The ballad of Oyster Boy

Photo1108These 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.


Entombed night

1:49 a.m. is Internet and Boracay Rum and Entombed’s Clandestine album blaring from the speakers. Can’t go wrong with old-school Swedish death metal on days when you feel like breaking things and smashing faces. I just had one of those days, and this midnight rain isn’t helping at all.

I knew from the moment I lost my hankie on my way to work that the day had turned upside down. See, I’m OC about my hankies. It troubles me no end every time I lose one. Carelessness never cease to make me feel bad about myself. Losing a hankie means I let my guard down for a moment. Someone could’ve attacked me on that moment and I won’t be writing this now.

Just think: James Bond would never lose a hankie. So there.

Entombed thinks you're all a bunch of pussies

Anyway, that seemingly trivial event was just the proverbial tip of the iceberg. Some minutes later, at the office (my own personal Hotel California), I got embroiled in a nasty top-level brouhaha that has the makings of a major king-hell bummer. Much that I want to rant about it here, I cannot because I’ll be violating company policy if I do. Let’s just say that it was the mother load of everything that went wrong in my life in recent months, and it has something to do with this dude here.

When it rains, it really pours. As if that was not enough, I also learned today that I didn’t win anything, not even a fucking consolation prize, in the writing contest I joined last October. WTF! I sent my best fighter for that particular battle, man. Oh well. Put ‘L’ for loser on my forehead, baby, because that’s exactly how I feel. No amount of pep talk can change the truth: losing sucks big time!

I hope Wednesday will be a rebound.

Absent again

Got soaked in the rain on my way home last night, and when I got home past midnight I was so tired and sleepy that I collapsed on bed with my soggy clothes on. (Kids, don’t try that at home, unless you have iron lungs or suicidal.) So this morning I woke up with hacking coughs and aching chest and the nasty feeling that everything in the world is fucked.

Anyway, will just stay in bed today and read and sleep and drink liquids and consume all the Vitamin C in the world. Also take some of those lagundi tablets for good measure. I was told they’re super effective but warned of their taste. How come anything that’s effective must taste like shit?

Here comes the pain

This entry is brought to you by Ponstan 500, Mentopas and Katinko ointment.

My right shoulder and knee are killing me. They’ve been causing me hell since last week. I don’t play much sports and have very limited physical activities aside from commuting to and from work five days a week, so I can’t figure out where all this hurt is coming from.

I wonder, though: Is 32 too young an age to be dependent on painkillers? I mean, in this day and age of major-ass, high level stress?

Speaking of stress, I’m off to work now for my daily dose of it. Hopefully those babies in the picture can keep the aches at bay. Wednesday, please be good to me…