Last kiss

No dice. Now matter how hard I tried assembling a bomb of an opening paragraph about my Summer Slam experience, the thing would just explode on my face. Screw Testament and Lamb of God and copious amounts of Red Horse beer for that…

The rest of my take on last night’s Summer Slam here.

Yep, it’s bye-bye WordPress. For now.

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new look

Let’s face it, looking at two girls tonguing each other can be a drag, especially if it’s only on pictures. So, a return to the “old look.”

Kissing Booksale’s feet again for this cheap — Php20! — find:

The book’s about the so-called New Journalism Revolution as pioneered by the likes of Tom Wolfe, Norman Mailer and — oh yes! — Hunter S. Thompson. (Blurbs provided by Chuck Klosterman and TC Boyle.) A priority in my reading list, no doubt. Man, I’ve a mountain for a reading backlog, and it just keeps getting higher and higher.

Anyway, back to work now. Back to the same ol’ boring shit – politics, press releases, the fucking Bundy clock. Tomorrow I expect to wake up to the blare of some candidate’s campaign jingle, and that will signal everything that is ugly to me these days.

I wish I’ve a nice vacation story to tell those suntanned assholes who will tell me theirs.

Make no mistake, I enjoyed the three relaxing days with my family. I just wished the three of us were able to go places other than home. Maybe next year.

assignments

4 a.m. Maundy Thursday. Just got home from another beer session with office mates and a hellish kamikaze ride from Cubao to Antipolo. Nothing like a jeepney ride like that to take away all the sleep — and alcohol — in my system, so might as well do a little quickie here while I wait for Morpheus to regain control.

Things I intend to do and accomplish within the next three days:

1. Chain-read as always: Finish John Irving’s The 158-Pound Marriage and crack open a new book, which will be a toss between Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men and that Kerouac-Burroughs collaboration the title of which escapes me now;

2. Get past the 500-page mark of the fourth Harry Potter book. Man, when I started reading this, Charmaine has just found out that she’s pregnant. Now we have a nine-month-old future supermodel and I’m only halfway through this 700-plus-page behemoth;

3. Write, write, and write. Finish at least two chapters of the novel;

4. Download Lamb of God and Testament albums. They’ll be here in 17 days, and like in exams, I need to review;

5. Fix and clean our old room. I slept there the other night, and it’s like sleeping in a hurricane wreck. Plus, I don’t like the moldy, mausoleum-like smell that is starting to develop there;

6. Go biking, preferably after sundown. Not only it does my lungs some great favor, it also helps me think and assess my next move in this crazy little chess game called life;

7. Spend quality time with Charmaine and Raven. The Simpsons marathon, morning trips to the playground, evening conversations over hot Choco Lava;

8. Gear myself up for the return to the boring routine, which for me will start as early as Easter Sunday.

smug bastard

I think it was Kinky Friedman, novelist, musician, and self-styled sleuth, who said that no one can be smugger than a writer who has just written. If it’s not the Kinkster who said that, then somebody else surely did, and let me just say that I totally dig that twisted little wisdom.

Fact is, I am feeling smug today, Palm fucking Sunday.

And that’s because over the course of my weekend, Friday and Saturday, I was able to write something other than a blog entry or some rant in my private journal.

I actually started writing fiction again, which is after all my first love.

It’s this story I owe a friend, who promised a hand in getting it published within the year. “You’ll have your next bestseller soon,” was what she said.

Like, wow.

Charmaine, my most vicious critic, had seen the prologue and the first few paragraphs of the first chapter, and said they’re okay. She has some questions though, but they’re nothing some minor tweakings can’t thresh out.

Indeed, the muse is with me. And I will plunge into that story again first thing in the morning tomorrow. Updates to follow if I feel like it.

i, pornographer

In 2007 I was a whore.

Like beggars, whores can’t be choosers. I was doing freelance then, and assignments were hard to come by.

I simply had to put my mouth on something to feed myself.

So I wrote a pornographic novelette, and got paid for it.

The plan was to put all my lurid thoughts on paper, submit it, get the check, get drunk somewhere, and get on with my life.

There were no delusions of book signings, Sunday Inquirer interviews, Palanca awards, all that glittery jazz.

My only wish was to avoid CBCP’s radar. Bishops and I don’t go along well.

When the book got published (by Literotika, with distribution by Anvil), I thought that was the end of it.

Although I had fun writing it, late nights while bombed on Gran Matador, I never thought it would be something. Frankly, I never thought I’d still hear about it years later.

My mistake. Somebody should’ve reminded me that sex sells.

I’ve read reviews about the book, both profound and, well, not so profound. I’ve met people in Friendster and Multiply because of it. A “fan” even sent me semi-naked photos of herself. (Charmaine saw these and, understandably so, went ballistic.)

What can I say? It was weird, it was wild, it was fun. Me being a whore. And now I’m hungry for a repeat.

Unfortunately, Literotika has long since folded.

While the CBCP is still out there.

el niño ii

Some billboards are meant to cause heavy traffic, not to mention panting spells.

something to chew on

“If youre going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start.

“This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery – isolation.

“Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine.

“If youre going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.”

~Novelist, poet Charles Bukowski, August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994

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