Revolutionary Road follows Ash Wednesday

I am not April Wheeler. I refuse to die as April Wheeler. The fact that I sit here typing this must be testament to my ability to rise above the pettiness of imagined suburbian bliss. There must at least be something within me that realizes the lie in feigned conformity.
I must admit though that I am not as honest as I wish I could be with myself. There are times I find my thoughts wander to the safety of the nine to five existence again.
And I conform. We all do. Don't say that you've never salivated over a window display at Ikea. I have. But I believe I do it because I want to, not because I have to.
And yet I question myself.
Somebody spoke to me honestly and simply yesterday. And that opened my eyes to the hypocrisy within me. Here was someone who wasted no time sugarcoating what he had to say, yet was not cruel in dispensing the truth. He didn't give a rat's ass what people thought, as long as he knew that he was doing no harm and was being as good and decent a human being as his parents raised him to be. I envied him that.
And I thought I was pretty decent. And I thought that I was being honest with myself. And to others.
I always prided myself at being a really lousy liar. Now I think, I'm possibly a good liar without knowing it.
Now I think of another goal to set for myself. To try and be a little more honest with myself before it's too late. Yet another reminder of my mortality passed me by the other day. Nuns with the black crosses on their forehead signifying the passing of another Ash Wednesday.
This time last year I wrote about how the day reminded me of old roses. And churchyards I think it was. Poetic. Romantic. Whatever. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be the tough cynic again with that I'm about to say. I just want to say that poetry goes hand in hand with honesty. Don't go around showing everyone how tough you are by being the rebellious badass. Be the badass because that is the most honest way you know how to Be.
This year I think about how much clearer things become when I take the time to just fucking let go of all my issues and say things like they are. It isn't that hard to be honest with oneself. Or with others. It just takes a little practice.

About a boy

So here I am again. After a long absence due to the insanity of shooting schedules and celebrations, I'm back. But not because I really want to be.
I'm back because I have to bitch and moan. And because my closest faggy friends, my girl friends and yes, even my platonic guy friends are of no help.
So its you and me blog. It's lets-let-out-all-our-pent-up-emotions time. Lets get it all out in the open without the painful possibility of someone giving you advice you may not as yet be ready to hear.
Yes, okay, this is about a boy. and believe me, I have absolutely NO IDEA how I got tangled up in this. And now, now I want to know why I'm, er, so, um, crap, confused. What is it about this kid that I can't quite figure out?
I thought I could pigeonhole him into your run of the mill player. But then he exhibits traits that say otherwise.
I thought maybe brainless actor/jock. But then he shows me he has a brain.
I thought maybe, chivalrous long-term dude (not necessarily for me, mind you) who was being the nice guy-next-door type saint because he didn't want to be the jerk to any girl. But then he goes on flirt mode with the lobby gals soon as one turns around.
Hans says that it could be possible that I have finally met a guy who is fairly normal, decent and NOT a jerk (problem is my exposure to jerks has left me with absolutely no working knowledge of how to treat possible nice guys on a normal level).
Another friend insists that the guy IS a player and that I should start running in the opposite direction. Like now. And fast.
But punyetah, no matter how cool and detached I insist I still am, come end of day, I admit to looking forward to that goodbye hug and beso.
I sometimes think, fate, in all her wisdom and twisted sense of humor, has sent me this person to well, keep me on my toes here, lest I become lazy on my last term.
My reality based one-foot-constantly-on-the-ground side is telling me that this confusion can and will be over in a matter of weeks (hello, past experience here at this funny farm!). It could be over next week. I should thus stay cool and apathetic to all manner of charms being thrown my way. That way, when end comes, I can properly deny, laugh, mourn over, cackle and shake my head over this little episode with a guy who was, truth be told, an absolute puzzlement.
But this stupid little fluffy voice (yes fellow cynics, I have one inside me too sometimes) says I should just smile and enjoy the attention.
After all, it isn't everyday someone inspires you enough to kick the nicotine habit. It isn't everyday a guy carries all your things, walks you to your door not expecting anything more than a thank you and a hug goodbye. It isn't everyday you get a smile so warm and without guile.
It isn't everyday you wish you belonged to someone you could, in another life, have maybe really been great with.

Island fever

I'm not going to write a cliched storm about what turning thirty meant to me. Because I intend to stay twenty-nine for another six months. Yeah, you heard me. I can make my own rules.
But I will tell you what happened to me the moment I stepped onto Kalibo airport's windswept tarmac after a five hour wait at NAIA.
What happened was, I got a fever.
The grey skies, rough seas, airplane fiasco and my incredibly delayed arrival in Boracay contributed to my deteriorating health and enthusiasm over my beach birthday weekend. I was sure I was going to give someone a bitch fit soon as my feet hit the white sand.
Out of sheer fatigue and nausea, not only did I do away with birthday melodrama, I also let go of any delusions of drinking and dancing the night away. I thankfully ended up being extremely well taken care of by friends. Pumped with vitamins and paracetamol and treated to dinner (bless Pix and Ritchie), I started to feel the island vibe. but due to the cold and absolute exhaustion, I promptly fell asleep after coffee (which unfortunately left Jing and Siobe to their own devices at Cafe Del Sol).
Goodbye first night in paradise.
The next evening was, er, a blur. Really. Armed with good intentions and the will to party the night away, we made our way to Juice. After a couple of beers, an undetermined amount of tequila shots, a flaming "waterfall" which in retrospect must have been the reason the world almost went black, and a "blowjob"shot, one really couldn't blame me for the inebriated dance floor madness that followed.
I thus greeted the dawn of my thirtieth year dancing with hazy figures, stumbling home through the sand and puking my guts out in our pretty hotel bathroom.
The shaking stopped sometime after noon.
Although my eyes still found it hard to focus by three and my head was throbbing like a thousand elders were having a canao in it, I somehow summoned the will to stumble out to the seashore and bid my birthday sun goodbye.

So I slept more than half the day away. So my insides felt like jell-o. So I didn't get as close as I planned. Big deal.
I welcomed the day with friends I loved, I partied like a madman, danced like there was no tomorrow and lived to see another day. I couldn't stop smiling.

Hello three-O.

My afternoon as an ear

I am devoid of inspiration.

As I sit here contemplating my thesis and ignoring the void of meaningless thoughts that enter my otherwise pre-occupied brain, I realize that everyone who has stopped by my table this afternoon has been a man with an opinion. An a need to be listened to.

I have sat here and listened to all of them greet me, compliment me, whine, narrate, explicate (is that a word?), uselessly comment, lazily smile, request a favor from, dispense grandfatherly advice, randomly blab, thought out aloud and yes, subconsciously hit on me.

I realize that to most of them, women like me are sounding boards, nannies, and at most a pleasant distraction.

A view of the dance floor

Without emotional attachments, anything is possible. The irony is, almost every human achievement was driven by some emotion.
While watching a male friend down on the dance floor gyrating with a random female of his choice, I realized that were I emotionally invested in him, a fun night out would inevitably have turned sour just because he was practically dry humping another female who wasn't me.
Which led me to hazily conclude that, women really should stop this whole latching on to the idea of one man to make her happy philosophy. I mean, the male friends I was with that night had no problem chatting up any woman who would innocently (or not) wander within play distance. The girls however, just danced the night away within the comfort zone of our little group, settling for our guy friends instead of wandering off to meet someone new. And these girls weren't exactly fresh out of the convent either.

All those people hipping and hopping and grinding away down on the dance floor on a Friday night. Some in groups, in pairs, soloistas. Everyone of them out for some sort of release from the week that was, from reality, and from the isolation of being in a crowd.
My friend had found a girl, had wrapped his arms around her and had closed his eyes to the beat, pretending that for a few minutes they had some connection. That he could find solace in the arms of another human being.
Thank heavens his girl wasn't there.
whatever. I don't think this counts as I wasn't exactly thinking straight when I came up with this skewed logic. All I'm saying is that, I suppose having the capacity to turn ice queen is an advantage. Sorta. Blah.
And where was I watching this colorful nature dance from? From the more elevated chill lounge which turned out to be incredibly dull and filled with the pretentious chill crowd who could no more than shake their booties in their tight designer outfits than down a respectable shot of anything stronger than a watered down cocktail.
This of course led me and a couple of sloshed, faggy friends to break into dance just to get the party started, or at the very least raise some eyebrows.

Bottle opener's fault

So this whole piece will start with so....

So after editing hell and coffee, we finally decide to cook something at Casa kitchen. Onion rings, felafal (not sure its spelled that way) and some ref cake. course I get stuck making the cake. everything turns out great except for (surprise!) the cake. although I had made it a hundred times before, the cream didn't have enough time to "solidify" and such, turning my lil masterpiece into ref semi-soup. blahr. still tasted great though.
So we all decide to have a nightcap in the room. All goes well until a resident stoner who will remain unnamed decides to pop his head in and just, oh so randomly throw a joint onto my bed. Random gift isn't rolled in paper yet so I head out to find someone who can solve little problem.
So am in hallway trying to find stoner friend when I bump into other dude who is known to have ample supply of, urm, rolling paper material and such. I get invited back to his room for proper sesh. But I am first asked to go look for bottle opener for said friend. Bottle opener not found and other friends not recruited. On way back to room alone (and under scrutiny of newly installed security cameras) I bump into male batchmate who has nasty smile on his face as he notices which room I'm headed towards. Dumb model also sees me and smirks. If the damn security cameras could smirk I'm sure they would have. Due to idiotic perception logic, I am now part of "slutty" Casa population who sleeps around since I am seen entering a guy's room at an ungodly eleven pm.
So now I'm done smoking the joint and don't give a flying rat's ass what ya'll think.
Knowing all our track records, I must be the only monk in the building.

Ole!

Actors are funny creatures. Good looking, but funny.
One minute it's "Oh you're so interesting, and you smell so goood, what is your perfume?"
Close up of his face in your hair.
And then it's "O you are single yes? Perhaps I can pretend to be your boyfriend?"
Mid-shot of you trying to contain sarcastic snort.
"Sure, why not"
Wide shot of an uber beautiful model walking by.
Close up of his head swivelling an unbelievable one-eighty degrees.
"Excuse me yes? I'll see you soon gorgeous" Close up on his movie star smile.
Wide shot of him running off towards model.
Fade to black.

Ahahahaahahaha.....geeeeez, no wonder showbusiness is sooooo screwed up. It's all game and agenda. Yeah, yeah....you're thinking that if they can play that game, you can too...careful you don't bite off more than you can chew pare.