Me, being nice

I’m sick of the almost hourly reports about First Gentleman Mike Arroyo’s recovery after an eight-hour surgery of his heart. Imagine, for five days the Inquirer bannered the story like the rest of the nation care. On TV, breaking news also update us about how he’s doing, who visited him, where he’s recuperating. Is there nothing else newsworthy in the country that we have to be assailed by this absurdity?

In context, the time and resources spent on the FG was maybe comparable to the mutiny, his wife’s impeachment trial, typhoon Reming, Garci controversy, EDSA II, and Erap’s ouster. Even the news of Jun Ducat’s exploits died down after three days; well, it certainly wasn’t given banner treatment after the 3rd or 4th day. So why, oh why in Vicky Toh’s name is the media playing up quite a routine story?

I have a theory. Hehe.

I think catapulting the First Gentleman to, uh, bigger proportions is the media’s way of being proactive. Let’s not forget that FG filed more than 40 libel cases against journalists, editors, and correspondents for supposedly maligning his name. His primary contention in filing the libel cases was the media has no right to wash his dirty laundry in the public because he’s a civilian that happens to be the husband of the president.

Well, this strategic move, along the Supreme Court’s decision ruling that FG is a public figure whose actions are vested with public interest, throws down the private citizen argument down Jose Pidal’s deceitful bunghole.

That aside, I wish FG well and into the arms of his Gloria once again. Everybody’s entitled to his/her own piece of heaven and if the First Gentleman is Gloria’s own big, er, humongous piece, I couldn’t find it in my heart to begrudge her of that.

Sorry, that last remark was premature — I feel something boiling inside of me. Wait a sec.

Geddemit! He needs to get well coz he and Gloria, they deserve each other. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Breathe and count backwards from 10.

Inhale.

Exhale.

10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…

uh, Okay… NOW, I couldn’t find it in my heart to begrudge her of that.

It’s not global warming, it’s hell

Arrgggh! It’s HOOOOOTTT!

I haven’t seen hot like this since I was back in high school and I wore those blue stretchable pants which hugged my thigh until before the ankle, a blue denim jacket, a punk midriff shirt, white robertsons shoes and extra-thick yellow cotton socks (that kssss-ing you hear is me smokin’ hot, Woohoo!).

I couldn’t think, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t stay outside in the heat for more than 10 minutes without developing a headache, I couldn’t stay outside, period. Hell, I couldn’t even sweat. My perspiration just sort of fizzles, evaporating into gaseous state before it can liquify. You go outside and there’s just the sun, hammering down on you. On extra hot days, I swear I could hear the sound of its rays pounding on me.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

There must be something to this global warming thing. I read somewhere that the earth’s temperature rose two degrees over the last decade compared to just two degrees from the 1900 to 1990. Two degrees might seem diminutive but considering the sun’s core has temperature levels reaching 13,600,000 degress Kelvin, two degrees of that is like, ah…um… Okay! I don’t do math. So sue me. It’s scorching though, I know that much.

This heat is kinda bumming me out. Imagine, I have to take a shower now twice a day. Twice! whereas before I take a shower twice a week. Hey, we have one of the best waters in the world, no sense wasting it on something as immaterial as taking a bath, Hehehe.

Haahaay… got to get to work again. I already took a shower, buttered my armpits with a deodorant and splash on a little cologne. Why do I even bother when 10 minutes after I walk out that door I’d be smelling like a wet dog bitchin’ in the heat.

And there would be the sun waiting for me, a hammer in hand and a smirk on its face.

I know. It’s clobbering time.

Holy Crap

I remember exactly when I stopped going to church. It was my birthday during my second year high school, the first day of Misa de Gallo. It was still 4:30 a.m., but the air inside the church was stuffy, nearly clotted by the sheer number of people inside. It felt like we were Jews during the Holocaust about to be gassed.

I was sandwiched between two massive bulks, a mother and her daughter I guess. The daughter gave off a scent that could only be described as vinegary sweetness — a blend of sweat and perfume. Meanwhile, the mother, well, forget the mother. I huddle closer to her daughter. Two grown men in front of me blocked my view of the pulpit. The hum of the priest’s voice ricocheted around the walls. I felt very drowsy.

I heard the priest bless the cup containing the “blood of Christ,” I strained my neck and I couldn’t see what he was doing. I heard the priest bless the Holy Eucharist, I tippy-toed and still I couldn’t see what he was doing. Fuck this!

I stormed out of the church and went out to buy puto bumbong. Never paid much attention to priests since then. Oh, I’ve been to church several times. I even attended Misa de Gallo again and attempted to finish the traditional nine mornings. I would have completed it, too, if the girl I was courting that time (and that is why I was escorting her) hadn’t said yes on the 7th day. So the day after, she went to mass alone. Hehehe.

So what went wrong? It seemed silly to drop religion on account of a little acidity from some girl’s armpit, wasn’t it? Yes, it seemed silly but, to borrow a worn-out phrase, that was the last straw.

I grew up with my lola in an old house stuffed with religious images. Aside from the Holy Family, we also had a Sto. Niño, the Sacred Heart, a big rosary, and a poster of Jesus Christ. I grew up venerating these icons, especially the Holy Family — more prehistoric than my lola, I was told.
(Hmmn… antique? Ka-ching!)

Back then, we prayed a lot. I was quite adept at praying the rosary and could recite the mysteries backwards; the Angelus at 6:00 p.m., the way of the cross to Shrine each Holy Week; I even knew how to pray the novena for every occasion, sa patay, sa buhi, sa hapit na mamatay. When I wasn’t at home, I was at the catholic school I go to and you guessed it, recited the rosary, prayed Our Father and droned out the Hail Marys. Oh, almost forgot the three o’clock prayer.

No, there’s no Eureka moment nor was I hit with a thunderbolt which triggered a sudden realization that all my life I’ve been had by religion. My reason was much more mundane and bland than that. I just got tired of it all.

Which gets me thinking… why is it that priests speak in monotone? No, scratch that. Why is the whole Eucharist conducted in monotone? The voice of the priest, the songs, the melody — all make for a banausic impression. I have a theory. I think, it’s a grand conspiracy. The lifeless, bromidic ritual taps into our alpha waves or something, lulling us into relaxation and therefore more open to suggestion. You remember those tapes back in the 80s that supposedly dribble satanic verses when played backwards? I think when you slow down the ceremony just about right, you could hear subliminal messages whispering “we are the way or you’re going to hell” or “give more to the collection plate or you’re going to hell.” They have nearly two millennia to perfect the system, right?

I mean, all that ceremony and what do we get!?! The Holy Eucharist which is no bigger than a five peso coin. The priest doesn’t even allow us to sip the wine! At least, other religions feed you with a sandwich and juice. If you have to be fucked in the behind, might as well be fed for it. I draw the line with Quiboloy and his Kingdom of Christ, however, they not only not feed you, they make you sell pulvoron in the guise of scholarship as well. The only thing which sucks more than that is my blog.

I’ve been called a lost child, an agnostic, atheist, or even a satanist. Sometimes I welcome the labels, just so I know I belong to something. Don’t get me wrong, I envy those who don’t question and just let their faiths steer their destiny. They seem so cute and placid, like sheep. Awwww…

It’s easy to think that being amoral sans responsibilities is fun but it’s difficult to suspect what has dominated and continues to dominate all aspects of my life; it’s especially difficult to doubt when it’s all I have left of my lola. If nothing else, religion was our connection. She was proudest when her apo led the novena for the first time and our neighbors praised my skill. She never said a word but I’m sure she looked at the empty space beside her when she recited the Angelus in front of the Sto. Niño.

My lola is now dead. I cried hardest when at the time she needed it most, I couldn’t even allow myself to recite a short prayer for her. I wanted to but that seemed hypocritical. I guess at that moment, there’s no turning back for me.

Yet, this whole crap is so embedded in me that even as I conclude this entry, I mentally make the sign of the cross.

My blog sucks

Here I am, changing my skin again. It has nearly become a bi-monthly routine for me and it’s got nothing to do with my current mood or my frame of mind at all. More often than not, it’s mainly for lack of anything better to do. Just goes to prove that being a bum is not all sunshine and butterflies.

Another purpose in changing skins is an attempt to keep this blog fresh. At least, until I could distract everybody else from the reality that my entries are stale, a hackneyed, monochromed reel of my so-called life. I thought that if magicians could use the trick of distraction and enjoy the prestige, so could I.

I belong to the generation where my savvy in computers is limited to the “barely adequate” category; where CSS and HTMLs are acronyms you paste in sodas and canned goods along with the ubiquitous reg.phil.pat.off. Sure I could google porn but that’s about it.

After about two weeks, when the audience’s eyes have caught up with my quick hands, the colors and the patterns lose their luster. And only after looking at the other blogs out there that I realize: the design of my blog sucks.

Great. Now I have two things to be insecure about: my writing and this blog’s blueprint. Why do I do this to myself?

More than anything else, this particular template seems apt. The bug-eyed birds remind me of a deer caught in headlights and that’s exactly my state of mind right now — it’s knowing that an 85-ton mack truck is heading your way running at full speed and you can’t do any damn thing about it.

So you freeze, brace for the full impact and hope as hell it’s your lucky day.