Past is Past (A Sexist Story about a Non-sexist Reality)

The bride walks along the red carpet covered with the most fragrant flowers you can think of. Her head is bowed because she wants to hide the enormous amount of tears flowing down her face. But she’s smiling. Yes, she’s smiling. Pretty white pearls shining between her soft pink lips. If you take a peek at her face from under her bowed head, you’d see she’s almost mad with joy.

The groom waiting for her at the end of that aisle that takes forever to walk looks like a prince out of a Disney film. Licking his lips, he shook his head a little bit at the dazzling woman gliding toward him now.

He thinks, “Not bad. Not bad at all. It took 3 years of enduring her stone-cold fanatically religious parents, but I finally bagged this one home. Great cook. Pretty expert with her mouth and tongue. I could live with that. After spending 10 hours facing a computer and reading porn spam, yeah, I can come home to that. Not bad. We can do it in the kitchen. Just pull down my pants and she’d know what to do. Yeah, not bad at all.”

And bridesmaid one thinks, “This bitch must really be better than me. I still can’t believe it. I mean, come on. I sucked the hell out of Art ’til I freakin’ choked. And for hours I choked! That asshole didn’t care that I was already as blue as his father’s cancerous mole!”

And Art’s father thinks, “What would Art think if he’d known I jacked off to this lady’s Facebook profile? Those bikini pictures were too much for me. What would mom think?”

And Art’s mother thinks, “My son is a lucky boy ever since he was young. Good choice of crowd here, too. Very lovely people. Especially that Lindsay. My buttocks were as plump as those when I was 16.”

And Lindsay thinks, “God, that bridesmaid over there is makin’ my nipples itchy and hard. But Art’s sister doesn’t look bad, either. I like her jawline.”

And bridesmaid one thinks, “What’s up with this Lindsay bitch? She thinks she’s hotter than me, eh?”

And Art’s sister thinks, “Good luck, bridey. If you only knew what Art hides under the floor of his bedroom.”

And the best man thinks, “Arty my man, we have a new subject. Those cuffs will fit her wrists juuust fine. I would’ve tapped that a** myself if you weren’t so fast with that f*cked up speed dating game. I know she used to dig me.”

And the priest thinks, “Good heavens. The plunging neckline is too revealing! Bathroom immediately after this.”

Cinderella

We keep on waiting for that almost mythical time when chance will play with us and roll us like a pair of dice; a time when our routine lives will be shaken up and a new captivating story will start. As we go about our Thursday fast food dinners or Friday work procrastinations, we anticipate in the back of our heads that fateful magical hour or minute when our eye bags turn into horsemen and our cell phone into an enchanted pumpkin carriage. We wait to be Cinderellas, all of us. But sadly, such beautiful a twist is rare in real life, so we keep on waiting and waiting ‘til the desire empties itself out into the abyss of laziness and resignation. And in our obsessive sleepwalking, we fail to see that love – a force a hundred times stronger than chance – is waiting, stalking us all along, grieving at our unnecessary misery.

My Turf, Your Turf (Signs of Genius All Around Us)

Turfs – I have them, you have them.

If we were dogs, the tires of our neighbors’ cars would be our turfs.

A turf is a field of knowledge which you reign over and which other people would be damn stupid to intrude upon. The purpose of a turf is to give us the assurance that we may be pieces of driftwood and brainless zombies about the rest of the universe, but we’re bright and shiny geniuses who are completely in control when it comes to our turf. To put it another way, a turf is a square patch of paradise where we walk as gods.

Let’s discuss some kinds of turfs we usually see each day.

The Lifestyle Turf – One of the most common kinds of turf is the Lifestyle Turf. “Kings” and “Queens” of this kind of turf deeply believe that their lifestyles are sparklingly superior than everybody else’s (from here on out, we shall call the owner of a turf as either a “King” or “Queen” to give a sense of his/her dominion over his realm). You’ve probably had a drink with these people. They’re typically the most whiny, gossipy drinkers in your address book. From their patented ice-breaker “Hey, have you heard about what happened to X?” to their drunken back-stabbing rants on automatic, these people assert the supremacy of their jobs, families, values, religions, cars, pets, etc. over others.

Interpreting Palahniuk’s “RANT”: Splintered Time Theory

How can you not love "Rant"? It's about the second-hand nature of modern or postmodern life, rabies, epidemics, car crashes, sex, myths, critters, virtual reality, the future, and time travel. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

Don’t be fooled by the synopsis you may see on the back of the novel “Rant” by Chuck Palahniuk. The synopsis says something like the story is about a serial killer who becomes a leader of an urban demolition gang called “Party Crashing.” That synopsis is insipid and meant only to appeal to general “normal thinking” audiences who are virgins from Palahniuk’s violent, reckless and almost schizo way of writing.

“Rant” is the first Palahniuk book I’ve read and I must say, I was completely blown away into the theta realm. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised because “Fight Club” is also one of my most favorite films. “Fight Club” is Chuck’s most famous novel and it was made into a film starring Edward Norton and Brad Pitt in 1999. I’m sorry, but if you haven’t seen “Fight Club,” you have lightyears to catch up with us cool people.

Now, as awesome as “Rant” is, there’s a BIG problem with the book. It is — especially if you’re a Palahniuk virgin — UTTERLY CONFUSING. Of course after reading the novel, you may have your own interpretation of the story, but once you reshuffle your thoughts and think back on the book’s events again, you’ll realize it has loose ends probably thicker than the book itself. I’ve been to a great Chuck Palahniuk fan forum on the web and even hardcore members there aren’t sure about what the F happened in the book.

In case you came here to seek enlightenment of a liminal or liminoid nature yourself, allow me to present my own interpretation of this postmodern fairy tale. BE WARNED: THIS INTERPRETATION IS SERIOUSLY LONG. However, if you want to go to great lengths to make sense of this sweet piece of fiction, be my guest (or my passenger):

This Game of Soccer

Darkness had already descended on the bare cubic buildings of SM City, highlighting sombre yellow lights of more buildings under construction. They’re like gluttonous fetal monsters still developing inside their shells. I could almost imagine them drooling. Soon they’ll be devouring shovels of shoppers forever frantic for the latest cool touch-screeny devices and sweet, iced blobs with largely unknown ingredients.

Chemae and I were drained from a week’s worth of working and thinking about working when we walked into this group of boys — running, laughing, screaming, tearing the sleekness of the night apart. They were playing soccer just outside the mall; except they were neither kicking a soccer ball nor any type of ball for that matter. Their thin dark feet — some bare, some wearing slippers — were excitedly kicking a crushed soda can.

Picked It. Like Mad.

A group of friends. Very noisy. Three were gays. The gays were even noisier. Said that if all gays died, the world will be quieter by 50%. Said that my gay friends will not like me for the thought. But this group had mouths as big as the moon’s craters. Filled the entire coffee shop with noise. Couldn’t hear my own explanation of my blog stats to my girlfriend. She was dazed and exhausted. But this group crawled out of hell. Screamin’. Noisy ugly devils in a cheap coffee shop. And as I looked, this guy – quite good-looking, too. He caught me looking at him. His index finger was shoved all the way to the inner depths of his nose. Wiggling there like a salted worm. No hanky nor paper towel. Just his pale index finger. Wigglin’ excitedly. Nose pushed side to side by the violent force. His eyes fixed on me. I looked away so quickly it’s as if someone slapped my face.

We Are Inedible Pieces of Meat

A few months ago, in this country, the media saw dozens of corpses — stabbed in the eyes, shot in the genitals, swarms of flies having a sumptuous feast — they said it’s “inhuman.”

I went a bit further and read about cannibalism. Apparently, it has existed from time immemorial in almost every part of the world. Asians did it, Africans too, and you bet, even Americans. Today, the Korowai tribe in Papua, New Guinea is believed to be still practicing the gory ritual. While filming a documentary, the crew of a television show attempted to rescue a 6-year-old boy from being ham dinner because he was accused of being a witch doctor. They failed. I have reason to believe the boy’s body now fertilizes the ground that grows all sorts of healthy shrubberies and trees there. It’s hard not to feel sick after you read all of this taboo trivia.

But to me, it all comes down to one thing: We’re meat and we hate it.

The Telephone Tells A Love Story

TED’s TELEPHONE:

Life is vicious, like a rabid mad dog, I can tell you that. Didn’t use to be that way but it definitely is now. I think the world might be getting too dense, too suffocating, like everyone out there is getting pounded real hard, so they’re only three-fourths of their original size and, well, humanity. The air must be too condensed and saturated with microscopic droplets of sweat and blood and spit and oil. And I guess the grounds can’t be walked anymore because they’ve risen up, swallowing trees, plants, and every crawling green that’s fresh to the eyes and to the brains. They’ve now turned into tentacles of a gigantic toxic monster egging people to go to places that lead to nowhere. So the people are lost; and the sky must not be too much of a comfort for them too, because in its untainted innocence, it only serves to push down guilt and shame and senselessness into their throats.

That is why you get people who whisper “I love yous” to each other in the morning and throw murderous curses to each other at night. Blame them for my unfit body and soul. I got this guy Ted who’s always on my left ear — he’s generally a nice guy. Talks about .NET and CSS and HTML and other goddamn strange jargon all the time with a guy with a funny accent on the other line on my right. Harry’s the name, if I remember correctly. I think they might be up to something heroic to save the perishing world ’cause they’re always exchanging smart incomprehensible stuff about “problems” and “solutions.” I never did get what they mean but whoever this “client” guy was, he isn’t gonna be better off once Ted and Harry figure out how to save the world. So Ted — as I said, ideal guy, if you ask me. He takes care of his grandma Lucy from Mondays ’til Fridays, making sure she takes her meds ’cause she’s got a whopping lump ’round her neck. Which reminds me, that’s also the problem they got out there today: everyone has a fatal disease.

Fish Hook

You’re a fish hook
And I’m a fish.
This is a sea
And above’s the sky.
You have your wiggly worm,
Fat and juicy.
I have a scaly mouth
That wants something oozy.
You made waves when you dipped
Into the sea,
Deeper and deeper
Like you knew your way.
Then when I saw you – gulp!
My fins just sighed.
Before I knew it
I was already fried.

3 Crazy Mall Stories

Stereotypical Jamaican

A bright blue peacock runs in circles in the middle of a busy mall in Quezon City. Big brown eyes reflecting the shocked people all around it, the majestic bird threatens to stretch its wings and fly toward everyone’s dumbfounded faces. It’s a proud male of its species (albeit clearly stressed with the present situation), decorated with brilliant gems and beads of light only nature can so creatively invent in its random biological musings.

People carrying their green shopping bags are cheering, laughing, clapping their hands, whistling, telling spontaneous peacock jokes to each other. An old man celebrating his 75th birthday with his 6-year-old granddaughter heard the commotion from a floor below and told his most favorite person in the world that the Eraserheads are having a show above. The befuddled security guard runs to the scene and starts to crouch to catch the harassed animal. Seven men, 3 of whom wearing moustaches, one’s a stereotypical Jamaican with dreadlocks that seemed to have been dipped in tar, thought that they would like to be heroes of this most curious moment, so they began to crouch too, carefully moving toward the bird, clucking like chickens.

Obviously, they thought what works with runaway chickens also works with bright blue peacocks in the middle of a mall.

——————–

Thunder Spike

Thunder Spike is the “gin runner” of his gang, the Marikina Maniacs. His task is to procure a bottle of gin for his group every night before 10:00 PM or else his scalp risks losing a few more fertile areas of follicle because of angry cigarette butts. It’s 5:00 PM and Thunder, wearing his oversized black shirt with Pacquiao’s sweaty face in front, is strolling through the mall, heading to no particular place as of the moment.