Fuck yeah, Blue Valentine!

i never really read newspapers until now

Bureau Chief's office, c2010

Philippine Daily Inquirer Northern Luzon Bureau

This photo was taken about 3 years ago. I was doing my journalism internship at that time. I barely scraped by if not for the help and guidance of the magely editors at PDI Northern Luzon Bureau. This was the look of our Bureau Chief's (BC) office. I bet it still look like this and I really hope that it still does. His book collection, to say the least solicits awe along with the martial law memorabilia, including a newspaper snippet of his picture being the alleged assassin of Ninoy Aquino (still hadn't asked him about the authenticity of that snip of paper, I dare not ask the wizard.)

I specifically remember reaching out for a copy of Chernobyl Diaries out of the crammed shelves. It was like picking off at a wall of great pieces, it felt transient and lasting at the same time. I also remember a story from the book, the wife was telling the story about his husband who worked at the Chernobyl nuclear plant, he was greatly exposed to radiation. She carefully narrated the way she cut her fingernails down to the nub, slowly hiding the edges of her nails. The beauty was in the details, the housewife turned full time nurse for her husband told the story on how her fingertips bled. It was an effort to keep herself from hurting her husband. She told of how she once flayed the soft skin on her husband's arm. Her nails were too long and sharp.

It was a chilling reminder on the effects of that blow up. And how it still affects the citizens of ghost town Chernobyl. It also was a good example of how good writing can take people to places they can only imagine and are too afraid to even plan a visit. Reading some of the stories in that book added to my own wall of simple dreams and aspirations, I wanted to be a writer. But I easily acknowledged that I couldn't keep up with the dailies, I will never be a print journalist. It was true.

Our BC was also a professor at the University. He gave me a fitting grade for my performance: 2.75. I barely scraped by but I loved being in his class. It was a glimpse at the old school experience of working on a press room. The experience felt like it was a photo with  coffee colored sepia effects.

That is all.

midnight drive

I think I'm going to rewatch the full two seasons of How to Make it in America. Just to get a kick in the balls. Soon, New York. Soon.

This always gets to me. I don't know why. I know some people who tell me that it's a whole lot different when you get uprooted from where you came from. I believe them. I think it's true and that you can't just get taken away from all that you are, were and currently represent. It'll be suicide but you just get this lump in your throat and it makes you want to throw yourself into that uncertainty. Just because it is a thriving desire and you know the rewards are greater than the risk.

Fuck. This. Shit.

round two

this is how we die
nakaw mula sa kaibigang balikbayan

Heto na naman nga at nagpopost ako ng litrato ng ininom namin noong sabado lang. Kagagaling ko lamang ng Bicol upang bumisita sa mga kamag-anak at ito ang sumalubong sa akin. Hindi naman ako umaangal pero hanggang ngayon ay malabnaw pa rin ang dugo ko dahil sa dami ng alkohol na aming nakonsumo noong araw na iyon.

Masaya ang pagsasalu-salo namin. Bumalik kasi ng bansa ang isa sa aming pinakamalapit na kaibigan, treat nya ang alak at sagot namin ang pag-ubos nito. Plastado kami nang maubos ito. Buti nalang at maraming yelo pangkontra na rin sa sobrang init ng panahon. Wala kaming litrato habang nagkakasiyahan dahil abala sa pakikipagkwentuhan.

Minsan naiisip ko kung totoo bang tinatanggap ko na ang responsibilidad ng isang pagiging young adult. Napapansin ko kasing hindi naman nabawasan ang pakikisama ko sa mga kaibigan ko kahit na nagkaroon na kami ng mga trabaho at kanya kanyang pinagkakaabalahan. 

Tumatanda kami pero parang hindi umuusad sa responsibilidad. Ang ginagawa ko nalang pag ganoon ang naiisip ko ay tinatagayan ko pa ang sarili ko nang mas mataas na shot, boom, tapos ang pagninilay-nilay. Sinasamantala ko lang ang panahon hangga't kaya. Mabuti na yung ganoon para sa'kin. 

Mas mahirap naman maghanap ng ganitong samahan kesa magpapayat at magbawas ng bisyo. Maswerte talaga ako sa buhay ko. Pakshet.

red ink, hard liquor, food and family

A good buddy of mine recently celebrated his birthday. We've known each other since we were in grade school and have suffered and enjoyed the same tumbles and initiations of early life. Along with two other friends, we watched ourselves as we all marched into manhood.

He had prepared everything for us to be drunk kings and hooligans. Home cooked meals that gave warmth to our bellies and the heart as well. His family had moved to Baliuag and since then, we haven't seen his family as often as we did back in our younger days.

To say that the night we spent over at their place is an understatement. We drank, ate and laughed our asses. His mom and pop welcomed us like we were long lost children, telling us how much they've missed us and recounted the stories of old. His mother even served us a meal that was very special for us since we always had the same good food for our new year cookout: carbonara with white sauce and bacon bits. It was such a nice feeling. They are all good folks, my buddy's family, they are.

Slowly, it dawned to me, after the haze of alcohol that we all enjoyed so much and the brotherhood that we've shared throughout the years we knew each other: we were men now but kids in us never left.

I just hope that it stays the same. Sometimes, there are just things that are not meant to change.

We are currently waiting for the fourth guy to get back home for a vacation in the coming month. We already miss him and our guts are ready for another all nighter. 

Act like gentlemen, drink like motherfuckers.

pantyhosed

“A man is not old until regrets replace dreams.”  -John Barrymore

Photo credits: Clayton Cubitt.

Visit the man's colossal pinboard of interesting finds and perspective here.

I've been thinking of creating a Tumblr account for a while now. My friend suggested the thing when I told him he was already famous on the site (among poets and literature peeps) and he is. He suggested that I'd get better reach when it came to audience. Though, I thought, I have all the audience I need in this personal space.

Tumblr has a certain thing for anonymity. The mysterious and the hidden at the same time being exposed and extroverted. Everything is projected outward but with a black strip to mask identities. Clayton Cubitt is not one of those fellas on Tumblr.

He puts out, not in the perverse way. His photographs show just that and his head on approach to the usual secrets in the real world. Gritty, dirty, flashy, real, rigid and starkly familiar. You can say that it's a bit hipster, meh, everyone has his two cents about everything.

I've been following his work for more than 5 months now. And I can say that I highly enjoy his works and his class. Dirty classy.

I especially like the way he connects his photographs with quotations from people I haven't even heard of. It is a diverse collective. His photographs look larger than life but occur within the dimensions as they do. 

plastic sheeting

I promise, this will be the last snip for the day.

What we get from the feeling of finishing a very interesting article, story or post we write is something that varies in shade, intensity and purity. We can never put it in words with such quantification and precision, the essence is not contained in a jar in its entirety. Writing has been an escape from the real. Writing has been the  reality for the imagined. Writing has been the instrument to bend and break. Writing has been the wall which many have leaned on when they have rubber legs from all the whiskey they drank. The feeling is fleeting in its sense that we don't know that what we may write is some sort of magic for others. And that the magic in itself is not knowing that we've made real some things that have not been real for a long time.

I don't know about this post but I just want to write it. Maybe it's just the cold getting in between my toes.

olympia

The problem with writing in a euphoric state is that you get too attached to the feeling that when it flutters away, you close your hand into a clench that you end up with only a dusty glitter of what you had. Trying to write a good story is one thing. Living it, that's an entirely different script.

I need to find myself a typewriter.

yea, right

Reflecting on my writing life and process. This is some narcissistic shit, or maybe just an introspection.

I have been pondering on the thought of how did I ever develop this sorta knack for writing. I didn't enjoy it when I was a kid. For all I know, I could have been an architect or a designer due to my earlier influences. I know for a fact that as a kid, I'd been keen on spelling and real bad at math so maybe, just maybe, those are the forces that got my compass to point to the direction of the scribe.

Whatever little left from the things that I still remember from college is that if you're already a 'good writer,' don't take up anything close to writing as a major. Still, that rings a bell whenever I remember it but I can't fully close my mind to the idea. I'm sort of 50-50 on that argument. Yes, I believe that you can't learn style from school, and if you do, you may have a 'template style' that goes along with the diploma that you receive after school.

It's kinda like saying that your degree is useless. Somehow, I feel that too. But not all too much. I learned that there are different ways of writing and different ways to express and cater to the subject matter. That, I think is something you can't learn just by being a 'good writer'or something. I'm not saying that those who didn't have prior and formal writing classes are dupes when it comes to writing. Matter of fact, the more popular and brilliant writers of the world come not from the academe of letters. They are but mere individuals stirred by the desire to express and [unknowingly, sic] impress the world with whatever idea or character or scenario they have or had. Yea, I'm thrown on both sides of the argument. Can't wrap my head over that shit.

Another thing that I've been giving much thought to, lately, is the fact that I really hate doing rewrites or editing of my work. It makes me feel like a cheat. That doesn't mean that I don't check my writing for typos but the whole prospect of re-reading my work and then editing it for better content, context, form and structure is somewhat sketchy to me. I feel like when I write, it should be final and down to the point. Let the regret come later if angry readers swarm in on my comments box. I highly doubt that. That's a bit of history and secret laziness right there. I don't edit my work. I'd like to edit other people's work, in good faith, don't you worry.

Self-editing feels like shortchanging yourself and your readers. Of course, there are times that things are so fucked up in your head that the need to expose them to the world is dampened by the fear of being loathed, trolled and flamed across varying media. Don't go there, they will eat you alive if you are a sick bigoted fuck.

Maybe, that's another reason why I like the name "Guderian"that much. He was a straightforward man. Straight as an arrow.

Edge for life, sonn.

P.S. I forgot something, some people I personally know hate the fact that I sort of do so much filtering of my thoughts that when they come out as words, they're squeaky clean as fuck. Well, thank you. My words are soapy as ever. I'd blow bubbles to your ears so when they burst, you'll hear what I really mean.

Thank you, more please.

Flashes.

Tried a new joint at the local mall earlier. It's a Filipino restaurant that's celebrating the most (probably) Filipino food of all: adobo. The food was good. No, better. It was fulfilling. What made it fulfilling is not just the flavor alone, although it reminds me of home since we are fond of eating adobo with just the right amount of glistening oil and liver. The crew was very hospitable.

I'm sure that it's part of their job to be so but it's a feeling that very few people can fake. The generous servings of steamed rice, it's all-you-can eat btw, and the smiles make a good combo. I know, I'm a rude bastard at times but I always make it a fact to say 'thanks' whenever someone is serving me something to eat. 

Kahit sa carinderia, sa turo-turo, sa pwesto ng mga fishball o betamax. Lagi kang magpapasalamat. Kahit banas ka na sa haba ng pila sa MRT at parang wala nang marunong magsabi ng isang salitang dapat ipinupukpok sa sub-conscious at lalo na sa conscious self natin. 

What better way to repay their kindness (by not spitting at your food) than a resounding "salamat" to top it off.

That's the least they deserve for doing their jobs and doing it well. It's fun to see people do the same to crew members even if the service is crappy or needs a little tweak for improvement. Did I mention that they have amazing fried garlic toppings on their adobo?

That moment reminded me of a movie I watched. It was a suggestion from a very special friend. Happy tummy. Somewhat happy soul.

an intro instead of a story.

photo from fashionologie.com

"It shocks me when young kids still say, 'I want to do a magazine,' he says.

"Really? Do you want to do a magazine because you want to be an editor- what you think life is, that romance- or do you want to communicate? Because if you want to communicate, why the fuck would you want to communicate, why the fuck would you put all those obstacles in your path and have to print pages, as opposed to going right on the Internet and actually communicating?"

Damn. Scott Schuman.

An excerpt from GQ's June 2012 issue interview with the man behind The Sartorialist.

Success over night or success in a slow but steady notion.

Still, success is success.

Personally, it is a debate whether the print actually moves more obstacles in front of would-be bloggers when it comes to publishing praise-worthy work. Print is a mainstay, I keep telling myself that but it really has to do with doing real hard work to make it big.

We look at magazines to create images in our minds. We have the internet to translate it instantly with the help of terabytes worth of information and inspiration.

Damn, man. That really made me think.

smoky weekend

It's a Monday. Another Monday in an endless and vicious cycle of weeks and months and years. Hopefully, I'd get to take my money home for last month's worth of work.

Anyhow, there are a few things that are worth writing about today. Well, all of them happened during the weekend. I was lazing around during last Saturday. It was sticky and humid. Another sleepy weekend. I got a call from a friend, he was asking me what I was up to. I sheepishly answered 'Not much. Just trying to get some more sleep." He told me to come over, I did, and so did other friends. We were gathered to hear news. He told me on the phone that he'd rather tell the story personally.

I was first on the scene, he was grilling some homemade burgers. They were delicious. As other friends arrived (most of us came from the same high school but we never really got to hang out in the same group of friends.) He popped the news. He was already a dad. It didn't come out as a surprise to most of us, the surprise was he was a father for almost three months. The kid was beautiful. Congratulatory remarks came after and so did the story behind it. He himself told us that it felt like it came from a comedy script. I'll write more about that later on.

We enjoyed drinks and snacks and helluva lotta laughter. We remembered different tales from the not so distant past. But it felt like it was a decade ago. Come to think of it, we're half past due on those stories. We got acquainted with each other's current dilemmas and idiosyncrasies about being on the post-college phase.

Sharing a paunch with the new dad and son. 
They have identical perfect domes for an old man cut.

Fatherhood has different faces. For my dear friend, and for me, as I put it all up in my idea board of a mind: his story was that of irony and quirkiness. His daddy face is somewhat of a guy reading a magazine or a book or an online article on a hot afternoon. He is a fellow writer, and a god damn good one at that. Straight fucking A of a writer and he's now a dad. His story will be unfolding and it feels script worthy. I know it is. I feel it is. We just have to think of ways to write it.

I don't know how he'll react to this. I know he'll be reading this post and I didn't get the chance to fully congratulate him. Good job. You'll be a great father and friend to your son. He'll grow up to be a weird but brilliant hipster just like his old man and sweet mom.

Another noteworthy thing is a friend having the same feelings about work and making it big and happy in the fucking world. "Tara. Game ako dyan. Tapos magreresign ako, magbibisyo at magsusulat. Maganda pa t-shirt ko" like minded shit from a brilliant mind. I just put my friends in such high regard and they deserve every bit of it.

We kinda hooked it up on making my project work. It'll be more than a collaboration, more of a partnership. With his help, I know we can make something good with our god-given talents and ill skillz. I love that dude, no homo.

Quit our jobs. Do our shit. Write the hell out of every emotion, injustice, unfortunate event and other shit. Do more shit. Feed our vices and do more shit. And as icing to the cake, we get to have cool threads. How fucking good is that? And we'd get tatted up like we own our bodies. Sorry moms.

Head strong, boiiieee.

how to fucking make it out of work

I've been watching this show religiously. It's a 2-season series that's made up of 8 episodes per season. Bad news is that it got canceled on HBO and 'may' have the chance of resurfacing on another channel.

This is something of a wake-up call for me since the show revolves about 20-somethings in their constant sprawl to hustle and make a name for themselves at the gritty NYC. It's a good story but short lived.

"Hustle" is such a strong word for me. It represents a scuffle, street smarts, struggle and balancing victory and defeat. The events portrayed on the show represents each and adds a spritz of comedy and relatability (not to mention generous amounts of nudity and innuendo.)

Staying up late just to watch the complete two seasons made me want to take a move on with my plans for a silk screen printing business. Yes, if I weren't writing, I'd be making clothes. Sucky and tacky, I know. The prospect of making good clothes that people can actually appreciate is something I've thought about waaaay more than I do for work.

Once I get enough funds to start my own craft, I'd quit this day job and make my own way. The confidence and doubt of the characters are fighting to win over each other. It's another relatable thing for most 20-somethings. I'm feeeling like I'm writing a review for Thought Catalog but that's how it is. We never figure out what we want to do in our 20s. Some of us may have good day jobs but the fact of the matter is, most of us don't want it, we just kinda need it to stay afloat in a quagmire of bureaucratic ladders.

Many of us can say that we are anchored by something in some way, most of the time, that's true. MOST of the time. But we still feel like floating. And this post is already starting to rise up to the surface instead of sinking to my deeper thoughts.

Anyhow, I'd get a start up on my business as soon as I have the money. In the meantime, I think I'll make a concept for my project. 

Fuck! I love this show. Dirty, ambitious, flashy and fucking rad. Higher being, please send us season three. You can do it anytime you wish, we'll be waiting.

Good morning, Doctor.

Photo from The Selvedge Yard

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming– “Wow! What a Ride!”

— Hunter S. Thompson

Wise words from a man who didn't wait for life to take him away. Badly bruised and beaten, half-drunk and half-stoned on a full head-on collision course. Life is supposed to wear people down. Otherwise, we should have been made immortal and forever young in our physical shells.

Threadbare and worn to the ground, I'm feeling like an old man with no trophy or medal or some sort of accomplishment to put up in the air. I know you don't believe in luck, Doctor. I don't, either. Let's get beautifully mangled.

Half-hearted Monday

photo from The Selvedge Yard

“I make a point of staying right at the edge of poverty. I don’t have a pair of pants without a hole in them, and the only pair of boots I have are on my feet. I don’t mess around with unnecessary stuff, so I don’t need much money. I believe it’s meant to be that way. There’s a ‘struggle’ you have to go through, and if you make a lot of money it doesn’t make the ‘struggle’ go away. It just makes it more complicated. If you keep poor, the struggle is simple." 

- Kenny Howard aka Von Dutch

The quote came from The Selvedge Yard.

I believe that this should be a constant reminder, to everyone. Making money is not bad, unless it becomes what you live your life for.

virtue and vice

A meme from an infamous Facebook page.

Growing up in the Filipino way of life has never come out short of learning from the older folks. The family is just an atomic source of energy when it comes to virtue and sometimes, addiction that when we try to dissect it and just tinker inside, we get blown to pieces by the realizations. It is highly probable that the way we interact outside this atomic structure stays true up until we find another interesting atom to split.

The older generations used to celebrate the virtues of being a good citizen. Sure, some ideas and ideals are now truncated variations but the core of it stays the same. Don't say bad words. Be kind and courteous when talking with the elders. Do unto others what you want others to do unto you and a whole family of spermatozoa and ovum genetics hardwired to the belief of heaven. These things pay our boarding passes when we reach the pearly gates of our perceived after lives. We receive the billing and we hope that we have garnered enough 'goodwill points' to make it to the other side. Or else, we get flung to the farthest, deepest circles of our own imagined hells. Forgive me for the most-likely erroneous scientific reference, I am no disciple of the sciences.

the asterisk

A young Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

This is terrible. Just terrible. I forgot to greet Mr. Vonnegut for his birthday. 

He was born on the 11th of this month some 90 years ago. I wished I could've exchanged profanities with him. It would be fun to look at the world through the eyes of a man with views as weird and ideals as strong. 

I will try to collect all your books, sir. I just hope I don't lose myself in the process.

Sphincter Tolerance

Asshole drawing by Kurt Vonnegut

*Bleep* Attention. Attention!

Today is Sphincter Tolerance day. It is celebrated to remind ourselves to ward off assholes everywhere. Law states that their species be preserved. If hunting is allowed, they'd be a dying breed within days. Whether at work, school, commute or on personal holidays, remember to have extra patience with them. 

Please resist the urge to shoot them in the face with a double barrel shotgun or drive a stake into their annoyingly beating hearts. Their brash attitude, stupidity and maybe, your extreme luck will kill them. One day, they may get struck by vengeful lightning, let's keep our fingers crossed

That is all. *Bleep*

Babes

Dahil usapang bata na lang din naman, ipapaskil
ko na rin ang picture ng anak kong nasobrahan sa
kagwapuhan. Pasensya na po at proud lang talaga ako.
(Gab before his 1st year)

Ang saya tignan ng mga reaksyon ng mga bata. Mangingiti ka sa pag-iisip kung ano ang itsura mo noong ikaw ang nasa ganoong edad. Anim na buwan? Isang taon? E pano pag 3 years old na? Ano kaya ang mga kalokohan mo noon?

Pauwi ako mula trabaho nang may makasakay akong magnanay sa jeep. Mestiza yung nanay at mukhang may dugong banyaga. Maging ang batang lalaking karga nya ay ganun din. Yun nga lang, may kakaiba sa bata. Parang Caucasian ang ama nito. Tisoy, halata pating gwapo. Hindi ko maidescribe pero ganun. Manipis ang buhok nya at pabilog ang hugis ng mukha. Mahabang mga pilik mata ang pumipitik pitik habang nakasakay sya sa jeep.

Felt tip works

 There are few things that have welcomed me into manhood. There's fatherhood, of course. Driving lessons: two-wheels that I learned the hard way (with scars to prove it) and four-wheels (with a learner's permit for proof.) Job applications, pay slips, legitimate addictions, bouts with alcohol, erratic behavior and so on. Drawing remained a hidden childhood memory but it has resurfaced lately.

As a kid, I used to sort of pride myself in my creations, seeing that the other kids in my class were below my talent line, so to speak. But then, as I grew older, I realized that my drawings are cute, not good. I saw other people's works and said 'Fuck it. I better leave this art stuff to those who are really good at it' and so I transferred to writing. I really have former schoolmates who are very talented, some are already quite skilled in the art department.

I've been very much in love with prospect of getting tattoos for a sort of storytelling. I picture it as my own way of being identified with many things that happened in my life that obviously had a huge impact on my perspective, attitude, outlook and the way I steer my life as of now. Then I had the idea of making my own tattoo designs so that they will be more personal: banking on beliefs, landmarks represented by meaningful illustrations that I've sort of think is applicable. 

Swallow as inspired by Sailor Jerry flash

The swallow is symbol of loyalty for me. It was supposed to be my first tatt but the need for the headstone memorial tatt trumped it. It will be the next to be done on my right shoulder down until my upper right chest.