“Rose i’m sorry but its the only way she can continue to receive treatment.”
She thanked him and hung up.
“Is everything all right mama?” Clara asked as she came in. She reached for the cash box on the top shelf of the cabinet and picked out change. Rose sat staring at nothing, trapped in her troubles. What can she do, she asked herself, has she not tried every way to help Gladys? It started to sink in that Gladys would not get better and she would be weighted by the burden of caring for a mentally unstable daughter . Her silence drew in Clara to the plastic chair beside her.
“What’s wrong mama?” She asked and put her hand on Rose’s spine. Her touch jolted Rose out of stupor. She smoothed the creases of her dress and forced a smile. ” Nothing. I’m fine”
“Is it about ate Gladys?”
Rose said nothing. She was a strong woman and preferred to bear her problems quietly. The many difficult years and supper-less nights made her that way. She was thrown out by her mother at age 16 when Noel, a cab driver that lived next door to them, put a baby in her body. It was shameful for a high school student especially when Noel’s wife was kicking at their gate screaming profanities and calling her a harlot. The next day she was living in a tiny rented room in a run down barangay paid for by Noel. They lived together, much to the chagrin of Noel’s legal wife, and had two more children, two more than a cab driver can afford. She worked part time doing laundry, selling rice cakes and Avon merchandise. It was not an easy life, until Noel got another high school girl pregnant and shortly after disappeared. Her daily budget had become 400 pesos lesser. Life went from bad to worst. Gladys was five years old, Clara was 3 and Jr was barely 2. But If becoming a wife and mother taught her anything, it was to cook well. She sold packed lunch in offices in Makati and was able to keep them afloat. Everyday she carried two large plastic bags stacked with styro boxes in her daily commute. When Gladys turned 7, her mother would bring her along, and she would help her mother. Although one plastic bag was more than half her size, and she had to hobble awkwardly to keep it from scraping the floor, Gladys didn’t mind these trips to makati, she liked walking on wide and clean sidewalks and looking up at tall buildings. She liked seeing office workers in their business casual clothes carrying folders and talking on their cell phones. she wanted to work in an office building, and dress herself nice. She wanted to sit on her own chair with tiny wheels and push away from her own cubicle and pull herself back. Rose saw ambition on her daughter and it made her hopeful. She hoped that Gladys would not trip the same way she did, and make something of herself.
They survived and thrived. They moved out of the tiny room and moved into a more spacious place in a better neighborhood. It had a kitchen, a proper table, a couch, a toilet and bath and a bedroom with a curtain in place of a door. When Gladys was eight Rose was making enough money to send her to school and hire an assistant to help her cook, pack and sell. All her children were well provided for. As a single parent with no high school diploma, she pulled her family out of a miserable state of life and brought them to lower middle-class standards. She was a proud woman. Perseverance was her strength but it had no use in saving Gladys.
“Ma, how is Ate Gladys?”
“She’s fine, they told me she’s slowly coming to her senses”
It was a lie and Clara was aware of that.
“When will we visit her?”
“Soon love. Soon”
The room was dark, only a wan slat of light passed through the old tarpaulin that covered the steel bars of her cell door. The rank stench of days’ old piss and feces clung to the thick humid air, poisoning her will w/ every heave of breath.
She rolled slightly on her side, off the tattered fringes of her mat; a faint thrill of life pricked her skin as her leg touched the cool cement floor. I am alive, she mused. For the time being , to hold bare consciousness, the still silence of a world less benign.
She rose to her feet, pulling her frail body together. Still disoriented and parched by thirst, she staggered to the door and clung on to the steel bars to keep herself from falling. From outside she could hear the faint chatter of people. ‘water please’ she called out. every syllable clawed at her throat. she called again, louder and clearer ’til her weak voice gave out, but the only response that came to her was callous silence followed by footfalls that trailed off.
A malevolent laughter rang out across her cell and sent shivers down her spine, it resonated in her mind and amplified her distress.
she pleaded hopelessly, ‘help me, please somebody help me!’
The hinges clacked convulsively as she rocked the bars. It wouldn’t break, no matter how hard she willed it to, her strength could not deliver her rescue.
A sharp pain wrung at her heart and gripped her entire body. Terror began to take hold, An extinction of good that she had known only from stories of hell and the underworld. It was a familiar evil that had attacked her before and she knew there was no hope to escape the suffering she will be put through. She cursed and wailed like an animal sent to slaughter. “Lucifer! Lucifer! Lucifer!”
The dorm staff,two were on duty that afternoon, they heard Gladys, exchanged looks and saw fear in one and the other but rather than pacify her, they quietly agreed the best course wa to to ignore gladys. they were seasoned dorm staff and andthis was all routine, just another patient in isolation looking for attention.
Gladys winced and writhed in a prolonged state of hysteria, and as suddenly as it came, the attacks stopped and she lay crumpled on the floor like a discarded rag.
In a short gleam of lucidity she lifted her chin up
to look for god on the stained face of the ceiling but instead found her key: A loose piece of cord dangled out from the fastenings that held up the tarp.
‘Auntie Rose telephone!’
‘I’m buisy right now who is it?’
‘It’s the doctor from rehab again’
‘I’ll be there in a minute’ Rose wiped her hands on her apron and placed the last sticks of fried banana on a tray.
It had been the third time he called that day. Although Rose had her hands full running the modest snack stand she puts up outside their home, the doctors purpose seemed urgent and she had to stop to take his call.
‘Hello, Rose Layug please. This is Dr. Iwayan from R.D. Rehabilitation Center.’
‘Rose, It’s about Gladys. We need to transfer her’
‘Transfer her where? what happened?’
‘ She broke another patients nose in one of her fits. I think it would be better for Gladys if we put her in home care.’
‘ Jesus Christ, We don’t have money for that, if you have to chain her to a tree to make her better go ahead, i have the rest of my family to look after doc, and that includes the gladys’s children”
“Rose I’m sorry but its the only way we can keep her here. We cannot endanger the other patients they also have blanks we hav to answer to.”
Rose i’m sorry but its the only way she can continue to receive treatment.”
She protested some more and thanked him and hung up.
“Is everything all right auntie?” Clara asked as she came in. She reached for the cash box on the top shelf of the cabinet and picked change. Rose sat staring at nothing, trapped in her troubles. What can she do? Has she not tried every way to help Gladys. It had started to sink in that Gladys might not get better and she dreaded the prospect of being weighted by the burden for years to come. Her silence drew in Clara to the plastic chair beside her.
“Whats wrong auntie?” She asked and put her hand on Rose’s spine. Her touch jolted Rose out of stupor. Rose smoothed the creases of her dress and forced a smile. ” Nothing. I’m fine”
Your not cool if you don’t have these songs. I tried listening to them while lying in bed, trying to internalize the message of each one, and I couldn’t bottle an explosion of laughter. Best enjoyed if your down and out and naturally sarcastic, or just plain light hearted. 🙂
Hero- Mariah Carey
When You Believe- Leon Jackson
Eye of the Tiger- Survivor
One Moment in Time- Whitney Houston
Gonna Fly Now- Bill Conti
Chariots of Fire- Vangelis
Circle of Life- Elton John
Win- Brian Mcknight
Tie for second
Go the Distance
I Believe I can fly- R Kelly
I Need a Doctor- Dr. Dre feat. eminem, Skylar Grey
You Gotta Want It- ROberta Gold
All Star- Smash Mouth
Thursday Poets Rally Week 43
Step into today…
Leave behind a tearing end…
Breathe the air of dreams…
I was intrigued by an idea of what might have been had I not left Baguio and took creative writing instead. All I could tell myself is: You’re never beat til you give up on yourself. I may have taken a few detours, but so long as the original dream is kept alive and I keep step towards fulfilling it, hope shall never be buried in yesterdays impervious locker and chance shall again blossom in it’s own time.
For the impractical dreamers:
yeees! ahahaha thanks miks 😉
I’ve been preoccupied adding foliage to my ‘Acacia’ story I haven’t had time for my usual B.S. (sigh) Lately its been serious/ brooding mood switched on. Still, with my time for thinking up absurd things diminished, I was able to sneak this in.
Yabada Jibidee Jibidee-If you’ve ever been to a Christian fellowship gathering, then chances are, you’ve witnessed this first hand and as I did you might have wondered what is being said. Only no one around, not even the pastor can give the translation. ‘They’re in a trance’ is the standard palliative. Lucky I know someone who knows someone with a friend whose cousin had had the (strange) memorable experience of sleeping with a born again Christian. As told by this fellow, ” Out of nowhere she went yelling all this gibberish, it kinda freaked me out. But as I put two and two together, apparently it means: Oh l***, oh yes, oh yeeees! I’m cli******.”
*I am so getting tied to a stake and roasted alive for this. Oh wait no, that’s feudal Catechism. Sorry.
It’s bizarre. You wake up one day Osama bin-laden is dead, miami leads boston, Pope J.p. had just been beatified, it’s 7pm and crap, I’m still in mugat.
For three long years I tried to play the role of a good son (I did okay) in a faraway place at the bottom end of the Philippines. In the end, after everything went south, I have nothing to show for it, just a chapter down the drain. What I had worked hard for in that span of time was actually nothing, plain and simple. There is no validation, only a life altering realization. Now I have a chance to strive for something concrete. I may fail, I may succeed, at least there’s the consolation that I tried to reach a goal I believe in and I did not while away my life chasing air another time.
* A story about forbidden (homosexual) love laced with verities of youth,everyday struggles, war and subversion, poverty, distorted ideals and innocense lost in the accelerating deterioration of generations. I hope its artsy and thought provoking enough for a Palanca award. (Author is NOT gay.)
The scarlet field lit in radiance beneath a sunny August afternoon. From a lonely dirt road, the myriad of roses seem like a bed of molten ember, ready to burst with every passing of the wind. Lorenzo Romano fell to his knees. It was here high up in the mountain province of the cordilleras that the first Romano was overcome by abjection once more. Weakness and defeat that he had only known in his young years back in Zapanta, in the island of Mindanao. The blurred images of his unhappy past, that for so long he had repressed, is torentially leaking into candid recollection.
” Speak clearly!” he shouted. ” Stop eating your words you sonofabitch!”
Smelling of whiskey and red all over, the bear of a man rose from his chair with the same snap of a general and towered over the timid boy. A young Lorenzo froze where he stood, shaken and too afraid to conjure a syllable with his mouth. He was breathing too fast and started to worry that if he did not recover his voice in time, his father would completely loose his temper and hit him.
“Speak up boy, stop acting like a fairy” this time he spoke with a graver tone. Lorenzo could only keep his head down fearful of meeting his fathers glaring eyes.
In a quick motion, he grabbed Lorenzo by the collar and let out a roar that curled the blood in the boys veins.
“What do you want! That is a very simple question. Are you stupid?”
Tears began to roll from Lorenzo’s eyes, the strength on his knees were lost to the shiver of fear. As he tried hopelessly to open his mouth and speak, his fathers heavy hand struck him on the left side of his face. A sharp ring reverberated in his ear, at the same time half of his head started to feel numb.
Kristina, Lorenzo’s aunt who had been standing behind him, stepped in between and bound her brother with her arms.
“Thats enough Antonio, please”
She turned to lorenzo and almost pleaded
“Go to your room, I’ll handle this.”
“Don’t you dare walk away you little faggot!” his father commanded.
Lorenzo did not know what to do as he sobbed uncontrollably, planted on his feet.
“Go up to your room Lorenzo Go now!”
The tug of wills lasted a few more repetitions until Antonio Almost broke loose and tried to lunge at his son. Stimulated by the instinct of self preservation, Lorenzo ran up to his room, as fast as he could and locked himself inside. An indignant march followed him and kicked and pounded at the door. “Open up!” his father demanded and spilled a string of wild obscenities.
After awhile Kristina was able to placate her brother.
But even before peaceful silence came, young Lorenzo Escandor had already wept himself to sleep. That was how his eleventh birthday had passed, receiving a slap across the face, instead of a Mountain Bike he had dreamt of having since he was eight.
To be continued…
Come away from me wicked beauty!
Set my heart free from your torment.
For too long I have lost my serenity,
caught and entangled in your sweet beguilement.
Silence became your song. I am hollow, abandoned and cold.
Yet your voice echoes in the distance
piercing my mind and soul, keeping me in your hold.
Will your spell ever break and release me from your sway?
That I may at last forget the fragrance of your skin,
the tender feel against my body.
That I may yearn not for what had been,
and be rid of your mouth’s taste in my memory.
I ache to be a man for another,
carry through my ideals in love and fidelity;
An angels vow that betrayed you, trust a fool chose to squander.
Come away from me wicked beauty,
let another kindle my fire.
Your ghost and mine belong in times past.
The dawn approaches, we are but a shadow cast.
breaking from within
I fall apart
Rust that eats through the sloughs of pride
Layers of sand clawed by Neptunes retreat
steady knees buckle in utter defeat
a lone tear rips as sorrows wept
I tread empty in spaces of chaos
neither in cold calm is there peace
even in sleep there is no rest
an angel with broken wings
a captive of guilt and regret
Tiny strands of dust dance on a pale ray of light that snuck its way between curtains, into the dusky room. The modest space feels more constrictive from all the clutter gathered in the many weeks of idle ruminations. Books, magazines, food wrappings, beer bottles, laundry and a bunch of other stuff sprawl the floor and every available surface. If not for the thick blanket of dust, one might think-at first glance- that the place was ransacked in a crazy indoor luau the night before. But the place had been this way, stale, on its own. A chorus of horns begin to scream from outside, blending with the steady noise of rumbling engines, growing as more people trickle into traffic. Another bustling Monday morning comes to life, and as he had done for the past several weeks, Oliver Clio lay spread eagle on the bed, staring at the ceiling. alone in life, out of work, ridiculously broke and utterly clueless. his reflections momentarily interrupted by a curious little lizard gaping intently at him, it does seem as though the passerby was in concerned speculation of what could be the matter, then loosing interest, scurried on its way.
how did everything go so wrong? he endlessly searched himself. in the not too distant past, all the good breaks were going his way, a promising young career, a sweet caring and supportive girlfriend, that took on the roles of lover, assistant, secretary, nanny, best friend, creditor and even a young sugar mommy; and also a merry group of friends. then all of a sudden everything was swept away, his perfect life inexorably taken from him, whether by cruel fate or his own undoing, Oly is yet to discern, but the present outcome is easily perceptible, he is left with nothing. at 24 years old his life had been reset, forced to start over, but with a bevy of hurdles to overcome, souvenirs from the disaster of his past life. months into his despondency however, Oly is yet to find a direction. swaying from defeatism and sporadic urges to be resilient.( the latter gets continually drowned in depression.) He has made a few spirited attempts to pick himself up, it just so happens that luck has not been on his side, on the contrary it has been mischance that continues to pester him. closed doors greeting him at every turn.
An impatient and familiar wrapping at the door jolted Oly out of his reverie.
“what can i do for you Mrs. Ramirez” he lethargically rang back, rising and walking to the door to unbolt it. a jarring scowl greeted him as he pulled on the knob. arms folded across her chest, a short and stout woman stood menacingly, like miniature troll in a floral night dress.
“rent Mr. Clio…” her round face contorted into a smile. ” i need your rent, your already three weeks behind, i’m not running a hospice.” a fluffy bunny slipper begins to thump impetuously on the linoleum floor. between gritted teeth she puffed profusely on her cigarette, blowing a haze of smoke that hovered over them.
” I—I’ll have it by next week Mrs. Ramirez…” Oly stammered, running a hand on his nape. “I’m really sorry for the delay, my—uncles been ill and I’ve been…helping out with his medications. but I’m sure to have the money by next week, he’s expecting a check from hisss—pension. He dug deep into his pockets and dredged up his best impression of a reassuring smile. It sounded plausible enough, it wasn’t over creative, maybe a bit cliche but still passable.
“you don’t have an uncle Mr. Clio.” She scoffed, both hands now pressed on her waist. ” You have nobody, I’ve heard your story. Not that it matters. you see i cant take your apologies and promises to buy a pack of chiclets, can i? you have till next week Mr. Clio.” Her stern look traveled from Oly’s head to foot, and back. After a derisive smirk she was on her way, marching down the corridor and disappearing beneath the Stairway. Damn… that went well he thought to himself, easing the door shut. He looked up the clock and caught a glimpse of the time. Twenty minutes past eight, twenty minutes past eight! He suddenly recalled a job interview he’s supposed to be in at nine, that’s today! In a panic he hurriedly put on pants, grabbed a shirt from the drawers and ran to his desk scouring the mess for his CV, then stuffed it unceremoniously in his bag. Forgetting to put on socks, he stepped into his shoes and fumbled his way out the door. Monday morning rush hour is unforgiving, if he takes the metro, he could be stuck in the long cue of commuters for quite possibly an hour. Same if he takes the bus. Unless angels would swoop down from heaven to fly him across the city, he had no other choice but to ignore austerity to hunt down a cab. He hailed from the porch all the way down the corner, cutting between other commuters, until a beat down yellow Corolla screeched to a halt a cars length past him. He brazenly caught up and climbed inside, giving directions as he was catching his breath.
” I don’t think I can take you to Ortigas…” the driver pretended. “the traffic is really bad along edsa.”
“I’ll add another fifty on top of the fare.” Oly bargained right away.
” Can you make that eighty? Gas price went up again the other day. Those bastards are really eating into our income. they make millions and their still not satisfied, they have to reach into the pocket of the little guy” Oly’s heart sank, there goes his cigarette ration for today. Precious time is ticking away. “fine! can we just get going, I have to make it to an appointment in thirty minutes. is there a faster way to get there?”
” No problem, I know a few shortcuts, with some luck we’ll make it. ” The driver grinned and happily pulled and pushed the gear stick.
(to be continued…)
Love songs play over and over on the radio. You get familiar with some of the music and lyrics over time, as you would with Hi’s and Hello’s. They pass without concern. Your girlfriend kicks you to the curb, all of a sudden Barry Manilow’s “Somewhere Down The Road” speaks to you. Before you know it, your hopelessly holding on to a bottle of beer, staring blankly into nothingness with Lionel Richie’s “Baby Come Back” nagging on the background.
Get a hold of yourself or you could end up a creature of Tim Burton, very sad and very creepy. No one will want to do you then. Pick yourself up and dust yourself off. The world is full of unexplored corners, look around you, happiness is always waiting to be found. In the mean time check out this compilation of suggestions on how to get over a failed romance.
Friends- It looks a lot saner when you get shitfaced with company rather than by your lonesome. Play down the mellow-drama, your pals will play sympathetic for a night, but don’t think they will spare you once the dust settles. Roll with the jokes, don’t be in one.
Rebound- Ever used a crazy pick up line to score a chick in a bar? If you haven’t then maybe it’s better that way. If you want an instant bedside companion, or a looker to show-off in your ex’s favorite hangout then play it smart. By my experience when it comes to picking up women in a bar, words need not be spoken. All you need is charm and gestures. First, you bite your lower lip, give your most debonair smile then wink. If you don’t get a positive response and she raises an eyebrow at you, you can always pretend you were blinking because you have something in your eye. If that makes her laugh (co’z she will most likely think your retarded) go for the kill! Ask the waiter to send her table a round of drinks plus pulutan. chicks dig pulutan. Attach a napkin with a note asking for her contact details. Now that her group is having a swell time at your expense, she is obligated to at-least give you a fake name and number. But don’t fret! your pals don’t know that. You still get bragging rights and on the Donny Osmond side, it’s a learning experience. Try this a couple more times and you will learn the most valuable lesson of all, with all the money you are wasting you might as well pick up a hooker.
Useful bit: Don’t take any of this seriously.
Gentleman’s Club- This will validate your ex’s decision to ditch you. If she hears about it, she will definitely regard you with utmost disgust. Make little-miss-prissy-pants cringe! deep down she’ll feel as though she were placed in common ground with less dignified honeys. Ho-Ho, you’ve just managed to put one over her. Congratulate yourself asshole.
If your curious about syphilis, chlamydia and gonorrhea, skip the show and save your budget. come approximately when the establishment is about to close. Tip the floor manager P100 to line up her wards available for “outing.” Remember the prettiest one usually has had the most customers.
Useful bit: Personally this is not advisable until the double-layered condom is invented.
Comfort Foods- Allow yourself a little pleasure without having to masturbate. You can hang that healthy diet plan for a week, a broken heart is license to indulge in delectable delights. I doubt that if for a limited run, it will backlash in epic proportions. According to Dr. Chalabi Aziz Ul-Haq an alchemist at the Institue of Advanced Medical Research in Ashgabat, Comfort foods boost mental health and are good for heart and emotions, and have been proven to counteract loneliness.
Useful bit: Try Mauna Loa’s. If you still cant forget the ex, you will forget about diabetes.
Casino- Grab a hammer and take a swing at your piggy bank. Go for broke! let loose on the slots then drown yourself in the euphoric excitement around a Craps table. There are so many places where you can bleed in a casino. Who knows, you might end the night worth twice the man you were or just some douche bag who lost his grandfathers watch. Brush up on your card reading abilities, it may come in handy when your finally betting your cab fare.
Useful bit: when your crunching numbers in your head, don’t look up and do shut your lips tight.
Downelink.com– The webs best kept secret. Take a break from the politeness of facebook and troll hot lesbians in this online gay community. you’d be surprised at the audacity of its members. what makes it so enticing is that these are beautiful day-to-day women in painfully revealing or almost naked pics. The third sex had always been (and caters for) the ultra liberal. You wont find many shy lasses here. Just be careful where you click or you might catch a glimpse of Fred & Barney pecking between the sheets.
Useful bit: To get around privacy controls, you can create an account posing as a group of DL’s finest or whatever you can think of that is irresistible to their vanities. This is one of those exceptions when to “just be yourself” is not the way to go.
Take A Trip- Go someplace far and away, to a place your language skills are inconsequential. Typically somewhere that if something goes wrong, there is no one to claim you. I don’t plan many travels, as a matter of fact, i don’t believe I’ve ever planned one at all. But I do get exiled a lot. A lot. Angry fathers make bad travel agents. Presently, I’ve been marooned in Mugat, Mindanao. It’s been fun, I take on the role (and exact circumstances) of a castaway in survivor. I’ll be sure to show the bastard my appreciation when I get out. Much like Marco Polo I’ve had prolonged stays in unfamiliar territories. Gradually I learn to walk talk and squawk according to culture. The best way to explore a locality is to take a walk around. Get close enough to touch the way of life. Meet the vendors, shopkeepers, bystanders, snatchers and pickpockets. After tiring yourself sauntering aimlessly, find a place that serves exotic delicacies. Don’t be squeamish to try out new things. If the menu reads Locust, Slug or Gecko, then that’s your meal. Take a picture and post it on Facebook. I have no idea why people like to display their food on Facebook. Who’d be interested to know if your eating a plate of spaghetti? unless there was something crawling out of it.
Useful bit: Don’t get exiled.
Amnesia- A very imaginative concept was broached in Michel Gondry’s “Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind”. In the story Jim Carrey’s Character, Joel undergoes a procedure to have memories erased, particularly those of his former lover Clementine (Kate Winslet). Unfortunately there is no such contraption in real life that can do that, other than a concrete wall. The next best thing is suppressed memories. yes you can do that. block it out of your mind and eventually you’ll get the amnesia effect. It helps to zap yourself with something like a Taser everytime you remember your ex. But seriously when you stop thinking of something, it stops bothering you. You do have control over that.
Useful bit: Since your break-up, she’s been skewered by seven pigs.
That’s basically it. I hope some of this can be helpful. Good luck and take a step forward. (I hate typing, so I’ll end it here.)
There are times when I miss her, I want to hold her tight, give her a kiss and love her in my arms and in my eyes, then my strength falters when I remember you are no longer mine.
I was asked the most boggling question I ever encountered. How does one deal with nymphomania if your partner, paradoxically is lacking in libido? Without having to commit infidelity to achieve satisfaction. And separation is admirably out of the question.
I find this conundrum more complex than the theory of relativity. hehe 🙂 whoever has an answer to this does something wonderful for preserving true love between two misfits that find virtue in one another . If that is too cheesy too bother with ( I concede) , you can answer it for the novelty of its difficulty.
*Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this waste of time does not necessarily reflect that of my own.*
Who doesn’t? I’m pretty sure everybody has had a fantasy about being the richest son-of-a-bitch on the planet. We are only human after all, we’re all dreamers and we’re never satisfied with what we have. If you don’t aspire for better things, then you must be a forty something bum who lives in his parent’s basement and spends his days on an old couch, smoking pot and watching cartoons. (Awryt, High Five!) For the rest of us tax paying members of society (Value Added Tax Counts!) life is a frenetic struggle to add digits to our income. Admittedly we are all driven by reward. Yes, there are other more noble reasons like to find fulfillment and to follow passion etc., still it won’t hurt to get rich along the way. Not everyone gets so lucky. Reality bites- only a handful does, and out of that group only a select few get to live the sweet dreams. The iconic image to remind us all that life is unfair, the poster boy of Forbes and the mug we all want to pummel with a pie, is that of a nerdy spectacled Harvard dropout we’ve all come to know as Bill Gates. Love him or hate him, he is still “filthy-stinkin-rich!” He makes more money in a day then Maria Ozawa will make after getting gangbanged by a hundred horses. The man wakes up every morning twenty million dollars richer. Imagine that. It makes you wonder, what the hell he does with all that money. Infamous as he is though, Mr. Gates opts to lead a very hush-hush personal life. What a tease! We are all left to assume and fill in the blanks, at the same time enjoy ourselves thinking of magnificent ways to spend a fortune we will never have. That must be the longest and most inventive excuse I ever made to hit the realm of make believe. Anyway, if I could be Bill Gates, I’d sell my stake at Microsoft and donate the proceeds to Nicaraguan orphans in a million years. Honestly, philanthropy is the last thing on my mind with $56 billion to squander. You see if I were outrageously rich, I’d also be outrageously ostentatious.
The tallest man made structure ever built, rising 828 meters off the ground, 160 floors in all and reportedly costing $1.5 billion. You are definitely “The Man” with a penthouse suite high above the stratosphere, where you can look down on lesser mortals and gloat as they go about their daily chores like tiny worker ants.
The Windsor Castle, originally built by William the Conqueror in 1066, and now serves as a weekend home for the Queen of England. Perfect set-up for snuggling heiress von snooty.
For my wheels, though I’m really not particular with this, so long as i get to where I’m going, but for sheer effect i will adorn my garage with a Zero X dirt bike, an Infinity Essence (Concept car), a Land Rover Defender, an Aston Martin One-77, a Rolls Royce Phantom Coupe, The Moon Buggy, a Ford GT, a replica of Fred Flintstones car, a Lamborghini 6p670 Super Veloce, Optimus Prime and maybe an Audi R8 for errands.
Of course I’ll also need a yacht or two, not the little leisure boats you take out to fishing. I have something nastier in mind. The Tatoosh at 92 meters in length is the 33rd largest super yacht, built by germans at a whopping cost of $100 million.
And the Attessa IV formerly the Evergreen, initially created for a taiwanese shipping mogul has been re- fitted recently into a plush ultra modern Poseidon of the sea.
I won’t be flying in a private jet you commonly see in every billionaires hangar. I mean come on, we’d look like a bunch of communists. My first choice would be an F22 Raptor, if i cant bribe the pentagon to sell me one, I’ll have to settle for a YF23, the strange looking stealth plane designed by Northrop/McDonnel Douglas that never reached production, There are only two of its kind. One is in a museum somewhere and the other, I have no idea where it is.
No self-respecting billionaire will make do with out a spare plane, so I will also get an F5 Tiger in clear stainless steel and with a modified external fuel tank. If i were having having bagels in France for breakfast how am i supposed to get to Tokyo for sushi is my jet fighter can’t fly trans-continental? hence the need to upgrade the compact f5’s fuel capacity. (It’s not obvious that I put serious thought into all this none-sense) To top it off I’ll pirate a Russian femme fatale secret agent to pilot my planes. (beat that Tony Stark!)
Now that i have my fundamental needs in order it’s time to pick out a wife. What better way to do it then to have a reality show! complete with televised auditions, like in American Idol, and an unprecedented $1 billion pot. But in order to avoid a circus auditions will be by invitation only. On my list are: Megan fox, Olga Kurylenko, Eva Green, Gisele Bundchen, Gabrielle Anwar, Angel Locsin, Natalie Portman, Olivia Wilde, Cameron richardson, Ashley Greene (of twilight fame), Grace Park, Diane Kruger, Beyonce, Ane Hathaway, Scarlett Johansson and Malin Akerman.
With the sentiments of these beautiful women in mind, the show will aptly be called “make that 2 billion, you ugly mother fucker!” hosted by Bob Barker. The premise is simple enough, contestants will be put under a series of tests to gauge their domestic skills such as making sandwiches, doing laundry, pole dancing and mud wrestling to name a few. The contestant with the highest score on the karaoke wins.
I’m a big sports guy, meaning I watch alot of espn. one way of compensating for my languid sex life is playing fantasy basketball. For those of you who dont know what that is, Fantasybasketball is something you can google.
(to be continued…)
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” A question perennially asked in my young and formative years. My answer would always be different depending on the day of the week, sometimes tall, sometimes scientist, sometimes astronaut, sometimes dictator and most of the time Superman.
It’s funny how the question is being thrown back at me nowadays, this time phrased a little differently, “Grow up! What do you want to be?!” I get stumped, what comes to mind is still a red cape and blue spandex, but that is out of the question.
I scratch my head and pick my brains for a more realistic repartee. I start with “searching” (Yes, searching!) myself (not google) for what i want in life.
Do I want to save lives? Not really
Do I want to come to work in a tie? Resounding no
Do I want to live in a palatial estate, have a hot wife and drive around my ex-girlfriends neighborhood in a Ferrari f142 while bobbing my head to beats of DR. DRE? Nnah ( cough)
Do I want super powers? Yes! And be mocked and ridiculed behind my back? Of-course not .
My next best idea is to have a cottage in Sagada, marry a beautiful local, and live out my days in peace and obscurity. sounds good enough. However, not exactly doable since all real estate, even in far flung locations, costs a bag full of money. Something I do not have at the moment. And another factor that has to be put in serious consideration is the lack of employment opportunities there, the ones that fit my limited qualifications. Unless I could manage to live off a meager Government pension (which i doubt the government is dumb enough to give me) or I can plant cabbages and strawberries, this plan simply won’t work.
Back to the drawing board! What am I good at?
Making excuses that to the untrained ear sounds logical though they really aren’t ? That’s one!
Squandering things of worldly value? That’s two!
Doing outlandish things when possessed by San Miguel? That makes three!
My old sister tells me I have a knack for drawing, and I believe I did once upon a time. I remember whenever I got bored during class, I would amuse myself by sketching caricatures of my dull teachers and at other times I’d make fanciful depictions of my crush in skimpy attires. problem is I’m no longer in class and its been awhile since I formed figures on paper ( yes I have become extremely proficient at making excuses). Simply put I was not able to develop that skill enough to have the confidence to rest my ambition on it. To be satisfied at how I lived my life is something I happen to consider at the back of my mind and I don’t feel it in drawing lines.
The question must again be analyzed from a different vantage point. ” What can i see myself doing?”, “What can I see myself being?” Tentatively I’d say, even if I’m not naturally gifted, I could see myself a writer. Whether to nit-pick current events as a columnist, to create prose as a poet or to tell stories as a novelist, anything to do with expressing human experience I would find interesting and worthwhile. Writing to me is a meaningful pursuit, a kind of purpose i can attach to my existence.
To borrow from the words of James Michner,
“I was born with a passionate desire to communicate,to organize experience, to tell tales that dramatize the adventures which readers might have had. I have been that ancient man who sat by the campfire at night and regaled the hunters with imaginative recitations about their prowess. The job of an apple tree is to bear apples. The job of a storyteller is to tell stories, and I have concentrated on that obligation. ”
(notice how by quoting an articulate person i am able to add effect to my otherwise bland and in-cohesive babble? ;p)
Some think of writing as a mere hobby, something unproductive and a waste of time. I don’t believe that. I can’t imagine where we’d be with out the Torah, Bible, Koran and the Tripitaka, unfortunately these stories did not come to us in DVD ( like duh?! everybody knows people only had beta-max in those days, pfft!) These are written traditions that serve as cornerstones of their corresponding religions. Here’s the idea if not for writing we’d still be stuck worshiping iguanas and licking elephant shit to this day. ( fu*#kin pagan!)
While it can also be said that there have been writers who died drunk and penniless, the same holds true even for stock brokers, bankers, industrialists, prostitutes, drug abusers, oscar the grouch etc. Misfortune does not choose its victims and poverty does not pick its members. Besides I’m already broke as it is, So it doesn’t make a difference, In fact its a level up. That’s a magic of writing, it can turn a loser into an instant intellectual loser.
On a more personal note, the pen saved my soul, it provides me with an outlet for all the erratic emotions that shuffle inside me, silencing the troubles of my mind and calming the tempest in my heart.
Going back, for the sake of clarification it’s not that he can soar across the sky in a ridiculous outfit or that he can stop a rampaging locomotive by sheer grit that I admire superman, truth be told, it is how he can remain unfazed by the senseless goings on of society, his faith in people, his values and his compassion for others, that I look up to and I’m not just saying this to get laid. If more people acted like him we would all find ourselves in a better place (with padded walls, kidding), I would not have been swindled and I won’t be bankrupt today.
As for my direction? who knows? we all have our own unique calling, maybe in my case I’m better off as Lois Lane (what does Lois Lane do?) and if I’m not, then I’ve totally screwed myself over.