Welcome to Volume 6 of The Marocharim Experiment. This blog is authored and maintained by Marocharim, the self-professed antichrist of new media.
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."
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
TAG/E-MAIL FOR COPIES
[Friendster][Gmail Contact][Yahoo!Mail Contact]
"The Marocharim Experiment," "Marocharim" and all the contents in this online web log are the sole intellectual properties of Marck Ronald Rimorin and are protected by existing copyleft laws. Any attempt to copy and/or reproduce the contents of this site, either through electronic or printed means, must be accompanied with the express written consent of the author.
April 22, 2005
< ok, i reverted back to my old skin... and yeah, i'm making my own >
I've only graduated twice, and as far as college is concerned I'd be extremely lucky if I graduate on time. Maybe I should be one of the millions of people who consider themselves "educated" with a high school diploma and a brief stint in college, but that's not the gist of it.
But hey, as far as my writing is concerned, there is no gist.
Frustrated as I am being unable to finish my course in four years' time, I couldn't stomach listening to "Pomp and Circumstance" even if I am still a "young" college junior. I have a lot of things to be happy about, considering that I'm still in college. I wouldn't be too far gone if I still didn't take up a job, and yeah, I'm not looking forward to a high-paying career over at ClientLogic or, if worse comes to worse, Pizza Hut. In a year and a half, maybe two years or getting into maximum residency if I go topak all of a sudden, I'd probably graduate, take up my sablay and bow before less than a hundred graduates and an endless sea of students and relatives.
You see, graduation is highly overrated. What purpose does a piece of parchment serve to your existence, anyways? We live in a world full of paper, and it's bad enough that we collect certificates and diplomas trying to prove to the world that we actually did something in college, other than party. Or, in my case, dwell in discourse and fail Math in the process.
Hear, hear: if you're one of the ka-billions of people in history who have graduated, in one form or another, you know what I'm talking about. Graduation is a big-whoop thing that boils down to simple but powerful four-letter invectives directed to your school and your enemies (to some extent your parents) by the time you leave. It's three hours of boredom, listening to some geriatric telling you stuff about life you wish he would just shove up his arse by the time he sips that glass of water on the lectern (no, not podium). It's having your academic arch-enemy announcing your name: as you await some salutory title like "cum laude," they just hand you a diploma, and you feel the phantom foot deep in your rear end as you bow down. No time for swan songs: just get out.
I'm not bitter or anything (a lie), but there's something about graduations that scares the crap out of me. It's not boring speeches courtesy of the campus big-shot or that famous guy giving the damn speech, but the picture of having to deal with hundreds of people who don't seem to care if you graduate. Applause is mechanical: no one "claps" for you since everyone's so engrossed in seeing some other person graduate. The few cheers you get are obligatory, considering your ego. Your diploma is something you would proudly frame up, and then when you get older it's nothing more than wall decor. Or a dartboard.
My diplomas are tucked away in my mom's file folder: unseen, quite crisp, still with that new smell that comes from the print shop. I don't look at them, I don't shed a tear in my yearbooks remembering those "happy times." I have a few choice words and hand gestures for those (cough) memories. Most of them phallic.
Don't ask me where that title came from.
Posted at Friday, April 22, 2005 by marocharim
April 21, 2005
New Skin... New Lease On Life
< fancy skin... for now >
Perhaps taking a skin from the designs board of BlogDrive and pasting everything into your own is a bad idea... and yeah, it kind of looks good here, but I'll kind of stick with this for a while.
Like I said, this is the Marocharim Experiment. If I get enough complaints, maybe I'll go back to the old theme.
Posted at Thursday, April 21, 2005 by marocharim
April 20, 2005
< i won't bore you with why i am so annoyed... but this entry is all about it, and yes, it's long, hard to read and stays that way even after reading. innuendos are intended >
The sweet, sour and salty (no, not NanoNano) flavors harmonize in a decadent ballet that transcends class lines, inspiring us to get in touch with ourselves...
And something tells me that that last line was just... sick. I'll never do that again.
If you go ga-ga for toyomansi, I think you know where I'm going with this. The tang of citrus, the kick of crushed red chili, the saltiness of soy sauce, with just a hint of sugar... don't we feel the same way? I thought so.
OK, OK, this whole tinotoyo
thing isn't the best explanation to why I have turned heel for the past few days and pissed quite a lot of people off, including the people of UP OutcroP. Hey, I haven't shown up for the past few days, big whoop. In case you don't know, the choleric environment of the school paper office has been my hang-out for the better part of two years: chairs bearing a good imprint of my ass, and the door dented from two years of leaning on it. I couldn't say I have given my heart and soul to it, but I've spent two unproductive, unfruitful years with a job which has alienated me, or something to that extent.
I'm not a journalist, I'm not a writer. I'm just another guy. Perhaps I should have figured that out a bit sooner before I answered some "calling" to serve the very people who, in my eyes, have turned me into a pariah just because I look and act "different." Maybe people distinguish species among themselves. Perhaps there are some places where ideology and consolidation reigns supreme over pure skill (no, writing is not a talent). Perhaps my services are no longer required, that I could easily be passed over for another person younger than me who happens to have a handle on the politics of organization. And then there's that gut feeling that you're over the hill... at 19 years of age, and after about nine years of writing for school papers, you can't shoe the leather anymore, or maybe you just don't belong there anymore. Maybe I can't keep up with the pace of younger people now that I'm a geriatric 19-year-old, ready to face the sunset by the time the afternoon's over.
I know for a fact that people aren't indispensable. Like a cigarette you puff away, happy at the fact that you're being destructive and formative at the same time. Then, just like that, you're dust. In a flick of the fingers you're very much bound for the ashtray. I'm just 19 years old... what's wrong with me?
And oh yeah, there's the fact that you're growing older by the second.
Sure, I've been through a lot lately, through hell and beyond, and I'm wondering why I'm starting to feel like I've outlived my usefulness, and maybe it's time to move on to greener pastures, where I could, at least, make some sense. I no longer feel the need to force myself down everyone else's mind and say, "Hey, I'm still in my prime." Perhaps I no longer have the voice I had back when I was... 18, and had the power to change something. But nooo, it's time for me to ride off to the sunset... and I'm long gone.
Maybe I'm just jealous. Maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe I just get chewed up, spit out, used, and disabused. I'm over the hill. Maybe they'll get the message, considering that Marocharim has left the building. Nah, I'm not contemplating on resigning. I'll just give the one thing everyone in there, regardless of bias, asked of me: space.
Before I post this in the permanency of cyberspace, two things start to whirl all over my mind. Should I post it? Or should I keep it to myself? I'll go for the former.
Writing for the OutcroP isn't my job. My business is to make people pick something up from whatever I make, but the time has come for me to, well, take a long-needed recess and do something for myself, to pay attention to friends I have ignored for the past two years of leaning on OutcroP's door. It won't be long 'till I come back and forget about those things that have, in a way, motivated and corrupted me at the same time. The money. The exchange of dogma. To a certain extent, the love life. The power. The fame. The notoriety.
Anyway, perhaps I haven't spent time with the only person I know of who can accept me for what I am: myself. I gave, yeah, I gave and I gave, and yes, I got my thanks. A knife at my back, a boot buried deep in my ass, and a strange feeling of being double-crossed. Like toyo-mansi, I wanted to separate the flavors of my emotions: the sweetness of friendship, the sourness of pain, the acridity of bitterness, the burning taste of anger, and the saltiness of tears flowing down my face during those rare ocassions I cry, which become quite frequent nowadays.
I'm 19 years old, and I have been in the OutcroP for three years, for a year being its news editor. Is it time to leave?
Posted at Wednesday, April 20, 2005 by marocharim
< annoyance level at optimum rate >
Kung ang buhay ay isang bote ng Silver Swan
Hindi sukang puti pero toyo ang laman
Ganyan, ganyan, ang aking kinatatayuan
Sana, sana lang, ako'y inyong layuan
Dahil sa ganitong kalagayan
Ang aking alat ay parang hagupit ng amihan
Tulad ng debulyo ang haplos ni Kamatayan.
That's as far as I go for my efforts in Filipino literary... things.
Wait for a while for my next post.
Posted at Wednesday, April 20, 2005 by marocharim
April 18, 2005
A Challenge to Richard Gomez
< annoyance level at almost-annoyed >
Let's talk about Richard Gomez.
OK, I'm not a big Goma fan. He's not outspoken: he's arrogant. He does not respond to issues: he blindly reacts to them. But hey, I don't know Goma. I couldn't say that he's a pockmark to society even if I wanted to. You wouldn't see me falling in line for his autograph.
So is it because of his arrogance that I'm ticked off? Arrogance can be justified. Is it because of his reactionary stance to political and social issues that makes me want to engage in a debate with him on drugs or whatever he's against? Stances can be justified. But not
paying your taxes is something you can't justify.
Even if you're Richard Gomez.
Perhaps I'm not one to put myself in a precarious position and accuse Goma of tax evasion. I'm not one to lay my small name and my blog on the line like most other showbiz reporters would do: I'm not a showbiz reporter, and I do not lay claim to any sort of name that's worth laying on the line. On the record (as if it already is), and I just know
I'm going to take some flak for this:
As a viewer, my name is not
worth the reputations, or "reputations," of self-serving individuals in the entertainment industry. The mere fact that I'm writing about you, and not on some other obscure topic that would be worth my time and while (like hitchhiking to school and almost becoming roadkill), makes me sick.
I did some research on Goma's recent tax imbroglio, and I can't help but feel a bit peeved. I mean, here's a man with shows from here to eternity, and he's not paying his taxes. I know for a fact my parents filed their ITR's sometime in January - why can't Goma do the same? Maybe he has too many shows. OK, the next taxi driver I'd probably talk to would have filed his ITR sometime in the last few months, and he does more work in a day than Goma does in a week. Mr. Gomez probably does not ride a taxi, but let's ask his
driver when he filed his ITR.
OK, if you're a Filipino taxpayer, I exhort you to tell me when you filed your ITR, how much you make, and how much you paid. Then let's look at Goma's tax returns.
Oh, you thought that pissed me off, huh? Let's consider Goma's response:
"This is happening to me because I'm a strong voice of the opposition."
"Or maybe because I'm Richard Gomez."
Hmmm, since when did being a "strong voice" of the opposition become reason for anything? Let's look at other "strong voices" of the opposition who pay their taxes: the guy on the street with a bad-paying job saying "no" to VAT, the janitor at SM frustrated at not being able to make a purchase at the very mall he mops, the single mother juggling her priorities between food and education. Reality check: if, by "strength" we mean prominence in the political scene, then there's no disputing Goma's claims that he's being singled out. But by "strength" I mean the genuine ability to oppose, to exercise one's right to dissent regardless of how popular he/she may be or if he/she is good-looking enough to model for underwear. The common Filipino who, despite being killed slowly and surely by abrupt increases in prices, crosses political lines and still pays taxes regardless of who he/she voted last elections. Does Goma satisfy this? Nope: maybe it is an error in documentation. Or maybe he's too Goma to pay his taxes.
So here's my open challenge to Mr. Richard Gomez: I am leaving my tagboard, my comment box, my e-mail address, and my Friendster account for you to send me a response. I challenge you, not in the interest of your rather temporary name or your reputation, but for the interest of the public, to show proof, any proof, that you paid your taxes. This is a free country, but running this country is not free. Go ahead, flame me, do what you want to do, do what you do best. Just show me, show us, proof that you paid your taxes. Then we'll let it all slide.
I'm nobody, but like many other nobodies in the Philippines, I do my part. So go do yours. I hope this entry reaches you.
Bloggers, unite, and let's send this to Goma.
Posted at Monday, April 18, 2005 by marocharim
April 16, 2005
< 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)
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
< 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 literotica.com >
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
< 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
< 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