Monday, May 28, 2012
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.
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."
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Oh, shit, he's pissed. I'm fucked. Again.
My, how time flies when you fail to show up for your father's birthday.
Given last year's non-appearance, that's twice in a row for me.
Three strikes, and uh...I'm...what? Disowned? Disinherited? Disemboweled?
Dad : "I CAST YOU OUT!!!!!!"
Me : "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-----!!!!!"
It's not like I'm missing his birthday on purpose. Neither is it due to daddy issues, the existence of which I won't be disingenuous enough to deny. It's just that the Hulk bulk of my work very inconveniently barrels right through my co-creator's natal day : an unstoppable force that has managed to get the best of the immovable object that is my dad's birthday for two years running now.
"Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking bills for this motherfucking car!!!"
This year, though, I don't have Bangkok to blame, although it was close; I'd just planed in the night before, in the Nick Fury of time to actually be in town to text my old man a happy birthday first thing the next morning. I dutifully did so, and he responded by nagging me whether I'd already made a decision as to which casa was going to have its turn bleeding me dry because my bitch of a car is throwing a Claudine Barreto-esque tantrum once again.
I should've known it would be the start of what would turn out to be a horrifically stressful day.
YES I HAVE BREATHTAKING ANGER MANAGEMENT ISSUES YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT?!??!"
While picking out which wall to smash my fist against in the middle of said horrifically stressful day, I received a text from my brother asking what time I'd be home from work, deftly segueing into a reminder that it was Dad's birthday, lest I had forgotten. My
Too bad for li'l bro, our sister
"Thank you for your cooperation."
(Strangely enough, I had just inspected La-Z-Boy prices at Blim's the week before - oh, just in the neighborhood of P100,000 ++, in case you were interested - remembering that Dad had made noises about wanting one while at the same time completely forgetting that his birthday was coming up. Strange how the addled mind works, there.)
"Brother - SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Anyway, I fired off a curt text to mi hermano basically telling him to cease-and-desist-the-fucking-cows-are-gonna-be-home-eons-before-I-would-be-and-by-the-way-goddammit-Loki-where-is-the-fucking-Tesseract?!?!?! His meek "Ok" signaled that my point had gotten through like an Asgardian staff through a certain S.H.I.E.L.D. agent's chest (oooh, spoiler, my bad).
"Oh, sure. I'M the villain here!"
I thought that was the end of that but of course, like any Marvel blockbuster event, there is always a bonus at the end of the interminable credits. At the end of my interminable SAW:XXMCCLVII movie of a day, the scene that played out for me was not one of a gaggle of bored superheroes eating shawarma, but rather a notice that thanks to my absence tonight, I am once again Odin's prodigal son. And a litany of my liege's displeasures were hammered home courtesy of my sadistic sister ( feeling like Amara the Enchantress, no doubt, or Eris, always looking forward to discord ) : I don't appreciate what he does for me (I do, Dad, but that garage extension was hideous and I had no choice but to tear it down like that hick town in Thor). He's spent a fortune coming to my house in the service of servicing my cars (then why oh why am I always presented with the bills?). I don't listen to what he says ( I do, I just reserve the right as an upright adult to make my own decisions).
And so on.
"Boy, let me tell you about MY daddy issues!"
I suppose it was some sort of advance
In fact, Dad ceases to be God.
His clay feet have been laid too bare, and, like Zeus in the wretched excuse for a movie that was Wrath of The
"Have you ever had someone take you out of yourself and then have them stuff something else in?"
No, I didn't think so. Thanks, I'm gonna resume falling now.
I love my father dearly even though yes, he drives me battier than Bruce "Parental Issues" Wayne. And yes, I should prioritize family over work and I should know the more important things in life and I should make time for my loved ones and by the way, thanks for your mental lecture you nodding self-righteous weasels and by the way, fuck you. Fuck you very very much.
"Fine! I never said I was Captain America!"
"Does this fucking throne come in gold? My father, Odin, ruler of all Asgard doth demand it."
How much was that fucking La-Z-Boy again?
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Well, actually, no.
More like The Scream. Which, as of today, has just become the most expensive piece of artwork ever sold at auction,* raking in $119.9 million in just under 12 minutes of auction action at Sotheby's, New York..
In honor of this lucrative refutal of my father's contention that there is no money in art, I present an animated version of Edvard Munch's famous surrealist painting - with decidedly... ahhh ...unexpected results.
At the very least, it's a hoot.
If not altogether a scream.
Bonus: A poem written by Munch himself, inscribed in red paint on the frame of the drawing sold today.
I was walking along the road with two friends. The Sun was setting –
The Sky turned a bloody red
And I felt a whiff of Melancholy – I stood
Still, deathly tired – over the blue-black
Fjord and City hung Blood and Tongues of Fire
My Friends walked on – I remained behind
– shivering with Anxiety – I felt the great Scream in Nature
*Note "at auction."
In case you, too, have ambitions of disproving the old "Starving is the adjective that comes before the word artist" adage, see a list of the most expensive paintings ever sold at auctions (both public and private) at Wiki's entry here.