Booksmut

Penny for your thoughts! Yes, yes, I know people are going to say I don't need to read this book. Ha. Very funny. You were thinking it! I know you were.

It's an autobiography by Toby Young, much to your disappointment. He worked for Graydon Carter, a.k.a. the force behind the magazine we know as Vanity Fair. Php50, for the hard cover. Steal!

Sleazy on a Sunday

If you're going to walk into a strip club, the best time would be at around 11PM, on a Saturday night.

But things never work out the way they're supposed to, which is why I found myself sauntering into the Navigator last Sunday night, at 9PM. If I were an Israelite in the days when Christ was alive, I'd probably be buried under a pile of stones right now together with my cohorts. We were the first patrons of the club, and nothing was happening. Well of course nothing was happening! It's frigging 9PM on a Sunday, nothing starts at 9PM on a Sunday.

Then again, it wasn't a best laid plan; it was a spur-of-the-moment, what the hell kind of thing, the kind of crazy idea that gets acted on when you're driving down a lonely road from a popular tavern somewhere in Lapu-lapu. The night is young, spirits are high, company is good.

And so it was that yours truly ended up in a sleazefest. Oh, the men. All of them were writhing in slow motion. Seriously, is slow-motion supposed to be sexy? I was itching to hit the "fast forward" button if there was one, because all of them moooveeed soooo slooowwwlyyy. It was ridiculous. I wanted pole tricks, and action, and props. I got slow motion pelvic thrusts, and Penshoppe briefs, with the occasional cheap scarf. They didn't even bring on the Johnson's baby oil.

Oh, and it was apparently cowboy night, because each and every stripper wore cowboy boots in varying degrees of ugly. And pek-pek shorts (as Sheila Lou calls them). It's a possibility some of those little shorts they were wearing were actually ladies XL; those things were girlier than my shorts.

I spent the night scrutinizing their underwear. A Warren brief would have delighted me no end, but I suppose the boys have a budget for their undies because the cheapest one I saw was Penshoppe - the most expensive, Mossimo. I could be wrong. I saw No Fear undies that could've been fake.

(To be continued)

Hopefully

Sometimes the only cure is to let go. I feel better having talked it all out. I hope he does, too. Peace is peace, however temporary.

Windswept

It is a dark and stormy afternoon. The angry earth and howling winds.

I love it. If anything, at least I can't smell cigarette smoke. On dry days, it's all the city smells of, ciggy smoke and spittle in the streets. That's probably why I especially love it when Cebu is lashed by nature; no one stays on the street and smokes/spits. No one can. Everything is drenched. The air smells so clean. Sometimes I just stay outside and watch the rain, feel the wind. It's more therapeutic than Lipton Vanilla Tea. Something about the anger of Mother Nature seems to calm me. Life becomes less complicated. I guess I'm one of the lucky ones, not having to scamper about trying to hold on to life... it could be worse, living in Samar or some such.

And Now for Some Social Commentary

How very magnanimous of our mayor... and how short-lived. He goes on to explain he'd do it if it wasn't for the safety issues. Yeah, whatever. Not surprised.

Speaking of jeepney fare, if it's a hike of .50PHP, why do people still feel they can shortchange us? What makes these people think they're entitled to keep the change? Because gas prices keep surging and they can't up the fare that much? Hah. Sure, gas is expensive. So is rice. I want my .50PHP change, dammit. I'll demand it (actually have had to shoot evil stares at konduktors/loudly ask for my change 3x just to get my change). It may be a paltry .50PHP to someone, but to me, every last centavo counts. And I'd like to think I work pretty damn hard to keep myself afloat.

Boo hoo. From what I understand, they got married here (with a name like Lou VINCENT Suarez, how they did it boggles the mind), were slated to go to Thailand so the bride could get a made-to-order vagina, and get married again. This is why you should test drive the car before you buy it. And why you shouldn't marry the car if you're not satisfied with its parts. Customizing is expensive.

Aargh

"Math is inescapable" I thought, listening to Ronan's discourse on the computation of performance indices and their relationships (I refuse to use the word correlation, for fear of turning into Paulie, who has lately been having statistics and MS Excel for lunch). It's everywhere. Remember the old high school we-don't-use-it-in-the-kitchen adage? Our teachers were too kind to mention it's all going to catch up with us in our old age anyway.

I have always thought that numbers are man's way of explaining the unexplainable. Everything needs to have an equation, so we use numbers as a crutch. Why does X happen? Because Y divided by Z says so. When Q gets multiplied by the square root of the hypotenuse, A happens. We're now in control.

Especially in a BPO. I find myself calling things by abbreviations, mentioning numbers, making decisions based on statistics. It's no use trying to avoid math.

Another thing we can't avoid: Ronan's leaving. It's like a gaping hole in our collective unconscious. Our dear leader is gone. I can't blame him - it's greener pastures, more responsibility and we all wish him the best.

No one can replace Ronan. In a way this is my tribute to him - his ability to project positivity at all times, regardless of what's going on in his personal life; his patience and understanding; his mind-boggling secret formula of big words + abbreviations; his habit of suddenly bursting into song. Ronan is many things. A little boy in a grown man's body; at times, an old sage in a relatively young man's body. He embodies tenacity, focus, drive. He can seem laissez-faire and all over the place, like an octopus playing the drums. But, this is what makes him Ronan. We will miss him. He is one of the very few people I know who has the ability to mesh with everyone, at some basic level.

He'll still be in the same company though, but that's cold comfort. Still, this is what growth is all about; it hurts, and adjustments have to be made. For the longest time, he's been the one we all run to when we're not sure of anything, and to be robbed of that feeling of security, it's like trying to find our balance in a world where everything's shifted.

At least we still have Jet and Darwin, the Dynamic Duo. It shouldn't be so bad. We aren't the babies we were last year; there's nowhere else to go but up.

Headline Porn

And now for a dose of reality: this is a rather old one (courtesy of Chuck) but I thought I'd throw it in the merry mix.

Your Highness

Spoiler alert: much fawning and general incoherence ahead.

Spent the better part of Monday in the theater with Abby, drooling over Ben Barnes and his incredible close-up scenes. The Chronicles of Narnia is an incredible series of books (no, I don't have them... yet - if you do, I will accept handouts, thank you) and I read them when i was very young. I barely remember details anymore; I only remember thinking they were so much fun and being impatient to read every one. Yes, the story itself fell by the wayside, because I was too busy focusing on the prince. Personally, there were way too many reminders of the LOTR series, so it's just as well.

Granted, I suppose they could've just picked any good-looking guy to be Prince Caspian, but I'm glad they picked him if only so we could indulge in a few hours of giggling and elbowing each other in the ribs. Man candy!

I've had a crush on him since Stardust - he only spent probably five minutes or so in that movie, but it was enough. I think it's the hair. Abby and I unanimously agreed he is the younger McDreamy. The hair is something. If he cuts the hair, my crush might die. Then again, it might not.

Yay, Prince Caspian! I'm stoked - according to Abby (who is wired to IMDB and is a veritable film stalker) his royal highness is appearing in the third Narnia movie, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. More Ben Barnes!

Life Cycles

So the journey starts, and we start the coasting along - kids on a beginner unicycle with Mom and Pop on either side, human balancers. We find other people to unicycle with, and unscrew Mom and Pop. Sometimes it's easy; sometime it isn't. It all depends on the country that manufactured the unicycle's balancers. At the end of the day though, the balancers have to go. And then we wobble along, slowly, a little unsurely, the freedom almost overwhelming, picking up speed, exulting.

It can't always be bicycles (somewhere along the way we all switch to a bicycle) and butterflies and wonderful smooth roads. College happens, the road gets bumpy, the terrain changes and you realize you need more than a unicycle. Enter the mountain bike, built for offroads, rough races, ten-speeds. It's no-nonsense. Means business. Gets you over life's mountains and the valleys and the plains, and the unexplainable ditches in between.

Maybe the scenery is breathtaking when we first pass it by; maybe it's amazing and unforgettable. Inevitably, as with everything, monotony sets in. It's dull; it's boring. It's everyday. Worst of all, it's exhausting. Sometimes we all just get off our mountain bikes, stare at the scenery, and try not to think about the whole rat race. Some forsake the mountain bikes and throw themselves off cliffs. Some decide not to bike at all. Most of us bike along listlessly, churning.

This is where we realize it's better to share the biking - could the dual-bicycle work? Can it be better than just being all by ourselves? We throw ourselves on the dual-bicycle; eagerly looking for partners, each one better than the last. We ourselves are the same victims of our own crafting; victims of the dual-bicyle partnering system. Cast aside, rejected. Always looking for someone else to pedal with into the sunset.

Sometimes we win, and find the perfect partner and we all pedal off into the sunset of our lives. Sometimes we don't, and we pedal off, ultimately alone. Sometimes we make do, and find our friends to end the race with.

Growing up is a lonely, scary trip down a road that goes ever on and on, with the final destination being death. No one wants to walk that road alone. Not really.

Joy

Sometimes happiness is a 30-minute drive with the wind in your face. For good measure, add plenty of good, heart-thumping music. Throw Paulie the crazy queen in the backseat, doing her signature dance move, effectively squashing poor Ellice - who doesn't know whether to laugh, cry, or jump out the window. Get Dean to drive, and put Aileen in the front seat.

Sometimes happiness is a 30-minute drive with the wind in your face, no care in the world, and a good dose of soul-clearing laughter.

Booksmut 2.0

There were too many treasures at the Booksale jaunt, so I just have to share. This one's for Chucky, and whoever can, uh, relate. "Shaping the man inside." How can you resist?! Don't front, girlfriend! You know you wanna.

The Birth of Booksmut

I haven't found much by way of Headline Porn lately. It's all about killing, drive-by shootings, gang rape and the cost of rice - Ang Playboy is nowhere to be found. It was horrible. The utter lack of inspiration. I was drowning in a morass of hopelessness.

There is light at the end of the tunnel! Through serendipitous chance, Miss Paulie and I were browsing through Booksale at Robinson's Center, and look what I found:

The sheer wonder of it all. People make too much out of not judging a book by it's cover. The cover sells the book! Underneath the plain-Jane facade lies a simmering font of sin and desire! You know you're lining up to buy this hot mess. Girl on girl action out the wazoo. Loving ourselves and each other?! I can think of a few Birkenstock-wearing power-gayelles who could use some tips from this font of wisdom.

And so, a new addition to this blog has been born, to vie for top place with my brainchildren Headline Porn™ and Mascot Porn™! Welcome, all, to the first outing of "Booksmut™."

It's Called Estrogen

I am a bloated, hormonal, pimply mess. I feel like a whale. I probably look like a whale. It's like I'm high school all over again, except I have to drag myself to work everyday.

This is how it always turns out. I feel fine, and like I actually lost a little, and then two weeks later - BAM. Pudge munchkin time, and my body seems to have expanded in every direction. It's that time of the darned month and I just need to finally get on the rag and pop my monthly Dolfenal, but my body's betraying me by refusing to just let go of bloat season.

I know I keep whining about being pudgy, but this is a new low. I actually feel like I can't breathe... I think I can hear the lady saying "dyspepsia 'yan!" in a bossy, know-it-all voice, and maybe I should go get the medicine for dyspepsia but I don't know what it's called and I probably will sleep it off anyway speaking of which I'm running on two hours of sleep and about two slices of pizza, which is bound to go straight to my hips again because being part of the training team turns you into a huge vacuum for food and you'll learn to just inhale everything as you jaunt from food place to food place easing stress and mental acrobatics by stuffing your mouths.