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.

Advertisements

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.

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

frequent visitor

Third time, I think. There must be something in Manila that attracts the Sandman. I heard it’s the calamansi juice.

‘harry, look at me’

Elmore Leonard first knocked me out with Killshot, now a movie I am yet to see. Then it was Rum Punch, which Hollywood turned into Jackie Brown — the uber cool Samuel L. Jackson playing Ordell Robbie, saying, “My ass maybe dumb, but I ain’t no dumbass!”

After reading Get Shorty and getting floored by it, I am now officially considering myself a big Elmore Leonard fan. Meaning I will suck up anything this dude puts up, including grocery lists.

Which brings to mind a girl I had the pleasure of sharing an FX ride with in 2007. A young pretty thing in tennis shorts and ponytail, she had Pagan Babies on her delectable lap. The only unsightly thing was this gym-chiseled white arm wrapped around her shoulders. This metrosexual type dude I make for a StarStruck reject practically all over her. Some lucky asshole.

My ears highly trained on eavesdropping came to work.

“What’s that?” the bozo asked, fingering the dog-eared paperback. “The book I’m currently reading,” she said, sing-song voice and all. The guy made a face as if something squirmed in his ass. “I can’t stand books,” he said. “All those letters.” Said it just like that, the guy clueless — or perhaps proud — of what a dumb oversized cockroach he was. Nailing his coffin, he said:  “I rather dance.”

Something squirmed in my gut.

Some girls don’t deserve their guys.

‘09

I’m waiting for the Pitriff guys to come up with their annual Top 10 Metal/Hard Rock Albums of the Year list for 2009. I’ve a feeling Alice in Chains’ Black Gives Way to Blue will occupy a decent place in it. (They kind of hinted it in past articles.) So far all they have is a readers’ poll — What New Album Lived Up To The Hype This Year? — which, as of Sunday night, has AinC on third spot after Megadeth’s Endgame and Kiss’ Sonic Boom.

But why wait for the bastards to get their acts together to see if their list matches mine? I’ll bare my own album list now, and then some – best book and movie of 2009. A weird yearly habit of mine, but not entirely pointless. I’ll expound some other time.

Anyway, even in my own list, AinC had to slug it out with the other great albums I had the pleasure of listening to this year. But after careful assessment, which means drinking beer while listening to the album at piss-your-neighbor volume, I’ve to give it to these Seattle hard rock nuts. Black Gives Way to Blue, though bleak at best, provided the necessary diversion in this year of insane personal issues and grisly national events.

For my best read I’ve just elevated William Kennedy’s Ironweed to the level of Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood (2008), TC Boyle’s The Inner Circle (2007), Kerouac’s Desolation Angels (2006), Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities and James Lee Burke’s The Lost Get-Back Boogie (2005), and Hunter S. Thompson’s The Rum Diary (2004). Seth Morgan’s Homeboy was a close contender.

For best movie, which I started considering only last year, the 2005 French flick Angel-A took home the cake and the cake-maker’s wife. More about it here.

I also have my fantasy fuck-mate of the year, but that’s too controversial and she may not like the recognition.

Meanwhile, my article on the Top 10 Sex Scandals of 2009 has been posted here. It is a watered down — not to mention verbose — version of what I had originally written, wine-drunk, on the wee hours of Christmas 2009. For what it’s worth, here is the original shit.