It’s been a while since my last Dexter episode. Once I was so hooked to this show that there were times when I’d hear Michael C. Hall’s voice — that unique, deadpan drawl — in my head. But after season 4, which was awesome and best remembered for John Lithgow as a bad-ass serial killer, the succeeding seasons saw the series drifting south. Consequently, it drifted off my radar, too.
Secrets revealed: Debra and Dexter Morgan
Last Sunday night, however, finding ourselves with a DVD copy of the complete season 7 courtesy of my brother, Charmaine and I decided to give the series a whirl just for the heck of it. It only took two episodes for us to agree that the season has promise. Its Dexter vs. an organized crime this time, with sister Debra, who finally learned all about his “dark passenger,” providing distractions on the side. We hope we’ll not be disappointed.
“Most of the young men of talent whom I have met in this country give one the impression of being somewhat demented. Why shouldn’t they? They are living amidst spiritual gorillas, living with food and drink maniacs, success-mongers, gadget innovators, publicity hounds. God, if I were a young man today, if I were faced with a world such as we have created, I would blow my brains out.” — Henry Miller in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare, his brutal, unabashed take on American capitalism and abject materialism
Imagine reading this in Makati (or in The Fort or Ortigas Center or Eastwood or other such places), at a Starbucks perhaps while waiting for somebody, and looking at the suits and ties around you fiddling with their iPhones and Blackberrys and Samsung whatevers, or hunched over their MacBook Pros, or engaged in passionate talk on topics ranging from social media to Steve Jobs to getting a tan to market analysis, and you realize, Jesus!, Miller’s words are as true today in my country as they were in 1945 America.
And then you wonder if that feeling you have is amazement or disgust.
Done with my Holy Wednesday shift, which means it’s the end of the workweek for me and many others. Although I still have to clock in my nine hours on Good Friday (because we at the news business have no real breaks, yo), it will be from home, so no biggie. I picture myself on our balcony, the netbook in front of me, perhaps a tall glass of orange juice beside it, fucking around the Internet more than working. Unless something big happened, of course. God forbid the president chokes on a fish bone that day and be rushed to the ICU.
On Maundy Thursday, however, I chill. TV, books, bike rides. Except for quality time with my girls, all are existential pleasures. So the question: How to attain such near-bliss — if not total bliss — on a spiritual level? The Adam Yauch tribute in Rolling Stone, which I had the pleasure of reading yesterday over lunch, seems to hint it’s by taking the Buddhist path (many Kerouac books also say the same thing). Henry Miller in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare suggests it’s by abandoning the city (and all the things it stands for) to the simplicity and beauty of the countryside. I see their point, and I believe them; I just don’t have the balls for such life-altering adventures for now.
Forgive me for puking. I just spent a week neck-deep in media excrement. So strong was the stench that even up to now, on a fine Saturday night away from the newsroom, with the TV and radio turned off and Firefox clear of any news site, I still get whiffs of its wet, cloying smell. Thanks a lot, social media.
Never before have I seen the media unload two big ones at such close proximity. On one fly-blown clump we have the Heart Evangelista-Chiz Escudero “love story” (I’m using quotation marks because unlike Inday next door, I believe there is a shadowy PR group behind all this, either working for or against Chiz). Reportedly, Heart’s parents disapprove of their May-December “affair,” accusing the senator of breaking their family and of being a drunk. They say Chiz should leave their daughter alone or face charges. To show that they’re serious, they held a press conference, generously granted interviews, issued at least one press release that I know of. And the media sucked it all up like it’s the only important thing happening out there.
Not entirely true, because as this was developing, another one of media’s liquid diarrhea — in the form of the Kris Aquino-James Yap war — splashed on our TV screens. Unlike the farce that was the Heart-Chiz love-conquers-all drama, this one leveled up by involving courts and big-name lawyers. The juicy bits: Kris seeks temporary protection order from court after incident where James, her ex-husband, allegedly tried to rape her in front of their five-year-old son Bimby. Court grants TPO, effectively banning James from getting near Kris, Bimby. James fights back by asking court to issue hold departure order to prevent Kris and Bimby from flying to France over the weekend. Court junks petition… but not before ordering both parties to shut up. Amid all this we are treated to Kris Aquino being portrayed in several news reports as a suffering princess, a modern-day damsel in distress trapped up there in the cold lonely tower, complete with exclusive one-on-one interviews and prime slots on evening news programs. Indeed, what should have been rightfully consigned to weekend afternoon showbiz talk shows has become of national significance. Coming at the heels of her brother’s big blunder in Malacanang in handling the Sabah issue, the timing of this controversy is just suspect. (For a brutally honest take on this, check out Spinbusters’ “Busted: Kris Wags the Dog, Saves the King.”) I wouldn’t put a trick like that past this administration, which has steadily built itself more on image than substance.
So there. Two big, malodorous dumps; one sick-to-his-stomach news junkie.