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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 18, 2005
(Once Again) Directed at the Karaoke Singer Next Door

< yeah, she's singing this song, and this is my take on it >

Parody of Clair Marlo's "Till They Take My Heart Away"

You look into the screen, so far away
You start to lose your mind, you lose your breath
Hey now, if you're singing, it is not OK
You won't stop it, till they take that mic away

Remember when I called, and said you suck
Your voice is very much like Donald Duck's
Your singing is the worst thing I have heard this May
I will stop you, and I'll take that mic away

Believe, I hear that way
'Coz I hate you, and please take that mic away

You sing louder than before, much like a fool
Now look at your score, don't sing and drool
Hey now, are you listening, can you hear me say
I can't stand it, till they take that mic away

You sound like a horse's bray
But you will sing it, till they take that mic away

Posted at Wednesday, May 18, 2005 by marocharim

The Flu

< it's the flu >

   "Sick" is not the proper term for me right now.  I have been healthy as a bug last weekend, but since Monday I have been a walking sneeze-bag (to be a walking douchebag, however, is my specialty)and now I feel squashed like a bug.  Normally I make better parallelisms and phrase my sentences better than that... I'm just too sick for my own good.

   Ha-chooing all the way to SM for a cup of coffee with the gang, I coughed inside the car for the entire time spent finding a parking space, though I did it through everything from handkerchiefs to my shirt to my hands, in the vain, futile effort not to spread disease.  Although I could do just that and scrap tomorrow's presentation of Rizal's "Mi Ultimo Adios."  The thing is, I succeeded in an easy, no-frills effort to make everyone else sick.  I'll wait until tomorrow when that happens.

   I couldn't be sick: save for jock itch weeks ago, I haven't been this sick in about a year.  The last time I've been confined to a hospital was for cholera.  I've fully recovered from it following frequent trips to the hospital bathroom with a vial in one hand and a roll of tissue paper in another... you can just imagine it.

   I don't even have the slightest idea of how I got sick.  I dunno if I should stop wearing trench coats and thick jackets whilst I endure sudden temperature changes (it is summer), or if I should be a good little tin soldier and endure this while I memorize tomorrow's poem.  A nice bowl of soup from Balconaje was all I needed, but after that was over I got sicker... and sicker... and sicker.

   One: I got beaten by an overzealous button-mashing Christie at Tekken 4.

   Two: I got dragged into talking about social movements.

   Three: I'm pissed off more than the usual.

   Like I said, it's just influenza.  The thing is too many people today thought that I have meningococcemia or something... which is fine by me.  The less people-contact I get the better it is.  I don't mind having to sneeze in front of anyone, infect the whole world, and have everyone feebly chase me with torches and pitchforks.

   Hoohah.  I mean... ha-CHOO!

Posted at Wednesday, May 18, 2005 by marocharim

May 17, 2005
Marocharim's First Film Review

< it is my first film review... >

Movie: "The Magdalene Sisters"
Starring: Geraldine McEwan, Anne-Marie Duff, Nora-Jane Noone, Dorothy Duffy, Eileen Walsh
Directed by: Peter Mullan
Genre: Drama

   There's a reason why I don't wash my own clothes by hand.  One: we have a washing machine at home.  Two: I'm still stuck in a chauvinistic P.O.V. that if I do it I subtract a portion of my manhood.  Three: I really don't know how.  Make that three reasons.

   Interestingly enough, after watching "The Magdalene Sisters" for quite a few times I'm liable to add it as the fourth reason why I don't wash my own clothes, relegating them instead to the laundry bin and let my mom or sister do it, while I go about my business mopping up the floor or something more manly than that.  It's a tragic tale of women in Irish penitential asylums ("Magdalene asylums"), where women correct the wrongs in their lives by taking a vow of silence and wash clothes by hand in order to earn money for the asylum.  All this happened as late as the 1960's, when women's liberation movements were at their height.

   Geraldine McEwan plays Sister Bridget, the mother-superior of the Magdalene asylum, who subjects girls and women to that proverbial theater of cruelty: the laundry room.  Anne-Marie Duff plays Margaret, a girl who is raped by a boy at a wedding, files a complaint and is treated like a common criminal, sent to the asylum.  Nora-Jane Noone plays Bernadette, a precocious young girl who flirts with boys and is sent to the asylum doing so.  Dorothy Duffy plays Rose, a girl sent to the asylum fpr having a child born out of wedlock.  Eileen Walsh plays Crispina, who is frequently abused in the asylum and dies of anorexia afterwards.  A little weak in the head, she screams out, "You're not a man of God" 27 times in a scene towards the end of the film, as the priest frantically takes off his clothes from a really mean rash after, ironically, it was washed in the asylum.

   "The Magdalene Sisters" is technically a film about labandera's, but it does so with such panache and pathos that we are led to believe that this film is too good to be true.  Well, it tries to convince us that it is, towards the end of the film.  I could buy Crispina dying of anorexia in a lunatic asylum, but for Bernadette to become a beautician is not something I'd buy immediately.

   In some twist of fate, I watched Nora Aunor's "Atsay" right after I watched "The Magdalene Sisters," and both movies convey the same message (although Ate Guy's accents and intonations still have to convince me of two things: either she's a really great actress of our times, or she really was on drugs).  It doesn't convey a feminist message, much to my relief.  The movie is, at least from my perspective, apolitical: it's not an attack on anything but a detached portrayal of an actual historical event.  The movie spares us of dehumanizing scenes as "THX 1138," or of scenes of human misery as "Angela's Ashes."  It is a portrayal of atrocity that doesn't make you cry or plunge you in anger, but it just leaves you that way.  The mad scrubbing of clothes with salt and soap leaves you with no idea.  It brings you to a nirvana of morality: a proverbial tabula rasa.

   Watch it, and you'll never even think about washing your own clothes again.

Last words: Excellent film, dragging in some scenes.
Rating: 8/10

Posted at Tuesday, May 17, 2005 by marocharim

Whiskey In A Jar

< searchin' for metallica? >

   I don't usually post lyrics, but before I get to the usual entry:


As I was goin' over the Cork and Kerry mountains
I saw Captain Farrell and his money he was countin'
I first produced my pistol and then produced my rapier
I said stand and deliver or the devil he may take ya

I took all of his money and it was a pretty penny
I took all of his money and I brought it home to Molly
She swore that she'd love me, never would she leave me
But the devil take that woman for you know she treat me easy

Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack for my daddy-o
Whack for my daddy-o
There's whiskey in the jar-o

Being drunk and weary I went to Molly's chamber
Takin' my money with me and I never knew the danger
For about six or maybe seven in walked Captain Farrell
I jumped up, fired off my pistols and I shot him with both barrels
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack for my daddy-o
Whack for my daddy-o
There's whiskey in the jar-o

Now some men like the fishin' and some men like the fowlin'
And some men like ta hear a cannon ball a roarin'
Me I like sleepin' specially in my Molly's chamber
But here I am in prison, here I am with a ball and chain yeah

Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack for my daddy-o
Whack for my daddy-o
There's whiskey in the jar-o

Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da

Posted at Tuesday, May 17, 2005 by marocharim

May 16, 2005
While She Slept

< literary effort... kind of dark )

sleeping in the coldest of evenings
   i see her shivering...
      i hear her teeth chatter and clatter from the cold
      i see her shifting to be bathed in the dim light
      so as i may see her sleep
         and get the most rest she could.

the fog that has cloaked this scene
   i see her clothed in it...
      i try to cut through the fog to see her body
      i try to slice it in half to make sure she's all right
      so as i may be convinced
         that she gets the most rest she could.

so i tried to see through what i can
   and i'm left wondering...
      what did she dream about while i stood guard
      how did she find her slumber through the night
      so as i could know
         if she got the most rest she could.

until morning came and i saw
   a pool of blood streaming...
      her body just shook and started to convulse
      i saw her from under that crimson ocean
      and then i knew
         she got all the rest she could.


Posted at Monday, May 16, 2005 by marocharim

May 15, 2005
The Street of God

< hmmm... >

   Save for exceptionally meritorious circumstances I don't blog at 9:30 in the evening, but after talking to an American street evangelist I suddenly have the urge to do so.

   It was supposed to be a brief five minute interview with the guy, but it lasted for fifteen minutes.  So there we were, at the bottom of Session Road, with a pretty heavy video camera.  The thing is that instead of getting annoyed, I got a bit fascinated.  I wasn't listening to anything that he has to say, at all.  My brainwaves started to act up at extremely high frequencies - the level of which was off the scale that I had to get to a computer shop one way or another and write about it.

   I consider myself to be spiritual, although I am not religious.  The thing is I don't have any faith problems whatsoever, if at my age I decided to detach myself from any form of organized religion.  I only get to believe in a godhead for whatever exceptionally necessary reason, like if I am bound to wrap my hands around someone else's neck and only some supernatural force can save their lives.  The rest of the time, I get by without the slightest knowledge or need for a god, a church, or a religious relic.  Buddha beads and rosaries strike me as Freudian... although that's just me.

   Though yeah, I don't take anything against street evangelists.  I think that it's kinda nice that the Christian faith is reaching out to the masses more and more.  Casual Christianity is now giving way to proactive Christianity.  The new Pope, Benedict XVI, is getting to that, I suppose, in the footsteps of his predecessor Pope John Paul II.  It's something that should have been done long ago, if in the interest of my soul, now condemned to Hell for all eternity.

   Like I said, I'm spiritual but anareligious.  Even if I did believe in God I wouldn't take his word for anything more than peanuts: I am, after all, a thinking, acting mammal.  The thing is that people are free to believe whatever they want without question or doubt.  I think that's one of the major misconceptions towards me: I am not an atheist.  I am, strictly, anareligious: I don't practice or participate in any religious activity on the grounds that I give more command and priority towards the workings of reason.  Although some people may contest that... I have this tendency towards some form of intellectual and political hypocrisy, induced by people who misinterpret whatever I say and put it one some form of pedestal.  That's why I have a sort of cult following: my friend Cheryl said it best.  I am hermeneutics personified.

   Basically, what do I think about street evangelists?  I'll spare them the negatives for now.  There's nothing better than religion reaching out to the masses.  As long as they don't reach out to me and sell me a statuette or salvation.  Religion may be the opium of the people, but even Karl Marx did not say anything about religion being an opiate.

   Something tells me he was high when he said that.

Posted at Sunday, May 15, 2005 by marocharim

The Sun Comes Down Tomorrow

< hmmm, doing this in a rush >

   Tomorrow's quite a bad day for anything, especially for giving answers.  The fact that absolutely nobody can handle the truth is quite something for talk, although I've resigned myself to the fact that there are some things that should happen if I'm going to escape this reality with my soul intact.

   They want answers, they'll get it.  Nobody can handle the truth.  Neither would they be wont to ask me for anything other than that.  The machine may be paralyzed, but I could care less about it functioning with one gear less.  But if the sun does come down tomorrow there's nothing else I could do...

   No betting your dollar bottom here.  Tomorrow's going to be one helluva day.

Posted at Sunday, May 15, 2005 by marocharim

May 14, 2005
Video King

< something tells me taking videos isn't right >

   It took me the better part of five hours to make a 45-minute video.

   I dunno: I may be good with the written word, but my visual skills just plain suck.  Which explains how dirty this site has become (it has character), why I'm unable to take a good picture of myself even with a webcam, and why I thrive working on fractal images than honest-to-goodness pictures.

   I went around Baguio carrying my video camera (VHS: I like it better than digital) and took a "documentary" for my uncle and aunt and all their friends and family at Seattle, Washington.  Odd, but why me?  I can think of a few reasons:

   One, they gave me the camera;
   Two, I speak good English;
   Three, no one else wants to do it and;
   Four, I pass for a foolish tourist.

   The idea was for me to go around Baguio and show them everything my city has to offer.  Now that I've reviewed my footage most of it was of a boat ride around Burnham Park's lagoon.  I did, however, capture a nice view of the sunset, and watch tourists wave to my camera... as if they become instant celebrities by the time the tape gets to Seattle.

   Funny how I took some shots of Seattle's Best Coffee and Starbucks... that really got to me.  I suppose my relatives wouldn't mind that, except that I still have to look for where the Space Needle is, and if I should take shots of original licensed copies of Microsoft Office.  Maybe I could open up the camera again and let them see what their nephew does for kicks on a boring afternoon... or evening... I don't blog on mornings.

   I figured right then and there on a career in broadcasting: hey, to be perfectly honest about the video it sounded right off a History Channel documentary, although the visual effort was nothing short of disgusting.  I suppose my blogger friend Tintin would like a copy of the video... that's until she really asks for it (wink).

   The worse part of it was when I was up on the rooftops of Session Road taking a shot of Session Road when this security guard told me to knock it off, on the grounds that it was illegal.  He had a point: only voyeurs would go up on top of a building that high with a video camera.  Well, you can't have them all.

   It's AFV material... or maybe Paris Hilton is just itching to avenge her name.

Posted at Saturday, May 14, 2005 by marocharim

May 13, 2005
Ticking Time Bomb

< now i'm just plain mad >

   The sooner my anger dissipates, the sooner I'll leave.  But I've been in here for the better part of an hour, resisting the urge to explode.  It's a good thing I have this blog handy, else I'll wrap my hands around the neck of the next person I see.

   Now I'm typing like mad.  By the time I get to review this entry I would perhaps be entreated to random gobbledygook I would not understand by the time I'm done.  Worry and anxiety is not the buzz of this week: it's plain and simple anger.  I'm in the right state of mind to blow up a few buildings at school tomorrow... but not before I find myself a rocket propelled grenade.  The clock is indeed ticking, and I don't know if some people will survive my anger tomorrow, the day after, or the coming weeks.

   The clock is ticking... it's 6:14 PM.  By 2 PM tomorrow, things will get very, very interesting indeed... like a flick of the wrist or a snap of the fingers.  No time for Marocharisms now...


Posted at Friday, May 13, 2005 by marocharim


< this is, again, unusually freaky >

   Let's talk about "freedom of speech."

   I don't believe it at all.  Constitutionally, I'm granted the right to sit here and talk about whatever I want.  I could go to web forums and speak out my mind.  I can approach somebody and talk about anything.  I can go out to the streets and rally for whatever reason I want (or in most cases they want).  In short, I am free to talk, to write, to draw, to express, without any fear of political or social repercussions except when I go overboard with it.  That's freedom of speech and expression.

   Yet at the end of the day (to imitate my friend Abel), it all boils down to another issue of inequality.  Look at it this way: I have a blog, and compared to the other guy at the other end of the computer shop playing Gunbound I am much freer than him, in the sense that I have more writing space and flexibility.  He, on the other hand, can only type "waah" when he's starting to lose the round.  The taxi driver I talked to yesterday has interesting thoughts on politics, yet I have access to a computer, while he has to make the rounds every day.  In class I ask the teacher a lot of questions, which makes me a pest on the academic universe of UP Baguio, and some other people are happy sitting down there and watch a debate go on right in front of the classroom.

   Truth is, there are some people who are freer than others.  Freedom of speech is not a gift.  Ever watched "The Muppet Show" and feel that those two old guys, Statler and Waldorf, are free to critique the whole show, on the grounds that they're sitting up there on the balcony while Kermit and the rest of the crew are limited by their scripts?  Or because the audience does not talk at all?  Or because Professor Melonhead and Beaker are more interested in those science stuff they do?  Heck, the Swedish Chef would rather throw around vegetables in a miserable attempt at a salad than to talk about something like how long Gonzo's nose really is.

   The same is true with society in general: there are some of us who are able to exercise that freedom more than others, and freedom of speech is something we shouldn't be too proud about.  There is no doubt in anybody's mind that people are free to talk about whatever they want.  But really, did it cross your mind how free you are?

   The worse thing is that some people don't do their own talking anymore, falling back instead on worn old catchphrases and ideas not unique to them.  People use words like "imperialism" and "activism," all that big whoop I've grown used to over the years not to take seriously.  How many people say that, how many people use that, and more importantly how many people are that?

   How free are you?

Posted at Friday, May 13, 2005 by marocharim

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