Radio 101

It’s Monday, 8:30 a.m. I’m inside the radio lab, as usual. I’m just glad I’m not late today. Jane’s got this if-you’re-late-then-just-don’t-fucking-come-to-class-at-all thing going on in class. Well, actually, it’s still up to us if we wanna come in and learn something from our classmates’ productions. And that’s if we prefer to get shouted at and humiliated in front of 14 other people. Yet, I like that. It’s not like my classmates and I are not close friends. Getting that stuff from Jane is just a laughing matter. At least, it is for us.

We get to learn a lot of things in class. First, the basics of radio and other lecture crap like that. Yup, perhaps it’s apparent now why it’s actually called Radio 101. Then, we also get to practice how we’re supposed to talk on radio. I mean speak on radio. Whatever (And I’m doing a W-sign). Radio interview, newscast, DJ, everything. We might get good at it after some time. We might not. Who the fucking hell knows? It’s just a might. Next, there also is a fun factor during the learning process. We get a lot of fun laughing (and still laughing more) at our classmates’ screwed productions. It’s just so fun laughing at them (even the producers laugh at their own) without minding that they might get a 5.0. I just love this class (classmates, instructor, and everything in between).

Speaking of screwed productions, mine didn’t go any better this morning. There was a tape insert requirement for the newscast production. So, meaning, you’re not in any way going to get any grade other than 5.0 if you don’t have it. And what’s a tape insert? It’s basically a recording of a report (fabricated or otherwise) done in some remote place, on a cassette tape. Okay, so, I was saying, I had a tape insert, but it wasn’t on tape. ‘Twas on CD. So technically, that’s a CD insert. I knew everything was messed up. But I had this brilliant idea. I got a blank tape, told my technical director to play it in sync with my spinner. I loved the idea. I had loved acting since God knows when.

What went wrong is that my spinner didn’t follow my signals. I was mouthing a really big STOP to her but she still kept playing the track. What happened is that my professor knew my technical director had already stopped playing the tape (she was just beside her). So she got kind of surprised because she didn’t know where the hell the sound was coming from. I was just thankful it was her only reaction. She didn’t think we’re doing a whole acting thing. Finally, I covered it up by saying, “Ma’am, maybe something’s wrong with the tape, or the player.” Thank God she bought it.

Okay, so a 2.0 for that screwed-up production is not bad, right? Mediocre, yes, but not bad.

I Blog

I blog to express. Blogging, for me, has become a habit. Not a daily one, but I still do it habitually. Meaning, regularly. Well, it’s not that regular. But who cares? People subscribed to the mailing list get updates whenever a new essay’s posted, anyway. So, moving on, I find this new sort of online journalism a form of expression. A freer form of expression which has no censorship. I say whatever I wanna say. I write what’s going on in my mind, whether it makes sense or not. As I said, it’s self-expression. Sometimes I just don’t make sense. On rare occasions, however, I do. This is just so like me.

I blog to create. Yup, I blog to create essays out of my thoughts. Simply put, I create essays out of scratch. One reason for this, actually, is that I fancy getting a book published before I finish college. I know it sounds sort of ambitious to you but I’m hoping that someday, I would be known as a writer of a collection of swanky articles. I once have been told by a girl friend of mine that I *almost* write like Jessica Zafra. She’s gotta be kidding. I haven’t read any of Zafra’s books yet but I just know --- she’s gotta be kidding. One of my other reasons for writing is for the purposes of convenience. I might get assigned to write about something for a school paper. And who knows, I’ve already written something almost like what is asked of me and all I have to do is a little bit of editing.

I blog to impress. This is just so self-explanatory. Someone’s just gotta be so fucking dim-witted for him not to understand this one.

I blog to address. If something’s bothering me and I can’t tell everyone about it because I find it too hard to do it, this is how it works. I write about it, post it, and then ask my friends to check out my website. This is way easier than being verbal about the matter.

I blog to recreate. When I don’t want to express, or create, or impress, or address, then this should be it. I blog for recreation only when I’ve got nothing, as in nothing, to do. Friendster is loading so slow that I think I’m gonna have to wait like, forever, all IRC servers are lagged (fucking lagged), there are no assignments and school projects to work on (like I’m a good school guy), or life just bores me are a few instances.

And…

I blog to live. Period.

My Immortal and a Cigarette

Puff.

I'm so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears

Puff again.

And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave

And puff.

This is such a relaxing moment. Eyes closed, I listen to the great Evanescence. I can feel the warmth the music provides me amidst the darkness which looms over the room. The feeling of solitude I have right now is indescribable. This feeling is better than happiness. It’s better than love. Better than anything else. I’m not happy. I’m not in love. Yet, I love this thing I’m feeling. The melody, rhythm, and beat make me feel like I’m floating in midair. Floating. Soaring. Higher and higher. Towards a place which most people call heaven. I call it paradise.

My little bedroom, lights out, My Immortal, and a cigarette. Ah. Paradise, it is, indeed.

Puff.

Confusion. Unanswered questions. Worry. They’re all shut out. The only thing in my head is that I’m on a journey. An endless journey. An endless, beautiful journey. I travel through darkness and into the blinding light. I leave everything behind me, except my mind, my ears, and my imagination. I walk ashore, barefoot. I look at the ocean, which shows every bit and piece of my entire being. All the good things I’ve done. All the bad things I’ve done. All the things I haven’t done. And everything in between. I look up at the skies. It’s all midnight blue. There were no clouds, millions of stars, each of them shining down upon me. I whisper to the wind, “I wanna be here forever.” It echoes all across the shores, which continue to stretch farther as I walk onwards. I walk some more, occasionally pausing and feeling the cool breeze by the pale moonlight, and appreciating the sounds of nature, the sounds of the night.

Puff.

They call this meditation. I call this peace of mind. Absolute peace of mind.

How long I remained there, walking, feeling a complete person inside, I can’t remember. The only thing inside my head is the song, and the void inside me that it takes away as it plays. I don’t care if the abyss is brought back into me as the song fades. I am more than peaceful.

I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
But though you're still with me
I've been alone all along

My mind is finally at peace. I wish it were forever.

Growing Out of Mush

Do you ever notice that it’s been quite a while since I wrote about love? Yeah, it’s been months now. And do I wanna write about it again? Hmm, lemme see. Uh, no, I reckon not. And why not? I’m not sure I can answer that. Perhaps I just find it corny. Maybe I’m on a writer’s block or something. Maybe I think there’s more to life to write about than love. Or maybe, I’ve just grown out of mush.

I remember those days when I would just sit in front of my computer, connect to Blogger.com, type some senseless paragraphs, and that’s it, I’d written mush. It was really easy to do it. The words would just pop inside my head and I’m done. No thinking. No research. No consultation. No nothing. Just type and type and I’d got a new post on my blog.

Why would I write mush, anyway? Things have been happening in my life so fast, loads of them, to be exact. I’d rather write about my new hobby, my friend’s new perfume, or my horrible traffic experiences than write mush and seem so stupid to others. I guess they’re more important to me now than they were before. Love’s last on the list to be the subject of my articles. Or perhaps, second to the last. One thing is sure. It’s the least of my worries.

I had just written about a broadcast issue, which seems so far-fetched to people who personally know me. I think it’s the broadcast major in me. You know, all those communication theories being taught at school and stuff. And hey, of course I learn something in my classes! I’m not pretending here, if you don’t mind me telling you. I suppose I’ve become more mature that I pay more attention to the real world than corny stuff like mush.

Maybe I’m no longer in love. Maybe I’m over it.

I’ve grown out of mush.

And I like it.

Primetime Series Making it to the News - Reflection on the Kris-Joey Scandal

Kris Aquino. Presidential daughter. Celebrity. Game and talk show host.

Joey Marquez. Mayor of Parañaque City. Celebrity.

The two mentioned above are big names in the Philippines. Both are in show business. Both are in politics. Though Kris is not directly involved with politics, somehow, she is, indirectly. It all started some time during the previous semester. Kris surprised every Filipino not only in the country, but also others far away from home, by filing a complaint against Joey, who was at that time and known to everyone her lover. It said in the news that she was filing a complaint against him because she threatened him and put a gun to her face.

It was, indeed, the start of a tragic, yet colorful telenovela. The media and the press knew perfectly well that it would be feasted upon by everyone, especially nosy Filipinos who love nothing more than knowing what the latest in showbiz is. They knew exactly what to do, and they did it. Every television channel you switch to was airing details and updates about the scandal. ABS-CBN was airing Kris’s side of the story, and GMA 7 Joey’s. The other television channels were airing perhaps a mix of both. It was not like the whole thing was important. But they didn’t care, as long as it’s hot, or so they thought, for the Filipino audience. They would do anything to catch the audience’s attention. The air time they should have taken for news about what’s happening to the country’s economic status and political disarray went to the controversial celebrity clash. But no one cares about that gobbledygook about our economy and politics, after all. What’s happening in showbiz is way more appealing to the typical Filipino than who in the Presidential Cabinet is going to get fired and who’s going to be appointed next, or by how many dollars the stock market has deflated during the last 24 hours, anyway. With this, the news programs of each network totally forgot the essence of their existence. During that period of complete showbiz chaos, the daily news programs apparently morphed into daily talk shows, like that weekly Buzz show Kris was hosting.

Ratings. More ratings. More advertisers. More money. Yes, that’s what television networks only care[d] about.

Then came the press alongside the media. Day by day, the newspapers would come up with a new issue on the scandal. More updates, more stories, more opinions, and more versions spread through the print media. What is surprising about this is that not only the tabloids, but also the broadsheets, like the Philippine Daily Inquirer which had gained such leadership and reputation, feverishly published news about this matter. We expected better of them. Well, at the very least, I did.

Feminists also came into the scene. They fought for Kris’s rights as a woman. They were blabbing about this whole domestic violence thing and that it shouldn’t be permitted. They thought of Kris a strong woman who had more than enough courage to let the whole world know that she had STD and been battered by her lover. And the Filipino audience believed it. Some, though not really on Kris’s side, suddenly sympathized with her upon realizing the “twist” or the subplot this prrimetime-telenovela-on-the-news had for them.

The whole feminism issue is totally coincidental. It was, as far as I know, just a coincidence. The feminist groups going for Kris only accidentally found out something that would clean Kris’s name of being someone “dirty” or an unconventional woman, and make the audiences switch sides. It’s a cool twist, though not cool enough to make the whole scandal worthy of making it to the broadsheet and broadcast headlines.

Now, the craze over the scandal has died, and the press and media no longer concerned with it anymore. I am, in a way, thankful, that we don’t have to endure a 30-minute showbiz update broadcast just to get 15 minutes of tiny bits of what’s going on outside, in the real world, while watching 6-o-clock news programs.

Early Morning Musings of a Former Occultist [?]

6:00 am. I wonder. Did I perform that ritual right? Well, according to the book, I had to gather all the ingredients (which would require me to go to the Safaris, and risk my life having an early and terrible end, my body getting eaten by lions, and my privates, by deranged gorillas mistaking it for a banana, just to get hold of them), put them into a tub, fill it with water, and bathe in it upon the Friday moon light. I think I did it just fine. Oh, damn! I forgot to light three red candles before chanting the incantation and rolling over clockwise three times! Now I’m gonna have to do it again. Going butt-naked on a Friday night dipping my body in stinky muddy shit with all those itchy leaves and buds of odd plants is not funny, to tell you, let alone ridiculous. Goddamnit.

7:00 am. I’m having my breakfast at McDonald’s, reading a sentence or two in the fifth chapter of “To Light a Sacred Flame” with every bite of my Big Mac and fries. After the physical and mental digestion, I wonder again. Where the hell am I gonna get that fancy foggy crystal ball and that weird-looking pentagram-printed black cloth? I’m as sure as hell I can’t get that stuff from 7-11. From an occultism shop, perhaps. I imagine being face-to-face with a nutty occultist poser trying to give me a prediction of how young I would die and in who’s hands, through the color of the aura I am emitting which only the nutter alone can see.

7:30 am. I’m standing at the stop to catch the next bus, still reading the book while staying alert for pickpockets. Now, I muse. Who among my friends could help me make a voodoo doll out of dirty cloth and cotton balls? Ah, Kathy, probably. She used to be quite excellent in our Home Economics class back in junior high, sewing to be exact. Maybe she could help me stitch the cotton-ball-stuffed parts of the doll together into a fairly realistically-looking witch’s doll. Ugh, yeah. Maybe she could.

And who to use voodoo magic on? I dunno. I’ve absolutely no idea. Nada. Nothing. I had better master the voodoo ritual first before pondering on whom to use it on. It says in Voodoo for Dummies, “Choose a place where you will not be disturbed by external forces even for a single second. Your bedroom with its door locked would be fine. Another idea would be to perform outdoors on a Tuesday midnight, blessed by the Moon, when the power of the ancient magic of Voodoo is at its peak.” Hmm, no. That’s not the place for me to do it. I’ve seen scenes in “voodoo” movies where the performer goes to some cave-y place with stupid things hanging from the ceiling to do his ritual. Maybe it gives more spirit to what he’s doing, or something. That should do the trick.

8:00 am. I’m in class now, pretending to read “Sociological Indifferences”. “Potion-making for Potion Idiots”, being way a smaller book than my Sociology 198 textbook, gives me much opportunity to learn about the bewildering complexities of potions while sporting my usual I’m-such-a-smartass-college-kid-that-you-can’t-get-me-to-talk-to-you-while-in-class-unless-you’re-a-girl-and-you-want-me-tutor-you-at-home-tonight facial expression. Potions are a more concrete evidence of magic, and are universal, for that matter. They have ingredients (see first paragraph for more information) that you mix together, brew, and after while, drink, unlike spell magic which is only done by silly wand-waving and chanting some Latin-wannabe gobbledygook and has no certainty that it would take effect. Potion-making is universal in that the potions are fixed, definite, constant, as opposed to spell magic, where spells vary through time, from language to language.

9:30 am. The class is over. And I’ve lost interest in occultism. Maybe I might open my books once again some time in the future. And when’s the future for me? I dunno. But definitely not soon. Not as soon as a year or so. I guess doing eccentric stuff is just not my thing. Maybe it’s others’. Maybe it’s yours.

Home Alone

Mum just called. She told me to inform my big bro (and I mean literally big, because he’s more than stocky, fat for me, more like) that he’s qualified for training at the Emirates Training School in Dubai and that it was about time he started getting his papers processed. His passport, authenticated high school diploma, and other fluffy stuff he’s gonna need. Yeah, I’m talking about his high school diploma. He’s never graduated from college. He’s 23 and I’m a semester ahead of him. And I guess, for taking this month-long training to become a full-fledged airplane helper cum flight attendant, he never will. Maybe he wasn’t really trimmed by God as a school person.

Then, another call from mum telling me that my little sis (she’s not really little, I’m taller than she is by only about an inch or two, and she’s 14) will be with them too, and continue her study abroad. I thought it was sort of premature (earlier than expected?), because they’ve always been planning on taking her back with them after high school graduation and sending her to art school somewhere in Europe for college. Well, it's their plan. It's not like I can tell them what to do with their children.

My siblings are going to be with my parents in the Middle East for quite some time. And for that, I’m happy for them. My grams and the maid are gonna leave in summer too. They reckoned I’m a grownup already, and I could carry on by myself. And now, that leaves me home alone. I mean, would-be home alone.

I know they’re going to enjoy their company.

I know I’m going to enjoy my solitude.

Solitude? That’s hilarious. This is gonna be the start of the greatest times of my life. All my friends are gonna come over, of course. I can almost sense the Saturday-night-home-parties, Sunday-morning-throw-ups, curfew-free weekdays, and road trips to the farthest places in the country. It’s gonna be super fun to be independent.

This is too much of a summer gift to not take advantage of. I’d rather not receive any more gifts in a century than lose this opportunity. This freedom.

I can’t wait.

Harry Potter Fan on the Harry Potter Craze

Avada Kedavra!

Ah, yes. That’s just one of the curses I’ve learned from reading the Harry Potter books. As many of us have known for eons, it’s the killing curse. It kills a person instantly with a flash of sickly green light. That was why it had been tagged as one of the three unforgivable curses. The other two are the Cruciatus curse, cast by chanting “Crucio” and pointing one’s wand at another, which inflicts total torture to the poor victim, and the Imperius curse, chanting “Imperio” now, which causes the victim to be completely under the command of the caster, who can make him do anything he wishes.

Sounds cool, huh? I wish it were true, really. But then again, there would have been more deaths than ever. And more and more evil spreading throughout the entire country. Imagine the possibility of killing someone cleanly, and I mean cleanly, without the slightest bit of evidence that would count against you. No more nutty professors giving out 5.0s here and there. No more know-it-all assholes from other colleges looking down upon yours. And the best of it all, no more meatheads causing the terrible traffic jam along Katipunan Avenue so unbearable that you would rather wanna walk instead of drive your way to the university which is what, only a kilometer or less away from where you’re stuck. The possibilities are endless. You could always break your wand and get a new one at Olivander’s, just in case you feared your wand would betray you. You are limited only by your own imagination. So think hard. Utilize your brain cells. Do yourself a favor.

Yeah, I admit. I am a Harry Potter fan and I am sooo afflicted by this Harry Potter fever. I have all five hardbound books in my shelf, which I’ve read like, 5 times each already. I think I’ve almost memorized the more important parts of each book. And still, I’m rereading Goblet of Fire now. It’s really fun reading the “Task parts” of the book. They’re so action-packed that you’d think you were in the scene, watching Harry use his Firebolt to fly around that dragon and get the egg thingy, fight all those spear-and-lasso-armed merpeople, and save Ron and Hermione and that other veela girl down that river with that infamous I’ve-saved-another-person’s-ass look on his face.

Do I own the home videos? Now you ask. Of course I do. I love the special effects. They seem very realistic. Too realistic to be true, in my opinion. I love Emma Watson too. Such a lovely face to be seen in a children’s movie. I’ve played the DVDs so many times that I can’t get the DVD player to play them anymore. Talk about the unreliability of digital media-on-disc. I swear I’d rather have a copy of these movies on video cassette.

I also surf the internet for updates, press releases, and stuff about the upcoming movies and books. From what I’ve read, the new director of the latest film “Harry Potter and the Prison of Azkaban” is Alfonso Cuaron. He was the director of “Y Tu Mama Tambien” (And My Mother Also), a movie about someone, filmed in a language I don’t even bother to understand, and became a hit somewhere in the world, probably in Latin America. Big deal. Like I care about this movie.

I am 18 years old now and yet I still feel like an 11-year-old. I will never last a day without playing my Chamber of Secrets computer game, flicking a page of one of the books, and checking out Mugglenet.com for the latest HP news. I know I’m sure I’m still a child inside, finding refuge in this little story about a [physically and emotionally] scarred boy. Still imagining. Still hoping. Still wishing. That one day in my life, I would receive an owl or a “fellytone” call, informing me that I would be taken out of this technology-driven Muggle world, and into the world of magic, where I could swish-and-flick my wand at something and say “Wingardium Leviosa” without the fear of being seen or heard and thought of as a delusional Harry Potter wannabe.