**It's because it's Father's Day, and this qualifies for what can be an in-the-mood post. And it's a repost mostly because of that great big mother of writer's blocks, and I wanted to post something, anything, at the same time. Call it a heartbeat. I'm trying to steer clear of this blog's flatline.
And here's where the original post is. Same banana, minus the italicized introduction.I have a confession to make.The aroma of paper binded together would have to be one of my greatest highs. Next to mindless, unwarranted sex, two to three hours of uninhibited reading would have been my intellectual equivalent of an ejaculation. The sight of all those hardbounds and paperbacks stacked in a beautiful tower of books is therapeutic, and being able to actually devour the wisdom in each volume is a peaceful ceremony in itself.There was a time in my six-week vacation when I was voraciously consuming five books at a time. It was actually four lengthy novels ("Four Past Midnight," "The Order of the Phoenix," "Great Horror Stories," "Servants of Twilight"), and a non-fiction title ("The World's Most Infamous Killers").
Sometimes, I really don't understand how I was able to manage poring through all those volumes at the same time. Maybe I was enchanted by all that knowledge. But all I remembered was that the Dean Koontz novel was chapters upon freaking chapters of chase scenes all over California, Harry Potter was showing all signs of adolescence minus the outbreak of zits, and the Langoliers were these little black balls consumed to eating reality in their wake. Blood apparently does wonders to the skin when used externally, and in very generous quantities, like in a blood bath, and that however fictitious, the idea of dying from fear itself makes for an interesting topic of conversation.Goes well without saying that I just admitted to being a bibliophile, huh?I really don't need to give an explanation as to how this addiction came to be. But I'm pretty sure it was my father to thank for this consuming appetite for the written word. When I was a kid, I'd remember him taking us to the BOOKSALE in Shaw Boulevard. You probably have heard of the establishment before. It's this second hand store for just about every assortment of used books. He started taking us there in the late eighties, myself and my two siblings, and he'd allow us to wander aimlessly among those volumes, while he waited in front of the cashier, checking out architectural magazines. After a few minutes of foraging, we'd go back to him, with a book or two in hand, and then we'd give it to him for inspection. He'd pay for those books later on, and he always did even if it was something that he didn't approve of.
I used to hunt for old Ikabod comicbooks and Cracked magazines, and I grew a steady collection overtime. My father absolutely despised my Cracked magazines. See, they bore a striking resemblance to MAD Magazines, the one with Alfred Neuman's ugly bucktoothed face on the cover, and he hated looking at that face. But like I said, he'd eventually take out his wallet and then had our picks wrapped in this white plastic bag.
When I grew into adolescence, the trips to the BOOKSALE was always something that I looked forward to. Funny, I was already a teenager, and yet I still repaired to childhood practices for comfort. I really don't know why I keep on coming back, but for some reason, it started becoming my very own weekend picnic.
Sometimes, it was my mother who took us, but it really didn't matter to me since I was always expecting to leave the store with something in a white plastic bag.
And I read everywhere!
I read my Cracked magazines on top of the stairs at one in the morning because it's the only place in our apartment where the light was on at that time of the night. I read something while walking home from elementary school. I read in the theaters while they're waiting to fill the seats before the movie starts. I read while waiting for a ride. And then I'd read in the cab, car, fx, jeep while going to UST and from UST. I read something while waiting for my turn in a job interview. And of course, I'd read myself to sleep.
My father died in 2004, and I brought a book along for the wake. For some reason, I find that as paying a tribute to the one guy who made all this delightful madness possible. Of course, I wasn't reading to him, or for him. I was doing it for myself. See, not only did I seek solace from this inanimate object of my choice, but I wanted to ignore everybody else and bury my nose in between the pages.
I've been blogging since twenty oh four, and really, I was never thoroughly impressed with my, shall I say, influence until I chanced upon this mighty truck of a blog. A quote follows.
There goes the link of this one blogger who claims I, of all people and of all verbs, inspired him to follow suit. I don't take too kindly to compliments, they make me shrivel like a nutsac in December, but I take them as they are, and I revel in their content. I don't care if he has but one post in his blog's longevity; his blog should have feet on account of it kicks so much ass.
See, I've been doing this for quite some time now, and I don't mean to brag. Verily, there's nothing to brag about, save for this enduring accomplishment that keeps on racking in the hits regardless of the absentee effort with which I'm doing my updates. I mean, I never did went down and wrote a full length "I-Haven't-Been-Updating-Much-Post," because I'm really not a big fan of excuses. I'm just too distracted to post, is all, and that's just about the long and short of it.
Three years is quite a testimonial. And this blog bore witness to an amazing circus of regulars and passers by. I've had lovers, I've had fans, I've had detractors. But I've never been an inspiration until today. Well, the post was dated August 2006, but that don't mean shit, really.
I watched this video the other day, following a certain friend's suggestion for over the top morbidity. Two days later, and I'm still at a loss for words. There's not enough of them to mean "totally revolting."It's about this very primitive sexual reassignment surgery. I won't post the link, but if you're interested, then here's where it's at. Trust me, there are things worth NOT looking for. I'm just saying; you're probably still up for it anyway. Hyper active clickers have the most regrets, and these directions are merely safety precautions.
1. Go to YouTube
2. On the Search Field, type in "Male to Female 1974"
3. It will require you to login with your YouTube username and password on account of the shocking nature of this video.
4. Prepare to light a cigarette. If you don't smoke, then brace your gag reflex. Then click the PLAY button. Wash.
I know I ought to be tempted to just post the video here on account of I'm promoting bullshit to begin with, but this video is the ultimate rotten tomato that maligns the clever nonsense that I'm really working for. So I won't. But I went ahead and posted directions, just in case you're one to pray hell towards those who go like "I have a secret, but I'm not telling."
Guys, thanks for still coming back. I know I'm just saying that, but really, I appreciate the hits. I'm no longer doing sponsored reviews as much as I used to, and the hits represent something else at this point. Thanks.
I have been recently doing a lot of online and offline reading, and I'm hooked to some of the finest distractions anywhere. Offline, it's this book about reading body language, The Definitive Book of Body Language by Allan and Barbara Pease, absolutely fascinating truck I tell you, and it schools its readers with properly deciphering postures and bodily signals. For instance, did you know that the lead foot, that's the foot you start walking with, points towards either the nearest exit or the most interesting slash most attractive person in the group? It says that the brain is less conscious of the activity of body parts that are farther away from it. There's also something about the language of smiling, the most common gestures of liars, how the legs reveal what the mind wants to do, and so on.Which is all so totally fine and dandy, but I bought it primarily with the understanding that I can use body language to score.
Of course I kid. I'm currently on this chapter that talks about personal space. Did you know that your intimate zone is an inch up to eighteen inches away from you? And that the only people you allow within that space are the people real close to your person, like your family, your lover, and then the person you're about to give head to.
Online, it's this blog, The Talented Mr Montano, http://delfindjmontano.blogspot.com/, and it's a total scandal written by this HIV positive gay guy who's life savings, around $70,000 Au (around three point something million pesos) have been "stolen" by some social climbing coke junkie from the Philippines. He's blogging to get his money back. Thing is, this social climbing coke junkie belongs in, shall we say, Manila's Finest, an elite group of socialites that's the quintessential poster children of the local newspaper's Lifestyle section. Everybody loves a scandal, and I'm totally hooked. Not because I take great pleasure in all that dirt, I do actually, but I couldn't have cared less for the shameless desecration of Manila's Finest. They don't matter to me. It's just evil to be a total fag over your gay lover, steal his life savings, and then try to have him deported to Australia.
This blog, save for the occasional typos, is righteous indignation at its near finest.
You go girl.
I guess I wanna say more, but what's to talk about a blog that reached 270,000 hits in just about five days?
Legends have it that whoever took this picture, however Prize-winning he is, killed himself some time afterwards. The misery was just overbearingly thick enough to cause his deathly depression or something. I don't know how it usually goes, but I'm pretty sure porn photographers don't get to bang their subjects either.I'm thinking this kid didn't make it.
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