Moving to Makati City is a good idea considering where I work, but somehow I kind of feel some remotely sentimental feelings about living nine months in UP Diliman.  Not that I’m going to miss hellish commutes from Ortigas to Philcoa, but somehow there’s something about this place that I just don’t want to leave yet.

As I was packing up my stuff this morning and sent off my last batch of laundry for pick-up tomorrow, I kind of had some time to think about why I’m leaving this place anyway.  It’s not because it’s UP and that I have the “UPian” attachment (where that term originated, I do not know), but everything about UP Diliman is self-contained.  I have everything I need right here.  Over the almost-year, I have discovered a lot of good places to eat, made friends with store owners and laundromat owners, and became a regular customer of places that offer cheap - and fast - wi-fi services.  I’ll get around that when I explore Makati, but I’m getting way ahead of myself.

Yet I think that the charm of Diliman is not to be found in the campus itself, but the peripheries.  I’ve lived in Diliman before, but it’s only now that I get to realize how people-friendly this place could be.  Granted that you hear the occasional stories of kids who drown in pools at the other neighborhood or drug runs at 2:00 in the morning, but it ain’t all that bad.

For my last few hours of being a resident of UP Diliman, I decided to go out the right way, and take one last UP Ikot ride.  I wanted to breathe in everything about Diliman… or I guess I didn’t, since I saw that tree in front of Benitez that I have long since avoided like the plague.

There, I could still see a girl and a boy talking.  It’s a mirage of three summers ago, I guess.  The boy had long hair and a cigarette in his mouth, the girl was wearing a pink shirt with a black bolero.  They were talking about a past meant to be forgotten, or things that are never meant to be.

I don’t know whether or not that boy and that girl will meet again.  Maybe one of these days.

The jeepney then made its way ’round the bend, until I realized the greater significance of this one last ride.  Perhaps I haven’t resolved some nagging thoughts over the years just yet; that my personal comfort zone was to forget, to let sleeping dogs lie, to let things settle before I go.  I guess that sucks, but I have packed bags waiting and a world to explore.

Where this takes me, I do not know; but like everything else in life, most things are just a short ride away.

(Just don’t make me take north-bound train rides at rush hour and we’ll be fine.)

As some of you may know - and if you read Filipino Voices - I am engaged in a rather heated meeting of the mind-and-empty-vacuous-skull… a debate… I don’t know what to call it anymore, with The High Priest of Smokes.  What was supposed to be an argument on the basis of things important to us has degenerated into an absolute embarrassment.

Now this not FV, and not the Jester-in-Exile’s debate thread; this is my blog.  I believe that for me to properly address this issue, it is important for me to look at things objectively.  Why would HP obsess himself with refuting every single one of my points to the point of near-speechlessness and stuttering?  Why does he spend sleepless nights calling me names and calling me “Mr. Marocharim?”

After a few cigarettes, a trip around social network sites, and e-mails, I became a wee bit depressed.

A leisurely download festival, and skipped dinner, and a couple of cigarettes later, I finally figured it out:

The High Priest of Smokes is in love with Marocharim.

That is… ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT!

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(I hate to be a stereotypical bastard… no, wait, I happen to be a stereotypical bastard…)

I have a pretty good reason to not be married. I figure that 61% of marry-able women will eventually evolve into the one monster capable of defeating Godzilla. Frizzy hair, house dress made from curtain textiles, big beady earrings, colossal triceps, tree-trunk legs, and the ability to stand there with their hands on their hips, talking in a fast, high-pitched rant.

I am, of course, talking about the housewife.

You know you married the wrong girl when you’re satsat-ized on a hot Sunday afternoon.  Take the jeepney driver awhile ago, who had to drive his passengers and stand the stream of admonitions from his wife, who was riding alongside him out front.  Or that woman next door, who has been ranting for the better part of 30 minutes about heaven-knows-what.

“Tinatalakan mo na naman ako,” the man says, shy that his manhood is literally being crucified in public.

“Hindi kita tinatalakan alam mo namang nagpapaliwanag ako susme naman kung umuwi ka lang sana nang maaga kagabi at hindi inuwian yung kerida mo di sana nakapagpamanicure pa ako kanina ano ba naman yan magkano lang sweldo mo maghanap ka naman ng ibang trabaho kesyo drayber ka lang ng jeep sige na alam mo naman kailangan ko pang bayaran yung utang nating sabon sa tindahan at bakit aalis ka na naman alam mo namang may lakad pa ako at magpapakulot pa ako ng buhok…”

Ah, yes, married life.

Just let me do some emo just this once.

Nothing depresses me more than a reminder of the past. On the one hand, it’s a good way to gauge how far you have moved on. On the other hand, it takes only one reminder to bring tears to your eyes, and catapult you back to a time that you thought you already have forgotten.

It’s like a comet shooting across the sky. All you leave behind eventually follow you. No matter how fast you move, no matter how far away you stray, and no matter where you go, there’s always something you leave behind that moves with you.

You know what they say: the more things change, the more they stay the same. It gets kind of difficult and tiring to convince yourself every day that everything’s over, when in fact nothing ever is.  One way or another, paths will cross, and there really isn’t anything you can do about that.  I don’t know what it is: chance, destiny, dumb luck… I don’t really know.

Comets, like people, eventually move out of orbit.  They become so close to you, and yet still so far.  The path may seem so regular, that you’ll never get to hear it or even see it.  I guess the reason why we celebrate the path of a comet so much is because we’re close to it, no matter how far it is.  But the same is not true for people; there are some people we do not want to be reminded of, or even cross paths with.  Even the remotest idea of having to one day walk on the same sidewalk as that person will send an unexplainable chill to your very spine.

I don’t know what it is.  I don’t know what feeling is there when you get to be reminded of that someone again.  I suppose that’s what happens when you didn’t close the chapter the way you wanted it to, when you never really had the chance to mend ways and part ways the way it was meant to be.

I never saw the significance of it all; but now I know that we were more than what we always thought we were, and we were more than what we thought we were meant to be.

Yeah, you.

Sometimes I wonder why for 822 days, you were always on my mind.  Not that you consumed me, not that you were my reason for breathing, but you were somewhere there.  You were the lingering thought in my head for over two years.  Maybe it was just too hard to let you go, even if there was really nothing that took place between us.

As much as I hate to admit it, ours was a fleeting romance through early morning text messages.  A few meals shared together, a few gifts exchanged.  Sidelong glances that lasted no longer than what people usually pay attention to interesting strangers, or dogs wearing sunglasses.  There’s no use wondering about the what-could-have-been’s, if nothing ever took place.  Was it my cowardice?  Was it your reluctance?  Was it Cupid’s arrow playing tricks?  Was it just dumb - and damn - luck?  I have absolutely no idea.

It still pains me to go to places where we shared at least one of those three-and-a-half minute conversations, which was by my watch, the longest we ever talked to each other one on one.  For the longest time, memories of you were stuck in my head and tattooed on my mind.  I was at emotional highs when we talked over the phone… for three-and-a-half minutes.  I sank to an emotional low when I realized that in one of those crucial moments, I can’t stand by your side even just to hold your hand… and even in that moment, I realized that save for two embraces, I never really held your hand, ever.

Times have changed, years have gone by, and I was still stuck in the moment.  I have absolutely no idea how many relationships you’ve gone through since then.  You have absolutely no idea how many chances at romance I gave up.  Not because of memories of you, but because of you.  Because I wanted more than text messages and sidelong glances.  But everytime I tried to enter the door… well, you know what happens.

Eight hundred and twenty-two days.  You know as well as I do that there was more to what we were, and there was more to what we weren’t.  So I just stuck with the “what we weren’t” part, and decided that Day 823 is best left to the memories.  Left to the what-could-have-been’s and what-if’s, thrown to the wind, let go, and just… well, left alone.

Ours was definitely not love.  Not in the general idea of it.  Not in the sense that everyone agrees with.  For someone who gets paid for knowing what the right word is to something, I sure as hell don’t know what it was.

All I know is that if it happened to anyone else, all 822 days of it, it will move me to tears… just to hear of a beautiful love story never told.

Postscript: This entry has been hanging around on my Drafts for exactly a month and eight days now.  Somehow it’s only now that I managed to gather up the courage to post it, although it has already been finished for quite a while.  To some extent, the antecedents are real.

It wasn’t exactly one of those teen love stories with a happy ending.  It was more like Saturday Night Fever, where every man was a John Travolta and every woman was an Olivia Newton-John.  A good part of any guy’s allowance would be spent on those jars of menthol-scented pomade, now used to groom dogs at a veterinary clinic.  Girls would buy miniskirts and striped leggings, which in today’s world would practically defeat the purpose of the miniskirt.

Besides, we’re not dealing with teens here.  We’re dealing with two 28-year-olds.  Teen love story?  I don’t think so.  Happy ending?  Definitely.

Mon was working as a finance clerk at Benguet Exploration, while Sol was working as a cashier at the famous Café Amapola at Baguio City.  At a time where pesos actually meant something to banks that they printed them in crisp blue bills, Mon and Sol were in love.  Mon, for all his problems trying to eke out a living, was very much in love with Sol.  They could have gotten married earlier, but you just can’t make enough money during those days to live comfortably, considering they had their own families to feed.  Sol was cheerfully working the cash registers at the café, smiling as those drunken lawyers and journalists took three hours to drink one mug of coffee.  At least the blind musician playing the piano was playing medleys from The Carpenters.

Such is life… and such is love.

For 14 years, Mon has been trying to project a love that cannot be denied.  You could only imagine how many times Mon went to the local branch of Goodwill Bookstore to look for those Hallmark cards with those gilded red roses.  If you can’t afford the real thing, you might as well have the reproductions.  I guess the monotony of Mon’s job as a clerk unleashed the poet in him, every time he wrote those odes to “Solly” in his love letters.  Believe me, he’s no Romeo Montague, but in his eyes, Sol is always his Juliet Capulet.

Mon had a way with love.  Every Friday night, after treating Sol to dinner - at great expense, I might add - he helps her to a taxi and takes her home.  After a few minutes, when he’s absolutely sure that she’s inside and she won’t notice, Mon will walk home.  Granted that those dinners and taxi rides put a big dent on Mon’s budget, but there will not be an old soul in Bonifacio Street who’ll say that Mon didn’t skip merrily home with the kind of springy step that comes with a man hopelessly in love.

All this wasn’t lost on Sol, who saw how thin Mon’s wallet was every time he paid for dinner, and saw Mon walk off home instead of riding the same taxi he took her home with.  All those love letters and Hallmark cards with gilded roses were treasures Sol kept in photo albums, in shoe boxes, in just about everywhere.

And so it went on, and on, and on, for 14 years until Mon finally picked up the courage to ask for Sol’s hand in marriage.  Today, 14 years of waiting may have someone run off to the next good-looking person who happens to be rich, who happens to own a car, who happens to be able to afford real gilded roses.  But not for these two lovebirds who, 25 years and six days ago, exchanged their vows in the Parish of Saint Joseph the Worker, and were pronounced husband and wife, in sickness and in health, till death do they part.

Yes, this is the love story of my mom and dad.  Twenty-five years later, Papa’s thick and shaggy hair has turned into one of the most ridiculous combovers I have ever seen.  Mama is no longer the cute cashier of the popular café, and herself gained more than a few pounds.  The mines have long since closed, the café has long since collapsed from the earthquake, and they both started new and very different lives since then.  Not to mention having three kids: one’s a game programmer, one’s a Nursing student, and then there’s that chain-smoking manic-depressive obsessive-compulsive alcoholic who happens to be a “writer.”

Although those menthol-scented pomades had to give way to Ben Gay.  Like love, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Happy silver wedding anniversary, Mama and Papa!

I keep falling in love for all the wrong reasons, and then I go emo all over it.  Romance, to me, has become a preoccupation brought about either by boredom or by necessity.  I guess all it takes is for me to find a good-enough distraction to get myself out of love for good.

In a word: catharsis.  It’s a lot like diarrhea, enema, or a good vomit after drinking copious quantities of beer.

Pardon me to Lolit Solis-ize some “lessons learned” at this point.  If there’s anything I learned from a two-year free fall with romance, it’s that you don’t really need it.  I know this is going to sound extremely toxic (in many senses of the word), but if you find yourself wasting a lot of time and energy on people who do not reciprocate your affections, much less genuine gestures of friendship, then they really, really aren’t worth what you expend.  So yeah, you’re wasting your time.

At 22, it’s a given that I’m not getting any younger.  But that doesn’t mean that all other opportunities for me to find someone who is worth my time and my effort diminish every day I grow older.  There are plenty of other opportunities out there, not necessarily for romance.  Getting to meet new people, learning new stuff, going to new places, and trying out new things.  I may be getting old, but everything around me is always a brand-new thing that either I never experienced before, or I never really enjoyed.

No more chains, baby!

I was listening to some performances of Shooter Jennings, but “Electric Rodeo” is not the Video of the Week.  I personally would nominate “Sweet Soul Revue” by Pizzicato 5, but I opted against it considering last week’s video, which was “Saigo No Iiwake.”

The inspiration for the Video of the Week is a conversation with an old friend: among the many love songs out there, what song are you guilty of listening to that is completely off your personality?  Oh boy.

So it’s not “Perfect” by Alanis Morissette, “Crash Into Me” by The Dave Matthews Band, nor is it “Wonderwall” by Oasis.  Not “Linger” by The Cranberries, and certainly not “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton.

To a probable stalker, the Video of the Week is useful Marocharim trivia.  Just what love song can make this cold-hearted jerk with arteries of stone and ventricles of concrete weep with the passion of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez protagonist?

*     *     *

*     *     *

You may now descend into meaningless, inconsiderate, ego-deflating laughter.  Yes, the original soundtrack to “The Lake House” is the song that never fails to make me cry.

“This Never Happened Before” is the kind of song that I would like played on my completely hypothetical, theoretical wedding (I had to emphasize that).  After all, a lot of possible ocassions can call for my rather weird interpretations of songs.  Consider the following examples:

• On my funeral: “Staying Alive” by The Bee Gees.  Everyone should wear tight bell-bottomed polyester pants, and two dancers should do the scene from “Dirty Dancing” right on top of my mirror-encrusted neon-lighted coffin.

• On the day of my daughter’s wedding: “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks.  I am very certain that my daughter will be a sexy lesbian dominatrix in leather and lace.

• On the day of my son’s wedding: Those country guitar twangs from “Brokeback Mountain.”  I am sure that my gay son will be asking for a honeymoon with his husband and ask me for two horses, a tent, and a big flock of sheep.

It’s not like I’m Keanu Reeves material (though I can imitate his voice), but I am very certain that you have to agree with me: this is one pretty nice song.  But my appreciation for this song is offset if I translate it into Filipino, since it sounds like it could be the next (oh boy) Willie Revillame hit.

I won’t go that far.

This week’s video comes not from Alice in Chains, who did sing “No Excuses.”  Nor is it the I-wear-eyeliner-and-slash-my-wrists-emo bullshit that I don’t listen to (even if the key is to annoy myself enough at work to actually do some work).  Here it goes… my random thoughts after the video.

Yes, Hideaki Tokunaga’s “Saigo No Iiwake” (roughly translated: “Last Excuse”) is the Video of the Week.  You may remember certain renditions and reprises of this classic Japanese hit, like that of 1990s Filipino balladeer Ted Ito, 1990s pop icon Jocelyn Enriquez, and Keempee de Leon (way before he became a popular noontime show host where chismosa housewives of the “Kapamilya” camp constantly question his sexual orientation).

If my memory serves me right, “Saigo No Iiwake” is the audition piece of many Filipino entertainers auditioning for a job in Japan (the derogatory term is, of course, “Japayuki”).  I don’t mean to make this come across as an insult, but I think nobody would dispute seeing provocatively dressed women singing this in a Japanese recruitment agency or at a nightclub.  Or that no philandering nightclub patron would ever dispute the fact that even in sobriety, the only word they can sing confidently is “Ichiban.”  For us kids, this song was in the finale of that classic TV hit, Maskman.

Had I been a singer, here’s my reprise:

*   *   *

Now that you have gone, I don’t know what to say
What do I do, now that you’ve gone away
A love that I betrayed
What would I need to do to make you stay?

I hold my head up high while I walk in the rain
Hiding my tears, but it’s all in vain
I can’t stand the pain
What would I need to be in your arms again?

Everything I did, and everything I said
I can’t help but look back, though I should look ahead
Sorry for the things I ever said and done
It’s my last excuse, for you’re my only one

All that remains is just one picture of you
I remember all the things we used to do
The pain I can’t undo
Whatever happened to a love that’s so true?

Oh my love, I’m so sorry, for breaking your heart
A mistake I’ll regret, ‘coz it tore us apart
I can’t bear to watch and see you depart
My last excuse, you’re always in my heart

Everything I did, and everything I said
I can’t help but look back, though I should look ahead
Sorry for the things I ever said and done
It’s my last excuse, for you’re my only one

What happened to a love that was etched in stone
Oh my love, please don’t leave me, on my own…
If there’s one sin that I need to atone
It’s my last excuse, for leaving you alone.

   We twentysomethings are a sad lot when it comes to music: we were the generation who listened to 98 Degrees, The Moffatts, and yes, Hanson.  I’ve always defined “Mmmbop” along the lines of being “ba duba dop ba, do bop, ba duba dop ba do bop, ba duba dop ba do.”

   I didn’t have a boy band phase: in high school, I was a big fan of Alanis Morissette.  I still get chills listening to “Uninvited,” my own personal anthem is still “Hand in My Pocket,” and my idea of a love song is “Right Through You.”  Yup, old-school Alanis, late-1990s grunge.  But nonetheless, I was privy to 1990s boy band music.

   If there’s any one band that exemplifies ”boy band,” it’s definitely the Backstreet Boys.  So for this romantic experiment, here are Backstreet Boys answers to love’s toughest questions…

If your SO is telling you that she wants to eat at a McDonald’s, but you really want to eat out at Italianni’s because it’s a special day:

(Tell me why)
Ain’t nothing but a heartache
(Tell me why)
Ain’t nothing but a mistake
(Tell me why)
I never wanna hear you say
“I want it that way…”

Your SO was waiting for you at the fancy French pancake place for breakfast and you happen to be having a midnight affair, so she calls you up:

Listen baby I’m sorry
Just wanna tell you don’t worry
I won’t be late, don’t stay up
And wait for me
I’ll say again, you’re drying out
My battery it’s low
So you know, we’re going to a place nearby
I gotta go 

It’s your monthsary, and your girlfriend wants that Swarovski crystal-studded handbag.  You blew your money on last night’s drinking session:

But my love is all I have to give
Without you I don’t think I can live
I wish I could give the world to you
But love is all I have to give…

Your girlfriend is preparing adobo, but just at the last minute, she realizes she doesn’t have vinegar in her cupboard.  It’s 11:00 PM, and the sari-sari store is closed for the night.  The next open store is a taxi ride away:

I’d go anywhere for you
Anywhere you asked me to
I’d do anything for you
Anything you want me to
Your love’s as far as I can see
That’s all I’m ever gonna need
There’s one thing, for sure I know it’s true
Baby I’d go anywhere for you 

You’re a premature ejaculator:

I feel in heaven when I look in your eyes
I know that you are the one for me
You drive me crazy ’coz you’re one of a kind
I want your lovin’, and I want it right now 

Your and your SO got into a terrible fight that ended up with you having a curling iron hurled straight into your eyes:

I tried to hide it so that no one knows
But I guess it shows
When you look into my eyes
What you did and where you’re coming from
(I don’t care…)
As long as you love me baby…

It’s your first time to have sex, but your girlfriend realizes you have a rather small penis: 

I’m here with my confession
I got nothing to hide no more
I don’t know where to start
But to show you the shape of my heart…

Alternatively, you realize that your rather small penis can’t fit into her rather loose, sloppy vagina:

All you people can’t you see, can’t you see
How you’re love’s affecting our reality
Everytime we’re down, you can make it right
And that makes you larger than life 

You don’t care that your girlfriend comes home with the stench of alcohol in her breath.  Strangely enough, she’s beautiful when she’s drunk:

Everytime I breathe I take you in
But my heart beats again
Baby I can’t help it
You keep me drowning in your love
Everytime I try to rise above
I’m swept away by love
Baby I can’t help it
You keep me drowning in your love

Your girlfriend happened to see Derek Ramsay, or Jon Avila, or any other hunk, and she asked for his autograph:

I deserve a try honey just this once
Give me a chance and I’ll prove this all wrong
You walked in you were so quick to judge
Honey he’s nothing like me 

You suddenly realize you’re gay, but you can’t tell your girlfriend straight out:

Baby, please try to forgive me
Stay here, don’t put out the glow
Hold me now don’t bother
If every minute it makes me weaker
You can save me from the man that I’ve become