gunpowder

These days I can’t help but feel like Frank Black, the tragic, glum-faced hero in Chris Carter’s classic TV series Millennium.

In the series, Frank is a retired FBI profiler obsessed with protecting his daughter Jordan from the  world’s evils. In his mission to rid the planet of serial killers and mass murderers, he was swayed into joining The Millennium Group, a secret society of criminal investigators allied with the FBI, only to find out later that the group has been corrupted by the very evil it is fighting.

It is a depressing series, and it got canceled after three seasons — proof positive that even serial killer-obsessed America has only a certain level of tolerance for the deeply morbid and the utterly bleak.

If there’s one thing I learned about that program, it’s that the fight against evil is almost always a lost cause.

I remember a friend who justified his being a gun freak to me in 2001 by noting the number of nuts out there who can kill me or my loved ones just because they can and can get away with it, or at most get a mere slap-on-the-wrist courtesy of our inept justice system. His talk left me dumbfounded. If only I had a credit card back then, I would’ve gone straight to Hahn in Ali Mall for a Remington M597 after that conversation.

Why not? It’s better to go down fighting, as they say in war.

Every time I look at my family, I am gripped with the disturbing conclusion that we are indeed at the mercy of the Jason Ivlers and Andal Ampatuans of this world. That unarmed, we are nothing but clueless little mice in the same cage with the snake just waiting to be swallowed. Preys waiting for the predator.

Fight fire with fire. Something must be done to level the playing field.

I’ve a credit card now, and Cubao is just a ride away from where I live and work, and my head is full of gunpowder as I try to come to terms with the vicious reality outside growing more vicious with every passing day.

madness

“Man is the cruelest animal.” — Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Rido (clan war) in itself is a senseless thing that has no place in the modern world. What makes it more barbaric and insane is when it victimizes those who do not even belong to either party, like what happened in Maguindanao last Monday. It is repulsive, to say the least. The handiwork of bottom-feeding degenerates who are no better than those filthy savages hacking each other with machetes in those godless African jungles.

It’s sad that this happened while the country is riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave brought by the international success of Manny Pacquiao and Efren Peñaflorida Jr…

kiss the girl

On one hand you wonder what they’ll not do to get the public’s attention; on the other you’re thankful they’re not posing themselves as friends of the environment and bringing kasoy seedlings to media events. A vice presidential aspirant did that last week, and I nearly lost my lunch.

Meanwhile, five young dingbats from Long Beach, California, were arrested for groping.

So much for Sunday evening weirdness.

pride

ravenski1It is always a source of high when total strangers give good words about Raven. It started sometime last month when, while attending the baptismal of a friend’s son, a geek with an SLR whom I haven’t seen before suddenly sprung from nowhere to snap photos of our little bird.

“Jesus Christ!” I yelled. “Better put a lease on that one.” Then I plunged into this loud, paranoid spiel on window-shopping kidnappers and scums who are out to get me and my family just because I sport long hair and refuse to play their insipid games. It was only through the intervention of my wife Charmaine that I realized what was going on. Fear and alarm transmogrified into pride and joy. Raven has just won her first fan.

I remember this because something like it happened several times over the weekend: Friday night in Gateway Mall where we had dinner with my father, and Saturday afternoon in Starmall while running an errand. Total strangers would look at our Raven, smile and say, “Ang cute!” or “Ang chubby!” (At four months, Raven looks bigger for her age, many say). Some would say it openly to us, others to their companion. Whatever the case was, those were rare moments that we’re glad people didn’t keep their words to themselves.

god updates

lamb-of-god-copyHanging out with Marben Romero of Badburn last night at Ten02 Bar, I got the following info:

* The Lamb of God gig in next year’s Pulp SummerSlam – to be called Slam of God, how cool is that? – is already a done deal. The necessary papers had been signed, the proper arrangements made. All the band has to do is come here and blow our brains out;

* Talks are still ongoing with the Testament camp, but things are looking positive;

* Trivium will perform early 2010, probably in February, if things pan out according to plan;

* Four of the five Archenemy members are vegans. In the meet-and-greet after the band’s  Oct. 20 concert at WTC, only bassist Sharlee D’Angelo, the sole meat-eater in the group, showed up. So much for paying P2,000 to see Angela Gossow’s ass up close;

* Slayer was supposed to co-headline with Archenemy, but the Swedes, for some reason, wanted all the attention; and

* Shadows Fall enjoyed a week in Boracay early this year screwing whores (and, if I am to believe Marben, a female employee of a local magazine).

smells like team spirit

The last two days in less than 50 words:

“I excuse myself I’m used to my little cell
I amuse myself in my very own private hell” *

teambuilding

Day one of office team building gig at Tarawoods in Tanauan, Batangas: Drunk from a lethal combination of gin-beer and wiggy from no sleep or at least not enough. With friends at first: laughing, swapping stories, bonding. Then alone staring at the night sky, enjoying the sound of crickets and little wings and other things unseen.

Upchucking your dinner and finding yourself locked out of the guesthouse in the bitter late-night cold is never fun, but I’ll chalk it down as an “experience.”

Day two: From Tarawoods straight to the waiting office. Floaty head, watery eyes and a bellyful of Extra Joss to keep the Sandman at bay. A pile of stories to edit and upload and a bite-sized Toblerone for dinner (better let sleeping ulcers lie). CCR’s  “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” playing on and on on Youtube.

Ominous droplets of something dark in my hankie every time I cough.

Maybe there is such a thing as clean, sober fun. But I’m not acquainted with it.

(Photo courtesy of TJ Dimacali)

* from Alice in Chains’ “Private Hell”

walking proud

Archenemy gave me this.

draven

Well, not exactly them. But the P1,500 ticket for their October 20 gig at the WTC came with the band’s Wages of Sin album (with a bonus CD to boot!) and a P500 gift certificate from Draven shoes. Not bad.

I’m not really big into shoes — the last pair I bought was in 2006, a heavy-heeled Skechers boots that looked specifically designed for stomping faces — but I figured, Hey, Christmas is just around the corner. Why not an early gift to myself. I thought I’d just settle for shoes since it’d be a cold day in hell before I could afford this

elecguitar

and this

vickiblows

The pair I bought was from the Duane Peters collection, which was the only Draven shoes covered by the GC. It boasts of suede, canvas, and rubber toe caps, and feels really comfortable. I’ve been trying it for days now, and am so far satisfied.