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Welcome to Volume 6 of The Marocharim Experiment. This blog is authored and maintained by Marocharim, the self-professed antichrist of new media.



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Marocharim is a 21-year-old college senior from the University of the Philippines Baguio, majoring in Social Anthropology and has a minor in Political Science. He lives with his parents, his brother and his sister in Baguio City - having been born and raised there all his life. He is the author of three book-versions of The Marocharim Experiment.

Most of his time is spent at school, where he can be found in the UP Baguio Library reading or scribbling notes, and sometimes hanging out with his friends or by himself in the kiosks, or the main lobby. During his spare time, he continues writing. When not in school he hangs out with his friends, or takes long walks around Baguio City to, as he puts it, "get lost."

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The Marocharim Experiment Volume I: The Trial of Another Mind, Subject to Disclosure is Available Now

The Marocharim Experiment Volume II: The Nevermind Chronicles is Available Now

The Marocharim Experiment Volume III: The Sentence Construction of Reality is Available Now

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January 3, 2005
#016: The Wolf In Marocharim's Clothing

< pardon the really angry entry >

   "No great discovery was made without the aid of Satan."
- Joris-Karl Huysmans, "La-Bas (Down There)"

   Just a short summary of what I have in my mind.  It's the first day of school of the New Year, and I haven't planned on anything that would ultimately wreck my day and perhaps the rest of my life.  I have practically gone mad, insane with the anger and the malice and the wrath that would take people quite a while to gain.

   I did it in one day.

   The idea is that I should have gone it over and had it done with with my ex.  I should have moved on by now, but then again, only I could only take it so far as to feel those daggers in my back stab the life of me one more time.  I couldn't take it anymore - I am liable to snap the neck of the first person I see, and the only thing stopping me right now are the sounds of Ragnarok and my fingers flying all around the computer keyboard.

   It's a wild tapping, without rhythm, rhyme or reason, fueled only by my anger.  I could only imagine the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe telling me to add some literary flair to this.  Whatever, Poe.



   The guard called me to the guardhouse at school.  Me and the guard are friends, and he told me that prior to Christmas break two girls were sleeping at the office.  One of them happened to be my ex.  Sure, there wouldn't be anything wrong now, in an increasingly feministic society without any regard to the rights of the male of the species, with that... except that they were, according to the good guard, touching each other in an... inappropriate manner.  I just went ballistic after that.  It took the power of a few cigarettes to calm me, until I found my way, in a blind rage, to the computer shop where me and my friends hang out.  To sit here, write an entry, and release my anger before I go back in that office and find explanations, by hook or by crook.  A really rusty hook, and a crook pointy enough to drive at the throats of those who get in my way.  That's how I'll conduct my business from now on.



   Me and my good friend Bernadette talked over the whole issue of my extremely twisted, spirogyral love story thru text last night, and she basically told me to just let go.  But somehow I couldn't take it anymore.  The original plan was to do nothing.  After all, by being an apathetic, mindless automaton I could dispatch of all the wrongs in my life quite easily.  A lot of people have had the privilege of being the unforgiven in my life and it got them absolutely nowhere.  I feed on the pain of being an unforgiving, cold, relentless vampire in the night, bent on drawing blood from anyone or anything: physical or proverbial blood, red or green... preferably drawn out of the fangs of the wolf in my clothing than the menarche of those who wish to pacify my anger.

   When someone is blest with an extremely thick skin and a cataract covering the eyes of their soul(I'm not referring to anyone here), they don't really see the wolf in man.  Rabid wolves exist in all of us, and beyond this framework of hominid anatomical structures there are filthy animals that are slowly consuming themselves with the acidic potency of a viper's venom.  Mine is rage: this filthy crud that's slowly forming itself into a bomb ready to explode.  I feel a certain strangeness, of being in that chamber described in Huysmans' book, where I talk with Durtal and Des Hermies about the wolf in man... my wolf.



   My anger is wasted towards directing it on my ex or on the guy who took her away from me at the height of my love for her at that time.  My anger is wasted on the innocent who would rather have me happy despite what happened.  I see my anger not as a human being, but as the wolf inside the shell of that human being.  I see my anger not at the light of reason but as it is: the animalistic character of all human behavior: something to eat.

   Isn't that, after all, a symptom of the degenerate in all of us?  Reason is but a cover-up to turn mistakes into acts of martyrdom and heroism, right?  Face it: the lie that we have been living all these years is that we are capable of love, yet the reality is that the center of all that we call "love" is one's genitalia.  That everytime we profess love, we profess our inalienable right and responsibility in this forsaken world to procreate, regardless of one's gender.

   The way I feed on and consume the anger I throw on myself is neither cathartic or insane: it's just a fulfillment of Newtonian physics: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.  That for every static object in the world there is an equally reactive, dynamic force willing it to move.  I am neither bitter or glad: I have just reduced myself to an entity just like every other human being in this world: an entity whose life revolves around the consumption of something.  We're not animals masquerading as rational human beings: we're rational human beings playing our best roles as animals - as circus elephants who live not for the wild cheers of the crowd but for the next peanut to be thrown at them.

   I do not question emotion, I question the manner by which we show our emotions.  By wild, torrid kisses?  By touchy-feely moments of teenage innocence, a pedophile's dream come true?  By directing our anger towards people who don't give a rat's arse on what you feel as long as they can live to tell your story?  Answer: you're damn right.

   So don't question my anger for you cannot consume something like it.  Don't question my rage because you don't feel it.  You're lucky enough that I have put a wall around myself to protect you from whatever I have planned because the day you chose not to be involved is the day you made the right decision and saved your lives from my rabid bite.

   Yes, human beings are imperfect, but sometimes I am led to think that we are not human beings at all.  We are so imperfect we choose to consider "reason" as the outfit for the day.  That everytime I sit on my comfy seat in this carnival we call life I throw peanuts at those elephants juggling balls by their trunks.  Yet, yes, I am no different from the elephants and the lions and the seals and the dolphins... I am but a mad, wild, rabid wolf.  I don't participate in your circus, rather I laugh at you for taking peanuts from a feral beast like me.

   I am a wolf in the layered clothing of Marck Ronald Rimorin.

Posted at Monday, January 03, 2005 by marocharim
Revolt!  

January 2, 2005
#015: Birit Moments

< because i have personally had it with resolutions that obviously don't work... here's something for you to read... and no, this is not about the new year. >

   In the words of Frank McCourt, I never thought how my TV screen could have survived it all: the tinny, crystal-shattering voices of the noontime TV birit divas, their voices enough to shatter the glass on the windows.  Yes, I'm talking about "High Ka Diva."

   It's not that I couldn't stand falsettos, but you can only take it too far, too much and too high before it sounds like, well, crap.  This isn't what I expected from a contest that apparently tests the mettle of one's vocal cords, but to a certain extent, the contest tests different anatomical parts, all pertaining to the human genitalia.  Think about it: when I first watched this segment, where men were singing overwrought falsettos of "Hey Jude," I thought they were choking on their testicles or something.  Not to be outdone, females who compete sound like they're having climaxes on the wrong side of their G-spots... it's just that high.  Too high, in fact, that I could have sworn they were developing some complex that allows their windpipes to metamorphose into gonads or something.

   Now that I'm done polluting the minds of the morally upright and ramrod straight (pardon the innuendo), I feel this certain aversion towards inane broadcasting activities which would include this contest.  Yes, don't ask me what "inane" means: there's a reason why I pontificate... just so that you'll know that there are some words in the English language that you'll do better not to know (OK, it's my little revenge on the Filipino populace who couldn't tell me the difference between "marahil" and "baka," when all I know is that they're the same thing and that the former is fancier.  Sue me.).

   Anyway, I have a good mind to test my mettle in this competition, although I doubt I would last long: my baritone is just too low to warrant anything aside from a ghost role in Chito Rono's "Spirits."  Boo-hoo.

   I'm done.  Tomorrow's Monday... gotta watch "Lovers in Paris."  It turns me into a sap.

   So what in the hell did I do this entry for?  Don't ask me: it's my page.

Posted at Sunday, January 02, 2005 by marocharim
Revolt!  

December 29, 2004
#014: My Retainer Problem

< no introductory notes necessary >

   I kind of like it.  I kind of like sitting here with a piece of plastic wedged between my teeth.  I kind of like sucking on the saliva accumulating on top of that plastic plate.  I kind of like the feeling of getting halfway choked everytime I open my mouth.  Yes, I am almost inclined to think that wearing this godforsaken retainer has an almost Freudian-Sadist quality to it... and in a cosmic sort of way, I kind of like wearing this contraption.

   Anyone who has worn braces or a retainer would attest to this complicated mix of feelings that, surprisingly, boil down to a matter of taste.  The corrective aspects of the orthodontic appliance are many and legend: think George Washington and his wooden teeth, or tooth-staining in the Cordillera (What in the blue hell was that all about, ass-kissing?)... name it.  It's not to die for, in terms of aesthetics and flavor (hey, nobody said anything about the anus being the organ of taste).  The fact that I have to wear this retainer is testament to the imperfection of science: in a KFC paradigm, we can't do teeth right.

   But like I said, I kind of like it.  I like the burning, almost acidic taste of plastic and steel in my mouth.  I like that sensation of my upper teeth being practically pulled towards my throat.  The fact that I can no longer speak in a neat, "American" fashion brings me to the practical and proverbial end of the line.  The fact that my dentist has yet again put me in a clinical sort of S&M (go figure out what that means: I'm not here to give away free porn) is enough for me to just enjoy it.

   Of course not everyone can have a set of perfect teeth, so God (if he/she/it do/es exist/s... I'm trying to be politically correct) made it a point to screw up with my DNA and give me a pretty heavy malocclusion, that I may be a benefactor to jobless dentists and earn my spot in heaven if I had the chance (as if).  But why (and by "why" I mean "WHY!!!") he/she/it decided to make me an experiment for one's orthodontic skills is no laughing matter for me.

   So here I am, enjoying every single moment of living with a retainer... at least for the next few months.  So don't come laughing at me when I give you this funny British accent.  I still know how to bite.

Posted at Wednesday, December 29, 2004 by marocharim
Revolt!  

December 28, 2004
#013: Kumusta Na?

< since i have really bad filipino (i suck at every aspect of this language: writing, speaking and even thinking in filipino makes diarrhea sound attractive... yes, i'm your archetypal anglophone imperialist) i have decided to annoy everyone by making an essay in filipino... here's one for the new year and the old >

   Simple lang naman ang siste, no?  Kung di mo na kaya, di huwag.  Kung ayaw mo, huwag mo.  Pero hindi ito usapin ng relasyon: usapin ito ng kalagayan mo.

   Hindi ako nandirito upang magpatawag ng rally: mahirap na, lalo na ngayon na maraming parak diyan, baka pagkamalan pang NPA ako o ano.  Kung sa usapin din lang ng tunay na kalagayan ng bansa eh mahirap nang sabihin mong mayaman ka: dapat lahat ng Pilipino iisa lang ang sinasabi kung tinanong, "Kumusta na?"

   Huwag mo nang tapusin ang kanta ng Yano, sa bagay nag-disband na sila, naging PAN na.  At kung medyo matanda-tanda ka na't feeling mo naman okey lang sa mga tenga ng kabataan na pakinggan ang rendition mo ng kanta ni Rey Valera, pwede ka nang umuwi't mangharana ng mga aso ng kapitbahay mo.  O baka nakasakay ka lang sa bus, pinapakinggan mo yung oldies na tugtog ng drayber, sige, all together now:

  
"Kumusta ka aking mahal / sana ay nasa mabuti ka / ako'y huwag mong intindihin / nakakaraos din..."

   Tama na, kawawa naman yung nakaupo sa tabi mo... nasusuka na sa boses mo.  Pa-Freddie Aguilar ka pa diyan, kalbo ka na.

   Kumusta na?  Kalokohan, tuwing buksan mo ang TV, eto yung mga kunwari-celebrity-pero-hindi-naman-sikat-kaya-nag-mall-tour-sa-SM, instant punchline... "Kumusta naman yun."  Ewan.  Kumusta naman at ako na nga 'tong nangungumusta sa iyo eh ako pa yung gusto mong kumustahin.  Ako muna.

   Kumusta na ang pag-aaral mo?  Siguro gaya mo rin ako ngayong taon: todo taas ang tuition, kahit alam mo na ang pagmumukha ng prof mo eh hindi nagbago, puwera na lang siguro sa classroom mo dati... ay, yun pa rin.  Todo baba sa budget... sa bagay, di naman ako nag-aaral sa La Salle o Ateneo.  Peyups lang, brother: ngi tabo sa CR hindi maibigay, at least naman rubberized yung tiles... as if.  Makukuntento na sana ako kung tama yung tinuturo nila, pero ayun, galing sa libro pa rin, parang kilala na ang mukha mo sa buong campus at walang gustong makipagdebate sa iyo dahil baka paduguin ka lang.  Ilocano: usar ca nga usar ti English, baca ag-daringungo da laeng no di daca maawatan.  Uy, letter "c."  Kumusta na?  Ayos?  Sige.  Ayos din ako.  Paturo ng Math, ha?  Di pa ako pumapasa eh.

   Kumusta ang Pasko mo?  Nakakaraos din... sige na nga, kumanta ka na.  Sa bagay, yan naman ang Paskong Pinoy, daan na lang natin sa kantahan, basta magkakasama ang pamilya.  Halukayin mo man lahat ng ube diyan eh wala pa rin, ayos nang may laman na kaunting pansit ang sikmura natin, diba?  Isipin mo na lang kumain ka ng lechon.  Krisis-mas daw kasi ngayon eh, kaya mabuti na sa akin ang makainom ng kaunti, sa bagay, OK na rin... Fundador din yun.  Isipin na lang natin ang mga nangangalkal sa basura para sa pagkain, at least sila kumakain ng fried chicken araw araw... oo, fried na rin yun.  Bawi na lang tayo sa susunod na Pasko, pagkatapos nating patalsikin ang Presidente: pagkatapos nun, gawa na naman tayo ng panibagong dahilan para patalsikin na naman yung kauupo lang.  New Year's Resolution: bagong taon, bagong pangulo.  Sabi nga ni FPJ bago siya natepok, "Sama-sama, tulong-tulong sa pagpapanday ng Bagong Umaga."  Kahit papaano naman, kahit walang bagong sapatos sa Pasko, may bago pa rin.

   Kumusta na ang sweldo mo?  Ako nga 'tong wala eh, paano, aral ng aral eh bulsa ko laging butas... haaay, buhay estudyante.  Swerte mo na kung may libo kang maiuuwi... wawa ka naman kung nagbebenta ka lang ng sampagita, yosi o trapo diyan sa kalye, yan din lang iuuwi mo.  Nag-graduate ka naman ng college, napadpad ka sa call center... pwede na.  Kaysa naman nag-cum laude ka tapos nag-crew ka na lang sa Pizza Hut kasi overqualified ka.  May kaya naman magulang mo, kaya sisante muna si Yaya para ikaw na lang taga-alaga sa bata (kapatid mo o sa iyo na mismo, bahala na)... libre, di ba?  May nabibili ka ba sa sweldo mo?  Tama ka: wala akong pakialam.

   Kumusta na?  Ayos pa?  Bagong taon... pero sa totoo lang, ganoon pa rin, walang pinagkaiba.  Sige, tigil muna ako.  Ganoon pa rin ang tugtog sa radyo, Edwin McCain.  Wala din.

Posted at Tuesday, December 28, 2004 by marocharim
Revolt!  

#012: Virtual Morality

< yeah, i kinda changed (again) the look and feel of this site just so that it would be a bit easier on the eyes.  now how to make it easier on one's head... that's a whole chapter onto itself.  i wouldn't do that, at this point.  now here's something for video gamers... >

   The idea is simple: censor video games.  The idea is simple-minded.

   Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich proposed a bill to regulate the sale and rental of "violent" and "sexually-explicit" video games (Los Angeles Times, Dec. 16, 2004).  Technically, Gov. Blagojevich's proposal treats the "violent" and "sexually-explicit" video game much like one would treat cigarettes or alcohol: you can't buy games like Grand Theft Auto or Doom III if you're under 18.  Hey, after all, kids shouldn't be out hijacking vehicles or killing aliens when they can click around a screen with Dora the Explorer and Boots the Wellington-Wearing Monkey on it, right?  It's quite educational, really.  I play kid-stuff games once in a while, those games around Yahoo! and GameHouse where you go about clicking balls or something similar to it.  Right?

   Wrong.

   I'm not saying it's "wrong" simply because I'm an avid fan and player of video games, and violent ones at that.  I'm here as a guy who knows a thing or two about the fundamental problem here: morality.  Apparently, it is "immoral" for game developers and publishers to make outstanding games like Unreal Tournament 2004, Soul Calibur II, the Tekken series and Half-Life 2 on the sole basis that it's "violent" or "sexually graphic."  True enough, there are a lot of games out there with sexual undertones.  The Tony Hawk Pro Skater series possess a lot of sexual easter eggs on them: if you played it you would know about the Morehead Towers in the Los Angeles level and the "Manual Stimulation" gap in Philadelphia.  Mortal Kombat: Deadly Alliance possesses so much gore: Sub-Zero's fatality consists of him practically pulling out the skeleton of his adversary.  This is the issue that Blagojevich and everyone else try to stick up the throats of everyone: it's "not good for children."

   Really, now?  I suppose that people who play Gunbound would retreat to the nearest junkyard and construct a tank and weapons and set themselves up in a static turn-based battle.  I suppose the person who plays Grand Theft Auto: Vice City would set themselves up with MP5's, rob the bank and then hightail it to some shop front just a few blocks away.  Hell, I suppose that Ragnarok players would buy their way out of a grocery store trying to see if they accept Zeny.  Think not.  But that's not the point.

   Frankly I find it appalling for anyone over the age of 45 to set the standards of right and wrong when it comes to virtual entertainment.  Sure, some games do go over the line and right into the hands of kids, especially hardcore doujin porn games that explicitly depict themes like and scenes of schoolgirl sex.  But when - and how - it goes over the line are not questions that legislators and moralists should answer.  What they should - and must - answer are those burning questions of what standards should be applied and how they came about.

   Not too long ago this was the subject of relatively heated debate in one of our classes.  One of my classmates dismissed video gaming as a mere "diversion," since it's the "perverse" quality of entertainment that drives delinquency in Filipino educational institutions.  I didn't beg for empirical and hermeneutical evidence for this: God knows where she got her argument from.  The crux of her argument is simple: if the quality of education in this country is good enough for students to avoid the computer shop altogether and study instead, we wouldn't have a game addiction problem.  Instead the arguments turned into questions of morality: video games portray themes that are, qualitatively, "wrong."  Says who?

   The reason why we have a problem with trying to define what is "right" and what is "wrong" when it comes to entertainment is because we put too much emphasis on static, obsolete value systems that don't do much good or harm to anyone or anything.  If it's so wrong to play a game where you portray a disgruntled postman (in Postal and Postal II), what makes it wrong?  The standards of contemporary society are so skewed and so vague that our "common" moralities no longer apply.  We underestimate our humanity and common, psychic understanding of objects and subjects so much that we have to have geriatrics decide what's good and what's bad, geriatrics who don't play the games themselves.

   It's entertainment.  Nobody's there to be brainwashed into thinking that it's perfectly okay to shoot a police officer down or to blast the hell out of aliens with a glowing cube.

Posted at Tuesday, December 28, 2004 by marocharim
Revolt!  

December 24, 2004
#011: Cut the (Christmas) Cheese

< hope you like cheese >

   Yup, you guessed it right (I wish)... I am about to launch myself into the unknown: the philosophization (hey, that's what they call it) of the Edam cheese ball.

   I don't hate this waxy ball of cheese... hate is such a strong word.  I just don't like it.  I mean, it's a pretty nifty piece of cheese and wax, but that's precisely the reason why I don't eat it.  It's strange... alien, even.  The fact that I despise the object is enough to make me a pariah in Filipino society, which considers quezo de bola to be a very important part of the holiday spirit.  Well not to me.  I'd rather use it as a bowling ball.

   Don't get me wrong: I love cheese.  There's that kinky feeling one gets from sucking on Cheez-Wiz.  Or the sensual passions of cream cheese.  Call me crude, but cheese is one of those sensual, erotic foods, more than sausages or cucumbers or whatnot.  But don't think that I get my sexual kicks from cheese.  That's just... wrong.

   Anyway, this is the one item in noche buena I don't touch.  I'd rather gorge myself in spaghetti and ham and drown myself with liquor than to eat quezo de bola.  Which strikes me as odd... almost everyone likes it, and I don't.  I don't like it as is, I don't like it as fondue, I don't like it grated and put on whatever... it's that simple: I don't like it.

   And Merry Christmas to all of you.  Hey, I have better things to do on Christmas Eve than doing this, you know?

Posted at Friday, December 24, 2004 by marocharim
Revolt!  

December 22, 2004
#010: Tae. Spongecola.

<i have it confirmed... only Filipinos read my blog.  so here's one for y'all.>

   Siguro alam ninyo 'tong kantang 'to, no? 

Bumaba ako sa jeepney
Kung saan tayo'y dating makatabi
Magkahalik ang pisngi nating dalawa
Nating dalawa
Panyo mo sa aking bulsa
Buong kahapon ay naroon pa rin
Ang tawa nati'y humahalay
Sa init nating dalawa
Subalit ngayo'y wala na (Wala na)
Ikaw ay lumayo na (Lumayo na)
Naaalala ko ang mga gabing
Nakahiga sa ilalim
Ng kalawakan
Naaalala ko ang mga gabing
Magkatabi sa ulan
Kulay nang iyong ngiti
At tikwas ng iyong buhok
Ang lambot ng iyong labi
Ng iyong labi
Kahit anino mo sa malayo
Ay nais masulyapan
Upang mapawi
Ang lamig
Subalit ngayo'y wala na
Ikaw ay lumayo na
Naaalala ko ang mga gabing
Nakahiga sa ilalim
Ng kalawakan
Naaalala ko ang mga gabing
Magkatabi sa ulan
Subalit ngayo'y wala na
Ikaw ay lumayo na
Lumayo na
Naaalala ko ang mga gabing
Nakahiga sa ilalim
Ng kalawakan
Naaalala ko ang mga gabing
Magkatabi sa ulan (2x)
(Naaalala) Magkatabi sa ulan... (Naaalala)

-Spongecola, "Jeepney"

   Paringgan niyo ba naman kasi ako ng ganitong kanta kung lasing na kayo eh.  Pambihira kayo, sa dinami-dami ng pwede niyong iparinig sa akin eh ito pa.

Posted at Wednesday, December 22, 2004 by marocharim
Revolt!  

#009: Why I Hate Celebrity Funerals

<required reading before you read this: "In Memory of FPJ..." just scroll down and read it.  also, try reading "One Step Backward, Two Steps Back" by Vladimir Lenin... but lest you accuse me of being a Communist rebel... well, that's another story>

   I thought I've seen it all when it comes to your run-of-the-mill celebrity funeral: Rico Yan, Rio Diaz-Cojuangco, Halina Perez... but the funeral of Fernando Poe, Jr. was an entirely different thing.  In a Snagglepussian sense, it wasn't just huge: it was humongous, gigantic, colossal, gargantuan even.  Having been glued to the television set due to a lack of sleep caused by a sudden attack of diarrhea (unless you're gay and your name is Alexander [pardon me, Mr. Alejo], you wouldn't eat a raw oyster... ever, I was firmly convinced that the brouhaha surrounding FPJ's death was not due to the fact that he was an icon or anything like that (don't get me wrong: he is), but because of politics.

   Now that's what we needed eh, Mr. Stating-The-Obvious?  Of course it was about politics.  I mean, who cares about the legendary statuses (stati, whatever) of FPJ films like Isusumbong Kita Sa Tatay Ko or Bato sa Buhangin?  I mean, if we can look at the realities of political life (good grief, I have to stop reading political theory) once you dip yourself into the soup of politics everyone licks at you.  And that's not coming from just anybody: that's coming from a political science student (as arrogant as I could be at times, I couldn't raise my academic testicles to a level where I could freely say that I'm a political scientist).  Look at it this way: if Rio Diaz hadn't married to the Cojuangco clan, or if Rico Yan's father (or grandfather... whatever) wasn't an ambassador, their funerals wouldn't be so... grandiose.  As far as Halina Perez goes, full-frontal nudity can only get you so far when it comes to popularity.  When FPJ ran he didn't just dip himself to the proverbial political soup, he swam in it.  I bet that the crowd at the Sto. Domingo Church or the Manila North Cemetery would have been easily cut by half if he did not run for President back in May 2004.

   You see, this is the reason why I hate celebrity funerals.  They're overkill.  I mean, there's absolutely no reason for us to kill celebrities twice, thrice even.  So blame it on the celebrities-turned-celebrity politicos on FPJ's funeral for turning this into a political circus.  Take the likes Erap Estrada (somebody please put him back in a real jail), Richard Gomez (somebody please terminate his TV and movie contract) and Loren Legarda (somebody please wipe out that Vaseline from her teeth), and even if you're not an FPJ fan you would just pity the guy for not getting a well-deserved rest from the frenzied hurly-burly of life (which strikes me as funny that Jose Mari Chan wasn't there).  It's no longer bordering on the pathetic: it's downright obscene.  It's not as if we can lay anybody to rest nowadays without the dead having a whiff of politics... that's unless you're like me and your immediate future is to get paid "interpreting" political phenomena.  But on a side note, I really liked Eddie Garcia's speech... it was so moving, so... Manoy.  And if that wasn't enough, Dolphy was gracious enough to sprinkle a bit of that John Puruntong humor in a relatively gloomy scene.

   What, or to be more precise and politically correct (even though I hate being so) I cannot comprehend more than anything (OK, anyone) is Susan Roces.  I mean, I just have to tip my nonexistent hat to her for being so strong and collected despite the death of her husband.  I mean, is there anything even more strange and creepy than that?  As strong as Susan Roces is, the fact that she could not even grieve properly is sickening, the way the media pokes cameras and boom mikes at her is just... gross.  The funny thing is, I'm wearing this cool National Union of Journalists of the Philippines (NUJP) "Stop Killing Journalists" T-shirt (that I have yet to pay for) while I'm criticizing this accepted media practice.  I mean, all would have been fine and dandy if they would have given her the chance to grieve properly.  Ms. Roces' will can only get her so far, as far as I am concerned, before she goes insane.  You see, you just don't do that.

   But really, so what?  Now that FPJ's dead and buried we can finally move on to more important things like Christmas.  But nooo, some fans think that the world ended with the death of Da King.  Of course it did: you just can't move on like nothing happened, especially if you watched all of his 200+ movies.  Hmmm... I really want to know what would happen if Keanu Reeves died in Hollywood and people would remember him most for his (cough) moving performance in "The Devil's Advocate."  Boo-hoo.  This is another reason why I hate celebrity funerals: it takes too long.  It took too long for FPJ's horse-drawn carriage (I pity the MMDA) to reach his mausoleum, and the aftermath just takes too long, considering the fact that it's Christmas.

   Hey, this is another reason why I hate celebrity funerals: you're forced to write about it.  Considering that I just had my braces removed, I still have that problem of moving on... and this isn't just about FPJ.  I mean, I'm not a fan of the guy, but he's dead and all, so let's just have a merry (invective) Christmas.


Posted at Wednesday, December 22, 2004 by marocharim
Revolt!  

December 20, 2004
#008: And Now, A Brief Message From Friendster

   To a certain extent, yes, nobody likes me at this point.  And I couldn't really give a damn about it.  Love me, like me, or hate me, I don't care.

   Sometimes, however, you just don't take stuff like these (read on) lying down, even if you're as apathetic and manhid as I am.  Somehow, "unfeeling" does not cut it.

   Let's interrupt your reading (if you're one of the half dozen actually reading this) with a brief private message addressed to yours truly (via Friendster):


<<kung si JESUS MISMO, HINDI PINANIWALAAN sa mga katotohanang sinabi nya, AKO PA KAYANG ISANG HAMAK NA MORTAL LANG?? at hindi ko kayang pantayan ang katayuan mo ngayon sa buhay... PARA KANG SI CONFUCIUS... DAKILANG GURO at MIYEMBRO NG ARISTOKRASYA ng Sinaunang Tsina, at LAGING PINANINIWALAAN NG LAHAT NG TAO... anyway, matalino ka... pag-isipan mo na lang ang comparison...>>

dated december 20, 2004



   Tsk, tsk, tsk.  I don't really know whether I should get mad about that, or I should laugh my innards out... maybe I'll go with option # 2.  I'll just sit here in my comfy little chair and laugh.  Yup, laugh like hell.  I'd like a smoke right now just to clear out my head and act rational, but I'll just go on laughing.

   Now that I'm done laughing I'd like to set a few points straight.  I'm as dumb as a rock when it comes to metaphors and other forms of figurative language I do not use... as long as it's not part of Marochalanguage (or, to use my friend Yellow's terms, verbal gymnastics) I do not comprehend it.  Honestly, it took me the better part of ten minutes to actually understand what that meant, and the point was quite simple: it was an attack on my person.

   Now please set the point straight and set me on the high road.

Posted at Monday, December 20, 2004 by marocharim
(1) vomitted  

December 18, 2004
#007: When You Turn 17...

   What do I know?  In a few months time, I myself would be pushing 20.  I should be trying to give advice to myself given the circumstances I have had (it has been the absolute worst month of my life, according to sources other than myself), but I doubt that the dozen people who actually read my blog would really care, given that I'm practically giving my "ex" some advice.

   She's turning 17... on December 20.  What the hell.  I don't expect to be spending my December 20 in front of a monitor.

   Which is even more ironic, considering that December 21 could have been our third month anniversary, but what the hell (I am starting to like that clause... yummy.).

   Here goes nothing...



Dear,

   It's December 20, and today you are  at the crossroads of your life.  That time of life when you're, in a relatively Britney-ish fashion, not a girl, but not yet a woman.  You grow older, but you're still not old enough.  Nothing's enough for a 17 year old, and do tell... I've been there before.

   I know that what happened between us wasn't supposed to happen.  But it did, and unfortunately, we're not really sure whether or not it's right to hold on or let go.  Sometimes the temptation to leave you there was there, but I couldn't.  I may be angry, to a certain degree, but I can't bring myself to hurt anybody other than myself.

   I don't come here as someone who wants to win you back, because heaven help me I want to but now is not the time to target wounds while they're still fresh.  I know... for the past three weeks I've been doing exactly that, and I brought myself the kind of pain I shouldn't be enduring for anyone, especially people who hurt me.

   What hurts me even more is the fact that people call you names and assume that you're a character you're not.  If anyone knows you better than anyone else, aside from yourself, (well, aside from your parents), it's me.  Having stood by you through thick and thin (and believe you me, this is as thick as it's going to get) I have a good idea of who you are.

   You told me the night before (that was Pasiklaban), the day I gave you Alecxia, that you don't know who you are anymore, and you don't know what love is anymore, and you want to be naive from this point forward.

   Let me remind you of who you are: you are the sweetest, kindest, nicest person I ever knew, the person I fell in love with.  Let me remind you of what love is: love is an experience, it's not definable.  And as far as being naive goes, naivete breeds hate.  And when people hate, they hurt each other.  And when you started to hate, I felt the pain... until I couldn't take it anymore and I just broke down.  I couldn't take it anymore, but I held on.

   Whatever happened is a thing of the past to me.  In a Nietzschean sense, what does not kill you only makes you stronger.  But then again, burning questions start to plague me from everywhere: do I deserve you?  Can I look you at the eyes the same way again after what happened?

   Probably, probably not.  But could I still love you?  That's the funny part: I can, I do, and I have.  Love is unconditional.  Even when the people around us told me that I was a pathetic idiot for having to remedy a situation I didn't have anything to do with, from those roses to that date, even when I was a victim, I was happy being that pathetic idiot.  I loved: that's what's important.  This is a test of the mettle of a person's character.  And I like to think I passed.  I didn't pass because of my strength, as you thought, but because I was.  Just be, that's all.

   The funny thing about love (as if it isn't funny in the first place) is that people hold on to the worst of reasons.  Often, the worst of reasons are the best of reasons.  I mean, I can only take so much, and I can only do so much, but what if I just did?  Any other person would have just let you go.  I didn't.  I guess what they said says it all... that's love.  That's all it is.  No definition necessary.

   My only wish for you is to be happy.  Don't let these things wreck your 17th birthday.  Just remember that when it seems that nobody's there there for you, I'm walking after you.  I'm just behind you.

   Happy birthday.

Marx

PS: Neverland never closes.

Posted at Saturday, December 18, 2004 by marocharim
(1) vomitted  

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