The Diliman Scandal (aka Faculty Follies 2004)

Apparently, I have a blackmail photo floating around.

I have learned my lesson: never decline lunch invites from friends with digicams, lest said people turn up at the college variety show and take photos which they will later post in their blogs.

And not only that, there's even video evidence of me dancing onstage along with my former lit theory professor. But I still think I got the better deal. I present you this photo from the 2004 Faculty Follies:



Presenting Mama Er, the ever honorable chairperson of the Deparment of European Languages, here dressed as Valentina. This is arguably the most disturbing photo yet to come out of the event, unless they dig one up of Jovy Peregrino in drag and with arching eyebrows.

Da King is dead. Long live da King!

Fernando Poe Jr: 1939-2004.



FPJ succumbed at 12.01 today after being comatose for nearly three days. For a lot of people, he would be remembered as an actor, quintessential hero, reluctant politician, and possibly the Bestest Friend ever:

While Erap is portrayed in most of his movies as a born fighter, his battle against forces of evil is informed by tragedy (i.e. he ends up being jailed, killed and executed). FPJ is projected as an immortal (either emerging from nowhere or rising above the circumstances). He is a peace-loving stranger pushed to the limits. He comes to the rescue, a reluctant hero larger than life, brandishing golden .45 caliber pistols or wielding a sword with supernatural powers. He puts an end to evil once and for all.

On top of everything, he is also the redeemer not only for the masses but also for Joseph Estrada. Granted that people ridiculed him for even daring to run in the last presidential elections, just how many of us can claim to have a friend who would dearly suffer life and dignity just to save his best bud? It was a fight worth fighting, and he was a decent man. Fare thee well, Sir.

[Photo taken from "Isusumbong Kita sa Tatay Ko," where FPJ co-starred with Judy Ann Santos.]

Down the river, under the weather

It's time to extol again about the virtues of idleness. The past few weeks had seen me going on and running about for hours. Even during the week of the great typhoon, there was simply just a lot of work to be done. The morning shift required me to get up and do the grind with only 6 hours of rest, and use the weekends to catch up on whatever sleep I can.

And then last Tuesday, I woke up and realized that I couldn't even move to push myself off the bed. I was running a fever and lacked sleep. Those who know me would be the first to tell you I'm no good if I don't get my requisite 8 hours or more.

I've had 2 massages this week. Last Monday, between appointments I hurried down to Morato to get me a steam bath and a massage. The girl there pounded at my nape and my back. I thought she wanted to kill me. Even repeated requests to slow down didn't ease her anger at all the "lamig" and knotted muscles. (What the hell is a "lamig"? Her explanation is that when we're tired, our pores are more or less open and thus susceptible to "lamig." Knots of cold air enter the skin, especially when we sleep with our backs facing the electric fan or when we douse ourselves with water when we're tired. It somehow suspiciously sounds like "pasma" and I don't really subscribe to that.) The day after that, I had to stay away from school. Last Friday, I ran into BnC and another friend at the FC, and they were getting bargain massages. (P49.95 for 15-20 minutes! Not bad na.) The girl there told me I still had a light fever--"sinat"--and that I still had a lot of lamig on my back and arms. She told me to go easy and not to take a bath that night.

Initially, I resisted the morning shift, knowing full well that since I could only sleep at well past midnight, my optimal hours were really in the late afternoon. Then I thought that maybe the morning air would do me good, and just think of my (non)invisible roommate Sharon. She starts class at 7am and done by 10am. She has the rest of the day to do her own stuff. Now that's something. So I tried valiantly to be like Ben Franklin--or Sharon. Whatever. I'm not still not healthy, wealthy or wise. I probably have the intelligence of a sponge in my 8.30 class. I get by by swigging coffee and energy drinks. Grudgingly, I would have to acknowledge that I really am not a morning person. Believe me, I tried. But since it's a bit too late to swap schedules, I would have to stand by this routine for another three or four months. God help us all.

I don't know why we have become a society of workhorses. "Workaholic" is not something to be snooted at anymore. It is expected. But hey, even horses collapse when pushed to run too much. And by then, as they say, what's the use of giving it some grass? A little down time is good, if only to recharge not just physically, but also mentally and psychologically.

In the November 2004 issue of Harper Magazine, Mark Slouka writes that "Idleness is not just a psychological necessity, req­uisite to the construction of a complete human being; it constitutes as well a kind of political space, a space as necessary to the workings of an actual democracy as, say, a free press. How does it do this? By allowing us time to figure out who we are, and what we believe; by allowing us time to consider what is unjust, and what we might do about it."

Idleness in this sense becomes dangerous. By having enough time in our hands to consider who we are and what we can do, we can think up all manners of things, and not all of them good. It's not just about having the time to trash mommy's garden and getting your hand in the cookie jar, it's about planning revolutions and thinking that everyone has the right to moments of thought and relaxation.

But the world will have none of that. We must work to feed the god of time machines: the god requires sacrifices, give him our every second, minute, hour and days of our lives. And the key word isn't just "work," but two things: "work continuously." To go on and on and on, until one day, we will just stop and walk out of the paint factory that has become our lives. Sherwood Anderson, American literary giant and sometime copywriter of a line of paints, did just so. Tired of working, he walked away from his secretary in the middle of dictating a letter, marched out and trudged for four days until he was found and rushed to a hospital. When asked why he did that, he declared that work has become too taxing, that "to stay was to suffocate, slowly; to escape was to take a stab at 'aliveness.'" What the world needs is not an army of ants, but a new breed of people who "at any physical cost to themselves and others" would "agree to quit working, to loaf, to refuse to be hurried or try to get on in the world."

It's a nice turn of phrase: "To refuse to be hurried or to try to get on in the world." But, of course, if we do that, we'll be pronounced mad, or at least indolently lazy. So we get on that train and join the morning rush, one of millions of ants marching on to their colonies of work worship, and hoping that one day, maybe the god of idleness will wake up and make us smell and taste and see and hear and feel what it's like to finally be at rest.

Original kantogirlblues post here.

More doctrines about the Cult of Idleness:
Ted Rall's Quit Your Job. Work is a Sham.

MSNBC's report on "Take Back Your Time Day"

The Guardian on Tom Hodgkinson's "The Virtue of Idleness"

How to pack off your brain when you're brain dead

In case you conk out and you want humanity to benefit from your grey matter, that is. The New York Brain Bank at Columbia University tells you how to pack off that juicy brain of yours to their lab so they can use your donation to study Alzheimer's disease and help millions in the process. I just hope they have something of the sort here in the Philippines, where we have a pandemic of amnesia, if you believe what you watch on tv.

Go here to get their shipping information. It's complete with a step by step guide and lists all the things you need--ziplocs, ice packs, fresh brain, yum!--and how to do it.





After this, you can go out and brag that all it takes to seal your brain is a 40x50cm ziploc bag. Yay.

How to hover piss

If you're a girl living in the Philippines, you are almost certainly familiar with the dirtholes and the strong olfactory effects of most public restrooms. In most instances, one would rather hold it inside and find something more suitable and less germ free, but that would have meant waiting for an eternity. The next best thing is this: you most definitely have to master the art of hover pissing.

Sandra Fu of morphizm tells you how to do it: "Stand with your legs about hip-width apart and slowly lower your butt towards the toilet, like a mothership looking to beam up her long-lost alien brethren, making sure to get low in the squat. Some women may find it useful to support their upper body by propping their hands or forearms on their knees. Once properly positioned go ahead and let loose the stream."

Tomato Table and Ocassional Pissers

I want to make a tomato table just like this one:



Or perhaps, if I can't find any plastic tomatoes, lemons would do. But I don't know if I want a yellow piece of furniture. Ah hell. I'm feeling all DIY all of a sudden--either really bored or just antsy or both.

Which reminds me of my friend Ms G, who recently turned 40. The day of her birthday, I ran into her early morning when classes were cancelled. We were talking about roommates. I was lamenting the fact that mine is not invisible anymore. Not that it's all that bad because she's nice and all. I'm not just used to sharing my space, I suppose.

Ms G tells of her status as the official horrible roommate of that department across the hall. Ms G can't smell anything at all, so she never really cleans her place until absolutely necessary or when she spills ash and the room explodes in flames. So one time, they send the new French girl over to her office to be her roommate. There was no one around to warn her about the mess, so she marched upstairs, put the key in the lock, then pushed the door open only to be greeted by white tiles and a urinal right smack in the center of the room. Imagine a garage mess with Duchamp's masterpiece:



Legend has it that the girl ran out and never came back. Of course, Ms G could be making it up. I had dreamed of a thousand ways of scaring my roommate but never quite succeeded. A bit of history then: Ms G's pisser is a remnant from a short film she did eons ago about a teacher who is perpetually late for class. One day, she gets lost down the hallway and tries different doors and one of them leads to a huge restroom where a girl combs her hair while staring eerily at the mirror. And this was pre-Sadako. Anyhow, the urinal was too pretty to just throw away. So she hauled them, tile walls and all up to her office and scaring away the roommate she never saw.

But finally, last week, she got fed up of the trash and called in the manongs to spruce up the place. She set aside a few things then told him to throw everything in big balikbayan boxes and do whatever he wishes with them. The manong took one look at the place and resisted feebly to no avail. It took the manong 3 days to clean, and she only gave him the standard merienda fee.

"Meanie," I tell her.

"Well," she said between puffs. "Maybe I should have given him more."

"My dungeon may be occasionally stinky, by account that it's right beside the boys' bathroom and all, but that's not our doing. Ikaw kasi porke di mo naamoy okay lang."

"Which reminds me, I have no maid for three weeks now. I haven't put up Christmas decorations. But anyhow, that's not advisable if you have 8 cats. I asked mudra to come but she won't. I wonder why."

"Evil, you're just evil."

End of the block

43folders tells us how to hack our way out of writers' block. Don't go the way of Dustin Hoffman. Please.

I also wish they have some advice on how to hack your way out of your postcolonial ek homework. Wah.

(Over/under)wear

Turn your old tshirts into cutesy underwear: "

It's true that, as an undergarment, not many people will ever see this creation. But those that do will appreciate it all the more. I like to make these for friends because they are all unique, and you can't buy them (except in the Getcrafty store). But good luck getting your friend's hip size without her/him noticing."

You can do boxers too. I can so see the Christmas gift potential of this. But, darn, I can't sew straight for the life of me. Hmm...

And you people insist Pinoy movies are bad

That most of our stuff are just ripoffs of the cut and paste variety. ("Let's do The Others but let's make it more Pinoy. Call it "D'Anoders!")

Just try to look at some of these Hollywood pitches chronicled by this guy in his blog:

"Carl Flue, a Los Angeles detective who suffers from a
paralyzing fear of knives, must face down an ancient
Aztec sacrificial knife that has possessed the minds
of several people and turned them into invincible
killers that serve the knife's bloodlust."

I personally like that one about the horror professor.

[Should have appeared yesterday via an e-mail post, but for some strange reason, Blogger did not put it up.]

Truman's Day Out

Just finished reading In Cold Blood last Monday, that loser and almost totally useless holiday. I've had the book on my shelves for like three years and picked it up and put it down, never really getting past the first page.

Then a couple of weeks back, I saw a post on Metafilter about the 45th anniversary of the crime that inspired the book. The four members of the Herbert W. Clutter family were found in separate rooms, tied up in a comfortable position, and heads blasted off with a shotgun. The killers made off with $40 dollars and a portable radio, no sign of violence, and the police were virtually clueless. So I started reading, inching forward a few pages, little snips during train rides and before bed, while munching lunch, before naps. Took me two weeks, and finally given a huge push last Monday when you really wouldn't want to do anything else except hide under blankets, dose and read.

In Cold Blood was billed as a "nonfiction novel," and it made its author not just quite wealthy, but also cemented his reputation in the literary circles. If you're a true crime sort of person, this is for you. Mr. Capote did what we tried and couldn't quite do as well before in my past life as a crime writer for tv. Galing, galing, galing. Of course, there are some people who are convinced the book's not 100% honest. In an interview with George Plimpton, Mr. Capote said that he's been on the look out for an event "would allow him to write a "non-fiction" novel – in his definition, a factual book written using the literary skills of an accomplished novelist." The main contention being that the book quotes lengthy passages of conversation, and yet Capote never took notes.

There were also some catty claims. One is that Capote fell in love with Perry Smith, the "gentler" one of the two murderers, enough to pay $10,000 to be let into his cell in death row. But the Kansas agents and prison warden denied the allegations, saying it was not possible. Nevertheless, it was a very good book, whatever his motivations were.

A while back, came across another MeFi post about Mr. Capote's first unpublished novel, Summer Crossing. Although the report says it's "kind of a pre-'Breakfast at Tiffany's," I think it suspiciously sounds like this movie. Better na nga siguro he didn't publish it.

[Links mostly cribbed from this MeFi post, which got me started on the book anyhow.]