Wednesday, May 27, 2009

But Wait! There's More!

Enter the coolest blog ever. And no, this is not about piss sex.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Is No More

That's it folks.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

On Familiar Faces

First off, let me do a senseless rave about my new blog skin. It looks friggin' awesome! The blue-lit buildings make for an appropriate backdrop sympathizing with my mediocre writing. I know this is one of those things that doesn't affect lives or something, but as damnation beckons, this is the shit, folks!

Last Friday featured the complete TPG (Trailer Park Guys. Don't ask.) on their very first group outing since the summer of 2006 in Zambales. The difference is that we went to a pool resort in Antipolo, which happens to be a far cry from the beaches everybody is frequenting to this time of the year. On the upside, it really didn't matter because we sang, smoked, and swam like there's no tomorrow. I also learned how to do a back flip pool dive, which is the highlight of the whole 12 hours we're on the resort. It's all about conquering your fear and disconnecting yourself from your physical state.

It's also strange to think that, back in 2006, almost everyone was single and fresh from the rigors and drudgery of school. Now, everybody's brought their beaus and appears to have been seasoned by the years of either working our asses off in the corporate world or sleeping through the boring lectures of college professors. This is just another way of saying that we've all gotten older and progressing with our premeditated existence. However, we're still the same despite it all. We still love to sing crappy songs on the karaoke and know who to mix awesome cocktail drinks.

The next day, I met another group of people whom I owe all the pleasure to have known in my professional life, the Webdate gang. (Notice how I talk about the same group of friends on my posts? I thrive in repetition.) Everybody was almost there (Seriously, can't we all be complete just this once?) but we met at such an unfortunate condition -- the father of one gang passed away this week. It's funny to think how death binds people together for the purpose of paying respect to the fallen and his/her family members. But then again, I really can't put too much thought about it. Life is short, which is why I try to hang out with the guys every now and then. My stay with the girlfriend was succinct, but it packed lots of laughter from start to end. The irony stings a bit after realizing that we're having a blast at a funeral home, but the group pretty much finds comfort in the strangeness of it and makes good in any situation we're put in. Again, never a dull moment with these guys.

Monday, May 11, 2009


I'm always dropping emotional turds whenever I start writing from this pathetic page of mine, but screw it. Everybody knows I'm square, so let's leave it at all, shall we?

Since taking that damned article writing job I've learned to hate before but have now taken comfort in doing for the unholy purpose of additional income (or lack thereof, but more on that later), I have lost the urgency to write something substantial in my blog. No surprise there. My added skill of producing a 450-word article in 40 minutes on a constant basis (although not anymore, but read on) has greatly compromise by ability to really write. You know, something that has nothing to do with search engine optimization, keyword density, niche sites, and countless other internet marketing jargon that has zero value in actual life.

Aside from that, morale in my professional life is currently at its roller coaster stage. Although I experience this feeling of elation with regard to the nature of work in my full-time endeavor, this certain emotion only takes course once a week when we actually have something to do. The other four days are ruled by the falling sensation of idleness due to the instability of the project when in comes to handing out daily tasks. As a result, I am left clueless from the whole ordeal. Come to think of it, the hard times when I felt hammered and pummeled by 15 hours worth of corporate slavery is way better than what I'm going through right now. At least I felt something back then. Now, zilch.

Outside the workplace and into the throes of summer, the season has shaped up to be a bore, where the unpredictability of not only the weather, but everything in general has ruined plans of days in the sun and sand. There's really no use in comparing, but when I think about the glorious days of summers past, I think of Puerto Galera where I ran its shores and screamed "Pakyu Ateneo!" in all my drunken awesomeness, Zambales with our soccer matches with the Koreans, and Potipot for, well, scandalous videos we made in its unadulterated white sands. On the upside, May is still on its way, so there's hope for some bigger shitstorm in store. Yes, something more to write about!

God, there's really nothing fun to actually write about, save one -- the Webdate gang. Met a couple of the guys after work last week, and despite not having the whole group to sit down, drink alcohol, and let our collective stupidity take hold of our actions, there always has been a constant product of our fortunate meetings. There's no minute wasted, as the air becomes colored with white hot smoke and uncompromising slurs, and everybody sings "Nobela" by Join The Club in unison at some shoddy videoke bar. It's always a fucking pleasure.

The turds have stopped.

Monday, April 6, 2009

On Silent Waters Running Dead

I went under a lot of construction during the past few weeks.

During hard times when I have to release the anger vent up inside to somebody or something without looking like a complete douche after, I have to look for avenues where I can channel said emotion into something less destructive.

I erased my Facebook account for the time being. The reason? Something’s got to give. I didn’t have the cajones to erase either my Multiply or Myspace accounts because a lot of memories have been invested on them throughout the years.

I eat lunch alone. There’s no better company for loneliness than with two sticks of Phillip Morris and a tuna sandwich while sitting on the table outside the dining area without a view. But who am I kidding? Regardless of my feelings, I am always alone during the day.

But everything’s okay now.

I almost didn’t get to see Wrestlemania 25 until I phoned my friend and asked if I could watch it at his place, since our cable provider does not air the channel that shows the granddaddy of all wrestling events. Here are my thoughts about the whole shebang:

  • WWE threw a swerve when it had CM Punk win the Money in the Bank. It’s not half as bad as you’d think, considering that Punk gets to show more of his worth the second time around. But what about Kane? Fact: his Wrestlemania moment has been long overdue especially after being bombarded with witless angles (Katie Vick, anyone?) while remaining loyal to the company over the years. Fact: His movie, See No Evil, released in 2006 grossed more than any of the John Cena and Steve Austin movies did when they hit cinemas, making him a much more appealing star that has the potential to cross over the mainstream and bring the wrestling industry a whiff at the limelight.
  • Undertaker winning against HBK could have done without those annoying near-falls that disregarded the legitimacy of their finishers. (I know this is professional wrestling, so establishing objective grounds to argue for realism is like pitching water with your hands. But hear me out for a minute here.) There were at least three near-falls that could have been shaved off to make the match tighter around the edges. Don’t get me wrong; the dark vs. light theme made for a great spectacle – fantastic, even – as witnessing two of the best Wrestlemania slug it out in a five-star classic easily resulted in the best match of the evening…
  • …but the best moment of the night goes to Santina Marella winning the 25-Driva Battle Royale to determine Ms. Wrestlemania. Heel-larious.
  • With all due respect, Snuka looked like he was pulled out from the geriatric ward and injected with lots of sedatives. Goddamn.
  • I took a bath, brushed my teeth, slept a little, had a bad dream, felt like I died a little, woke up, surfed the internet for a while, went fishing at a nearby lake by myself WHICH I NEVER DO BECAUSE THERE'S NO LAKE AROUND OUR PARTS, and Undertaker is still walking on the aisle to the ring. Can’t the guy walk any slower?!?
  • The main event of HHH vs. Orton, although solid as a concrete wall, was not able to generate, or at least maintain, momentum and crowd interaction that it wished it had. Sad.
Thank God I didn’t watch the live screening of Wrestlemania 25 that cost 300php in cinemas at nine in the morning because that would’ve pissed me off. Aside from the ones I mentioned, nothing really made an impression to me. Better luck next year, I suppose.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

On Citing Sources

I have been keeping a secret for almost a week now, but now is probably the time to finally reveal it. Just so you know, what I'm about to say wouldn't really be a big deal unless you really care about me (I doubt), but here goes nothing.

One of my write-ups was cited as a reference in Wikipedia.

Whoopee-fucking-do, right?

A couple of years ago, I volunteered to be a staff writer for Daily Vault, an online music album review site. I wrote a piece about At The Gates' Slaughter of the Soul (a damn fine album), and sent it to them in hopes of getting accepted. Luckily for me, they liked the work and took me for the spot as writer with an alias of Benny Balneg. For almost two years, I was able to conjure my inner asshole and lambasted albums that I felt weren't worth shit. However, for every album that royally sucked cock, there were albums that gave me an awesome boner. Hence, I subjected them to praises of the highest order, or something.

Even though I have to pretend having authority and passing judgment over art and its delicate excesses (at least on my part), I enjoyed the job. Sure, I didn't get paid for my work, but the promotional albums I got from indie bands and artists were more than enough.

After almost two years of my online journalistic pursuits, I stopped writing. I moved on. Simple as that.

During my moments devoid of inspired activity a couple of days ago, I searched for my name in Google just for kicks. After the results appeared, I saw a site return of "Do The Bartman" entry on Wikipedia with my name on it. With intense curiosity, I opened the page.

I wrote a review of The Simpsons Sing The Blues for Daily Vault. Barring any sentimental bias I harbored for the album, since it happens to be the first album I brought off record bars with my Dad, it was one of those albums that failed to give me wood, but thoroughly loved it nevertheless. Just to quote from my review:

I cannot gloat further at the fact that The Simpsons Sing The Blues is the perfect musical accompaniment to the show’s quirky appeal. For those planning to revel in the brilliance of the television series, and even for those interested in unlocking the secret of the show’s success, now is the time to get your blues on.

Damn right. Anyway, back to the Wiki page. Scrolling down to the Reception part of the entry was a line that kinda, nay, totally blew me away.
The Daily Vault's Benny Balneg liked that the song disengaged itself from the album's "blues tag" and incorporated more "contemporary elements" into its sound. He added that he thought the song had a "catchy beat" and an "infectious chorus".

After reading this, I turned off the computer, took a bath, and went to sleep.

Friday, February 27, 2009

On the Prodigal Son

I wrote an entry a year ago devaluing the article writing profession, stating that writing loads of articles over a short period of time is focused mainly on production while disregarding the writer as a self-entity. In this case, a writer being treated like a machine is not the main concern, but rather how the toxicity of his current work contaminates his creative well. I experienced firsthand the inability for expression in which everything that I write feels barren and divorced from life.

After years of distancing myself from such work, I will soon find myself again in the company of empty words, 400 per article to be exact. Bulk article writing isn't really that bad after all. The workload is killer, no doubt, but I don't mind doing something -- hell, anything -- to make my day worthwhile, aside from the extra income that comes along with it. Apparently, doing nothing makes everything difficult to resist.


On a side note, the Oscars wrapped up its festivities by having Sean Penn win the coveted Best Male Actor category over comeback kid Mickey Rourke. Although I haven't seen Milk, kudos to Mr. Penn for a win well-deserved. Now that I got that out of the way, let me share my real, albeit biased, thoughts about this issue.

WHAT THE FUCK WERE THEY THINKING!? I know the Academy eventually rewards actors and directors after being nominated a couple of times too many. Penn won with Mystic River in 2003 while Martin Scorsese, a famed director who went home with eggs on all his nominations, bagged the trophy with The Departed in 2006. (And just so you know, they didn't win on the year that they truly deserved. Just something to think about.) But really now, how can anyone deny the delicacy and bravura of Rourke's portrayal of a broken-down wrestler?

Maybe it's because of the speculation that Rourke will appear on the Super Bowl of professional wrestling, Wrestlemania, that the Academy felt obligated to instead award a guy who won't tarnish the supposed prestige of the award by not associating his name with a sport looked down by everyone. Really now, isn't this shit supposed to be over by now? What makes any other sport or entertainment program better than professional wrestling considering the fact that the scripted matches are part of its entertainment value? Again, something to think about.

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