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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 20, 2005
Directed at the Karaoke Singer... #3

< this will be a regular feature of my experiment from now on >

From "I Will Survive" by Diana Ross

At first I was afraid, I was petrified
Kept thinking something wrong will happen if you took the mic
Then I spent so many nights listening to this same old song
And it's so wrong... the way you get the lyrics wrong

So it's the same, familiar face
Singing that same old melody that brings your family disgrace
I should have taken that microphone
And have it shoved straight up your ass
Had I known for just one second you will sing Jason Mraz

So now go, walk out the door
Just turn around now, you're not welcome anymore
Weren't you the one who tried to sing a note that high
I just crumbled, and I just lay down to die
Oh I, I can't survive
For as long as you keep singing I don't know if I'm alive
You're raising your pitch higher
And I give you the middle finger
I can't survive
I can't survive
While you sing

It took all the strength I had not to fall apart
Just trying not to laugh at the voice that sounds like a fart
I hope you spent oh so many nights just feeling sorry for yourself
Because I cried, while your notes reached an all-time high
And you know it's nothing new
There are a lot of other people who can sing better than you
So if you feel like singing some more songs don't expect them to be free
Because you'll end up paying all my bills from the EENT

Repeat chorus

* special thanks to the karaoke singer next door :)

Posted at Friday, May 20, 2005 by marocharim

Marocharim of Arcadia

< summer class over... not in the mood to write about it >

   Recently I have been in my proverbial brooding pit, and it's time I talked about stuff that reek of, well, my thoughts.  I doubt that song spoofs and poetry on cannibalism (I'm a big fan of Gottfried Benn) wouldn't cut it if I am to do justice to my own style of writing.

   It's been a while since I've been to an arcade.  Most of my time this summer I spent in classrooms and the occasional (an irony, BTW) break I take from classes which bore me.  Then I plop down in front of the television set at home and watch cartoons or my daily soap opera, "Ang Tamang Daan."  So I decided to take a break: it is, after all, the end of summer.  So from a coffee shop, we headed straight for Quantum Entertainment.

   A bit of a backgrounder here: before I started blogging I was seriously into games.  I have had a few FAQ's posted at various sites where I wrote at length about gameplay strategy and move analyses of Tekken characters I was very familiar with.  After nearly a month of not playing the game, and almost a year of not playing in an arcade, I got back to the machines.

   Here starteth the arcane language of my FAQ-writing days...

   Of course I chose Steve Fox, and my opponent chose Christie Montiero.  I was a bit rusty with my shots, unable to recall d+2,1 strings I was very adept with in a PS2 situation.  I lost two tokens to my friend, and I started to recall my old tricks, including SPN 2's, LWV 1~B, 1,f+1's and d+2,1,df+1+2 combos ending in four- to five-hit juggle strings.  I never lost since: that brought me up to a 12-2 record for the entire afternoon.

   There endeth the arcane Tekkenese... or so you thought.

   Anyways, the funny thing about arcades is that aside from the noise there isn't any much personal interaction in them.  If I'm out playing against a Korean (I have a very slight win advantage over the fellows when I play a Jack-based team) the most personal I've got is them ooohing and aaahing over my "strategy" (basically composed of well-timed whacking and right-limb chicken).  Then I get a thumbs-up after I beat their asses straight to the ground in five rounds.

   Saranghameda bo... and tell your Korean friends I take won.

   Whatever do I mean with this entry I do not know.  My wrists are cramping up.

Posted at Friday, May 20, 2005 by marocharim

May 19, 2005

< poem... kinda sick today... don't eat while you read this >

a dying rat i found by my footsteps
its neck wrapped in chains and roses
and i see it gasp for much-needed breath
trying to escape its inevitable death.

i feel like i am in deep distress
like a vise i feel this dark duress
and i await the symptoms of what disease
might end my life before i finish its lease.

i give the rat one quick flick
on the head, and then down to its neck
i check for signs of much-needed life
until i find some place for my strife.

now i find no surrender in this place
i am betrayed by the emotions of my face
so sad to know of my past
but my life flashes through my sight... just too fast.

the rat is dying...

i am dying...

should i choke it and see it gasp for air (I choke it!)
should i wrap it up in its own tail (I strangle it!)
should i bite chunks of flesh from its body (I EAT it!)
and never stop until i grow weary? (I don't grow tired of it!)

i gasp for air and find some space
until i notice the writhing of my face
i feel the blood spilling out from phantom wounds
and now... NOW! the death knell croons!

the rat is dead...
and so is she!

Posted at Thursday, May 19, 2005 by marocharim

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

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