Sweet, Sweet Sacrilege

18 11 2010

Click on this image for further details.

If you believe that your body is your own business, that religion should hold no clout over how this country is run, and that getting excommunicated is peanuts compared to a future with no true freedom to choose — and I sure as hell do — please come to next Friday’s Excommunication Party c/o of the Filipino Freethinkers at Adarna Food and Culture, Nov. 26, starting 6 PM.

There’ll be good food, great entertainment — including filthy, filthy games — and the opportunity to sign your name up for excommunication. It’s going to be awesome and good for humanity, yo! Yeehaw!





Pucker Up

10 11 2010

Quack.

Behold my duckface.  Duckfacing is apparently a huge trend amongst today’s youth, and I have taken a shine to it quite quickly, as I appreciate its subtle evolution from the standard kissy face.

The above photo was taken the day my fellow Filipino Freethinkers and I visited the Myth of the Human Body exhibit in Taguig. Couldn’t hide my excitement, obviously, as we were just moments away from a building full of this:

Plastinated corpses are very awesome. Was a pity there weren’t any non-human animal corpses on display — other countries’ exhibits have them, and word is that the latest creature to be preserved in all its meaty glory is an elephant (!!!) — but it was still a great experience. For a mere Php 350, you’ll get to see stuff you won’t likely see anywhere else. And a few dozen penises.

Sweet, innocent people.

Photography isn’t allowed until the very end of the exhibit, where you and your friends will have to make do with a wall-sized poster and a couple of cardboard cutouts. But that was okay, because I still got to duckface! (Click on photo for bigger duckface goodness.) So, that’s me duckfacing with the impossibly hot Freethinker gang…

In a state of undress.

…and this is me duckfacing with my man-slave, who is not duckfacing because he is, like, totally lame. This, by the by, is the only time you will ever see me sporting actual muscles, because I am quite jiggly in real life.

Again, the exhibit is definitely worth it, although you shouldn’t expect to get totally creeped out; it’s not that kind of deal. And you’re better off without a tour guide, because ours was too, well, uninformed.

You can find the exhibit at the NeoBabylon Building, 9 Bayani Road, AFPOVAI, Taguig, which is a building you will not miss as it is festooned with huge plaster Greek gods and a few of their topless babes (refer to the first pic).

And the duckface? So worth adopting, if only because doing so will allow you to take part in one of today’s grandest cultural movements, one so particularly significant that it has been commemorated quite stirringly in the audio-visual presentation herewith. Cheers.





Mandatory Post-Baguio Boitday Inggitan Blog Entry

15 09 2010

Babe(?) in the woods.

Baguio’s always awesome, and last weekend’s last-minute birthday getaway was worth it. It was 3 days and 2 nights of being happy and cold and well-fed, and I wouldn’t have traded it for the usual pity party I throw myself each year — the one involving me, a mall, a bit of saved-up cash, and a false sense of abandon.

True, the place wasn’t as cold as it used to be, but it was still sufficiently nippy. Still had that crisp mountain chill. And it rained quite a bit when we were there, which made the air a bit more freezetastic. Hay, I hate the sun.

"Miss, magkano?"

The man-slave, of course, was in tow. Besides being excellent arm-meat throughout this adventure, he was also an excellent haggler, which made finding good accommodations at 4:30 AM a piece of cake. In case anyone was wondering, it was a clean room in a transient lodge, with a queen-sized bed, cable TV, your own bathroom with a hot shower, daily breakfast, and proximity to Burnham Park. 1k a night. A very sweet deal.

Take THAT, lesser attractive tourist couple!

The man-slave hadn’t been to Baguio in a while, so we went to the usual tourist-ridden spots. Asked a stranger to have our picture taken at the Mines View suicide ledge (after he stopped staring in disbelief at our disposable camera); bought jams and cookies from nuns; mocked the swan boat riders at Burnham Park; scrambled through the rickety wagwagan labyrinth, etc.

The man-slave wanted to have our picture taken in full-on Igorot garb next to a full-on lola Igorot, but there was only so much blatant cultural exploitation I could take.

The fat of the land.

Most of our time was really spent eating, though. Had the best birthday breakfast ever at my all-time fave Cafe by the Ruins: butter-smothered French toast with honey-citrus syrup, fresh fruit, serious slabs of bacon, butter-smothered tuna/salmon sandwich, soft herbed bread with sharp herbed cheese, baked kamote fries, and the strongest cups of coffee. Goddamn.  And the best part: a large pizza in Manila cost more than our final bill.

Eating the fat of the land.

Speaking of pizzas, we also latched on to Vizco’s, this non-descript den of deliciosity on Session Road which served tasty, tasty Italian food and the best strawberry shortcake bar none. Wrap n’ Roll at Camp John Hay’s Filling Station was also awesome; their beef kebabs were as thick as textbooks.

The fat of the land (is in my thighs).

And no last-second vacay would be complete without an afternoon stuck in the woods. After scarfing down the kebabs, we decided to take a leisurely stroll down Camp John Hay’s EcoTrail, which we imagined would be a lovely little path lined with bounteous florae, where we could slow-burn the bricks of meat in our bellies and just generally, y’know, commune with nature etcetera etcetera.

Disoriented woodland creature.

Don’t let these pictures fool you. That was some serious Rambo shit we did up there.  It wasn’t a trail, even. It was a stream of mud with the occasional loosened rope bridge snaking its way up and down god knows how many steep little hills.

SUCK IT, Henry David Thoreau!

Unfortunately, my man-slave and I are no longer well-versed in this ‘physical exertion’ thing, so we did more of a heaving clamber than a stroll. At every turn or dip of the hill, we thought we had reached the end, only to scramble onward and find another hill or trench in wait.  We were there for an hour.

Call of the wild.

But we did get awesome pictures.

Mandatory Pose-before-Local-Artwork Baguio Picture

Naturally, I felt a little sad on our last night, all emo’d out on the Oh My Gulay! balcony overlooking the city. But I was even sadder once we hit Manila. I’m usually very vocal about my love for this mangled metropolis, usually see myself as a pure and proud product of its grit and artifice, but I was absolutely devastated to be home that day.

I’m considering this a sign of maturity.





Mandatory Apartment Birthday and Life Birthday Blog Entry

8 09 2010

First off, a very happy first birdie to my apartment; despite a fire and the occasional vermin takeover, I am quite pleased with my digs and hope it continues to not fall apart. My man-slave and I have tried our best thus far to make it look less like a fallout shelter by reupholstering the couch in happy colors, papering part of one wall with posters, and lining one bookshelf with three neon buddhas, and we will continue to prettify it however we can.

Now, about my birdie. It is very, very fortunate that the start of my 25th year of life falls on a legal holiday, because it has given me license to hie off to Baguio with the man-slave for a couple of days. Baguio is my most favoritest city in the entire country because it is always trenchcoat weather over there, and I can eat all the ube jam my gut can take, and every single taxi driver is a non-malicious sweetheart. And speaking of taxis…

Last night proved to be the latest installment in the saga that is my commuting life. The taxi I was riding was hit in the rear by a van in the middle of Commonwealth. The cab actually swerved sideways, but the driver hit the brakes right before other vehicles could ram into us. The lower left-hand side of the cab was beat up pretty bad, but what was more unnerving was that the van owner, whose fault it obviously was (since we were in front and were cruising down the road straight and steady), was the one throwing a hissy fit. So there we were standing in the middle of Commonwealth at rush hour, listening to some lady squawking and squawking.

Anyway, I will take last night’s mini-mishap as a sign that, yes, it is only right that I take this little vacation of mine, because life is short and y’all know the rest. Happy birdie to me.





You Put the ‘Tigas’ in Ortigas

30 07 2010

So I was plodding down Ortigas Ave. this morning, just my usual walk to McDonald’s for a longganisa meal and 30-min. space-out prior to work, when I saw this pile of trash in the middle of the street and thought, Heehee. That thing over there looks like a penis.

AND IT WAS.

Or, rather, it was a very veiny, beige vibrator. Just there, intact, in the middle of the street. And that’s when I noticed that the other pieces of trash surrounding it were, in fact, sundry sexual accoutrements, mainly of the motorized phallus variety, and my brain just exploded. The stuff was swimming in this muck flecked with bits of cardboard and plastic. The world felt so dystopian all of a sudden, as if The Government had decreed a ban on all pleasure, and what I had just seen were the dregs of its clean-up drive. It was so fucked up. It was AWESOME.

The other people crossing the street didn’t seem to notice the penises, or maybe they did and just pretended that everything was cool, when deep inside they were convinced apocalypse was nigh. I was ecstatic, though. I was hoping to take a picture with my phone, but the penises were in the middle of a busy street, and I wasn’t about to risk my life for cock. At least not today.

I wish I had evidence, though, because I’m pretty sure some of you are thinking, Oh, it’s just her talking about private parts again. She thinks of penises so much, she sees them everywhere, poor thing. But I swear they’re there. If any of you happen to be anywhere near the driveway of the Galleria Regency, go to the nearby pedestrian crossing right along Ortigas Ave. I swear they’re there. I’m not shitting anyone. Go, quick, before the trannies start their harvest.

Seriously, though. What the hell happened last night? Did pornstar roommates have a falling out? Had a bridal shower gone sour? What?! Tell me!!! Oh god, oh god, what does it all mean?!?!





Mandatory Job Birthday Blog Entry

20 07 2010

It has been exactly one year since I started working as a copywriter for the Very Big Hospital. It’s the longest I’ve ever stuck to a job, and I am slightly, strangely proud of this fact, the same way I am proud of my ability to converse about Silence of the Lambs without having ever seen the damn movie, or to wiggle my ears at will.

The fact that I have been here this long is proof enough that the job isn’t too bad. Sure, it can be tedious, and some tasks, such as chasing down doctors and patients for last-second interviews, have been incredibly trying as I am afraid of human creatures, but I haven’t run away yet (and I have—literally—run away from at least 2 jobs). As to why, I have several reasons besides the steady trickle of cash in my ATM, the main one being that my office is, after all, a Very Big Hospital, and it is by default an interesting place to work in. I get to meet people who have been through some crazy shit, I get to learn that my body is full of crazy shit, and all that other crazy shit. It’s an experience I won’t get elsewhere, definitely. Plus, the statement “I’m a copywriter for the Very Big Hospital,” bears no shame. And I am a shameful woman.

I am tempted to make my officemates wear party hats, eat mocha cake with plastic forks, and watch a PowerPoint show of my first year’s escapades (Remember when I avoided my first company Christmas party? And the first time I cried out fuck you motherfucker after a phone call with some troll at Accounting? Good times, good times…) set to a flute rendition of “We’ve Only Just Begun.”

But I will not, because my officemates are busy surviving their own lives at the moment, and really have no time to celebrate (or maybe even truly grasp) the fact that I have not set fire to my cubicle or soliloquized on a life squandered, and I respect that. Instead, I will just study the new Regular Employee’s ID I have on the strap around my neck—an ID which is made of thick, hard plastic and is not the piece of laminated cardboard I had prior, and which has my nickname on it in big block letters to make me appear friendly and approachable to visitors—and with only the barest minimum of irony, I will decide to have earned it.





Shout-Out to My Homeboy Kevin!!!

12 07 2010

Saturday night was a great comfort. And not just because Kevin upped the validity of my readership (I am 85% sure he is not a pervert), although that was certainly heartening. I spent it with good people, and felt like myself for the first time in a while.

I haven’t been feeling too hot these past few months, but it’s good to know I have friends and my man-slave to help me figure out what’s what. I can’t really expound on what’s been happening lately without going Prozac Nation on all y’all, so for the time being, below is a teensy treatise I punched out recently:

In Defense of Your Perversions