**I am still on hiatus. I am taking a break from the break, though, because I feel the need to report. I am suddenly possessed of this itch to document, and a Facebook Status alone doesn't motherfucking cut it. It is lacking, and it is pedestrian, and it will not address my being anal... retentive. Which is why I'm taking a break from the break, but I propose to get back to breaking some more as soon as I get this out. I will seriously take my time, then.
I met with three of the most fiercely loyal English bloggers on my roll last Sunday, and it was a real trip. Of course, by "fiercely loyal," I'm referring to their preferred medium of writing, and it was for no other reason. Anyway, we've been planning this meet up for a few weeks now, and I was itching for another get together since that last one with the always funny Pokwang. I need to make amends; I was under this deathly comatose during the Pokwang meet, and I need to be in character this time around. The democracy that is the four of us elected to get shitfaced at my place. We will be drinking, there will be singing, and there will be blood. I had the homecourt advantage. Verily, we chose well.
We met at the smoking area of Figaro, Robinson's Galleria. I was there with my 75 peso cup of hot chocolate (insane), an ashtray, a lit cigarette, and a shitload of punk about my person. Aris (of Psychic Edema) and Red (of Red is the New Black) were the first to arrive, and they had poultry with them. Aris was all sweet smiles, and Red was his usual highfalutin self. They reflected their blogs well; Aris was laid back, and Red was wordy to a charming degree. Of course I had my impressions of these people prior to meeting them; I imagined their conduct with the way they wrote their varying intensities. I guessed right.
Pat (of Pat Sessions) was several minutes late because he had to meet his partner. Charming. We left shortly after the handshakes and the niceties, and we were on this cab to 32-0 Lopez Jaena St, Son-of-a-Bitchville, Pasig Citehhh! We were on this socializing mission to get ourselves smelling like alcohol, at least I was, and we socialized some more on the trip home. We were there in ten minutes.
We have the booze, the videoke's plugged in, and I am mostly at ease with these three punks. This afternoon is going to kick ass.
We talked about writing, what made us write, annoying bloggers, music, our personal divas, blogger romances, more blogger romances, the suspect orientation of some bloggers, and, of course, books. I beamed with pride as they inspected and fondled and manhandled my ... book shelf. Never mind that it gave clues towards my methods. I wanted to impress this select few with everything in my nerd arsenal. And besides, that made for zero dull moments. I know it sounds queer, but the idea of having books for ice breakers does happen, and I'm thankful for that providence.
I gave them very specific instructions to leave the English in the smoking area, please, because I will be having none of that offline. Red, that darling punk, had trouble with that house rule, though. I heard the word "Isoteric" (the hell?) several times during the course of our conversation, but I wasn't one to complain or flip the finger at that point. I had the drinker's smile about me, and I really, really liked this kind of talk. This discussion was most unprecedented; my usual friends talked in the funniest homo whereas these amazing people took depth to such fascinating heights.
Lio Loco mentioned wave length when he talked about a blogger's meet up, and I imagined I got it the first time. Now I meet these guys, and I am in complete agreement. These meet ups fucking rock.
That afternoon provided plenty of revelations that I could never have guessed online even if I was bribed. I've been reading their blogs with the same regular discipline that I observe towards my bowel movement. I sometimes leave comments, too, if only to be a jerk about it, but I read them. And I've been reading them for a few months now, years even, long enough to identify them with their construction, or phrasing, or choice of words. Pat has that genuinely Holden Caulfield feel to his paragraphs. I know it's him, or J.D Salinger doing automatic writing. Aris has this distinct emo feel about his entries, and it is written with such fluidity that is his saving grace. And Red? Red is verbose with a vengeance! He has too much highfalutin about his construction that he can import the excess and make enough profit to buy a third world country or something. He's a darling. But that afternoon brought these people closer to life. These three people, these thinkers, these headstrong writers were all the more illuminated after a few hours of drinking. Pat did Mariah's We Belong Together, Aris sang Britney's Baby One More Time, and Red channeled Jacob Lusk.
Suddenly, it was Diva Night, and I loved every performance.
My one regret was that we should have met earlier, like three years earlier, for all the right and proper reasons. They were a darling pack.
That five hour event was over in a few minutes. Aris and Red had to leave because it was late, and Cavite isn't five minutes away. I asked Pat to stay, please, because I can't figure that last pitcher of beer out. I was well on my way to making a chunky-style scene if I took on this pitcher full on my lonesome. That gentleman complied, thank you very much, and we tamed that pitcher with a lot of drunken talk.
I just have to say one more thing. That Pat drank like a fish with a God-given iron liver. We went through a case of Red Horse Litro, and he still looked as sober as the day he was born. Man, can he hold his drink! Truth is, I am now crushing on him if only for that reason alone. Next to really good pool players and bad ass, tattooed punks, I'm quite the sucker for champion-material drinking heavyweights. There.
Cue Segue: New Goal!
**We interrupt this program with the very first installation of Momel's Unbelievably Self-Indulgent Pity Party Extravaganza! Regular programming will resume shortly. Or whenever, whatever the case may be. For the time being, treat yourselves to an amazing double feature, a second post in one blog entry! Hell yeah for back to back bullshit and the backwards-thinking bayot with the dumb-ass, brain-dead, pedestrian gimmicks!
**Now you might be wondering to yourselves, but are just too polite to ask: What the fuck makes a back to back post different if it's just the same dumb shit anyway? Well, I should admit that I understand where you're coming from, and I really can't argue with that. I totally get you. But this back to back post has liquid calcium formula, it has most of the nutrients from the food pyramid, and it gives you evening hair all day! What's not to love, bitch?
I was real glad I have met with those three people last Sunday. That meet up was, forgive the weak-ass word, most enlightening. Now I know what I'm looking for, who I'm looking for, rather, and it is a guy, a VERY single guy, with a Class-S drinking mettle. Underscore very. I may not seem like it, but I am big on courtesy. A blogger would be nice, too. I've caught wind of several blogger love affairs, and they were success stories on the wholesome. A piece of that fruitcake should be engaging, at the very least. The three month rule has been checked, thank you very much, and I could use some loving now because I've been very productive with the following kind of rot:
1. It's nothing more than a growing, distant fondness, that's what it is, and there's no reason for me to begin production on this musical in my head. I can't do to others what J did to me. That will be the motherfucking death of me; I am already partly dead to begin with. 4/18/2011
2. I think I'm coming to terms with this very foreign concept of singlehood. Now that I think about it, and now that I care, and if I remembered real hard, I suppose I can try to go back and re-learn how I lived before I met him.
How was I again five years back?
I have nothing against you, not anymore, but you left me with a curious review. And now that I am single again, I have developed this "not anymore" kind of thinking when it comes to, blah, relationships. What about relationships? Not anymore. I should think that it is borderline pessimistic, and I was never one to begin with because pessimists die first, and, despite the smoking habit, I am reserved to living long, because I am loving this single life I have, so let me rephrase that. I am not pessimistic. I am enlightened. That's what I am.
And besides, kung di rin lang ikaw, ay di bale na lang. That bossa bitch has got it right all along.
3. Ahaha! Aside from that lopsided hair, I can't even remember your face now. 3/25/2011
4. It is a true or false situation in a multiple choice format. Does he or doesn't he? But what everybody fails to see is that option C says None of the Above. Option D, on the other hand, says You Are So Fucked, but we prefer to ignore that anyway.
Would you like some salt with that drama?
5. Contrary to what people say, I have, indeed, moved on. It's just that I have standards now, and if the next guy, if there will be a next guy, at that, if the next guy can not measure to what I have, had for J, then I will call it quits that early. I have moved on.
The break up gave me a measuring stick. 3/16/2011
These were dated March and April because I can't post my February bitch fits. Sure, they were kinky in their loneliness, but they will give you ideas. Despite the output, I was still dead in January.
I have several of these runny, watery, chunky-style bursts of turd in my little pocket notebook. And at the same time, I have a Notepad file named NOTES in my desktop icons which wipes the same shit-for-brains that I have been developing. I get these mental spasms at frequent intervals, within these past few months. I get eewy if I don't write it away.
Shit, look at the word count on this here post! I've my Hiatus Cap back on. I'll see you. I should be coming back as soon as I found me my own, very single champion alcoholic. For the time being, I have The Cranberries' Can't Be With You on repeat. Oh, and it Is Holy Week. I should probably get nailed or something.