a person. The more deformed a person, the more impatient a person is. The more miserable a person is with their life, the more impatient a person is. Misery is a friend of fear, thus, whoever is impatient is afraid. Afraid of being expendable, in due time.

Of course, this is all the opinion of someone who is mulling. So pay me no heed. I on the other hand, am patient. I wait. Wait with a patience that reflects my intellect.

JEREMY SPOKE IN CLASS TODAY

Angst, and the grunge movement of the nineties. What do we remember from them? the proliferation of anti-depressants? The two faces of madness in pop culture: cobain and axl rose? the redemption that music brings to an individual as proven by eddie vedder and his grammys? or is it the fact that madonna went through all of it with michael jackson not far behind?

life and music has always been two sides it seems. One side is the angry "i wanna die coz im so sad about something" side and the "damn im a giddy happy hoppy tripped up elf" side.

either of which just manages to do for us what we currently need, as the mood suits. there really is always a song for how you exactly feel, or maybe close enough give or take a few stanzas.

it was in the late eighties that i became aware of my love for music, when i first glued my ears to FM radio and it was in the nineties that i grew musically expanding up from the hardcore new wave / post punk that i ended up in after my early experimentations with pop music.

it was then that i learned of the early rock masters and the balladeers. the acid rock movements that i was exposed to as a child but never truly understood, the hip-hop scene, and rap thar i still have a soft spot for.

my only regret with music is that for all my love for it, i cannot play a single instrument decently of or sing as well as i would like. i love music, music scorns me with mere toleration. for all my talent with writing and poetry i have yet to really feel the muse of music in me.

but i am not bitter, i know that she is the most demanding of all the muses. and i have to be worthy of her attention by providing discipline in exchange for her.

consolation is that as i watch the music evolution and help guide my kids in their own foray into music i am reminded of my journey and it still is magical. truly, music is art, music is life.

what do i remember of the nineties music scene the most: king jeremy the wicked ruled his world.

I REMEMBER YOU

Two years ago, you texted me a question: Will you tell me why no one can love me the way you do?
I think I answered because no one can. Because no one saw you the way i saw you. Because they didn't worship you, or accept you for what you really are, for these never saw what you can be. What you could have been, could still be. Because unlike these men who loved you because they needed love themselves, I love you because you were worth the love. They loved you, I believed in you. I had faith in you. I worshiped you. And as every woman from Eve the snakeslave of Lilith to your own daughter will tell you. A woman will choose worship over love. I let myself be kept around, I had nothing better to do anyway. But you thought that wasn't going anywhere. You were wrong. Very wrong. Because someone saw the way I worshiped you and wanted it for herself. She made ways to take it, and took it she did. Then you were left with nothing but the pawings of your suitors and lovers, but the worship was gone. And your life became empty. We had almost everything when we were together. The only thing missing was your affirmation. But then again, I never asked for it. I didn't want to lose you, but I know anyone who tried to keep you, lost you. You will not be reined. Mine was the softest leash you ever had. You were my most beloved pet. The one I had the longest but couldn't keep. Ours was a hidden, fierce, unspeakable love. As complicated and unbidden and crazy as all kinds of love should be. Unthiking, brutal, feverish. But to speak of it, to hint of it, to even slightly touch its gossamer wings would destroy it. And that is what we did when we did. Now you are ashamed of it. you are troubled by its memory. I remember it. I remember you. Why no one can love you the way I do? Because I can, and I choose to do so. Something the cowards who you call your men can't because they can't bring themselves to worship something else aside from themselves. Worship to ruin.