Full of Shit [Crapper Blues]

I am in LBM hell today, and I'm trying to recount what I ate the past few days. For those who frequent my blog, you probably read the post I made in connection with the dinner I had with my friends at Dampa last Thursday night. I know I pigged-out with my friends, and as I was having my first bout with LBM this morning, I was cursing to no end the friggin' oyster kinilaw that we ate. After all, I know that oysters and my tummy don't get along too well, but that's only if I eat the oysters raw and with an empty stomach.

So I just had to phone my two buddies [who I had dinner with in Dampa] to ask if their stomachs got upset after our dinner, and they answered in the negative. My doctor buddy [who is, hands down, the "saint" in my org barkada--Dr. Dasma (not his real name): Are you reading this? Hehe] opined that if I got my LBM only this morning, then it definitely wasn't the food we ate at Dampa. But the only things I ate after Dampa was bopis and mongo for lunch at the office the following day, and a late dinner of Jolly Champ, Fries and Coke. And I know that I didn't drink water from a polluted source. So what the fuck's happening to me?!

This is such a hassle! It's a good thing that I like drinking Oral Rehydration Salts--it's actually very good [Dr. Dasma, however, doesn't share the same sentiments]; otherwise, I might just have crapped myself to dehydration death.

A lot of people say that the bathroom is the best room in the house--a private space where they find solace and are free to do as they please, no holds barred. If paying a visit to the bathroom every 3 hours [I've been to the bathroom 7 times since this morning] is what it means to "find solace", then I am, no pun intended, in deep shit.

Blessed Trinity

I had dinner last night at Dampa along Macapagal Avenue, Pasay City, with two of my best buddies [Dr. Dasma and the Soccer Superstar] and a girl-friend. Needless to say, I had a great time, and the fantastic gastronomic experience was made more special by the company of friends I was was with.

The name of the place was Trinity, one of a myriad of restos/eateries to choose from in the area. Among the 4 of us, we were able to consume the following:

- 1 kilo of prawns/shrimp in a heavy butter sauce
- 1/2 kilo of mussels [tahong] in a heavy butter sauce
- 1 tilapia
- 1 [or 2] kilos of crabs
- 1/2 kilo of osyter kinilaw
- 1 kilo of liempo
- 1/2 kilo of sizzling squid
- 1 kilo of tuna belly
- several orders of plain rice

We were gluttons last night, but I guess it's not too bad to stuff oneself silly once in a while. The acoustic band was pretty good, too, and their repertoire of new wave and light alternative music [coupled by the fact that the singer didn't sing with barok english, thank God] made us sing along even while our mouths were still filled with half-masticated assorted seafood. We were especially pleased when the band sang The Promise by When in Rome. It may be baduy to some, but who cares? This is MY blog, anyway. :)

Our bill amounted to around P2,700.00. Pretty hefty, if you think about it. But, counting the good food, cool music, interesting conversation and great company, I wouldn't have minded spending more. As it goes in the advertisement, last night's experience was priceless, and for everything else, I have my Mastercard.

Blessed Trinity, indeed.

What Women Think About Jobs

I am quoting in toto [in its entirety] an interesting post which I came across while doing some blog research. It's from a blog entitled: "Wonderful Online Women [Fabulous single females over 50 find fun and friendship while navigating the strange world of online dating and men who inhabit it.]" You can find it at http://wonderfulonlinewomen.blogspot.com/. Men may pick up a lesson or two from the piece. Here goes:

"Warning - this is R-rated!

I warn you. This is a posting about a subject we don't talk about. You know the kind when we have so much to say but we can't bring it up. We want to, but we think our ideas are really weird or that we’re the only one who thinks this way or that everybody knows all about it but us or that it’s all just too embarrassing to even think about. So, be prepared. Yes, it’s the blow job.

There are a variety of reasons for giving a blow job. We know they like it and we want to please them. We want them to go down on us, so we think we’d better do it to them. We want them to think we are doing our share in the bedroom, so we do it from time to time. Or it’s a barter, like when they offer to wash our car or take us to dinner or go to a party with our friends that they don’t like if we’ll give them a blow job. Did you notice that I didn’t mention that we do it because we like it?

And, yes, there are lots of reasons not to do it. We have to put their penis, no matter how big or small or hard or soft, in our mouths and suck and sometimes the guys just lie there like rugs and don’t move or make sounds so we don’t know if we’re doing it right or if they like what we’re doing. What if it’s just too big and we can barely get it in our mouths? Or so small, we can hardly find it and then it’s so difficult to maneuver because there is so little to work with? Should we suck it or lick it or both and should we rub it while we’re sucking it or reach under and do something with the hairy hangy-down things or what? And should we really put it way down in our throats while we rub and suck and then how do we keep doing all those things at the same time while we are gagging and trying not to throw up? And, of course, while we’re busy trying to figure it all out and do it at the same time, we’re also supposed to moan and oooh and ahhhh so they think we’re actually enjoying ourselves but we’re really just thinking that if we moan and oooh and ahhh, then maybe they’ll come quicker and we can stop. And do we really have to put it in our mouths if they say they took a shower this morning but then worked all day and played a few games of softball and drank beer with their buddies in the heat – are we really supposed to put it in our mouths if, um um, well, it doesn’t exactly smell good down there?

And when do we stop? One minute? Ten minutes? Until they come? Who knows? And if they come, do we let them come in our mouths and then do we swallow it or spit it out on the sheets without them noticing or can we just get up and run to the bathroom and spit it out in the sink and rinse out our mouths without offending them too much? What’s a girl to do?

I know, I know...they don’t call it a job for nothing."

ultrajunkie says: My goodness. No wonder you're a fifty-something year old single woman. You talk too much it's totally annoying. I highly doubt if you'd even give the most sexually deprived man a hard-on. My advice to you is to clear your mind of all these useless trivialities and just focus on the task at hand. In other words, shut up and swallow. :)

The [Mis]Adventures of Suping, Supermaid [Episode 1]

Suping [not her real name], our house helper, is a class act. She single-handedly managed to turn our quiet lives into a nightmare. No, she is no Mary Poppins--she's got no "magic" and got no brains. Neither is she a Maria Von Trapp--she has absolutely no trait that would endear her to us. She is the anti-thesis of Mary Poppins and Maria Von Trapp. She is, hands down, the maid from hell. In fact, if the word "Duh!" had a face, its face would be Suping.

I hate the way she talks, whether in person or through the phone/intercom. I hate the way she dresses, and I hate everything that she does. It takes an inordinately long time for her to respond to our requests, and it takes an even longer time for her to process our instructions. Everything she does is wrong. Everything about her is wrong.

Take this anecdote, for example. One time, our family dined on Angus Beef Steak which our mom bought from Santi's. One piece of steak was left uncooked for my brother who wasn't able to join us for dinner. The day after, my dad instructed Suping not to buy food at the market for the lunch of the household staff, but rather, to just finish the food in the freezer. Of course, my dad was referring to all the other food in the freezer EXCEPT the steak [which had previously been reserved for my brother]. Nevertheless, Suping, being the genius that she was, cooked the steak for herself--to the dismay of my brother, who was looking forward to a sumptuous piece of steak for his lunch. He was dumbfounded, and probably a little distressed, too [You know the feeling you get when you anticipate something but in the end don't get it? My brother probably got that]. In the end, my brother had to content himself with fried tuyo and eggs, while Suping dined on the most succulent Angus Beef Steak she had probably ever tasted in her whole life.

Don't get me wrong, we love eating fried tuyo and eggs. In fact, we eat it a lot in our house. We share our food with the household staff, too. What we don't like, however, is when people eat the food already reserved for us. Jesus Christ. What the hell was Suping thinking?! Good thing I wasn't at home. Otherwise, I'd probably have her eat everything in the fridge--raw.

Speaking of Politics

People have asked me why I don't talk about politics in this blog. For me, there is nothing about politics [Philippine or otherwise] I can talk about that hasn't been discussed or debated by luminaries or by simple folk whether in the distant or recent past. Why? The truth of the matter is, our political system and our political psyche as a nation has never developed enough for there to be a meaningful political exchange reminiscent of that of Plato's The Republic. The Philippine political scene has remained constant, er, stagnant, to use the more appropriate term--so stagnant that it has bred one breed of politicians and political leaders--those who put their self-interest over and above the interest of the nation, and that of their countrymen. And so, time and again, in whatever age or era, we are given the same type of politicians who do the same kind of damnable things.

We are all bios politikos, i.e., political creatures, to borrow the term of philosopher Hannah Arendt. And to be bios politiki presupposes a certain kind of maturity in a person, a level of maturity that can enable one to intelligently discuss and debate about the ways and means to achieve the good life for everyone. While I do not doubt that we are all capable of being political, from what I've been seeing, there is an apparent lack of bios politiki in this country, and for this, our country is certainly doomed to failure. Apathy is the nemesis of politics, and up to this point in our country's socio-political history, our psyche as a nation is slave to apathy. There can be no healthy political exchange if people do not choose to develop and mature politically. They shall forever be, the prisoners described in Plato's Allegory of the Cave-- people who, kept in the darkness, will never know anything beyond what is presented/told them. It cannot be over-emphasized that a citizenry in darkness breeds a propagandist state. And a propagandist state means the death of politics.

So why don't I talk about politics? I guess I consider it in bad taste to talk about things that have long since died.

Mall of Asia

I had dinner with my family at the Mall of Asia, and I swear to God, I will never ever go back to that place again. Not only is it located at the ends of the Earth, but also, I had a feeling the entire population of Metro Manila was there. I've never seen so many people [since Edsa II, or Edsa III, depending on the type of person you are] converging at one leviathan of a mall. My family didn't even attempt to go around the mall anymore. We already already tired just looking at how huge it was, and how daunting the task was of attempting to go around.

Malling shouldn't be stressful. In fact, people go to the mall to relax. I shudder to think how people will ever relax in the Mall of Asia. After all, people will, at the back of their heads, always try to cover as much ground as possible, with the goal of conquering the Mall of Asia in a day. Forget it.

On the way home, as we we crossed Roxas Boulevard from the Mall of Asia, I looked back, just to check, if God had answered my prayers that the Mall of Asia be swallowed by the South China Sea.

The Departed

My former classmates and I played hookie from work and watched The Departed this afternoon. The verdict: this movie ranks as one of the best movies I've watched this year, hands down [and believe me, I've watched several totally awesome movies/DVDs this year alone]. Superbly written and masterfully crafted, Martin Scorsese carefully weaves all the violence and gore with the personal conflicts between, amongst and within each of the characters. The movie is a modern day tragedy, where each of the characters struggle, albeit in vain, to find meaning and survive in an environment wherein their true natures do not actually fit into. In a sense, they are, each of them, departed from lives that they had envisioned for themselves, and forced away from lives that "should have been". Indeed, the movie can be likened to a grand comedy of errors, the consequences of which, however, prove fatal to each and every character.

The cast was solid gold. Each cast member was perfect for the role he/she played. Particularly impressive was the acting of Leonardo di Caprio. His torture, angst and depression at being forced into a life he had tried so hard to run away from deserves critical acclaim. He had indeed graduated from the role he played in the towering fiasco that was Titanic. Matt Damon was a shoe-in, too. His role in this movie is reminiscent of the role he played in The Talented Mr. Ripley--that of a guy who tried so hard to fit in and find himself that in the end, he finds nothing and loses everything. Jack Nicholson is, well, Jack Nicholson. Need I say more?

This movie is a must-see. We were literally at the edge of our seats during the entire movie, which was 2 hours and 40 minutes long. You will never notice how long the movie was. There was nary a boring scene. Though there were a few loose ends [i.e., what was in the envelope?], these loose-ends are just minor details taken from context of the entire movie.

This move is sure to be another masterpiece of crime cinema. Few movies have ever affected me after watching it, including Seven, Deer Hunter, Usual Suspects, Reservoir Dogs, and recently, Old Boy. The Departed outruns all of them. Jesus Christ.

My officemates and I sure didn't regret playing hookie from the office.

Touched for the Very First Time

I had dinner with two of my favorite girl friends a while ago at this hip place in Greenbelt. Over some hot asian fusion cuisine, one of my friends was relating to me and my other friend how she got de-virginized recently. Indeed, the pungency of our meal was not only appropriate, but rather, it served to highlight, if not underscore, the general direction of the discussions for the evening.

First a backgrounder. This virgin friend of ours is no saint. In fact, for those who didn't know her, her demeanor would probably betray her being a woman of the world, i.e., a "woman-on-top" kind of girl. And a "woman-on-top" she was, for she makes no secret of her desires and even dares us to follow her lead. Truly remarkable, I should say, for a woman, whose small-town roots and conservative background serve no more purpose than to remind her to take extra precaution [read: take morning-after pills] during those nights of utter hedonism.

And so she related that she visited this guy, because her "you-know-what" was itching. And itching like hell it was...much like a thousand [in this case 29] year-old virgin rainforest waiting to be discovered by some explorer or conqueror [or to be inhabited by some savage tribe of pygmy headhunters, however unlikely, hehehe]. She asked to be examined, and according to her, she was expertly touched by this explorer, who knew almost immediately that she was still a virgin. In fact, according to our friend, the guy-turned-explorer/conqueror even asked her if she was indeed a virgin. Of course, our friend couldn't lie, lest she be sentenced to eternal damnation for lying.

To make the long story short, our friend still remains a virgin. And her "you-know-what" remains untouched and as pristine as when she was a dalagita/neneng. But, as I mentioned above, our friend has desires, and afraid of new things, she is not. And so though she remains immaculate, and will remain immaculate until the day someone truly claims her, according to her, the guy-turned-explorer/conqueror had different designs. And different indeed, they were, for according to our friend, she was examined, "drilled" and probed in the wrong hole.

With a sneaky smile, our friend could only say, "I felt as though I was raped."

My friend, if it were not for the lack of intent, you really were. :)

Birthday Blues II

I just remembered that during my party, one of my orgmates asked me to drink a bottle of beer straight up [or was it just a toast?--i can't recall anymore as I was totally hammered] and told me that I was a considerably "well-loved" orgmate [he spoke in the vernacular so I'm translating as best I can]. Coming from one of my invitees that night, I'd say that his statement was pretty much the usual complement a guest would give his host, especially during the latter's birthday. I'd do the same, in fact. To my mind, being solicitous is the least you could do for a host who is celebrating his birthday. And so, a host shouldn't give much thought to any complement he/she receives considering that, at the end of the day, most of them could actually be only half-meant.

However, coming from that particular orgmate, I think I should give his words some more thought. After all, my impression of him is that of a person who basks in his naivete, harboring no ill-feelings against anyone, and keeping no vested interests. Mr. Nice Guy personified. I guess my point is that he may actually have meant what he said to me.

So I am grateful that people look up to me. But do I deserve it? Maybe, maybe not. For those whose company and friendship I cherish, I'd like to think that I'm a great friend, and that they would probably agree with the observation of my orgmate. After all, despite the fact that I can be bratty and obnoxious, they still take me for who I am. What puzzles me, however, is the that fact the "others" seem to share the sentiments of those within my circle.

People are weird. You show them a small measure of kindness [whether intended or not] and they think that you're a friggin' saint. I don't blame them. After all, it is but natural to assume and look for the innate goodness in others. Verily, only those who have been exposed to the seedy side of men will be wary--a fact which was betrayed when I answered my orgmate [again, in the vernacular]: "I may be well-loved, but will it do well for me to 'love' others in the same way?" Following that was the clink of our bottles before I said to him [with a smirk], "Cheers."

Looking back, I should have just drank straight up. That was admittedly a stupid thing to say, but as I will say time and again, I am no saint. And I hate it when people expect me to be one just on the basis of a couple of good deeds I may have unintentionally done. I hate to disappoint, and by complementing me, people actually just make it harder for me to be, me. Oh well. :)

Godfather Part I

I received a birthday e-mail from an old friend, i.e., my Godfather Part I [in the words of one of my buddies], which surprised me considering that we haven't seen nor spoken to each other since 2003 [when I went on a crazy U.S. trip with my friends]. She was in New York, and was apparently doing fine. I was doing fine, too. Since I saw her last, I've been wanting so much to talk to her--the way we did years before. We've had many a profound conversation, but our best conversations were those we had while we were driving around aimlessly in my car, or when we were dancing the night away in the disco [pumped up on something]. Weird, but we carried on the way we did. And we were happy.

Then she left. And with a heavy heart, i bade her bon voyage. It is truly saddening for having someone you truly care for leave. But the pain of being left behind lies not in the fact of being left behind per se, but rather, the possibility of being forgotten. This, i conjecture, is the root of melancholia. And truth to tell, I suppose a lot of people, including myself, have, in one point of their lives, been afflicted by it.

In her email to me, she said that she missed me so. And, in an act that was totally out of character, I replied in the same way [I am rarely cheesy]. Because I did and do miss her. And I'm sure that she really does miss me. For once in the three years of oblivion, I have come to realize this--there is a joy in being left behind, and an excitement, too. The joy lies in the affirmation that after being tormented by the demons of the forgotten, you have actually been remembered. Likewise, the excitement lies in the tingling sensation one feels when he/she knows that an old flame has been rekindled. It is the knowledge that you have been, and will always be, in someone else's heart.

Birthday Blues

I had a party a couple of days ago at this swanky bar to celebrate my birthday. Nothing fancy [although the P70,000.00++ bill I had to foot would definitely indicate otherwise]. Just a couple [who the hell am I kidding?!] of drinks with some of my close friends, as well as some "quota" invitees [friends of friends, etc.]. At least this year, my brother [the one who gets to do what he really loves doing] got to go, as well as lady junkie and my super partner-in-crime/travel buddy. What's more, for the first time in months, me and my buddies were all complete, as well as my other super favorite org batchmates/juniors. If only for this, I'd say that my party was a towering success, to say the least. Besides, most of my guests were drunk [on their own accord and without anyone forcing them to drink], hammered, woozy, steady, etc. And most importantly, everyone had fun [or so I'd like to think so]. In fact, the fact that some of my friends [including myself] woke up the next morning in the ninth circle of hangover hell only proves that everyone had fun. :)

On this point, it's a good thing that I shelved the idea of just having my birthday dinner party at People's Palace. That would have been just too "conservative" for my taste. It's not that I don't like having dinner parties. I'm sure that I'm definitely gonna have one soon. But not just yet. Not this year. Not at the penultimate year before my third decade of existence. [Fuck! I'm really a fucking dinosaur!]

I really love parties. Not so much attending them [except of course the parties of my super close friends], but HOSTING them! There's no feeling like getting all the people you like hanging out with under one roof and just being yourself. People say that the cardinal rule which all brithday celebrators should abide by is not to get drunk at his/her own party. Rubbish! Of course you can get drunk at your own party! In fact, you can do [and be] anything at your own party! The important thing is just to keep it real. Aye, there's the rub. This is why I love hosting parties. During my parties, I am myself. And I am myself, because I am with the people who make me, me. And to tell you honestly, I don't think that I'm a People's Palace kind of guy. At least not yet. Not this year. :)

Migraine Boy

I hate migraines. And I hate it more if I don't have my Excedrin Migraine ("E") with me. Like now. I always keep several bottles of E everywhere. I have a couple of bottles at home, a bottle in the office, and a bottle in my briefcase, just in case I suffer a migraine attack outside the house or the office. But I totally forgot to bring a bottle with me today since I used a different bag, and I'm working outside the office. I'm not having one of those debilitating migraine attacks. In fact, I'm just having the annoying dull-pain type of migraine. Although it isn't that bad, it's really bothersome, and it distracts me from the work-at-hand. Stupid migraine! Stupid me!