Harry Potter and My Uncle with Tendencies to Filicide

Last night, there was a moment when I actually acquired interest in Harry Potter. I was drinking all afternoon with my knucklehead cousins after Sunday lunch at my lola’s house. Also on the menu were raw oysters , sashimi, and some down home good ol’ clan in-fighting (sobering thought: You can pick your friends. You can pick your nose. But you can’t pick your relatives as well as your relatives’ noses). When I got home soused like a two-bit wino, I sat my ass down in front of the TV. HBO had on “Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets.” I got to that point in the movie when graffiti was found on a wall at Hogwart’s and the janitor’s (or whoever the hell he is) cat got flattened and hanged. The janitor was looking at Harry Potter as the vandal and the pussy killer. I thought for a second that I really wanted to see what would happen next. However, I fell asleep and when I woke up thirty minutes later I went back to thinking that the movie was a flaming piece of crap.

Suffice it to say that I’ve never read a word of any of the Harry Potter books. I wouldn’t be interested in reading books which my ten-year old niece finds absolutely riveting. She feels the same way about the Nancy Drew books so should I try reading those as well? I’ve also never seen any of the movies. I have hellish visions of kids wearing pointy hats in attendance at the movie theater if I ever did. I’ve also been lucky so far not to have dated anyone who likes Harry Potter. Perhaps it’s a conscious decision on my part not to date anyone who wants to watch a series of movies about a spunky sorcerer trainee - not unless you change “sorcerer” to “nympho crack whore” and “trainee” to “Britney Spears.”

More than anything, the reason for this entry is just to show a point of interest: What would it take for me to give a shit about Harry Potter even for just a very brief moment? Going through the series of events yesterday, these are: a whole afternoon of drinking, oysters, sashimi, and my uncle threatening to wring my cousin’s neck. Of course, everything’s just speculation and may be just one of these factors could do it. I’m kinda hoping it’s the last one though because that cousin of mine is one gigantic asshole.

Fini

“Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

“Where were you?”

“I was on my way to meet you here and I passed by a jewelry store.”

“Why?”

“I saw this beautiful pair of diamond earrings on display and I went in and asked about them. The lady working there was so nice about my questions.”

“What questions?”

“I asked how much they were. She said that since the pair had a one of a kind design that the price was pretty steep – fifty thousand. And so I asked if the store could help out with some sort of financing plan if I get them.”

“Oh, J, you didn’t…”

“Well, they couldn’t give them to me interest free if I use my card since my limit’s not going to be enough. I’d have to ask for an increase for my card first. I could pay half in cash and charge the other half, interest free, but I’m not that liquid right now.”

“Tell me you didn’t…”

“The store had a lay-away plan where I could pay five thousand a month and so I…”

“Please tell me you didn’t get the earrings.”

“Well, I did…leave and there was a Warner Bros. store nearby and I got you this Tweety head bath toy instead.”

“I love it! Thanks. I’m just glad you weren’t crazy enough to buy me the diamond earrings.”

“Well, it’s just a stupid toy but then…shake Tweaty and then you’ll find out.”

“There’s something inside, ah. Oh, J, don’t tell me the earrings are inside. I’ll kill you if you got them for me.”

“Oh, no! I just wanted to show you there’s a squeaker inside and that it makes a noise when you squeeze it.”

Self-consciously Unselfconscious

I am quitting my job soon. No, I’m not moving to another company. I’m not taking up my masters. My brilliant plan is to be a bum – the uberbum. By choice. Having said all of that, there are many things that I absolutely will not miss when I leave my place of employ. One of these would be having to share the bathroom with these pricks (literally!) who work for a different company and which is also a tenant on the same floor as we are.

I hate these assholes because they certainly take their time in the bathroom. They actually go just so they can preen, yes that’s right, preen in front of the mirror ( I’ve actually clocked one of them preening for a good ten minutes). These guys don’t have to do No. 1 nor No. 2 but just to check if their hair looks any different from the last time they looked about ten minutes ago – you know, if a strand moved a microinch and ruined the whole effect they were aiming for. These fuckers are vain, I think, because they’re young – just recently spewed from the diploma mill from whence they came. The company they work for, I’ll call it Assenture, is notorious for getting em fresh and young – just like a pedophile. Now, I wouldn’t call any of these asswipes metrosexuals as their apparent concern for their looks do not belie the fact that they have really poor fashion sense. To them, a long-sleeve shirt is fashionable by itself, no matter how ill-fitting or worn out it looks – allow some proximity and I swear there’s the faint scent of ukay-ukay mothballs.

As for me, I am a little self-conscious about my personal appearance – but then again, who isn’t, right? I do admit to wearing certain accouterments that would brand my ass as typical yuppie (does anyone still use this word?) scum. One time, I joined this German colleague in meeting with another German guy who heads the Philippine branch of a Swiss company. I had to note that the three of us were wearing the same brand of Swiss watch.

Honestly, I never wanted to be the kind of person to observe such things. I think about the presiding geniuses in my life and I bet that not one of them owned Gucci loafers: Buddha, Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking, Richard Dawkins, William Shakespeare.

And there is this one old woman in a bus whose name will be lost to me forever. She was seating in front of me in that bus when I was still carless back in college. There was another woman with her and they were deep in conversation. My old woman (note the possessive) was eating a corn in a cob. You know how corn bits would get stuck in between your teeth, right? And so it happened to my old woman because when she was done, she made sucking noises in an attempt to tongue-vacuum the little bastards out. Apparently, some of the corn bits laid siege and would not evacuate and so she proceeded to take her false teeth out and remove the suckers by picking them with her thumbnail. All this time, she didn’t skip a beat in maintaining her conversation with the other woman.

I remember thinking back then that I wish I could be that unselfconscious in public when I got old – that I wouldn’t give a shit about what people would say if I suddenly took off my pants at a Starbucks because it was just too fucking humid. But, hot damn, I still give a shit. Sigh.

Did you hear about Thai Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra's 60 million pound bid for a 30% stake in Liverpool Football Club?

Apparently, the Lopezes of ABS-CBN and Meralco are making a more impressive bid in buying the LA Lakers basketball team. If successful, the team is going to be henceforth called the LA Lopez.

The Road to Hell

Scenes from my drive to work this morning:

I heard Ryan Adam’s rehash of the Oasis classic “Wonderwall” on the radio. It was horrible. He stripped it barer and so he took away the best thing about the song – the accoustic guitar strum. You know, the DYAN DYAN DYAN DYA-DYAN DA DA DYAN DYAN DYAN DYA-DYAN intro that’s the backbone of the song – its sine qua non. Its raison d’etre. Adams did a little right by changing the tempo and groove but this way, it’s become more depressing than the original ever was. After listening to it, I wanted to kill myself by crashing the car head on to a MERALCO post. He should have taken lessons on REHASHING 101 from the self-proclaimed jazz hobbit Jamie Cullum who did a magnificent cover of Radiohead’s “High and Dry.” Cullum’s a jazz musician and his version absolutely rocks – technically the song sounds absolutely different as it crossed the wide Saragossa Sea that stretches the two genres of alternative rock and jazz but the heart, man, the heart of the original still beats on the cover version. Hand me that bong, will you dude?

I saw a Mitsubishi Adventure AUV with blue diplomatic plates. Who owns this piece of shit? The Embassy of The Republic of Can’t-afford-an-Expedition? Whatever country owns this Adventure must be falling on tough, tough times. I guess it has an ex-movie star has-been action king for a president.

There’s the 1998 Corolla which still had its Conduction Sticker on its rear windshield in a bid, I would assume, to offer the illusion that it’s still brand new. I don’t get these car owners who won’t take off the Conduction Sticker even though the car it’s stuck to is, oh, six years old. Is there some sort of sentimental value inherent in these stickers that would cause a fierce connection between the car with the sticker and the car owner? Well, how about putting that sticker on your wife’s ass so you’ll love her more and perhaps devote the same time and energy in caring for her as you do in maintaining that sticker on your piece of shit car.

There was a fat guy who did that fake run when he was caught in the middle of a pedestrian lane when it was the cars’ turn to go. You know that fake run - it looks like Olympic power walking where you have both arms bent and swinging and you’re walking like you’ve just soiled your underwear with your inner thighs swishing together. Its only purpose is to give the illusion of speed but only exerting approximately 10% of the energy and effort a real sprint requires. What’s up with that? You don’t run like that when you’re being chased by an axe murderer, right?

LA Haters

I hate the Lakers. I hate them even more after they won Game 5 of the Western Conference Semi-Finals against the reigning NBA champs, San Antonio Spurs. Get this, the Spurs were ahead by a point, the time left in the ball game was 0.4 seconds (that’s a fourth of a goddamn second not four seconds), and that asswipe Derek Fisher makes the game winning 18-footer off an inbound pass: 74-73. Fuck. This debacle siphoned off the collective spunk of the Spurs and they were eliminated in Game 6.

Now I’m not much of a fan either of the Spurs as they come from San Antonio which is…well, I don’t know anything about this city at all. Oh yeah, The Alamo’s there and…well, that’s it. I just have a creeping suspicion that it’s a place chockful of white people. Specifically, white old guys.

But the Lakers! There’s no middle ground for these assholes. It’s either you love ‘em or you hate ‘em. They’re divisive and troublesome. Why? It’s because they’re too damn good. They’re virtually unbeatable and therefore boring and predictable. At least with the Jordan-era Bulls, you’re guaranteed drama on the hardcourt because, well, the four other players with Jordan were ciphers. Jordan had to bear the weight of his team mates and then play against five other guys from the opposing team. A one man wrecking crew was he. On the other hand, everyone on the Lakers team is good. This season, they’ve even added Karl Malone and Gary Peyton for good measure. Plus, that crafty old lunatic Phil Jackson’s still got some mojo-jedi-new age-coaching tricks up his sleeve.

On the face it, the Lakers should be my favorite team. After all, I lived in Los Angeles for awhile and my mom lives there now. But, as you know, the geographical connection to the names of the NBA teams is tenuous at best. That is, they don’t mean shit. The reason why the word “Lakers” was ever attached to Los Angeles was because the former team owners were based in Minnesota. The new owners were lazy enough not to go through the hassle of defeating the apparent incongruity of the team name. This was also true for the other teams like the Utah Jazz (originally from New Orleans) and the San Antonio Spurs -- oh wait -- “Spurs” has always been used by San Antonio. The place just didn’t have any special cultural or social feature worthy enough to name the team after -- except the common boot spur which is used by cowboys to inflict pain on defenseless horsies to make them giddiyap faster.

So, for all intents and purposes, the real NBA Finals has already been played. C’mon, no team in the Eastern Conference is good enough to outclass the Lakers. Let me say that the LA Lakers are a class by themselves. In fact, they've pretty much put the “ass” in “class.”

Stretched

There’s this woman at the office who’s fond of wearing stretch pants. They’re all the rage now I think. Everywhere I look, I see all kinds of ladies wearing the same kind of stretch pants – light colored and the material so thin that panty lines are literally popping out.

Being a guy, I shouldn’t mind that my lady officemate deems it appropriate office wear but I fucking do. There she is at the photocopier and her butt’s just right there for you to see. Now she’s at the water dispenser bending over to give you a more intimate look of her panty lines.

Honestly, I try to look away but I can’t – just like what they say about seeing an accident on the side of the road. I don’t know why I don’t find the whole stretch pants thing on her appealing like the way she thinks it is. Maybe it’s because she’s, um, old and so should aim for something more conservative fashionwise. Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t wear thongs and the obvious panty lines make me think that she’s walking around the office half-naked all the time? Fuck, no. I’d puke at the mental image of her wearing thong underwear. (Excuse that sound –it’s just my skin crawling)

I think the whole thing is akin to being at a stoplight and there’s this guy wearing cycling shorts on a racer bike waiting ahead of you. There’s the guy bent over and his glorious ass is sticking out in those tight shorts. What do you do? Look away? If you do, you won’t see the traffic light changing and you’ll stay there a few seconds longer than you have to and everyone will think that you’re checking out some guy’s ass.

The only way I can deal with this problem is to wait it out and avoid her as much as I can. It’s not so easy because it’s a small office but it’s nice to know that I’m not a total manyak and I draw the line somewhere. But wait out for what you ask? Well, the tides of fashion to wash over the stretch pants look and bring in something different - hey, how about those baggy MC Hammer genie pants?

Is it just me or does reelectionist Senator Aquilino Pimentel look like Dr. Zaius from "Planet of the Apes?"

To wit (and guess who the hell is who):

I wrote the following short story about three years ago in reaction to those cutesie-puppy-lovesie stories I constantly receive through email. You know about these. Remember that one about this loser who was in love with the cashier of a CD store but never had the guts to ask her out? What he didn’t know was that the girl was sending him messages hidden in the CD’s he bought. But when the chance came for something to finally happen, the guy dies. Now, I wasn’t expecting a Kevin Spacey is Keyser Soze kinda twist but, please, the guy dying in the end bit was pretty lame. Erich Segal had all but milked that breast dry in “Love Story” , oh, THIRTY YEARS AGO.

So here’s my short story. It’s longish but not long (huh?) so bear with me a little. Pssssst…nobody dies in the end.

Rocky’s Precious Pebble

The pebble made a clacking noise. Willow awoke with a start. Immediately she knew that Rocky was throwing pebbles at her window. She turned on her bedside lamp—a sign to Rocky that she was getting up to go to her window.

Indeed, there he was: Rocky with a smile so bright that it outshone the full moon. Willow put her robe and went down to meet him.

They have been meeting like this—every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at eleven thirty. For close to three months, nobody was the wiser. Both their parents certainly did not know and not even their respective siblings. These nights were their nights. Nobody and nothing else mattered to them. Not that they did anything that would concern their parents so much to give them heart attacks. Rocky and Willow would just talk and hold hands and when he said good-bye, they would kiss but only briefly and this would be enough.

And so it was tonight.

Rocky Van Doren and Willow White lived in two grand houses on the same street in a suburb of Connecticut. The Van Dorens were old money. Rocky’s great-great-great-grandfather made his fortune in steel. The Whites were nouveau riche. Willow’s father was the CEO of a Wall Street investment bank and a golfing buddy of the President whenever he happened to be in New York. Willow’s family moved into the posh neighborhood from Washington D.C. four months ago.

Rocky’s parents were never the friendly sort and mostly kept to their circle of friends. This exclusivity precluded any opportunity for the couple to meet the Whites. But it was a different story for Rocky and Willow. As the bleached cliche went, it was love at first sight.

That was a Saturday and Rocky was at the expansive Van Doren front lawn with Bluffy his Suffolk Terrier. The moving vans first arrived next door and then a Volvo station wagon. Out came Willow and her mother, Rocky saw. Willow was wearing a crisp white shirt and khaki shorts that warm spring morning. Rocky couldn’t take his eyes off her. Soft brown hair framed a delicate face with almond eyes.

Willow turned his way and saw Bluffy. She loved dogs. In fact, she was missing her Oxford Retriever which she left behind in D.C. She came to Rocky and patted Bluffy.

“He likes you, “ said Rocky.

“Well, I like him too,” Willow said with a smile and she was beautiful.

They started talking and, it seemed to both of them that they couldn’t stop. There were never the uncomfortable gaps that punctuated usual conversations. They had so much to talk about: their respective life stories, dogs, astronomy, vanilla ice cream, and even school. Willow once read about soul mates and now thought that she had found hers in Rocky.

One time at dinner, Rocky opened the discussion about their new neighbors, the Whites. Could he invite them for dinner?
Rocky asked. His dad’s furrowed eyebrows managed to move even closer at the thought.

“Out of the question! Can’t you see that that family is bla...” he said without finishing his rhetorical question.

Mrs. Van Doren asked Rocky, “Have you met the Whites?”

“I’ve met one of the daughters. Her name’s Willow and...” Rocky stopped mid-sentence. He was about to say that he’s been seeing lot of her lately but he saw his father’s glare across the long dining table. He felt disgusted and bitter. Not really because of his father’s intolerance towards the Whites, he expected that, but that he actually that his father could go beyond his narrow-mindedness and meet this great family.

And so Rocky and Willow kept their friendship secret. He was just thankful that a gravel path led to the flower bed below Willow’s window where he could find his precious pebbles.

However, love’s that fettered will find a way to break out. No matter how strong the chains that bind, the gilded cage that traps. Rocky decided that his secret meetings with Willow weren’t enough for him anymore. He needed to tell the world of his love for Willow. His parents and everybody else be damned. And so he told Willow of his plan for the two of them to runaway.

“Are you crazy? That would only get us into more trouble!” Willow gasped.

“We won’t be going that far. We can go to New York. My brother Dickey has a house there. Believe me, this is the only way we can tell our parents that we are in love. When my father’s faced with the inevitable, I know he’ll come around.” Rocky assured her.

“Willow, do you love me?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Wait for me Saturday night. Have your stuff ready and I’ll throw a pebble at your window at eleven thirty.”


And so the fateful time came to pass. Rocky was at the gravel path with the precious pebble. The nighttime sky was dark and moonless and he could only make out the huge shadow that was the White’s house bearing down on him. He had to admit that he was nervous but the emotion had to be subdued. This was the most important thing he’d ever done in his young life.

Rocky threw the pebble. This was an act that he’s gotten used to doing so much that each small movement leading to the release happened instinctively. He didn’t have to think about it. He heard a thud and waited.

Willow couldn’t sleep that night. She knew she had to get some sleep before Rocky came but she was very excited. All her life she had thought of meeting a guy who would sweep her away to a grand adventure. This was certainly it. Rocky was that guy. And so Willow had been standing at her window since nine o’ clock in breathless anticipation.

Sunday morning was crisp and bright and Rocky thought that by now Willow and him would have been in New York having breakfast. But he was in his room wondering what happened to Willow. He called her at four in the morning but she didn’t answer. Could her parents have caught wind of their plans and stopped her from seeing Rocky forever? This was too much. He had been thinking of what to do now that his plan failed miserably.

He decided to talk to the Whites and tell them everything. May be he could get them to talk to his parents.

Eight o’ clock happened and Rocky was at the White’s porch ringing the door bell. This was it. The moment of truth. It’s now or never.

He thought that it took forever for the door to open when he heard the door knob turn. Mr. White stood in front of him and Rocky saw the saddest eyes he had ever seen.

“Yes?” Mr. White asked.

“I’ve come to see Willow, sir,” Rocky responded nervously.

“My God! You haven’t heard?”

“What sir?” Rocky stuttered.

“Willow died last night.”

“But, but, she seemed okay to me. I didn’t know that she was terribly ill...” Rocky began to sob.

“No, you dang fool! Cerebral hemorrhage. Somebody threw a goddamn pebble at her!”

In Decision 2004

It’s been three days since the national elections on May 10. At this point, the TV networks are done with their coverage of the big event. The biggest two, ABS-CBN and GMA, started with a marathon 30-hour coverage starting from the morning of May 10, and stretching through noon time of May 11. The other networks piggybacked on the coverage of the government owned NBN.

ABS-CBN’s coverage was called “Halalan 2004.” The network made sure that it had a reporter giving live feed from strategic spots in Metro Manila. Its coverage in the Visayas and Mindanao was a little spotty though as it relied on local reporters of affiliated stations. A boneheaded decision, I think, was made when talents from the news and entertainment divisions were both utilized in the election coverage in the name of that current management buzzword “synergy.” So, you had Bayani Agbayani playing it serious like a bad case of venereal disease giving voters advice on going to the polls early and preparing a list beforehand. Get this, they even had stars (I use this term rather loosely) from the entertainment talent pool manning the telephones to receive complaints relative to the electoral exercise. These are the same people who appear in the network’s soap operas as mermaids or gay bestfriends. How would you feel if you risk your life telling the media that you are a witness to a ballot snatching incident in your town ruled by a warlord and you’ve got Smokey freaking Manaloto on the other line? After the voting ended at three in the afternoon, the anchors fell over themselves trying to provide as soon as humanly possible the latest standing of the presidential candidates though their quick count – the better to start “trending” and get a good guess who’s gonna win the grand prize. Fine, right? Well, yeah, except that the results came from the first and only precinct at that point and so you’ve got results in the single digits for the bottom three presidential candidates. I swear I heard one anchor say, “These results are unofficial and preliminary but going by the trend, GMA’s in a tight race with FPJ as she’s ahead by only five votes.”

GMA’s coverage was called “Eleksyon 2004.” The promo featured all the anchors and talents from their reportorial pool decked in custom made suits. I’m not kidding. The network actually got Celia Umali or some other modista to do the uniforms for the reporters. And the network was ballsy too in their promo spots for the coverage. This was supposed to be the “most comprehensive” and “most credible.” Are you kidding me? Well, I’ll give them “most comprehensive” admittedly, only because they had reporters doing “stand-uppers” (thanks Sandra Aguinaldo for making me aware of this term) in more areas nationwide compared to ABS-CBN. But “most credible?” What the fuck? What’s your basis for making this rather lofty claim? Oh, I get it. Since you’re the only network who has the audacity to make the ugliest guy on television, Mike Enriquez, one of your lead anchors, this makes you credible? Noble maybe but “most credible?” Please. You’re no more credible than that COMELEC Commissioner Rex Borja who has apparently more chins than a Chinese phonebook. Then again, I may just be biased against GMA’s coverage because that fathead Arnold Clavio’s one of its anchors. GMA also went with the whole synergy bullshit and got its Starstruck nitwits manning the phones. Again, what’s the whole point of these numbnuts who aren’t even old enough to vote to take in voter complaints? And the commercials! What the hell? How can you be remotely credible when you’ve got liquor and cigarette companies financing your news coverage?

On NBN’s coverage of the election, I really can’t make a comment on because nobody gives a shit about this network.

Rest House

Last week at work, I was on the way up in an elevator and this girl and her two companions got on one of the floors. She was yapping about spending her weekend at her friend’s parents’ rest house in Batangas.

That got me thinking about rest houses. Specifically: What job on this Earth taxes a person so physically that it would necessitate that person to spend some time in an infrastructure (the “rest house”) for the purposes of relaxation and recuperation?

The only jobs that fit the bill for me would either be that of a ditch digger’s or a stevedore’s and in my whole life I’ve never heard of or read about an instance of anyone in each vocation owning a rest house. In fact as sure as I am that Carson Kressley is the gayest gay guy in the annals (pun intended!) of gayest gay guys, all the ditch diggers and stevedores in this world, without exception, have never even entertained the thought of owning a rest house. This is because they’re busy hauling ass to earn money for their basic necessities such as gin or rugby.

Rest houses, matter of factly, are owned by millionaire businessmen and senior executives who do nothing all day but sit on their asses behind solid oak desks playing god. The damnedest thing is that they exert no physical effort at all in the execution of their duties to get to the point of extreme fatigue that would then necessitate spending some time in a rest house.

So what’s the best term to use if not the incorrect and pretentious “rest house?” How about calling it a “fuck you house?” As in, I’m rich enough to have a house along the beach which I don’t have any use for whatsoever so, fuck you.