Holy Week reflections (sort of)

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.

For the meantime, I listen to Lux’s “Northern Lights” and daydream about the ocean.

Sunset photo here.

Media stoops, out comes excrement

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.

The ballad of Oyster Boy

These past few weeks after work, I take to drinking with the hottest, most bad-ass date I can drag from nowhere at the last minute: myself.

Not that I had a falling out with friends. They’re still out there, the flag-carrying members of the Forever Thirsty Club, all one text message away, especially if the message contains the word “beer” preceded by “free.” They’ll be in front of me in seconds, big toothy grins and all, if I want them to. I drink alone simply because, these days, I feel much more comfortable when I’m all by my lonesome.

Alone, but not lonely, I must say, as I have my Kindle to keep me company.

This started after a particularly hellish shift last January when I went to the Antipolo FX terminal near Farmer’s and saw a line of passengers stretching all the way to Ortigas Center. Since I was feeling down that time and in no mood to look at the fat old yentas and bored-looking (thus boring-looking) Singles for Christ types on the queue I decided to kill time in Cubao. In Oyster Boy near Shopwise I saw a vacant outdoor seat and a wallet-friendly price list (wallet-friendly in the age of sin tax, that is).

I’ve been an Oyster Boy regular ever since.

Of course I could also go to those watering holes in Cubao X, the go-to place of all cool people in the area. But when I’m on these solitary late-night yoga sessions the last thing I need is a hipster next table having a verbal diarrhea about art exhibits. So: Oyster Boy. They already know me there.

It’s always two beers for me. Three tops. One time I ordered four and spent the long miserable trip to Antipolo at war with my bladder. Two are enough. And then I’d leave the place feeling better than when I sat down an hour or so earlier.

Simple joys.

Why I heart Solenn

Yesterday was a rotten day weather-wise, but all Sen. Tito Sotto and the others who claimed to have been victimized by “cyber-bullies” probably saw was sunshine.

Well, why not? Despite strong opposition from various groups, the Cybercrime Prevention Act of 2012 took effect yesterday, which meant anything you say and post on the Internet from now on could be used and held against you in a court of law.

Beware, the government is saying. One wrong post and you’re off showering with the hoodlums and rapists in your friendly neighborhood city jail. Unless you learn to keep your opinion to yourself, the government will make your life more miserable than it already is, and not through additional taxes.

Solenn Heussaff: I rather have haters.

As of yesterday, nine petitions have been filed with the Supreme Court asking for a TRO on the implementation of RA 10175. Even re-electionist Sen. Chiz Escudero took a break from dating Heart Evangelista earlier this week to file a bill seeking amendments to the law. (Ooopps! Is that a libelous statement? God, no…) Results are still forthcoming.

Of course, if you’re on the other side of the fence — meaning you have either become a target of these noisy armchair revolutionaries, these gutless fucks who hide behind their MacBooks, these effin’ clowns who think they know everything, or just fed up with the know-it-all attitude  common among members of the Facebook Generation — you’ll be stroking your massive boner endlessly with this law. Finally, you’d say. Something to make these morons shut up.

Perhaps there is really a need to sanitize the Internet (kiddie smut, WTF!!!). But, hey, at the expense of a fundamental right?

As Solenn Heussaff so succinctly put it during our dinner last night (actually, on Twitter):  “I rather have haters and people bash me than have no right to freedom of speech. There are more important things to be taken care of in the Philippines than cyber-bullying.”

Right, Solenn. That’s why I love you.