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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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April 16, 2005
Iron Chef Marocharim

< yes, contrary to popular opinion, i cook >

   OK, do I cook?  Yes.  Let's get to the blabbing later.

Recipe for Marocharim's Chinese-style breaded pork cutlets (aptly entitled "Some"):
some boneless pork
some seasoned flour (flour, salt, powdered chili, shrimp powder, pepper)
some garlic (depends on how garlicky you want it, considering the garlic-stuff that come in later)
some black bean and garlic sauce (I use Lee Kum Kee, but you can make your own)
some hoisin sauce
some chili garlic sauce
some Justerini & Brooks
some vodka (any brand, I used Gilbey's)
some sugar
some cornstarch
some water
some leeks

   Bread the pork and deep fry in clean oil until golden brown.  The trick here is to make sure that the crust in the pork is damn hard and golden.  Allow to drain and cool.  Heat up a wok in medium heat with some oil from the deep frying process in order to get some of that shrimpy flavor, and brown the garlic.  Add Chinese sauces and allow to cook until you feel it's cooked enough, or if it smells real good.  Mix up the J&B and vodka, and carefully add it to the hot mixture.  Yes, it will flame up on you so turn the heat down until all the alcohol burns.  Mix up a slurry with the sugar, cornstarch and water and thicken up the sauce.  Add leeks, allow to sweat.  Add cutlets.  Toss and serve hot.

   It isn't exactly my brother's Kung Pao Chicken, but it tasted fine.  It didn't reek of alcohol as I expected: the J&B and vodka gave it that woody flavor I was looking for.

Posted at Saturday, April 16, 2005 by marocharim

April 14, 2005
Accept Me For What I Am

< no, i'm not committing suicide >

   Accept me for what I am, and not for what I do.

   It is not in haste that I was created, and it is not in impatience that I seek to die.  I have been given enough time to live my years and seek the good in this cruel world.  I have been given the privilege to meet people in this world to talk to, to know, to accept for what they are, and not for what they do.  Just like I hope they do to me, too.

   What I do today will be done, and what's done can never be reversed nor justified.  We are all lost in the futile quest to take control of time and change what we have done.  What I do either builds me or breaks me, but it can never be me.  What I do will change me, but it can never consume me.  I must remain steadfast in myself, divine enough to forgive and forget, but human enough to regret.

   I am human: I make mistakes and errors, and I neither commend or condemn myself for whatever I did in my life.  Yes, what I do today and what I have done yesterday matters in everything I'll do in the future, but does that change who I am inside?  I am weak, but I cannot allow my actions to be the source of my weakness.  I do not create my own weaknesses.  I am the seed of my own destruction, I am the wellspring of my own strength.

   Do not love or despise me for what I do, but do so for what I am.  I am unique, I am special.  There can never be another me.  My actions have been repeated by so many throughout history.  What makes me different from them is that I am.  I am not immortalized through what I do, for already I am immortal for what I am.  I am made in the image and likeness of myself, and it is for what I am, and not for what I do, that makes me special.

   Do not remember me for what I do but for what I am.  Accept me for what I am, and not for what I do.

Posted at Thursday, April 14, 2005 by marocharim

April 13, 2005
Sex Videos From Outer Space

< this is not, by any means, my attempt to duplicate >

   Now what?

   There's nothing to believe or suggest in the realm of showbusiness.  If you're like me you're less interested in its asinine aspects, like intrigue and such, and you'd rather deal with real entertainment value.  Like, hey, I'm not falling in line anytime later this month to watch "Can This Be Love," but nowadays, perhaps I'm in the right mood to do so.

   Yeah, I'm dead serious.  The thing is, sex videos are no laughing matter.  Ergo: they suck (no innuendo intended... like I really care about the processes and nuances of cunnilingus or fellatio).

   If you're Filipino, you know where I'm going with this.  If you're foreign, you'd get my drift if you already watched the Paris Hilton video.

   Let's talk about sex.  Does everybody do it?  Maybe, maybe not.  Sex does not come naturally to some people, and to some people it's pretty much instinctive.  Gender preference?  Maybe we all couldn't agree to be straight.  I have a lot of gay friends, and now I'm convinced that gender preference matters little in the greater realm of romantic love.  There's romantic passion, and then there's sexual passion.  There's tunay na pagmamahal, and then there's libog.  Whether or not they come both ways is still debatable: you can't love yourself enough to give yourself a reason to masturbate.

   So what about voyeurism?  I know of some people who have this "kinky" fetish of being watched during sex.  Is sex a private act?  Probably: there are always exceptions to "rules."  If you want to have sex right in the middle of EDSA, nobody would really care, save for the MMDA or the bus driver who had seen more than his fair share of the road.  I mean, the Baywalk Bodies ('Da Bodies, whatever they are) posed in translucent raincoats and got arrested.

   I don't have to further elaborate on it, except for one point.  Here's the question: if you're a celebrity, would it be right to put yourself in the middle of the mess in the first place?

   I think that celebrities who read my blog (Ms. Kris Aquino: I've already read your LiveJournal, so read this) would beg to disagree.  Celebrities have the right to privacy, I'll give you that.  But what's private nowadays?  The celebrity's life is an open book ready to read, or a sex video ready to be saved in PC's nationwide and distributed through whatever means.  There is no "responsible" way to hide yourself from the public because of your profession.

   Like, yeah, I'm no Ricky Lo or Boy Abunda or anything.  My opinions matter little in the greater realm of showbiz.  I am no moralist: unlike Mr. Manuel Morato, I don't have a cheap TV talkshow in some obscure network where I could talk about "morals."  I am not of high moral standing: yes, I have viewed more than my fair share of foreign and local sex videos, read sleazy tabloids and, OK, I have seen the Ethel Booba video, the Piolo Pascual video, and other celebrities', like that of Heart Evangelista, Karel Marquez, name it, I've seen it.  And I grow sick of it.

    Perhaps at the center of the proverbial maelstrom is not of ratings or other pathetic excuses.  What passes for "entertainment" in this country is not genuine acting talent or the ability to work crowds, but that insatiable appetite for intrigue.  But wait: this brings us to some fuzzy logic.  Like, if you don't like the air, stop breathing.  That's not the point.

   The point, for me, is simple.  But yeah, I kind of stretch it a bit so that we can come to be more puzzled and pissed about it.

   Here's my point: so what?

   The battle is no longer about ratings or "network wars."  This is a question of how much value we give entertainment.  The truth is, everyone wants to be a superstar: some people are talented, beautiful and popular enough to make it into showbiz.  But intrigue is a different case.  This is not about crab mentality, or convoluted plot lines that rival soap operas.  In Tagalog: tungkol ito sa mga manonood at hindi sa mga pinapanood.

   I don't want to be so moralistic as to say that if it's right to broadcast sex videos, solarized and pixellated as they may be, to children.  But tell me: are you willing to watch it?  There are far better things to talk about in a showbiz talkshow other than what celebrities do in their spare time, lying on their beds on their backs.  And this goes for everything else: I don't need to listen to the quarrel between Richard Gomez, Tita Swarding and Keanna Reeves to be "entertained."  Nor do I need to read in some sleazy, sex-oriented tabloid that AJ Dee is selling coffee in the ABS-CBN studios to augment his income.  I don't care.  I don't flick on the TV to watch celebrities quarrel among themselves, I flick on the TV so that after a hard day I might get some semblance of entertainment that local TV can provide, and not to join the thousands of sex-starved idiots somewhere in the country who would fantasize about celebrities in all 45 positions of the Kama Sutra.

   All of a sudden, I feel betrayed.  I've had more than my fill of what passes for "showbiz" nowadays.  Showbiz is the business of entertaining people who are grossly unhappy with their lives and try to attach themselves in the fantasy world of glitz and glamor.  It's not the business of people quarreling among themselves and exposing their personal... whatevers, on national television.  Like I said, this is about us, the viewers, not them, the people we pay to view.  It's not about ratings, it's about making people laugh, cry, scream... things we never could do in our mortal lives because we're not beautiful or ugly enough to make it big time.

   Would I watch it?  Probably not, I'd rather watch "Pera o Bayong" or "Laban o Bawi" and erase the thoughts of Willie's tendency to be bastos or the apparent/inherent kabastusan of Sexbomb.  I'd rather watch Piolo's movies and not be bothered by whatever scandal he's in.  I'd rather watch "Extra Challenge" and laugh at Ethel's antics.  The sex scandals mean absolutely nothing to me, as a viewer.

   More on this to come... this is starting to be a very interesting topic for me.  I suppose you people have grown sick of my love life.

Posted at Wednesday, April 13, 2005 by marocharim

Ice Cream Jingles

< i'll see what i can do with this... >

   Suppose you enter a mall, find the food court, and then move on since you either can't afford the meals or you have other pressing business to attend to.  If you're me, the latter holds true: SM is, after all, a mere tunnel to go to if you want to make it from UP Baguio to Session Road in record time.

   Now, suppose you take off your headphones (or if you're me, you suddenly make up your mind to pay attention to your immediate environment) and listen to whatever music or "music" is present out there.  And you'll come by and find me, bow down to my feet and say, "Marocharim, great savior, messiah of our inferior species, you are, once again, right!  Save us from our ignorance and enlighten us!"

   Be enlightened, my children... for once again, Marocharim has risen from his unusually benign state to (very long pause)... aha, Marocharize you.

   Excuse me, I have my ego problems.  :D  It's been a while since I did this.

   I suppose that most of you people are mallrats, and you go to the mall (whatever mall, be it SM, Robinson's, Sears & Roebuck, Wal-Mart...) and get pretty much pissed listening to ice cream jingles.  You know... those annoying chiming sounds that loop around, forcing you to buy ice cream in the pa-tweetums effect known only to a musicologist.  I don't know, I'm not one.

   Believe me, I don't like ice cream.  Oh sure, I had my phases back in my younger days where I'd cry my lungs out for chocolate ice cream (rocky road, Double Dutch...) and then I'd get it before everyone gets annoyed.  Then I grew up.  I no longer eat ice cream, thanks to lactose intolerance (believe me, you wouldn't like it if I drank Yakult), let alone eat chocolate.  But the chimes still ring about wherever I go: it's like a hypnotic dance beat, forcing me to pirouette on over to the ice cream stands, lean over the counter, bat my eyelashes and say in the cutest voice I could muster...

   "Ate, pakidamihan sa chocolate."

   Following that statement I doubt if I could continue... I'm only (super)human, capable of understanding and digesting strange, odd and thankfully hypothetical occurences that involves me "opening up" and being freed from the scrutiny of society.  Imagining myself in a dramatic ballet to get - and eat - ice cream is just... stupid.

   Well that busted up my ego.

Posted at Wednesday, April 13, 2005 by marocharim

April 12, 2005
Kind of Kind

< no introductory notes >

   OK, the previous few blog entries were long, I have been getting complaints that the load-up time is a bit long, so here's a simple layout for now... too simple, even.

   Anyways, the new Marocharim Experiment will be unveiled this weekend.

   I'm kind of kind today.  :)

Posted at Tuesday, April 12, 2005 by marocharim

April 11, 2005
Perverting Lyrics... 2

< this is freaky >

Not being in the mood to blab...

Here's a song you wish you heard:
Anglicized version of South Border's "Kahit Kailan"

My mind is asking something
It doesn't really understand
What it really feels inside
I hope you know by now that you
Are the only person on my mind
You're the only one

Are you afraid... don't even think about it
Forever... I hope you get it

Forever my love, I will never ever leave you
Forever my love, I'll never leave you behind
Forever my love, forever my love

Oh I can hear you whisper
Hoping this love will never end
Girl you want these dreams to come true
I'm standing right in front of you
Lovin' you for what you are
Now until the end of time

Are you afraid... don't even think about it
Forever... I hope you feel it

Forever my love, I will never ever leave you
Forever my love, I'll never leave you behind
Forever my love, forever my love

If you'll ever have to part from each other
I hope I'll never get the chance to love another
One like you again
Whatever happens in our lifetime
I can never ever leave your side
I'll be right here with you
Till the very end...

Forever my love, I will never ever leave you
Forever my love, I'll never leave you behind
Forever my love, this love won't change
Forever my love, forever my love

Posted at Monday, April 11, 2005 by marocharim

April 9, 2005
I Know What I Did This Summer: The IV-Agate Class Reunion

< this is a blog entry written under the influence of alcohol and songs i either like or dislike... gotta get my groove back... and it's really, really long >

Listening to: Alanis Morrissette, "Right Through You"

   What kept me away for the past... 24 hours of so (as if people really care) was that I spent some "quality time," if you will, with my high school classmates.  At least most of them: considering that most of my fellow Agateans (or Agatoids, or Agatese, whatever) are taking up Nursing and are in their internship stages.  Something tells me I'm in the right course (Social Anthropology - don't ask me what I do), and again I'm messing up my introduction.  And so?  I still have half a bottle of vodka here.

   Anyway, the very least I could do, being the veritable and venerable asshole of the class in my high school days, is to come and have a little bit of fun.  Which brings me to three interesting points (to paraphrase my friend Jamir), now that my innards have been warmed just fine by copious amounts of cheap vodka and brandy.  One: despite my reputation of being the Satan-incarnate of the class, I was quite an integral part of our class history.  Two: I should spend a bit more time with my former classmates, considering that most of them make really great drinking partners, and for some good talk whenever I can no longer stand UP Baguio's gay/bisexual population.  Three, IV-Agate 2002 is the best batch.  Ever.

   That third point speaks for itself, considering that I tend to overintellectualize and complicate my sentences a bit.  Not even my wide vocabulary can ever do justice to that point.  Lexicographic acrobatics, after all, work if you're Marocharim.  If you're not me, you're screwed reading this blog.

   And believe me, this is going to be my longest entry yet.  Do some justice to your class, will you?  Dammit, I love IV-Agate.

Just finished with: Alanis Morrissette, "Everything"

Listening to: True Faith, "Kung OK Lang Sa 'Yo"


   The reunion didn't actually take place in the now-infamous "Last Resort," but in McDonald's SM.  As usual, ideas like these don't stem from minds like mine who are dulled by drinking.  It becomes the problem of the few people who have pursued their degrees outside of Baguio City.  Since you can't expect Andrew to do that (I'll be damned if he did), our class "mother," Bernadette, had the idea.

   The rationale was, save for the Engineering students and the group of delayed UPians (Berna, Andrew and me), by the time we would have a traditional reunion we would all have jobs and our priorities would be getting that next piece of cheese in the rat race.  I've always said that by the time the rat race is over, the winner's still a rat.  And while we're still sane human beings who still value the importance of friendship before we start stabbing each other's backs by the time we're 40, we'd better... consolidate.  It's been three years since our graduation - we're starting to miss each other so much... yup, even I miss the guys.

   Over burgers, french fries and Coke floats, we held a "closed-door" meeting in McDo's children's area (or whatever it is) to discuss IV-Agate's third annual class reunion.  This was actually my first time to be back in the good old gang of 70+ people in the room covered in bamboo-and-reed decorations courtesy of an overbearing homeroom adviser, so it was quite an experience for me.

   I was entreated to the sight of old classmates: Emerson still has his hunky looks, although he's no Diether Ocampo (far beyond compare... either way), Crystal practically looking like a superstar, Rodora still small, Bonnierick now with his own band... the list just goes on and on.

   The April 8 reunion was to be held in Asin Hot Springs.  Itinerary: swim, drink, relive the memories, revel in the... revelry, good old fun.  We're experts in that field.  Along with debating with teachers, boycotting classes, open forums...

Just finished with: Wolfgang, "Atomica"

Listening to: Edwin McCain, "Could Not Ask For More"

'Coz You Know I'll Ride A Thousand Miles...

   The ride to the Last Resort was really, REALLY, nauseating.  Some of us aren't big fans of rides to anywhere, and in my little seat I was singing Vanessa Carlton songs: at least I wasn't as annoying as I could get.

   Riding to such a distant, isolated destination can really screw up one's brain wavelengths, to a certain extent.  That's when the Gayswitch in my head started to flick on and off at an unpredictable pace, and my masculinity can seize up at any moment and then I'd turn into a pretty convincing 19-year-old girl, one of my special talents that I couldn't use quite frequently around people lest they perform an impromptu and inopportune exorcism.

   By the time we reached the dark tunnels, we started to go hyper.  I didn't know if it involved anything sexual, but we had such shallow reasons to explode in laughter.  Some of us were hiding signs of motion sickness for one of two reasons: masculine pride, or the feminine obsession with demureness.  Then we got to the place: The Last Resort.

Just finished with: Cranberries, "Miss You When You're Gone"

Listening to: Selena, "Dreaming Of You"

Celebrity Skin

   Not being a son of the beach, I don't get all too comfortable with the sight of water.  The idea was that I didn't plan to swim, I just planned to hang around the place while taking liberal swigs of liquor straight off the bottle.  That was working fine, after I made the beeline for the banana-flavored rhum, which wasn't really to my liking, but after I washed it down with chocolate cookie sticks it worked just fine.  At least it didn't take long to open up manlier drink, like brandy.  I don't know if they were telepathic that they chose my favorite, Gran Matador.

   Like I said, I'm not a son of the beach, and I wasn't planning on taking a plunge anyway.  Pressure, however, took over, as I took to borrowing an extra shirt and a pair of shorts from Noel.  The thing was, some of the girls, especially Berna, Janice and Glaiza, didn't want to last too long looking at my legs, my wet hair and all the possible body parts that would make me a girl (save for my chest and, of course, my crotch).  Andrew put it in perspective: I could have been a model for shampoo, whitening lotion, moisturizer and cosmetics.  I couldn't believe I was that gay.  The best I could do was to wave like a Hollywood celebrity... and there goes my reputation.  It wasn't that half-bad.

Just finished with: Tito, Vic & Joey, "Iskul Bukol"

Listening to: Sponge Cola, "Crazy For You"

The Gayswitch

   We spent quite a lot of time in the hot tub, which wasn't "hot," by any means.  It was pretty much warm.  It wasn't like those Japanese hot tubs which was crystal clear, since by the time we got there the water was pretty much brownish.  I hypothesized that the warmth of the tub was made possible by the body heat of those who have been there before us, and probably... I don't know if this is the proper forum to say it.

   But the "so what?" mode reigned over all of us, and we dived into the tub and, well, considering that the troop of males in our class were pretty much open to all sorts of good-natured humor bordering on the perverse and hedonistic (save for a few people whose pants were too tight for their own good), we started to "play games," which most of the time consisted of faked, rigged homosexual sex.  The girls who were with us started to give us these quizzical looks, especially with me, Chedan, Jason and Mickey.  It just wasn't right to see two bald guys, a guy with a pretty much normal haircut, and a guy with really long hair engaging in alternating sequences of simulated four-way sex, menage-a-trois and one-on-one in the hot tub.  They didn't leave, but I half-expected Berna to go over our shed, take her camera and start taking pictures... that would be just so wrong.

   Considering that completely scripted (I just have to stress that point over and over again, huh?) gay behavior was at the center of our frequent excursions to the hot tub, I think the girls took a picture of the worst yet, with more than a dozen males lollygagging in the tub in a perverted, "mahalay" portrayal of the Masculados.  I think I should have stayed out of that picture and joined the girls in a Viva Hot Babes pose.

   I'm not gay, OK?  Perhaps what's raising doubts with the girls of IV-Agate (maybe Glaiza's eyebrows are betraying her a bit) was if I happened to be a girl without breasts.  That's weird.

   Later on in the night this fat, 50-year-old moron interfered in our discussion of love right when I was in my explanation of "romantic passion" and "sexual passion."  He was 50, after all, senile, far beyond his capacities to be sexually active, so he takes his... shortcomings (and perhaps gallons of his beer-swilling urine) on us by claiming the monopoly of knowledge on romance.  We didn't want it to come to debate, but to call Jason a rapist is another thing.  Jason was willing to go for broke and punch the hell out of the guy, but thank heavens - the guy wouldn't hurt a fly if it didn't bite, anyway.

Just finished with: Savage Garden, "Truly Madly Deeply"

Listening to: The Rembrandts, "I'll Be There For You"

Attack of the (Drunk) Energizer Bunny

   Perhaps our group of heavy drinking males pride ourselves on the thickness and toughness of our innards that we've given brand names to our intestines: Chedan's "Panasonic," ER's "Sony," Jason's "Aiwa," Mickey's "Samsung," and my "JVC."  "JVC," of course, is an acronym for Justerini & Brooks, vodka and Chivas Regal.  I'm a beer-and-gin drinker myself, and I don't even like J&B.

   Anyways, Wong was at the center of our veritable Copernican model of Bacchanalia: this is why he's the Energizer bunny of the group.  I drink vodka straight (that's exactly what I'm doing now: notice the long sentences) and deal with chasers later on (I'm almost out of Coke), but his concoction of pineapple or orange juice and vodka (not exactly the best Screwdriver I've had) hit the spot just fine.  The plan was to drink from separate glasses, but Wong got the idea just fine: why not drink from just one glass?  He worked like clockwork all through the night, pouring glasses of Screwdriver off one glass and then giving it to us like a Bacchanalian communion of sorts.  While the girls were starting to get tipsy and nauseous, we were doing fine.

   See, this is why smoking and drinking work very well together: you can always drown out the aftertaste of a stalled shot (or, to use my terms, mouthwash) of a Screwdriver or (goddamit) and Emperador with a good puff of a Marlboro Reds.  Then again, our little group of chain-smoking idiots drank as much as we smoked.

   The problem was when the whole gang dipped back to the hot tub to get the kick out of Wong's Screwdrivers, which he continued to serve to us at a rapid rate.  After simulated acts of homosexuality, punctuated by the jockey position (you don't want to know how that's done), we played spin-the-bottle, all dares.  I got away with having part of my hair cut by Jason's scissors... if he weren't that short he would have seemed like Jason Voorhees to me.  Of course we were witness to shorts being pulled down from underwater, torrid thirty-second underwater french kisses, lips-to-lips, kiss-your-crush, name it.  All under the influence of powerful, potent Screwdrivers courtesy of Wong...

   And then it caught up with him, and he started to hurl.

   Perhaps singers are in short supply in IV-Agate... we suck.  Of course, people find it weird when they hear you sing MYMP (...I'm a little bit of crazy / I'm a little bit of a fool...) or Dice & K9 (...Just call me first born, you're my first love / You're my first kiss from up above...).  Then Jason plays Willie Revillame's "Wowowee" and "Joke Joke Joke," followed by Kylie Minogue's "Can't Get You Out Of My Head," which, after quite a "healthy" amount of alcohol flowing through your veins, you start to go, "...La la la / La la la la la..."  Considering, of course, that some people behind you undergoing love therapy.  Then you sing "Crazy For You," and yes, expect people to look at you for imitating the Sponge Cola version quite well.

   I need to quit shouting... and I'm out of booze.  Time to wrap this up... and I don't like the song coming next up after this Ronan Keating crap.  Too... relevant.

Just finished with: Ronan Keating, "When You Say Nothing At All"

Listening to: Sinead O'Connor, "Nothing Compares To You"

Nothing Compares To This

   The night grew into twilight, then dawn, and then it was time to leave.  Time for us to go back to our usual lives, but this isn't one of those as-if-nothing-happened things.  Something definitely happened, and it didn't drive in to us like our antics in the hot tub (no innuendo intended), backflips and corkscrews into the pool, or testing the warranties of our digestive systems.

   In my drunken state I could possibly rant and rave about how great my section was, and how rad that reunion was, but who am I kidding?  There are about close to three dozen IV-Agate's or 4-1's who think the same way, save for the tradition of a class reunion.  Everyone thinks their section is the best.  I say, so what?

   The truth is the section, the name of "IV-Agate" matters little to me as much as the people in it.  I treasure each and every single individual in IV-Agate, even those I don't particularly like, not because they're Agateans (or Agatoids, or Agatese), but because of the persons in them.  On a personal level, it has been a pleasure to meet them, get to know them, and spend some time with them.  Maybe we have come to our disagreements in the past, but would I have it any different than that?  Never.

   It doesn't take too much as a long glance from the UP Baguio sanctuary and the kiosks facing Baguio City National High School for me, to ponder during my obscenely short free time, to remind myself who I am, where I came from, and who I have met along the way.  We have all gone our separate ways, meeting at the crossroads of sembreaks and vacation times, casual hello's and goodbye's that mean everything to us, that somehow we have made differences in each other's lives not just as friends (or boyfriends or girlfriends) but as brothers and sisters of the same fourth year high school classroom, not in blood but our very souls as kindred spirits on the quest to get somewhere and say that we're proud to have met each other and became just that little bit closer to each other more than anyone else.

   Nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to this.

Just finished with: Lifehouse, "Everything"

Posted at Saturday, April 09, 2005 by marocharim

April 7, 2005
Perverting Lyrics

< songs... not in the mood to blab today >

This is the serious part...

Tagalized version of True Faith's "Kung OK Lang Sa 'Yo"

Here I am, and I don't know what to do
I'm so confused, and there's really nothing new
And I don't know why
My feelings whirl when I'm with you

My friends tell me, that this life can get so rough
And you can't have more if you already have enough
But I really can't forget everything about you
And yes, it is all true

I know it takes some time, it takes some space
And in your heart you'll find
It gets so tough, it gets so rough
To let your mind decide
So I made this song and I'll sing it for you
I offer it to you
I hope you listen too...

Don't be alarmed, yes I know it's kinda strange
That somehow, it's a time to turn a page
And the truth is, I'm falling in love with you
If it's all right with you

(Repeat chorus)

I hope you know by now, that all I've said is real
And the truth is, this is what I really feel
And I hope that you feel the same way too
If it's all right with you

(Repeat chorus 2x)

And this is nothing short of a joke.

Tagalized version of Madonna's "Crazy For You"

Nahihilo sa aking pinakikinggan
Di ko alam ang kanyang pangalan
Napag-isa ang dalawang laman

Bugso ng usok sa hangin
Napalingon ako't napatingin
Malayo nga ngunit lumapit pa rin
Gusto ko lang sabihin

Ako'y torete sa 'yo
Haplos mo lang at ito'y totoo
Alam mong ikaw lang ang mahal ko
Mundo ko'y bago
Halik ko lang at damhin mong
Torete ako... sa iyo...

Tibok ng puso'y pinigilan
Ngunit tuwing ika'y mapagmasdan
Sa isang tingin ay di ka maiwasan

Sana lang ay laging ganito
Ikaw ang laman ng puso ko
Sana lang, ika'y makapiling
At para ito'y maamin

(Repeat Chorus)

But then again, I'm in the mood for another one.
JEEPNEY (Beautiful Never)
Anglicized version of Spongecola's "Jeepney"

I came down from the jeepney
Where once seated were you and me
The streetlights bathe our warm embrace
Our warm embrace

I find your hanky in my pocket
And then the memories flood me once again
Our laughter still echoes
Like it was still just yesterday

But now it's done, it's over
Like beautiful never (like never, never again)

And I remember all the nights that we spent
Under the moon and the stars in the night
I still remember everything that you said
When rain starts to fall in the night

The curves of your lips still haunt me
As well as the curls of your hair
The softness of your touch
I still feel it

I still wait for the shadows
And wait for you in the night
So that you can be with me
Right here with me

(Repeat Bridge & Chorus)

Posted at Thursday, April 07, 2005 by marocharim

April 6, 2005
Lookin' Good In White

   OK, I changed the theme into something more... readable.  Trust me, next time I'm a-gonna make my own theme... but I'm sticking with this one for now.

Posted at Wednesday, April 06, 2005 by marocharim

April 4, 2005
Sniz and Fondue... Or What I Can Type In One Hour

< i don't know what that title has to do with today's second entry... >

   The best of my day was spent looking for diversions.  Heck, I don't really have anything in mind today, except to escape reality.  The idea being that I spent the better part of my day sitting down in front of my computer writing about my theory of ideological singularity, something that you wouldn't appreciate reading, given my propensity to write stuff people don't really understand.

   My best companion, so far, has been Microsoft Word and Adobe Photoshop.  Something tells me that in the realm of copious academic brouhaha, you have to make loads of diagrams to prove your point.  Singularity, being a concept in physics (a point in space is not in motion compared to time, which is always in constant motion), has been applied to social reality.

   And like I said, my best companion, so far, has been Microsoft Word and Adobe Photoshop.

   Back home, I couldn't bear to look at my copy of George Ritzer's "Sociological Theory" and my (borrowed) copy of Clark Neher's "Southeast Asia in the New International Era," which I turn to whenever I feel the need to go polsci on my already nine-page long philosophical treatise.  Although Winamp has been kind enough to give me some Milkdrop, Geiss and NullSoft visualizations when I can no longer stand looking at Word, and it kind of makes me wish the Office Assistant does nothing more than just mozie on around like some ridiculous, animated paper clip.  Aside from my usual messes of Vital, star apples and corn nuts, yes, there's nothing to do around there than just sit there and peruse my paper all over again whenever I'm done with a sentence, just to check for consistency.

   You see, that's the problem if you're schooled in writing one too many papers for your entire academic... career, if you will.  I'm quite proud of two of them: my paper on novelty songs as manifestations of social movements, and the hegemony present in 24-hour television text chatrooms.  That last one was particularly memorable for me, since I had to spend the better part of three weekends and a couple of Wednesdays watching one.  Ah, there I learned the cryptic meanings of such jargon as "SOT" and "SOP," and yes, they all have to do with the inherent kalibugan of today's youth.  No wonder Manoling Morato took it upon himself to buy some airtime over at NBN and talk about morals.

   If you're like me, you have to find diversions somewhere where you couldn't go to your computer, open up your folder and start typing like hell with only your brain and novelty songs to keep you going ("Sumusunod sa Galaw" being a staple, right after it's done cycling through Vertical Horizon, Hanson and Weird Al Yankovic).  Then if you grow sick you play 30 minutes worth of "The Sims" and see how cyber-Marck is doing, probably still stuck in his job as a medical technician.  Or play "Final Doom" and waste my time killing revenants and arch-viles.  I managed to get through it once without cheating, and now I'm breaking a sweat typing "iddqd" and "idfa" (yup, not "idkfa," just so you would be convinced that I'm not a hardcore cheater) while holding down fire with my plasma gun and switching to the BFG whenever I feel like it).

   Yes, I'm about to disgust you with an obscenely long entry I was planning to do for about an hour before I get carpal tunnel syndrome.  And it has only been about 22 minutes.  Do we make sense for now?  Nope.  Figures.

   Besides, this place is giving me the diversion I need.  The ambient sounds of Ragnarok is music to my ears, even though I don't know how to play.  Yup, never learned how, and I'm not planning on doing so.  While my friends have graduated Ragna Cum Laude, I'm still earning my degree in the inane and asinine art of blogging.  "Inane," being the "simpler" word for "mundane..." my English is something better off not understood and just read through.

   English has never been my forte, although I write in it.  My editor-in-chief, aside from scathing criticisms of my "SocSci" English, would periodically ask me to write an editorial, which I finish off in about three minutes.  Now they're playing Jason Mraz.  How relevant.

   I can write about anything, you know.

   Thank heavens, they changed it.  Mraz is something pretty close to me, since I was "born on the fourth of July, freedom ring."  And something on the surface is telling me I should find an ashtray, and quick.

   The usual parinig, when it comes to my little cave in the UP Baguio campus, is not Jason Mraz.  Try True Faith.  Yup, habang tumatagal, lumalala, laging nagwawala.  After that, it's a group of idiots (in a good way: take it as a compliment, I don't describe too many people) who barely made it through their freshman year, singing "Crazy For You."  The hell with that: too many memories I'm liable to burn.  So let's talk about Sponge Cola: it's bordering on gasgas, considering that "Jeepney" is one of the better songs they wrote so far, which just goes to show how much I abhor "KLSP."

   For the sake of diverting topics (before I go way off hand again) I'm answering some Friendster questions... give me a minute.

   So, what's your favorite lunch meat?

   I came across this question and remembered my brother's Monty Python sketch on SPAM he kept around the drive containing nothing but MP3s.  Like... "SPAM, wonderful SPAM..." you know it, if you're a foreigner, or you read Jessica Zafra.  I don't like it as much as the next guy, so I did some study on it (mainly by reading SPAM can labels).  Apparently, I was wrong: SPAM isn't an alien being compressed inside a can, cooked and made to look like meat, as I theorized back in high school.  It's ham and pork shoulder... which oddly enough, tastes more like chicken than anything.

   I can never understand the American palate... and then my mind diverts to that new Jollibee commercial.  Like, "Beef... beef..." I don't get it.  Beef was never an item served in a fastfood restaurant, because the burger is anything but meat, trust me.

   So we move on to another relatively useless topic for the next few minutes (it's just been 40 minutes, can you believe it?), like... say... Friendster.

   In my socio classes, we tackled Friendster and the "six degrees of procrastination."  I did my little experiment (no, not my blog), and they were right: somehow, I'm connected to every person in the world through six degrees.  Someone who knows this guy, who knows this guy... you know the drill.  I could be related to Arroyo, for that matter, and yes, I have read Kris Aquino's LiveJournal.  It was nice, in a fancy shade of pink, and had, on average, 25 comments an entry.  And I get not too many... statistics fail me at this point.  I'm no Pulitzer-prize winner, but there's no comparing The Marocharim Experiment to Kris' LJ.  Why should I care?  Yes, Avril is playing right now.

   Is it "Ah-vril" or "Ey-vril?"  Never knew.  I say the latter.

   Avril Lavigne isn't my favorite pop singer - Christina Aguilera is.  Then again, when you speak of Christina you say "X-Tina," and then remember "Dirrty."  What's the deal?  All of a sudden your favorite pop stars turn into filthy, dirty, disgusting, brutal, bottom-feeding trashbag hoes.  I'm not too particular with the morals of a pop icon: hey, Michael Jackson is a pedophile awaiting trial.

   Speaking of Jacko, I remember my Speech Comm 10 class... yes, I sang "Billie Jean" and ranted about Michael being the Antichrist, and I got a perfect score.  I doubt I looked good at it, considering that I didn't grip my crotch, which is a standard MJ performance... cherva (technical term).  I wore a pretty nifty semi-formal get-up, which got the thumbs up from UP's fashion critics.  The metrosexuals and the gays thought that I carried the gray-and-black motif just fine, save for my choice in footwear.  Hey, combat boots rock, and yes, I can tie a necktie perfectly.  So what?  Save your critiques for the freshie girl who dresses like Avril.

   Take a long look at the tagboard, and read an entry of mine, and yes, I play Tekken.

   In my search for the ultimate diversion me and my friends failed to sit down and play a gentlemanly game of Tekken... where we act like whooping cavemen by the time any one of us would connect with an unblockable.  I was planning on using Asuka on their pathetic, Paul-happy asses, but nooo, that goon over at the warehouse (yung kanila Em's, as they put it) was so engrossed in his "Call of Duty" game that he, the bantay, failed to get our attention.  That was dumb.

   That was downright stupid... and so is this.  Fifty-three minutes into my entry which makes no sense.

   As a (cough) journalist I have been taught that towards the end of your writing, you go back to your lead.  Like I said in the beginning (scroll up... way up), I was looking for diversions.  I have succeeded, need I say, in diverting my attention from more important issues like the death of the Pope, which to me means absolutely nothing.  Or the resignation of the embattled Kyrgyz president.  Or Prince Rainier.

   Time to get a bit cheesy here, for a second.

   I always thought that diversions meant nothing, that we should face our problems head on.  But then I get reminded otherwise, and yes, Jose Mari Chan gives us quite a nice verse on it: "...maybe we could go out / for a ride / drive down to the countryside / Get away from this gray / and frenzied hurly-burly / of the city life..."

   The sugar-selling singer is right, after all.  Now that I have diverted my attentions, maybe life does get better if you just ignore the pressures and live off the nonsensical, the mundane, those things that mean absolutely nothing to you.

   There's nothing much I can type in the next two minutes, so you can go away now.  The death grip I have had on your minds is over.  Go on.  Move along... and tag me.

Posted at Monday, April 04, 2005 by marocharim

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