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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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May 10, 2005
Full Metal Object

< kids: turn away for this entry, please >

   I suppose that you're like me and you wonder about trifle things like, "Why do kids like ice cream?" or "Why do toilet-paper manufacturers cut up their paper that small and that square?"  I have no idea, but something's been bugging me lately.

   No, love and all of its discontents can wait for later on... people don't pay me enough for that (if you're reading, don't close this window: it's a freaking joke).  Nowadays my testosterone levels at are an all-time high, considering that it's summer and the heat can get to you.

   I don't have time for all this paliguy-ligoy.  Let's get to it: why must the male genitalia always be associated with some sort of metallic tool?

   Don't go all moral on me, people.  The thing is I find it so irritating, from a masculine standpoint, to have my... appendage compared to some sort of tool.  Jackhammers I can understand, but drills?  Screwdrivers?  I get insulted!  Perhaps if you're male, you get my point.

   The act of sex itself does not involve rotations or vibrations involved in drilling or using a screwdriver.  Unless one is adventurous, acrobatic or a walang magawa sa buhay type who gets his kinks and kicks spinning around clockwise during sex... well I suppose I should stop there.  But really?  Screwdrivers and drills?  Outside of cheap Japanese porn found all over the web, I don't know of a man who can move his hips as fast as a jackhammer's bit could.  Talk about the human machine, but please!  Talk about mechanical animals... I don't even want to listen to Marilyn Manson anymore.

   Guys, don't you think that when your, manhood, gets compared to screwdrivers and drill bits there's something really, really wrong with the world?  I suppose that it's punishment for centuries of oppression.  But hey, I don't know of any man who carries with him something that thin, that cold and that small (I'm referring to drill bits).  Just think of the curliques and edges of the drill bit and tell me if that's what you have to deal with every time you go to the comfort room... ouch.  And what about the connotations of cross-heads, or even worse, flat-heads?  Nah, I suppose that when people talk about "tinuturbo," especially in those cheap P5 tabloids where the publisher has only enough money for red ink, you don't mean that only after about two minutes the guy has to undergo hip replacement surgery.  Now oil wells and derricks are different stories altogether... black is not the best color for anything.

   What's worse is that "bird" is not proper for the male organ of reproduction.  Birds fly.  Even Superman does not use his penis for propulsion.  That's something off the page of an issue of "Heavy Metal" if you asked me.

   Why must women have better euphemisms for their genitalia?  Commercials for douches and vaginal wash always have something to do with butterflies and flowers... though the butterfly may be all too male, considering the insect's proboscis.  Now that's beyond an insult.

   At least when my friend talked about him being "faster than a speeding bullet" I just laughed.  Don't ask me why.  Something tells me he either talked of the gun or the bullet itself.

   I'm betting on the bullet.

Posted at Tuesday, May 10, 2005 by marocharim

May 9, 2005

< ok, i made the theme a bit more... tolerable, if you will, for firefox users.  there, now you happy? >

   Don't ask me where those fancy background images went.  I decided to be a bit friendlier to Firefox users.  It's the content I'm after, anyway, not that I'm good in that department anyhow.  Insistent public demand, however, will get me placing them little fractals back again.

   I'm so tired, so here's a poem.  Try to catch my drift:

Gently, silently, I cradle your head and your body
Into the six foot deep hole I dug for your grave
Through the daggers you planted in my back
I watch you... and I see that you're only human after all.

Do you remember the pain you caused me
After all I have given you and all that I have sacrificed for?
Do you even have an idea of how much pain you have caused me
Long after you've gone, when the memory still remains?

I take up earth and cover up your body
Corrupted by the very essence of lust
I watch you gasp for air as earth enters your lungs
And I continue on, gasping... choking... laughing at your fate.

You will be lost
And then I move away
To walk the path
I should have gone all along.

Revenge... sweet.  All too sweet.

Odium... hatred... abhorrence... is all I feel for you.

You will never fathom my hatred
You will never understand my loathing
If there's one thing I know by now
You never really understood anything.

I will be consumed
Until the last gasps you take
And in that final moment
I will be satisfied.

I watch as the final mounds of earth cover your corpse
And in your death I hope you realize how much you caused
But then again, apologies will not be accepted from the dying
Those pathetic souls wailing for a final chance at redemption.

Do you even remember how to breathe at all?
After hate has flowed through my veins all these days!
Fear not your death for it is your escape!
Fear not your life for it is mine to take!

I watch you, all I see is your great escape
But I know you would not make it in time
Until the death knell rings for you and your demise
Shall I gently, silently, walk away from here.

Posted at Monday, May 09, 2005 by marocharim

May 8, 2005
Sad But True

< made up my mind >

   Reading through today's issue of The Phillipine Daily Inquirer I came across a very interesting editorial on China withdrawing its support for the Communist Party of the Philippines.  Read it here:

   Interesting.  Sad, but true.

   I've always been interested in the Filipino Communist, on the grounds that this is a guy fighting the government for 35 years and still hasn't given up hope.  I mean, I've been fighting the government for a few years now and I'm starting to feel the strains.  The idea being, that the banner of people leaning to the left is of "matagalang digmaang bayan," or in layman's terms, a really long people's war.  But how long has it been?  Perhaps the demonization of the Communist has reached such great heights that even their supporters have given up on them, or maybe it's because it's been too long.

   Don't get me wrong: to a certain extent (although not wholly) I subscribe to some snippets of Communist theory and practice, but what I don't get is that all this time, the Revolution still remains to be fought somewhere in the countryside.  It's been 35 years: if we count its antecedents it has been over half a century since.  And yeah, they're still fighting.  Interesting.

   That's strange, considering that China has now trimmed its proverbial pangil to turn friendly to the West, and in the process gave the CPP a good view of its ass.  That's something the CPP has taken offense to, now that they have been "orphaned" by the biggest bastion of Communism in the world since the fall of the Soviet Union.  Again, sad but true.  Doesn't it seem that the idea of "revolution" has now become more of a punchline?  Do tell: sad but true.

   Imagine this: the common horde, the masa, may or may not support Communism, but it's true that they're not drones.  If they get sick of democracy and then put the Reds in power then so be it.  True, it's the the system that has the problem: not the form of government.  But it's sad to see that after 35 years there's still no sure sign of the Revolution happening.  Again, sad but true.

   Prove me wrong.

Posted at Sunday, May 08, 2005 by marocharim

Tantric Marocharisms

< i have no idea what i'm talking about... yet again >

   Now that I'm a man on a mission to fill up every day of May with blog entries, I'm running out of topics.  I'm usually the guy who can write about anything and everything, but it's getting to me.  Today's Mother's Day, but I don't want to write about it.  It's not that I'm bitter about Mother's Day, but I just couldn't steel myself to waste all this cheese on someone who's not a fan of my blog anyways.  Haha.

   Anyway, tomorrow's F4 day.  They're playing "Meteor Garden..." again.

   Prior to today's entry I was checking out Justine's blog, and lo and behold, Jerry Yan's .gif was there, and he was singing.  Probably "Meteor Rain."  That got me thinking: what else is there to talk about on a boring Sunday afternoon when come tomorrow, everybody will be tuning in to watch "Meteor Garden" again?

   It's a pretty bad time tomorrow to wear my brand-spanking "new" trenchcoat: it's a good thing I tie my hair back lest I be mistaken for Vanness Wu.  I can just imagine so many people asking for my autograph, but that's just in my dreams.  Making pasikat is something I do occasionally anyhow.  So why stop there?  I could sing "Can't Help Falling" tomorrow and perhaps shed off the last vestiges of sanity that I have.  Time to do the monkey.

   Anyways, aside from F4-ish blahs I'd like to make a few comments on... myself.  Recently I've been getting quite a lot of comments that this blog is "unreadable" because of my unintelligable satsat, my writings reminding my Soc An 128 and 191 instructor of Jack Kerouac.  I like to think of myself more as the Antichrist of the written word than anything - screw form and function in your writing and just write: that's my little, ahem, philosophy of writing.  And by the way: this is not writing: what you have been reading over the... months, has been an exercise in Marocharism.  Welcome to my world.

   Yyyah... that's something worth your while.  On a relatively boring day I tried reading my blog through Tantric meditation, and it kind of rocked.  Don't ask me where I got my title.

Posted at Sunday, May 08, 2005 by marocharim

May 7, 2005
Work Harder?

< hmmm, weird... >

   Browsing through newspapers I came across a strange pronouncement by our President, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, that the wage hike is out: if Filipinos want a better life for themselves, they should, and this she really said, "Work harder."

   Like... huh?

   I'm not one to tell the President what to do.  If she can't provide a wage hike, nobody will.  And they wonder why people take to the streets to get what they want.  But to "work harder" is something pretty strange, especially for the President, who does as much work as I do: the most work I do is sitting down on a chair.

   Allow me to take you to a little tour of my life: I get up from bed and then sit down to eat my breakfast.  I ride a jeep and sit down up front: I don't really like sitting down at the back of the jeep.  Then I come in about 20 minutes late for my first class, and I sit down and take notes or draw caricatures of my teacher if I get so bored (usually I just leave the classroom and make a beeline for the canteen).  Then I sit down somewhere in the campus for a smoke or a leisurely read (I usually lug around Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Ayn Rand or Pearl S. Buck).  I get up, sit down for lunch with the friends, and then sit back down for more class.  Then I head for an internet cafe to sit down over my blog.  Then I go home, sit down in front of my computer and play.  Then I sit down (to be more exact lie down) in front of the TV to watch whatever.  Then I sleep... most of the time sitting down because I can't lie down properly for the life of me.

   So yeah, like the President, I spend most of my life on my ass.  Pointless exercise, if you asked me.  But I do that much work, why can't I get a raise in my pay?  Maybe it's because I'm a student.  But what about taxi drivers and jeepney drivers who spend a lot of their time on their asses?  Or maybe accountants, government employees and the like who share my same malady of the life-world?

   Work harder?  Up my ass.

Posted at Saturday, May 07, 2005 by marocharim
(1) vomitted  

May 6, 2005
Wag(Wag) The Dog

< guess where i've been >

   Many an episode in my sporadic dreams have I drooled (literally) on my pillows over an overcoat.  Yeah, think Akaky Akakievich in Nikolai Gogol's "The Overcoat," or if I levelled off my terms a bit, Neo in "The Matrix."  But I drool not over Burberry's and leather gangster trench coats: I prefer something more formal and understated: a thick one, something with a tartan cotton lining inside, something to keep my body cooked and my soul totally fried, just the way I like it.  And oh, yeah, not too many buttons.  Somehow I have this certain aversion to them ever since I started to build up a few Levi's 501's in my dresser.  I don't like buttons.

   Armed with P1000 I set out to the ukay shops in Baguio City after class.  It was supposed to be a hunt for Marocharim's Dream Overcoat (now known as the MDO), but I got more than I bargained for.  My allergy to people started to kick up all of a sudden.  I hated having to rub elbows with the common herd, that mass of cattle walking on two legs.

   I don't even get why it's called wagwag.  My Ilocano, while botched in some places outside of conversation, spelling (trust me, I can write in Ilocano) and curses (it's like wiping your ass with silk) cannot comprehend the logic or semantics of the word when all I did was to look up.  By the time I was at Bayanihan I got so relieved when I saw it: the MDO.

   Five-feet-seven-inches of pure wool and polyester.  I look inside and I see the tartan lining I've been craving for all these... days.  Cost: P500.  A bit on the expensive side.  So here goes the tawad portion, something I wasn't good at.

   Dialogue, please:
Marocharim: Miss, P250, puwede po?
"Sales" Lady: Lugi na nga po, sir (note: first time I actually was called "sir"), kinalahati niyo pa.
Marocharim: Payag po kayo sa P260?
"Sales" Lady: OK na po sa P450.
Marocharim: Sige na po, Miss.  Benta niyo na po sa 'kin ng P280.
"Sales" Lady: Sige na nga po, Sir.  Sa P300, last tawad na.
Marocharim: OK na 'po, tinatamad na din lang po akong tumawad.
"Sales" Lady: OK po, sir.  Buti nga po, nakabenta na kami ng ganito... (talak mode, which I actually entertained)

   There's this lady by the time I left who made-kalabit to me and said, "Ading, ang hina mo."

   Yeah, right.  But at least I have the MDO.  That makes for some achievement.

Posted at Friday, May 06, 2005 by marocharim
(2) vomitted  

The Denture Scandal

< kids: turn away! >

   I don't know if my friend Erik is a goon of the highest degree or is in dire need of a romantic relationship, but to show a scandal of a geriatric performing oral sex on some mullet-headed guy is one thing.  But for dentures to fall off at the height of fellatio is just...


   Nay, rather than be called a porn addict I refuse to forward that entry to anyone who asks for it.

   Leave me alone.

Posted at Friday, May 06, 2005 by marocharim

May 5, 2005
Short Blah

< i don't get respect anywhere, do i? >

   Planet Marocharim (the world of my temporal existence) is getting a bit hot today, and that's not discounting that it's always unusually hot in there (or therre... fo-schizzle mah mizzle... whatever, you hip-hop freaks).

   Baguio's no ice rink over at SM Megamall, though it's getting unusually hot here.  My usual outfit is a real thick jacket, an overshirt, a t-shirt, underwear, shorts, really thick denims, thick long socks and a pair of combat boots.  Overdressed as I am for the tropical heat, I'm pretty much in hell considering that I'm usually all jacked up and ready to go, to quote the Terran Marine from StarCraft (should play, but everybody's ga-ga over Gunbound).  And oh yeah, there are a lot of things that piss me off.

   Like... yeah, if you're a reader of this blog, the word "piss" appears more and more frequently nowadays.  Jack Nicholson's portrayal of the fictional Col. Nathan Jessup in "A Few Good Men" couldn't have had said it better himself: I use it as a punchline.  Too bad, I'm not joking.

   I just recieved my first long exam results for my PI 100 (Rizal) class awhile ago, and lo and behold: I got a 3/10 for an essay question.  No freakin' way: my Filipino may be a bit off compared to my English (a bit off is an underestimation: my Filipino is the exact opposite of my English), but never in my life had I got that kind of a score for an essay question.  But then again, I'm just too lazy to write with a ballpen.  But hey, if there's any historian reading this, please correct me if I'm wrong:

   The political leaning of a historian dictates the way he interprets patterns of history.

   Francis Fukuyama... I hope you get to read this.  Oh, and by the way, from my humble opinion as a university student, you suck.

Posted at Thursday, May 05, 2005 by marocharim

May 4, 2005
Directed at the Karaoke Singer Next Door

< pardon me, aerosmith >

Parody of Aerosmith's "I Don't Wanna Miss A Thing"

You keep me awake
With your lousy singing
Why can't I smile while you are singing
Though I'm just right here laughing

I could spend my life
Not to hear you whisper
Though the mic like you're some diva-type singer
Every moment hearing you is wasted in anger

I just want to close my ears
I wanna hold back my tears
'Coz you just plain stink babe
And I can't stand to hear you sing
For every moment hearing you
The highest note will never do
Just want to kill you babe
'Coz I can't stand to hear you sing

Right next door to you
Hearing your mouth flapping
And I'm wondering what you're singing
And I hope you get to dreaming

That in your wildest dreams
You'll never be a singer
I just want to shove that mic
In a place that you'll never
You'll never, you'll never find

Repeat Chorus

I can't stand you're freaky voice
But then again I have no choice
I just want to leave this place
This place right here, all alive
Your voice makes me want to cry
And I don't have an idea why
But before I finish up singing this
I hope you just freakin' die

Hey, yeah, hey, yeah, hey, yeah, hey SHUT YOUR MOUTH (Steve Tyler mode)

Repeat Chorus

Posted at Wednesday, May 04, 2005 by marocharim

Parinig Mode

< beware the song >

   Last night's channel surfing led me to a really interesting, well, parinig:

Lara Fabian

Tell me her name
I want to know
The way she looks
And where you go
I need to see her face
I need to understand
Why you and I came to an end

Tell me again
I want to hear
Who broke my faith in all these years
Who lays with you at night
When I'm here all alone
Remembering when I was your own

I'll let you go
I'll let you fly
Why do I keep on asking why
I'll let you go
Now that I found
A way to keep somehow
More than a broken vow

Tell me the words I never said
Show me the tears you never shed
Give me the touch
That one you promised to be mine
Or has it vanished for all time

(Repeat Chorus)

I close my eyes
And dream of you and I
And then I realize
There's more to life than only bitterness and lies
I close my eyes

I'd give away my soul
To hold you once again
And never let this promise end

(Repeat Chorus)

   Not in the mood.

Posted at Wednesday, May 04, 2005 by marocharim
(1) vomitted  

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