Monday, May 28, 2012

Chronicle of a Death Foretold







Once upon a time, in the golden days of antiquity, we ruled over fabled, far-flung fields of faggotry called mIRC.


With a /kick as our shield and a /ban as our sword, we maintained the peace and served homosexual happiness long before Cherry Coke, across vast channels upon channels of "a/s/l?" heathens as far as our servers could reach.


In this storied and mystical realm, my friend Miguel (first appearance here ) and his lover were one of the most celebrated couples : the Tristan and Isolde, the Arthur and Guinevere, the Merlin and Niviane of our time.


(It being the infancy of the internet and with no Twitter, Facebook, or Angry Birds to occupy our indolence, we had to take our amusements where we could get them.)




But like any good classical tale, tragedy would eventually befall this blissful union. 




One black day, a shadow fell across the land, and the whole of mIRC itself seemed to have been shaken to its very foundations  with this shocking news:  my friend Miguel's lover was dead.


Teeth were gnashed and hair was torn, but there was no lamentation of women - perhaps because we were in fucking #gaymanila, where men were men and hymen were verboten.


At any rate, much wailing and weeping and running of the mascara ensued. However, the piteous inquiries into the wake and eventual funeral of our fallen hero were met with somber, polite responses that the family - alias the bereaved "spouse" aka my friend Miguel - wished to maintain their privacy at that difficult time.


Memorials were held, tributes were given, toasts were made.


And life, eventually, went on.


.
.
.
.
.




And apparently, so did my friend Miguel's deceased paramour. At first there were but wind-carried whispers in the woods. Then, rumblings of rumors spoke of the dearly departed having been spotted in some howling hinterland or other. Had the hero become a restless wraith? A reproachful spectre? An accursed day spa customer wrapped in herbal bindings mistaken for a malevolent mummy?




Heresy! Malice! The Black Arts! 




These initial, unwarranted blasphemies were naturally met by the good, upstanding citizenry with unhushed indignation, righteous anger, and hand-wringing horror: how ghoulish, how insensitive, how cold-hearted, indeed, to dishonor the memory of the valiant dead in so callous a manner.




And yet...




More and more sightings occurred, as surely as the sun rose in the east and set in its westerly rest. The stories not only persisted; they grew...and grew...and grew. And like an outbreak of plague, fear, panic and confusion soon set in among the populace. Chaos mounted and anarchy rose, threatening to cleave the realm in two, betwixt the pious believers ("The good man is dead; please let him rest in peace!") and the vociferous unbelievers ("I tell you the goddamn fucker's alive!")


In the service of truth and for the sake of the increasingly-agitated denizens of mIRC, we turned to the "widow" aka my friend Miguel. Pray, we beseeched, put an end to these gruesome speculations and speak! Once and for all say that he is no more, that his memory be consecrated and the forked tongues of the barbarous hordes be silenced forever.




Eventually, after impassioned entreaties gave way to the more efficient methods of threats and a few well-aimed smacks around the head, the truth arose like Excalibur from the lake. 




Not only was the "dead" scoundrel alive: he and his erstwhile consort ( aka my friend Miguel) had, in a final conjugal act of Shakespearian complicity, actually orchestrated his "death." 




Why, you ask? Why this Great Lie? Why this Gandalfian conjuring of cheap tricks?




Why, Lord, why?!?! 




The wool was pulled and we were made a ship of fools because the star-crossed lovers felt that having us believe one of them had gone on to the Great Internet Relay Chatroom In The Sky was, to them, a much more preferable alternative to having everyone know the banal truth: that Romeo and Julio had broken up and that their perfect union had been a sham for quite sometime already.


And so, once more, teeth were gnashed, hair was torn, and yet again, there was no lamentation from women. A few lipstick lesbians hither and thither, though, tittered with twee glee upon learning of this terrible tale of twisted lies and tangled deceit: a Rapunzel's skein woven by our very own paragons of virtue and propriety.




'Tis a story worthy of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, had he set pen to paper in the service of farce instead of magical realism.




And what is the point of the retelling of this true and ancient tale, I hear you, dear reader, say?


Why, nay, there is no point to be made.


No point at all.




Save that of fables and foibles, and how one intertwines with the other.






Or to paraphrase Sir Walter Scott: 


"Oh what wondrous webs we weave.


When first we learn how to deceive."

28 comments:

  1. ahmmm what's mirc?

    hihihihi

    p.s. somehow, your tale sounds...familiar. or at least a variation of it ;)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. "ahmmm what's mirc?"

      *slap*

      Also - if the tale sounds familiar, 'tis because 'tis true, 'tis true.

      Delete
    2. How dare you Ternie! You invented MIRC long before Ruddie could kill it. Hahaha.

      Delete
    3. excuse me.

      viber lang kaya ang naabutan ko! :P

      Delete
    4. ahmmm, what's a vibrator?

      hihihihi

      Delete
  2. We hear you loud and clear. Ruddie. :)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. If there be nothing new, but that which is
      Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
      Which, labouring for intervention, bear amiss
      The second burden of a former child.
      O, that record could with a backward look,
      Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
      Show me your image in some antique book,
      Since mind at first in character was done!
      That I might see what the old world could say
      To this composed wonder of your frame;
      Whether we are mended, or whe'er better they,
      Or whether revolution be the same.
      O, sure I am, the wits of former days
      To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

      - Shakespeare, Sonnet 59

      Delete
  3. Replies
    1. Ask Loki, the Trickster God.

      I'm just a lowly bard.

      Delete
  4. Rudy, the message is clear.
    Now let us all go back to Mordor.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yas, one does not simply go back to Mordor.

      Delete
    2. I heard. But you know, sometimes we have to push ourselves and our friends to return. For happiness, for oracles.

      Delete
    3. For the precious?

      Yeeeesssssssss....preciossshhhhhhhh....

      Delete
  5. Replies
    1. Hence, Lavinia Arguelles' perennial foul mood.

      Delete
  6. i love how you narrated this story, oh Gayladriel of the gaydom of MIRC.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. At least you didn't call me Lego Lass.

      Or Legol-Ass.

      Delete
  7. It might be that history repeats itself. We should do the counting so as to alarm the future generations. Jeez. But if I remember it right Aslan said things never happen the same way twice. :p

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
      - Alphonse Karr, Les Guêpes, 1849

      Delete
  8. tara lets schedule a meetup. youve been very hard to find.

    when are you available?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. "I'm easy, not available."

      Kidding aside, aye, there's the rub. Been a busybusybusy bee, as Kane might attest.

      I guess I'll have to send you an email and we can work out the details of the drop *looks around furtively for any undercover fuzz*

      "You take the Golden An, and you put it in the tan van. Then you give it to Fran, who takes it to Stan. That's the plan, man."

      Delete
  9. I'm sure may of us have "faked" before, be it identities or orgasms. I just don't get why someone would fake his own death. My suspicion tells me they probably didn't get a lot of love in their childhood (roxie hart?)

    ReplyDelete
  10. @ Nyl : Faking one's death brings in all the attention and drama; some people live (ironically) for that.

    And btw, Roxie caused a death, although she did fake a pregnancy.

    And that's showbiz...kid.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I love that we're both gay enough to quote from the same song. lolz

      "Faking one's death brings in all the attention and drama"

      what I don't get is... what use is all the attention and drama if you can't technically be around to revel in all of it. chakaness!

      Delete
    2. " what use is all the attention and drama if you can't technically be around to revel in all of it"

      Who says the undead aren't reveling in and relishing it?

      What these fakers fail to realize, though, is that you can only pull this stunt off once, if you want the whole kit and caboodle of tears and tributes.

      Each succeeding "demise" becomes cheaper and cheaper. Just ask poor Jean Grey.

      Delete
    3. Or Piper, Phoebe and Paige. It was just poor Prue who never resurrected. lolz

      Delete