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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 30, 2005
Freudian Clotheslines

< some adult language >

   If you don't know by now, yes, I am a wrestling god.

   No, I cannot perform a bodyslam for the life of me, but among my circle of friends I have an encyclopedic knowledge of professional wrestling.  I don't find it gay, although yes, there's something pretty queer about sweaty, muscular, half-naked men grappling each other in an effort to entertain the audience.  It does not arouse one's libido as it should: it more like fulfills and sustains that primal urge to, well, watch sweaty, muscular, half-naked men perform in a ballet of foreplay.

   Wrestling isn't the coolest thing in the world: most boys outgrow the urge to watch it by the time they get to high school and watch more sweaty, muscular, half-clothed men play around with an orange ball.  Me?  Nope, I watched wrestling since I was old enough to watch "Sesame Street."  Screw Big Bird and Mr. Snuffleuppagus, the real deal is watching Hulk Hogan rip off his shirt.  Or watch Rowdy Roddy Piper wrestle in a skirt... OK, kilt, and smash a coconut on the head of Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka.

   I think that wrestling is so successful because it's sexual.  Yes, it's sexual: how could anyone get away with watching grown men grope each other in the effort to slam them to the ground and say that it's "manly?"  When other people do it, it comes across as gay.  Think about it: doesn't it seem that there's more to a move like, say, a Tombstone Piledriver, than seeing Undertaker's head between the legs of Randy Orton?  Or that there's something more to Triple H's Pedigree: why would anyone put his head between HHH's legs and have his head pounded by a penis, a couple of testicles, and a 260-pound ass?  No wonder wrestling is so immoral.

   The thing is, yes, wrestling is fake.  But nobody said anything about how sexual and carnal it can be: and they complained about "Live Show."  Odd as it may seem, such moves like the Sharpshooter seem to be so contrived - yet now that I've grown up enough I still cannot see why ass-to-ass contact makes it to cable TV.

   No, I need not discuss about shades of "Indecent Proposal" in "Meteor Garden," when Dao Ming Si's mom offered $10 million to Shan Cai just to keep her away from her son.  Or that "Mga Anghel na Walang Langit" comes across to me as something just so damn close to pedophilic sadomasochism (hey, it's an opinion).  It takes pretty polluted minds to think of those, but wrestling?  Think not.  Why do the most brawny and macho of all bodies have to engage in so much... intimate contact?  If it's so fake, why do they groan in somewhat stifled orgasms everytime they get locked in something like a Boston Crab?

   Yeah, for this entry, I'm just asking.

Posted at Monday, May 30, 2005 by marocharim
(1) vomitted  


< continuing from saturday >

   My previous entry was so gravely misunderstood.

   I do stand corrected: China has yet to achieve Communism (thanks to cool_zeus) and that basketball was invented in Massachussetts (thanks to Justine).  Communism is, from what I recall in my social theory courses (I really hope Prof. Brady would stop hacking during her courses... especially our two-month crash Ph.D course on Marx), is achieved in the proverbial "classless society."  Or so I know... I'm not a metatheoretician.  My specialty in sociology lies more in social structure, and in mundane discussions of novelty songs, the sociology of underwear, you know the drill.  I can talk at length about that, but that will come way later.

   On to other topics...

Posted at Monday, May 30, 2005 by marocharim

May 28, 2005
Ideological Paleontology

seryoso muna tayo >

   I suppose I should write on the mundane, but time to get into a more serious note... for now.

   Last month, the Chinese government lauded Yao Ming as the "Vanguard Worker of the Year."  Yup, the Houston Rockets center, the second Chinese man to play for the NBA (Wang Zhizhi of the Miami Heat being the first, after playing for the Dallas Mavericks and the Los Angeles Clippers), probably the richest sportsman in East Asia, was awarded the most prestigious honor awarded to the Chinese proletariat.

   I really don't know what to say about all this.  China is now opening up its doors to capitalist world economies and is being more friendly towards the "imperialist" West.  In fact, there's no denying that China, the biggest and most powerful stronghold of Communism in the world since the downfall of the Soviet Union in 1991, is democratizing and is starting to look more capitalist than anything.

   I wrote on this before: the Communist Party of the Philippines has sort of defrayed its ties with the Politburo after some sort of ideological hypocrisy infested Planet Mao.  But the more one comes to think about it, disillusionment is not at the root of all this.  Think of it as the same old story, the same old song, played to the tune of "Internationale."  And in the greater realm of political karaoke, nobody's queueing up for a shot at singing it.

   Hopping about in the Web I came across the Philippine Revolution Web Central (link: and found a collection of statements and articles that ring the same old bell.  Don't get me wrong: it's nice that there are still some people who still hang on to some measure of ideology.  Nowadays the only real opposition to Western democracy is fundamentalist Islamic regimes in the Middle East.  I don't really know what that means: either it's that everyone has accepted that Communism is still a powerful force despite its historical failures, or that Communism has been relegated to disrepute.  In this case, there's no gray area.  It's one thing, or the other.

   This isn't a matter of "red scares:" acts of cannibalism in the Cultural Revolution have been very well documented (although it is important to note that there are many loopholes in these reports), and the gulags of Siberia are historical facts.  This is a matter of whether or not we can still lean towards Communism as a viable alternative to the status quo.  The problem is that the Philippines has yet to undergo this phase, although local styles of McCarthyism were prevalent in the country during the time of FVR, as a sort of preventive measure against any possibility of a Communist takeover.  The offensives in the Philippine countryside do not constitute any form of "guerilla warfare," it's hide-and-seek.

   And now Yao Ming has been declared "Vanguard Worker of the Year."  That's a nice tribute for someone who plays a game invented in Canada, plays for a team in a place that exudes "cowboy," and wears Reeboks made in China by workers who get paid 60 cents an hour.  And they say that the Communist world is at the height of its power.

   Where am I going with all of this?  Some of my friends believe so much in Communism that it has become more than a discourse: it has become a tangible aspect of life for them.  Sometimes the words "pakikibaka" and "pangangailangan sa kanayunan" become parts of everyday discussion that even I start to think that it's a meaningless catchphrase.  I'm disheartened to think that the ideology of the left becomes so much an important part of everything from friendships to work: why, Karl Marx himself was against ideology.  In "The German Ideology," Marx construed ideology to be something that is based on class lines and must be "destroyed" as a structure of thought.  The academic aside, it all boils down to simple, practical reality.  Like, since when did people have the right to fight against higher state subsidy if they don't go to class?  Or, since when did something that is a legitimate failure historically become something so good it should be glorified?

   Seems like we're hunting for fossils in the desert of thinking.  There's nothing worse than to have to resurrect something that is, admittedly, dead.

   There endeth the crash course on ideological paleontology.

Posted at Saturday, May 28, 2005 by marocharim
(2) vomitted  

May 27, 2005
Tales of a Terrorist

< this is interesting >

   They say that guns don't kill people, but I never thought that death can come off a cigarette.  I don't mean deaths that come from poisoning one's self with nicotine, tar and carbon monoxide, but the death penalty.  This isn't the penalty that comes by taking seven minutes out of your life by smoking: I mean Republic Act 7659, dead man walking, lethal injections, Leo Echegaray... you know the drill.

   Congress is now passing a new consolidated anti-terrorism bill that includes smoking in an enclosed public space as an act of terrorism (PDI Mobile, May 26, 2005).  It's not dubious, it's not odd, it's not even funny.  It qualifies as one of those really stupid laws that we pay so much tax money for.

   I know, I know, smoking is stupid to begin with.  While I have smoked enough cigarettes to prove that I am a moron, I never thought that I have endangered the lives of innocent Filipinos all around me by having a smoke.  That makes me even worse than Saddam Hussein: he didn't have weapons of mass destruction, but I am in possession of deadly chemical weapons that can possibly induce genocide.  Forget about sending Saddam to the Hague or the International Criminal Court: your real terrorist is right here.

   Pretty soon I expect to be shipped off to a maximum security detention cell and be imprisoned alongside other prominent smokers in the Philippines: former President Fidel V. Ramos, Senator Miriam Defensor-Santiago, and the corpse of the late Senator/Foreign Affairs Secretary Blas Ople.  It's about time the government put its foot down and go after the real criminals of society.  Forget that the Metro Manila Development Authority (MMDA) is arresting jaywalkers and sidewalk vendors, or that the armed forces are all over the countryside fighting rebels in the New People's Army (NPA) or the Abu Sayyaf.  Rapists, robbers and drug dealers are wimps compared to what I'm doing: I have cut short the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of people by spewing out secondhand smoke.  We're the real criminals, rebels, insurgents and terrorists of this godforsaken country.

   Hey, I'm all for banning smoking in enclosed public spaces (I still reserve the right to smoke in an open public space).  But to consider smoking an act of terrorism is not something I'm prepared to bite just yet.  Atty. Pacifico Agabin, a former dean of the UP College of Law, put it bluntly: "(When) you liht a cigarette, you are causing serious health dangers to the people around you.  That's an act of terror."  He's right: the new bill being passed around in Congress (along with the obligatory turon and Coca-Cola) seeks to exercise the full strength and power of the law on acts that "threaten or cause serious health dangers to the public" (see Sec. 4 of the proposed bill).  I can now see people cower at the sight of this long-haired man walking around town killing people with a lit cigarette.  And they thought they'd caught the world's most wanted man in a bunker in Tikrit, or the Philippines' most wanted man was killed by sharks.  They're going to catch the country's most dangerous terrorist in a 7-Eleven or a gas station, probably even in a bangketa buying chemical-biological-radioactive weapons for P2 a pop.  Now that's a black market.

   I'm telling you, it's that stupid.  Laws are supposed to protect people, but I suppose that in the Philippines, that just doesn't happen.  Why can't we be protected from members of the House who endanger our health by screaming "Shut up!" through microphones (yes, it can cause tinnitus)?  Why can't they be arrested for the many neurotoxins they spew out everytime they make a speech talking about their (cough) accomplishments?  I'm telling you: the biggest danger to one's health is to waste someone's time: think "holiday economics," four day work weeks, the many queues one has to fall in line in in order to file yet another form and get bureaucracy over with.  I mean, isn't the government committing an act of terror by not giving its people enough food to eat or enough jobs to go around?

   But I digress: criminals like me can only go as far as to defend themselves within the contexts of their crimes.  True, I have endangered the lives of many Filipinos through a conscious decision to endanger my own life.  I feel like I've been punished enough - no, not by being a social pariah or by being another possible cancer ward patient that this country has to pay for, but by falling into that clause of the "terrorist."  Seven minutes out of my life off one cigarette isn't enough for the scum of society like me: arrest me, kill me, and get it over with.

   After all, Ninoy said that "The Filipino is worth dying for."  Perhaps not the Filipinos in Batasan who live by the motto of "Vox populi vox dei" and come to sessions in barongs and maria clara's.  These people can take my cigarette and shove it lit-side first.

   I suppose that's one way to administer lethal injection.

Posted at Friday, May 27, 2005 by marocharim


< sa luzon, sa visayas, at sa mindanao, saan mang sulok ng mundo >

   I'm not exactly a big fan of noontime "variety" shows: I don't see any "variety" in it.  It's the same old show: the same old box with the ubiquitous one million peso cash prize, the same old questions repeated all over again, and, in the case of "Wowowee," it's the same old joke.  Same is true for "Eat Bulaga" and "Chow Time Na."  Noon is a time for me to eat in silence, free from the chains of "variety" show cliche.

   Yet "Wowowee" is something else, in the sense that I find it not only weird, but banal.  I guess it's not the show that drives me nuts: it's essentially "Family Kwarta o Kahon" for the new millenium.  Nothing special about that.  I couldn't say much that has already been said about the game show per se, but there's something about it that drives me crazy...

   You guessed it: the TFC subscribers, the mahihirap na tao sa taas.  In short, the audience.  Willie comes in a very close second.

   Time to put on the brakes for some of you guys: I am not against OFW's.  I have a lot of relatives in the United States, particularly in the east coast.  I'm not generalizing here.  OK, now that we have got that out of our system...

   In my PI 100 course, we read Rizal's "Ang Katamaran ng mga Pilipino," and if Rizal's alive today he would have used that letter as toilet paper.  Why, "Wowowee" is proof of our indolence as a people, if you asked me.  It's beyond indolence, it's above laziness, it's vagrancy.  This isn't the bayanihan spirit anymore as it is proof enough of how powerful the dollar can be: there's a reason why it's called "almighty."

   Yeah, I can understand why some people would go to such lengths as to queue up for a shot at one million pesos (which means nothing) or a house (which means nothing).  I can understand the scantily-clad women and how many perfectly good curtains have been wasted into making their costumes.  What I cannot understand is what passes for a "joke," and what passes for "altruism."  The jokes are beyond corny.  It's no longer charity: "crap" is the word I'm looking for as of this moment.

   I have the good mind to take up a dollar and do what Rizal would have done with the letter.

Posted at Friday, May 27, 2005 by marocharim

May 25, 2005
Washing Your Brains Out With Soap (Operas)

< hmmm... the title strikes me as weird >

   Yet again I missed out on my daily dose of local soaps.  I'm not talking about Solita Monsod selling Ariel in a completely worthless commercial not fit for one of Asia's brightest economic minds, but soap operas.  Long-winded, convoluting plot lines are quite addictive, to some extent, although I tend to get blocked sometimes by the hoopla surrounding it.

   True, sometimes that major crush on Anne Curtis sometimes acts up at inopportune moments (I never really had that typical Filipino male crush on Angel Locsin) when the "Kampanerang Kuba" trailer is shown, and then I get a bit frustrated when all they show is Jomari Yllana, Jean Garcia and Amor Powers... no, wait, Eula Valdez.  Soap operas are somewhat places for me to vent out my growing interest in Manila-wood, and then I watch "Startalk" and "The Buzz" on weekends to see what's going on.  This is not about intrigue, however: perhaps there's no better place to talk about something kept so private and hidden than with my "girlfriend" (this blog, BTW).

   Soaps.  (That sounded like a lead sentence from a grade six student.)  Some of us like it, some of us loathe it.  I have a sort of love-hate relationship with soap operas, in the sense that there's nothing else to watch on TV when my mom's iron claw grips the remote and becomes riveted on the TV and her game of RocketMania.  In time, something you hate so much becomes so much of a passion.  I have watched "Hiram" from beginning to end (which explains the crush on Anne Curtis... it's just a crush, dammit!) or that deep hatred for Kris Aquino's acting skills (I will never, ever, drink San Miguel again).  Sometimes it's just something that you can't get enough of, like professional wrestling bouts (that other soap opera featuring sweaty, half-naked men engaging in mixtures of all 45 positions of the Kama Sutra), "Ang Tamang Daan," and watching Dirk Nowitzki whine and complain about not making it to the NBA Western Conference finals (bwakaw ka kasi).

   Nah, I suppose that it's wrong to betray my generation by saying that the seminal soap opera of our time is not "Mara Clara" or "Esperanza" but "Mula sa Puso."  While the soap opera tandem of Bea Alonzo and John Lloyd Cruz in "Ikaw ang Lahat sa Akin" is nothing short of crap compared to what Claudine Baretto and Rico Yan offered in "Mula sa Puso," there's something to the soap that is intriguing, in the sense that it's addictive.  Hey, "Mga Anghel na Walang Langit" is pretty nice, though I still kind of scratch my head on why Basty still has to get a role in there as an ADHD-afflicted beggar on the streets who stowed away, a'la Piolo Pascual's character in "Mangarap Ka."  See how my excessive quotes shows the breadth and depth of my knowledge on soap operas... and I question why I don't get any more respect nowadays.

   The more I think about it, there's enough argument to the position that Filipinos like soap operas because they are reflections of our daily lives.  True, it's not everyday that someone as good-looking as Robin Padilla or someone as fat as Judy Ann Santos makes it to the police force, but it helps to rid ourselves of the monotony of our daily lives.  We have yet to see someone with as much evil as Princess Punzalan's characters in Juday's soaps of yore.  Escape, however, is the least of our intents, as we empathize with the oppressed.  No wonder the entire Philippines mourned upon the death of Julie Vega, or that almost every jeepney driver I know grows a moustache like that of Paquito Diaz.  But still, Dante Rivero's character of Don Lucio Riego de Dios is not the representation of the gun-toting criminal don.  That character is found more in Congress than on TV.

   So at the end of it all most of us end up getting brainwashed with lame-ass excuses for good television, but who cares?  It's not as much escapism as it is entertainment, although I'll take a pass on a possible re-run of Richard Gomez in "Your Honor," which sucked... period.  Soap operas aren't theaters of daily life.  Think Carol Banawa and Nora Aunor in "Bituin:" this is one soap where we didn't hear of Banawa being an ugly duckling in her youth.  Or Nora Aunor selling water in a train, sang her way to Manila-wood and then got arrested for carrying a sachet of shabu in the United States.  Makes me want to wish that there's something more to this soap thing... although the truth is, there isn't.  It's so clean that Prof. Monsod is better off starring in her own soap opposite Walden Bello and Randy David... I can see it now: "Labanderang Ekonomista" can sell loads in the UP circuit where two old sociologists fall in love for the washerwoman teaching economics part time.

   Why soap operas are called "soap" I do not know.  Maybe this is the right time to give the shout-out to Anne Curtis: I'm willing to reserve a spot at Gerry's Grill and see if I can have a spot at "Kampanerang Kuba" as a Quasimodo whose hands aren't as gnarled as they're supposed to be.  I can see it now... the stars, the lights, the autograph signings, the sex scandals featuring me.

   Charo Santos: call me for my "Maalaala Mo Kaya" shooting.

Posted at Wednesday, May 25, 2005 by marocharim

Repeating the Experiment

< you are forewarned... this is a long entry >

The Experiment is on red alert.

   Normally I'm not one for fancy text when I do the Experiment (my term for blogging), and yes, we're talking about some serious issues when this happens.  Once you see the scrolling marquee up there (cannot be seen on the Friendster version), there's something serious going on.  The scientists of the Marocharim Research Institute (the MRI) are on a state of chaos, and the security personnel are guarding the gateways, in full battle gear.  This means one thing:

   Somebody has been copying my entries.

   This info came to me via an e-mail message from "GA," who also has the same, problem, as I do.  So I followed the link, and lo and behold, I came across this site:

   drunken_angel's blog... or "blog"

   Seven of my entries have been leeched by this girl, who is, admittedly, cute.  This is a matter of national interest, IMO.  This is when I send the minions of Never-Never-Hell out into the open and find the culprit.  Now I'm definitely pissed off.  A bit flattered, but still PO'ed.  But hey, copying entries is something I don't mind at all.  After all, after I spoofed a few songs and used Ayn Rand's books' artworks for my header (OK, time to acknowledge: those stuff in the header are copyrighted by Nick Gaetano) I should be free game for anyone who wants to copy my works and pass it off as their own.

   See, there's a difference between "imitating" my style (I've seen them try but they can't come close) and "copying" my craft.  I don't mind people trying to write in a similar style as myself, but to copy... that's an entirely different thing.  I could sit here and talk about copyright laws, infringement and plagiarism, but that's not how I do it.  I have my way of doing things... and seeing as anytime soon this girl would mozie on into the Experiment, I suppose it's time to get, well, Marocharistic.

   A little message to the cute cheater: you wouldn't like what I have to say... but you messed with the wrong blogger.  Nope, you messed with Marocharim: that's not a happy place to be.

   I did some constructive, unbiased comparison of blog aesthetics.  Her blog is pretty plain, composed of nothing more than pale shades of gray, white and blue... too Windows, zero creativity.  The Experiment, on the other hand, is done in an elegant, monochromatic theme that is easy on the eyes (save for Firefox users... we'll get there) and is, admittedly, a very gwapo theme.  Like I said, I'm constructive.  This is the first time I actually did that.

   Then I went over the entries and comments... I have every reason in the world to say that her writing skills cannot match mine.  Her English strikes me as anglicized Katakana or Hiragana... which is an insult to the Japanese language as a whole.  Try these on for size... and I'm quoting verbatim:

   Kaw talaga Jen.. kaw rin eh mukhang taiwanese.. well how about I visit you down in Bacolod? bacolod nga ba?
   Hey Jen.. I am so sorry... I went out of town for three days and when I went back home.. the phone line sucks and I couldn't connect to the internet... I have a lot to post this upcoming week and sure it's a long long entry that will surely make everyone tired on thier asses including yours ( beeehhhh )
   I am still alive, refreshed and more beautiful, ( conceited )...
   You see, for three days out of town, I had about 3 indescent proposals and some guys who wants to take me for S.E.X. Heck.. do I look like a porn star? or a dirty girl who is hooking up guys because I am friggin' hot and horny? eeehhh... ( sigh )
   I am am not the kind of girl who would be taken seriously and the kind who would guys want to take to the altar ..Do I look lik I am not the kind that would you introduce to your parents?

   And oh yeah, I don't think I would be liable to answer those questions.  (Cough!)

   Anyways I'm getting way too ahead of myself.  The thing is that copying my entries is one thing, but to do injustice to my posts by writing like that is another thing.  Copyright... shmopyright, but insult like that wouldn't go unpunished for too long.

   Drunken_angel, or "May," link me up.  And BTW: do me a favor and comment on this entry, will ya?  Peace out.

Posted at Wednesday, May 25, 2005 by marocharim

Book Review: "The Story of the Eye"

< first a film review, now this >

Title: "The Story of the Eye"
Author: Georges Bataille
Year Published: 1928 (English version first published 1949)

   Most other people's idea of a leisurely read is pretty much standard: Neil Gaiman's "Sandman" anthologies, J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings," J.K. Rowling's "Harry Potter" series, or Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "One Hundred Years of Solitude."  Everyone's in for the newest installment of Jessica Zafra's "Twisted" series, "Ang Paboritong Libro ni Hudas," and anything Bob Ong.

   I think I'm still stuck with the jologs and the incomprehensible, for my choices in literature still pretty much delimited to Ayn Rand, Franz Kafka, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and Joseph Conrad.  The books I like I scrounge around in book sales, or the internet.  "The Story of the Eye" is my latest acquisition... and it is, at least in my book, a very leisurely read.  And it's one good book, despite what it is.

   First things first: "The Story of the Eye" is not a children's book.  It pretty much qualifies for pornography in most places.  The language is bluntly sexual if not vulgar, it has very graphic descriptions of sexual perversions not limited to necrophilia and scatological fetishes, and it does not spare the reader from sexual superlatives that would constitute sin for most Catholics.  I'm telling you it's that graphic: it leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination... you can't even imagine it.  It's not for the weak of heart.

   "The Story of the Eye" is a slim volume, and is very easy to read, though it is very difficult to understand, given its surrealistic, almost Dadaist, approach.  The central character of the story, Simone, is a nymphomaniac who would do just anything to seek sexual pleasure.  Society's standard of sex is not enough for her, the storyteller, and Marcelle, the other character in the story, and from what I deduce is Simone's "competitor."  For that they engage in so many sexual acts that are arousing at some places, but leaves one with that queasy, uneasy feeling of nausea for the bulk of the novel.  I'm not going to tell you what they've been doing all throughout the story: I suppose you already have an idea of what "necrophilia" or "scatology" means, and if you don't I am not going to tell you.  Every sort of philia has been fulfilled in "The Story of the Eye" that the story is no longer an abnormal attraction to the kinky, it's a pervading obsession.

   Story-wise, even I cannot understand it.  I suppose it is an first-person account of the storyteller's undying love for, devotion to and desire for Simone, the seemingly random events of debauchery, orgies and yes, orgasms, intertwined together with that central theme of the eye (along with other round objects like eggs), taken from her after she committed suicide.  The eye, disembodied from some corpse and is the subject of some of the more raunchy and risque scenes in "The Story of the Eye," is, at least for me, a symbol of what is visible to society, a society which hides itself in all sorts of false pretentions of what is "moral" or what is "acceptable."  The romance between the storyteller and Simone almost vanishes in the pursuit of the sexual, the carnal, the figurative image of the eye: what gives them satisfaction is what they love.  Towards the end, it is Marcelle's eye that the storyteller sees in Simone (literally, in Simone), which makes for a surreal, ironic effect.

   The scenes of necrophilia are descriptive, and although it would strike most people (including myself) to be something disgusting, something... sick, it is described in such an admittedly beautiful fashion - the language remains to be vulgar but it doesn't rub it in, so to speak.  The story is in a sense "inspiring," although I'm not one with a taste for the totally base and carnal.  The last chapter is particularly disgusting, in a nice way, that the reader is entreated to such a spectacle, a circus of Simone with a cadaver, that we get a glimpse of what the whole story is all about.  At the surface it is seemingly a literary paradox: a novel with so many sexual themes yet is devoid of it.  The erotic in it cannot be found in those carnal, gratuitous scenes of sexual perversion, but what lies beneath the surface.  It is a novel that talks to you about who you are, what you are and what it means to see how distorted the world can be.

Rating: Excellent novel, not for the weak of heart.
Score: 9/10

Posted at Wednesday, May 25, 2005 by marocharim

May 24, 2005
Seiko Wallets

< hmmm... >

   Join me in an anthem of our times:

   Seiko, Seiko Wallet
   Ang wallet na maswerte
   Balat nito ay genuine
   International pa ang mga design
   Ang wallet na maswerte
   Seiko, Seiko Wallet!

   The thing with the current jueteng scandal is that it's no longer a matter of balls or bottles (Freudian slip), but it's more of a pathetic attempt at doing something not in the interest of the people and making it into one.  Now that the legalization of jueteng is in the proverbial buzz, we're all led to think that something bad can be so good.

   Forget arresting Bong Pineda, then.  Or forget about pointing the finger to Malacanang and saying that Gloria Macapagal Arroyo is a jueteng lord.  Heck, forget about filming "Banzai!" in the Philippines and show this country to be a gambling haven.  Everyone's into it.

   I would be hypocritical in saying that I never made taya in a jueteng deal: I know of a couple of dealers at school that I don't hesitate dealing with from time to time.  Gambling should be legalized: nobody's after the hide of the people running PAGCOR.  The thing is, if everybody's out doing it, legalize it.  Go ahead.

   Everyone's proverbial Seiko Wallet is filled from wall to wall with nothing.  People gamble or they die.  They know when to hold 'em, and they know when to fold 'em, they know when to walk away and when to run.  To fill up this paragraph with Kenny Rogers aphorisms, they better count their money when they're sitting at the table, there will be time for counting when the dealing's done.  Nobody knows that song, or what lies beneath that song, than the people in government waging a war against jueteng.  It's not all bad... people need to fill up their wallets, and their bellies, one way or another.

   Rather than running after jueteng lords, maybe GMA's better off singing the Seiko Wallet song and go for tongue twisters like, "Ang relo ni Leroy ay Rolex," and hope that Pepe Pimentel shows her impeachment notice in another round of "Kwarta o Kahon."

   Think about it.

Posted at Tuesday, May 24, 2005 by marocharim

Directed at the Karaoke Singer Next Door #4

< boooring day! >

Parody of Josh Santana's "Can't Help Falling"
Adaptation from "Qing Fei De Yi" by Harlem Yu

Alam mo, ang ganda mo pala
Kung hindi ka na lang kumanta
Pigilan pa ba kita kung gusto mong kumanta
Sana ay tumigil ka na

Ang boses mo ay nakakainis
Pakihinaan mo na talaga, please
Sino ba akong ayaw makinig sa iyo
Di mo bagay talaga ang kumanta...

Ang tigas pala ng litid mo
Ang kapal pa ng pagmumukha mo
Babayaran ko ang pamasahe
Para umalis ka na sa bakuran ko
Sige na nga kumanta ka na lang
Magreklamo nga 'ko pero para saan
Para kang naglilimos sa kalye
Iaalay ko ang piso ko

Akala ko ay mapipigil ko pa
Pero sana'y masabunutan kita
Para ang awitin ay titigil na rin
Ngunit bakit itinuloy mo pa

Sige na, patulugin mo ako
Pati na rin ang kapitbahay ko
Pero ba't nang mabuko itinanong sa 'kin
"Magaling ba talaga akong kumanta..." tama na (TAMA NA!) (Sing-Alis mode)

Repeat Chorus

Sa iba'y ito'y libangan lamang
Pakeme-keme puro birit lang
Pero ang katulad ko'y nagsisisi
Ang sabi nila'y tiisin ko na lang
Wag na lang...

Repeat Chorus

Posted at Tuesday, May 24, 2005 by marocharim

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