The Buzz

Still buzzed from last night's drink out with Dodo, Faye and Raymond. Laughed hard. Downed around six bottles. Only. Yet the lightheaded morning after is somewhat bluesy. Like that Blake Babies song: Nothing's good and nothing's bad. That tentative heavyness of feet. That under the sheets disposition.


The term hangover was originally a 19th century expression describing unfinished business – something left over from a meeting – or ‘survival.’ (Wikipedia)


There's always unfinished business. Loose ends. Work in progress. Missing pages. Open endings. Hangovers.

About time I get used to it.

Between the first and the fortieth

Drunkenness and its slightly tilting musical-numbered alternate universe has descending levels not too different from Hell's layered furnace. Sweeter is deeper. Deeper is closer to the floor. But it's not always peppery dancing and incandescent word play that punctuates a good, long gulp.

Like a prisoner circling his cell, planning escape, and memorizing, in the process, the cracks on the walls, the sharp turns, the geometry of forgetting. And somewhere between the first and the fortieth swig: Kim Ki-duk's unsettling endings. Ricky Gervais' rock star beginnings. Nine Songs and porn. The left turn in Makati Cinema Square. Rats. Writers and writing and laughing in between words. Beautiful Girls. The Eraserheads interview on the pavement outside 70s Bistro. The good old days and the ones that got away.

Last night, Dodo and I drank to forget and to remember.

But we also defied gravity.

I was still smiling when I got home, clumsily flipping through old mixes, looking for that Seona Dancing song. Positive that whatever happens in the future, there will always be nights like this.

Year of the Horse

In the it's-so-bad-it's-good Kris Aquino starrer "Feng Shui," death is predicted by the victim's year of birth according to Chinese astrology. The guy who was born in the Year of the Rabbit got run over by a Rabbit bus. Heh. Stupid. Anyway, this woman who was born in the Year of the Horse fell to her death on cases of Red Horse bottles. Har har. But no so funny now after two straight evenings of Red Horse drinking.

I'm numb all over, dumb all over. It's all over.

Something for the Longing

• Sugarfree is becoming a weekend habit. Last night at Peligro, they played a full set, an hour and a half of soaring, deafening pop. Gig buddy and I were right there in front, inches away from Ebe. Happy M was seated on the floor, looking up at Ebe adoringly, like a child listening to a far, far away happy ending story. And I was standing in front of Ebe, swaying and smiling, but looking away everytime he caught my eye. I was afraid he would see how happy he was making me, like I haven't been happy until that night. Besides, I'm reduced to a stuttering, shy fan whenever they start playing. One recognizable riff and they win me over, in a nano-sparkle.
• So broke. Fuck. To save on some Greenbelt-pricey dinner, M brought sisig and maalat na itlog with tomatoes to the library. We asked the caterer for garlic rice. AC paid my design efforts in pizza. And for dessert, Toblerone fondue from Old Swiss Inn. Now that's fusion dining. Also made mental note not to drink too much Red Horse because it makes me vomit, and my fusion vomit would just be too skongkrang.
• "Something for the Longing" is an East River Pipe album. Belated Happy Birthday, dodobird. And thank you for the music.
• Am attending a high school reunion this evening. My only peeve is that they never saw me thin. WTF. Same old Thor is good old Thor.
• Frunk (verb): According to Jovan, it means fucken drunk. According to Thor, it's fucked and drunk. Fucked and drunk, even when I was seventeen.

Happy Daze

Blah blah blah Museum blah blah blah collaterals---and 11:52, I was finally on my way to lunch with Dodo.

He had been my first room mate (and I think the last, cos we moved to a bigger office and all creative guys occupied one big room) in my first stint in advertising. He gave me his copy of Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville and I so owe him for that precious precious act of kindness. 9 years later, I still listen to Exile and it is as rocking and poignant today as it was in 1995.

So there he was in National Sports Grill smiling and devouring a salad in the smoking area, The Postal Service CD near his plate. He doesn't smoke but I do, and by just being in the smoking area, he had immediately brought us to where we left off a couple of years ago. (Still a huge fan of details) The familiarity of his presence was comforting. Beer at the end of the day comforting.

And so we talked music.

Loving Postal Service. Gibbard's from Death Cab for Cutie who we're also loving, but Postal we love more. Raveonettes. Josh Rouse. Pernice Bothers. Loretta Lynn and Jack White. (Reminder: Burn him Stars and The Shins.)

Vince Torres dropped by before 1 pm after saying previously to Dodo that he was scared of me. Hmmm. Vince was the first guy I ever had under me. No, that sounded wrong. He was the first guy who I instructed --- well, not really --- I was his boss. Period. I missed him too.

More relaxed and older, the entire repartee was quick, fun, and familiar. (So Thor, you're maintaning a Captain's Blog.)

After 4 bottles of San Mig Light and discussions on Star Trek Voyager and Mandy Moore, I realized I was happy. And it wasn't really that difficult to be happy. Sometimes, all it takes is a phone call. Sometimes, nothing at all.

You can turn around and like where you are.

Parallel Universes

It's like a religion. Instead of a God, there is almost a desperate need to believe in parallel universes. And why not? They say that for every choice, every decision made --- waking up 5 minutes later, getting off work an hour earlier, stopping for a minute to light a cigarette --- a new universe emerges where instead of later, you are earlier; instead of stopping, you continue walking; instead of you, you are someone else. A deja vu could be an instance of merging universes, of similar histories intersecting and two different selves occupying the same continuum for a few seconds.

Going back to U.P. yesterday made me think of who I would be today if I had stayed at the university and pursued a life of teaching English. I tried to imagine life in a classroom instead of an office, life without advertising, maybe without W, and definitely without 10 people who i now consider indispensable friends. I tried, but couldn't.

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In the episode "The Wish" in Season 3 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Anya (a vengeance demon) granted Cordelia's wish of a Buffy-less Sunnydale. The new, darker Sunnydale had Xander and Willow vamps, a scarred (and dead) Buffy, a faithless Giles, a sexier Angel and a humorless script.

Could staying or leaving really be so devastatingly life changing?

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Afternoon beer with KF after a long trip around Manila was exactly the cooling down that I needed. When music geeks come together the conversation takes the melody of giggling exclamation points. New albums (YeahYeahYeahs and Juliana Hatfield), lousy singers (Purple Chicken) and learning how to baby talk somewhere between the peanuts and travel writing.

In this instance, staying was a good idea. I couldn't have made a better choice.

Irish Toast

May those who love us, love us, and may God turn the hearts of those who don't. And if he can't turn their hearts, may he turn their ankles, so we'll know them by their limping. (Thanks, Margie.)

Not Really the Beginning

I can't get the dates right. I can't decide whether to write about AR or not. But I have. I have deleted my previous blog, and here he is now, the first entry, the only reincarnation of my first blog. It's not that I want to relive the longing and continually punish myself with it; it's really more of not forgetting the innocence of last night's celebration.

We just wanted to be around each other.

Take out the sex, his physical appeal and my hornyness --- what's left is an almost innocent, buddly-flick friendship.

This is what I want to remember.

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Over a smoke while standing outside the Library, I did tell Margie about last night. And she actually found it "cute." Safe. And I think it already is, safe, for us to see each other again. I can keep my pants (painfully) zipped. Nothing that beer can't cure.

Yes, alcohol keeps me more sane than usual. I'm a boring, square drunk that way. The bad fucks and the worse morning-after-the-fuck thing doesn't at all apply. It's when I'm alcohol free that I uhm misbehave. That's my reality. My alternate reality is when my head is spinning from too much rhum and 3 liters of Cable Car's draft, while thinking of ways of how to be good.