The Remedy

Yes, as a dear friend pointed out, it's the blue period all over again. What to do.

1. Listen to Ella Swings Brightly.
2. Another round of threesome with Ben & Jerry. Maybe Chocolate Mint.
3. Watch porn.
4. Write the Non-Guided Tour script of the Museum's dioramas.
5. Read new Star Trek Next Generation novels, vol. 1-6.
6. Make porn.
7. Eat Wai-Wai's Tom Yum Instant Noodles, Shrimp Flavour.
8. Get drunk.
9. Watch more porn.
10. Sigh.

Models and Geeks

It’s infuriating to dissect beauty with words. My words wouldn’t really matter. I could write until my fingers bled and I still wouldn’t be able to match the high, the exhilaration of seeing physical perfection walk through and around the revolving doors of the heart. I can feign eloquence; I could be great with the conversation, funny with the jokes, but in the end, heads will turn not for wit, but beauty.

Yes, yes, it's the insecurity that's killing me. I don't have model-envy. I can't be better looking than what I am right now. But what do I do, what can I offer when the boyfriend is obssessing over a model who works in his house? My Buffy DVDs? ST Voyager's Prime Directive dilemma? The new Tanya Donelly CD?

As a geek I obsess and collect. Books. Comic books. Music. Concert tickets. Fish. A nerd studies things, memorizes dates and skeletal parts. A geek studies with passion.

In the American Heritage Dictionary, a geek is defined as "a carnival performer whose show consists of bizarre acts, such as biting the head off a live chicken.

Or "a person who is single-minded or accomplished in scientific or technical pursuits but is felt to be socially inept."

But people, we have moved on from eating chickens and being socially inept (it would be quite difficult to carry on a normal conversation with someone who is chewing on raw poultry and feathers, thus the inept-ness) to stylish, funny, socially-ept individuals who are single-minded in the pursuit of useless knowledge.

Who can question the loyalty of a geek to his favorite TV show? If I can be loyal to seven years of Whedon-myth, then surely I can give equal devotion, or maybe more, to love. If I cannot eat over dead-resurrecting nanoprobes, then surely I can eat less to be more 7 of 9-ish or Spike-like in body yummy-ness. If I get sad over the lyrics of District Sleeps Alone Tonight, then surely I can be a highly sensitive empath of a lover.

I guess, this is just not easy to see, not easy to appreciate.

Morning Becomes

Enjoying a surprise holiday. Spent the entire morning listening to KCRW: Morning Becomes Eclectic. Postal Service's laid back "District Sleeps Alone Tonight" is thoughtful, a drunken afterglow. Damien Rice, well, I don't know why I even listened to him. He's great, but really, too painful. Especially after a night of heavy drinking and specially stupid boys. "Glass Blower's Daughter" is still like being gutted by an army of Hirogens. Thanks for the dissection, I'm all see-through skin now. But Liz Phair. Oh wow. "Little Digger" and "Divorce Song." She's not exactly great live, but her guitar playing is superb; her singing delicate and high and a little unsteady. The unsteadiness, though, works, because her words are in contrast precise, the emotion clear-cut.

"Tell me just what the hell is a lover supposed to do, I got the wrong reaction."

It's just wrong. I sent a carefully constructed text message that was a little silly, a little needy, a little distant, and a little loving. All I got was: "What happened to you?"

Predictably, I turned to a fat, juicy burger for comfort. A little salty. Ultimately dependable.

What's Worse than Night of the Champions?

Mabi: What’s worse than “Night of the Champions”? “Night of the Champions, THE REPEAT”.

Oh hell. She’s right (this time). I wanted to go to Erik backstage and say:

“What’s wrong, baby? Is it you father’s presence that’s distracting you? Are you overworked? Cos, fuck, you really, really sucked tonight. You forgot lines of your own songs (and I actually noticed, darn!), you were constantly out of breath, your Martin Nievera medley was monotonous and boring (no, that’s Martin’s fault, really), and you sweated so much throughout the entire thing, wait, no, that’s actually good, sweating is good and hot. Maybe sweating and out of breath together. But the rest, honey, no. No, no. You get an F for Fucked.”

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On our way back from lunch, Mabi casually blurted that we’ve actually been friends for over a decade, and wow. (WARNING: Hallmark ad coming your way in 5 seconds.) The comfort level I have with her is just wonderful, and it shows. It’s always so easy, easier, to laugh, to cry even, when she's around. It’s just precious. You know how old couples, literally old couples, hold hands like it were the most natural thing on earth, like breathing, like walking? No? Me too, but I imagine it to be like my afternoons with her. Pure sugar, pure instinct.

Jologz Rule's

Preparing to leave for Araneta Coliseum to watch the "Night of the Champions, The Repeat" concert featuring Erik Santos, Sarah Geronimo, etc.

WHAT THE FUCK?!?

I know. And I must confess, I also went to the first staging. I have this pimply-high school crush on Erik, and every little thing he does is magic. Ztupid luv. And it's something that I just have to share, my SJB (Secret Jologz Behavior).

I'm so excited. But I can I hide it. :)

Love and Other Bruises

Bruising results from the release of blood from the capillaries into the tissues under the skin. The characteristic bluish-black mark on the skin lightens in color and eventually fades as the blood is absorbed by the tissues and carried away.

At 11 p.m. tonight, it will be exactly one week after the attack. My bruises have cleared; my back and side still hurt a little but they could just be muscle cramps. I still lie awake at night but even the fear is fading; the faceless men tip-toeing slowly out of my dreams.

Previous to this entry, I wrote about reconnecting with a friend in the U.S. but a connection error erased the entire account. Too lazy to rewrite. Too tired to remember. (He still waits for me to put the receiver down first. He still waits for the “click,” the dial tone that hums Sweet dreams.)

I read in an online review that “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” is really a (tender) deconstruction of perceptions on love more than a movie about love. And right now, I am agreeing. The hazy edges and the blinking lights that frame Joel and Clementine is probably the closest thing to recreating the atmosphere of memory. In two weeks or a month, most definitely in a year --- love, hatred, anger, sadness --- everything is reduced to foggy, overcast hang-over mornings. See-through skin, glowy eyes, salty lips. Indistinct, but important. Mostly perceived, but the realest thing to real. Love is.

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Happy Birthday, Margie! May you never forget.

Sugar

There's nothing like a threesome at 1 p.m. And there's no one who can perform better than Ben & Jerry. My head's all kablooey with choco-chip cookie dough photon blasts. Logic sheilds down. Dizzy happy, set the course Mr. Paris, I'll be in the ready room.

To pay tribute to Dodo, whose path we now worship (the one leading to the middle aisle of Rustan's Greenbelt 1), here is ----

Top 10 Dizzyingly Sweet Songs

10. Let's Stay Together - Al Green
9. Into Your Arms - The Lemonheads
8. Everyday I Write The Book - Elvis Costello
7. Brand New Colony - Postal Service
6. Huwag Kang Matakot - Eraserheads
5. Summertime - The Sundays
4. Wonderwall - Oasis
3. Sorta Fairytale - Tori Amos
2. 1000 Things - Jason Mraz
1. I Get A Kick Out Of You - Cole Porter, Ella Fitzgerald version

So there. Wishing everone a heady, hyper-sugar afternoon!

Editing

I keep reminding myself to edit before I hit the Publish Post button. I do it automatically at work, editing practically everything. From internal emails to proposals to text messages to colleagues. And hell, most of my friends are editors --- Margie, Kristine, Dodo, Marnie --- we can actually make jokes out of sentence constructions. No, not really, more like figure of speeches, but I know that we could if we tried. I've been re-reading my posts and I am aghast at my mistakes, my typo errorsssss. Now that at least 3 people are reading this, (Hi, Dodo. Uh, dyahe.) I'll put in the extra effort that would make clicking the Publish button actually mean "worth publishing."

I'm just not used to editing hardcore journal stuff. But I do it anyway. I've been editing my memories more than I should. Part science, part romance, I've been editing my life so it would become publishable bio-fiction.

And this is also why I keep this blog. I write about my life like it were a story, I edit like it were a draft, hoping to find somewhere between the lines, buried under the plot twists, the happy endings that are there all along.

And I think I have. So far, thank you,

1. Wilmer, happiness in our home, in our bed. In our sleep The Great and Secret Show;
2. Margie, tight scoobie hugs after the drive home with Ms. Love and District Sleeps Alone Tonight;
3. Kristine, Whiskey, Tango, Ghost;
4. Dodo, director of words and wow, there's never enough music;
5. The crew of Star Trek Voyager, now, there will always be coffee in every nebula;
6. Joss Whedon, still I always feel this strange estrangement.

Not bad. Six happy stories.