Dear God,

I'm still waiting for the work pace to slow down and the work load to lighten up. And you know I'm not the most patient kid in the block. Let's just keep the prayers moving up there, OK?

Sincerely yours,
rossetti

Some smart-ass who had taken one too many happy pills (and wouldn't share, the bitch!) once said that happiness is a choice.

Oh my goodness. Eric Mabius must've broken out the bubbly when he found out that he scored this title. Who wouldn't count that as a huge ass accomplishment?

What would you like to be known for any given week of the year? I think I'd go for ears. Because I'm pretty sure the people who bestow these honors would give/lend me a funky pair of earrings for that pictorial. But if we're going for something deeper, I'd nominate my kidneys. I'd like to think my kidneys are doing a pretty good job and that they're prettier than usual. I just know it.

I’m not sure if it was because of “rank” or the fact that I can string a sentence together, but some time last year, my workplace gave me the opportunity to attend a workshop that was, I firmly believe, foolishly called “The Joy of Writing.”

It was an interesting, albeit nerve-racking, class: Anything that involves me reading in front of other people a piece I put together entirely from my imagination is always nerve-racking. But that’s beside the point.

My point is: There is no joy in writing. There is The Joy of Having Written Something, but there is no joy in the act of writing.

I have never encountered a blank page that made me smile. Have you? If you know that that page is there for you to fill with words that make sense, phrases that fit, sentences that tell a story or support a central theme, it will never ever make you smile the smile of one who knows happiness.

It is solitary work, writing. And I think that is part of what makes it such an unhappy, even lonely, endeavor. There is the challenge of making sense, and there is the burden of going at it alone. You can never truly share the frustration of not finding that perfect word that describes exactly what you want to say, or the mad anticipation of being so close to the end but not quite finding that just-right sentence that will justify your final punctuation mark.

But once you pull away from the no-longer blank page, ah, there is your joy. There is your smile. And if, after re-reading what you just wrote, you find yourself marveling at your hitherto undiscovered ability to make perfect sense, then you not only know joy. You also know accomplishment.

Interesting as “The Joy of Writing” workshop was, I think it labors under such a glaring misnomer. Let us not delude those who haven’t seriously tried writing but would like to give it a go. And let’s not patronize those who know the real score when it comes to this business, or, if you prefer, “art,” of writing. But then again, who would want to attend a class called “The Agony of Writing”?

Here's how I see it: We all have a bit of the crazy lurking in our minds. It's up there, loitering, maybe looking for a soft spot to claim as its own. Or maybe it's already set up a makeshift tent somewhere and it's getting all cozy with a hot mug of cocoa and its batshit crazy jammies. Whatever. It's upstairs, for sure. (Lord help you if you do not have even a smidgen of the crazy in you because I suspect it would be zero fun to go through this life stone cold sober.)

Having said that, it behooves you to keep the crazy in check. Because even if it is a commonality among human beings, much like opposable thumbs, it was never meant to be put out for display, unlike opposable thumbs. The crazy is supposed to stay locked up in the basement, people. And we didn't need a memo for this. You're supposed to keep it on a leash, discreetly feed it every now and then just to keep it quiet, and then go about your business as if the crazy doesn't have it's own La-Z-Boy and toothbrush in some dry, warm nook in your brain. You only ever let it out when you're around people who are familiar with your crazy and have come to accept it - maybe even embrace it - because of years of sharing a lot of alcohol, secrets and sins with you. OK?

If somebody slips and lets the crazy out in the sun for too long or in front of the wrong group of people, you make that somebody stand in the corner for a good while and ponder his relationship with his crazy: Are you really the master of your crazy? Or have you let your crazy take on a long-term lease so that it has now redecorated your entire limbic system to resemble Baz Luhrmann's movie set?

What ever happens, you do not go easy on this person. NO. Because once the crazy breaks rank, and isn't appropriately punished, there is no telling how much crazier it's going to get and when it will decide to run amok again. But it's already there, building up mass, crazily chipping away at the basement door.

Date:	2007-06-07 00:46
Subject:	Anobash?
Security:	Public
Mood:	sleepy

I want to watch this movie, but first, I have one question for the angels:

Date:	2007-05-22 13:17
Subject:	I have good will. I do.
Security:	Public
Mood:	full

Over the weekend, I went to the grocery carrying my still unofficial grocery bag. At the check-out counter, it felt SO.COOL to tell Mr. Bagger, "No plastic, please. Everything goes in the 100% cotton bag, thank you." And just like that, rossetti reduced her carbon footprint and, once again, improved the lives of millions of people who are lucky enough to be alive the same time she is. De nada, my little ones. De nada.

Speaking of de nada, I spent a week++ in Spain. My first time. Pictures later, but may I just say: Barcelona is so very, very purty. And Madrid is so very, very I-will-close-for-siesta-and-won't-be-back-till-the-earth-has-damn-near-completed-one-solid-rotation-bitch! ¿Que pasa, people?

The well that the Pilot from “The Little Prince” was looking for somewhere in the desert? I suspect that’s a metaphor for Book Sale. Or similar no-fuss sellers of the printed word. Goldmines, I tell ‘ya.

Over the weekend, I browsed the shelves of the book sale in front of Music 1 at Town Center. Folks, if you ever wander down south, check out this little “well” that’s literally in the middle of the mall (activity center, I think, is what the area’s called). There is some weird-ass shit going on on those shelves – some of ‘em funny, some just plain ridiculous reading material – and only my poor, poor memory is preventing me from talking about ‘em.

Anyway, for P380, I found me this hardbound gem: The Moments, the Minutes, the Hours – The Poetry of Jill Scott.

Is it me or is poetry always more expensive than prose? ( I digress more here )

Jill Scott’s poetry is as unvarnished and as lovesick as her music. And I think it is testament to her innate rhythm that, reading her poetry quietly, I can still hear her funky beat in every line. She starts off with this:

Some say that life is a gift
A time to learn and rethink what was a thought in our before minds
Some say that life is a simple series of minutes moments hours days
weeks
years seconds
time
A space to live and then to die
I say Yes
Yes Lord
Yes to all the heady stuff in between


I might take that up as my daily prayer. Here’s another piece that is unmistakably Scott (if you’ve heard her music, you’ve read her poetry):

The Downfall of a North Philly Freak

As he walked into the room
I felt her stiffen
I knew this was just the type she liked
Handsome brotha
Brown, tall, regal
Sexy brotha
Smelling good like hot sex on Sunday after church
Soooo wrong but soooo right
I knew she would weaken
I knew she would fall short of the promise she made
After that
Other brotha “loved”
split her apart
And left her drowning in her own self
I knew she didn’t mean what she said
I tried to hold her but she slid from the
satin lining

It has been 6 whole days
and
she hasn’t checked in
once


It’s certainly telling that she describes poetry as “this blessed, raunchy, wild ride of a craft.” I hope to come across more of you the next time I go to visit the well, Jill. (And Cookie Tuazon, you seriously need a lesson, or ten, in rhythm. Stop faking it and start learning from Jill.)

Last night on the radio, the deejays got to talking about what they consider a unique Filipino trait: false humility. They whined about the Pinoy’s seeming inability to accept a sincere, simple compliment.

I have that quirk. (See, even now, having written that admission, my first thought is, “Which isn’t to say I receive a lot of compliments, please don’t think that’s what I was getting at.”) I know where mine stems from. I can’t speak for the rest of my countryfolks.

Thing is, Pinoys also have a weird way of dishing out compliments, so that you’re not really sure if gratitude is in order. I’ve gotten the occasional, “Ang payat payat mo!, which is almost always accompanied by a stern look and maybe a yank on the arm, or two, just so they can check you out from all sides. How do you say thank you to that?

I’ve also gotten the, “Ang sexy mo, nakakainis ka!” comment, which is another stumper. I’ve responded to that in the past by dropping my gaze to the floor and getting out of the room. Fast. You never know if they’re really irritated or not.

But thankfully, there are those few clear-as-a-sunny-day Pinoys who practically sentence-diagram their meaning for you. I work with one such lady. She’s one of those married women who tell it as it is -- for some reason, I know more married women who are like that than unmarried ones.

I was having lunch in the office pantry one afternoon, shoveling down warm sinigang like there’s no tomorrow. In comes blunt lady. She takes one look at me and my sinigang and, with the candor of a four-year-old, said, “Kaya pala ang taba taba mo na eh! Tignan mo yung mukha mo, ang laki na!” I was saved from reacting by the fact that I was mid-chew. But man, I almost laughed my sinigang all over her face. God bless those folks who haven’t trained a portion of their brain to edit, edit, edit, because sometimes, you just hafta say what you have to say. And the person you’re saying it to just has to know.

Maybe if Pinoys were that unequivocal with their compliments, more of us could learn to reply with a simple thank you.

Date:	2007-03-28 17:31
Subject:	comfort for those who need it
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused

Humans, you are tiring me.

I wish you’d stop being so fucking unkind to each other.

I’m tired of your cattiness. I’m tired of your veiled contempt. I’m tired of your surface attempts to get along while you spend private moments bitching and moaning about the people around you – your co-workers, your family, your friends, any unfortunate head that happens to wander into your periphery. I’m tired of your ability to pretend like you like/love everyone when you clearly don’t.

I’m tired of your self-absorption. I’m tired of you assuming the rest of the world is eager to hear about what happened to you over the weekend or how many ways you hate the color pink. I’m tired of the way you look at others as audience. Fucking grow up, man!

I’m tired of your sweeping generalizations. I’m tired of your self-righteousness that inevitably puts others down because they are (a) not suffering for their art, (b) working for THE MAN, (c) part of the machine that keeps capitalism chugging. Some of you don’t mind living hand-to-mouth, some of us do. Get over it. The suits won’t fuck with your art; don’t fuck with their commerce.

I’m tired of you ignoring the ones you love and coddling the ones who know how to have a good time. I’m tired of you not trying hard enough when the people who are hoping you do more than deserve it. I’m tired of your complacency. I’m tired of you waiting for the universe to fix everything.

I’m tired of you insisting to be unhappy. I’m tired of your shortsightedness, your refusal to recognize blessings because it’s so much more “cool” to articulate the angst and torture of being alive. Fucking thank the heavens you can take a breath!

We are a sorry lot. I wouldn’t be surprised if the deists are right and the Higher Being has literally walked out on all of us. And what would that leave us? Each other. So stop fucking pissing at the person beside you and stop being a dead weight.

Watched “300” over the weekend, and I have one burning question: Does Xerxes feel some sort of man-love for Leonidas? Because I can see where he’s coming from with that one. Funny-looking bangs notwithstanding, that Gerard Butler makes for one impressive looking Spartan king. I mean, don’t even get me started on ALL their ripped abs. It was like Christmas all over again, I swear!

I can see why Ephialtes never even had a sliver of a hope of making the cut. These Spartan men not only had hubba-hubba bodies; they were also all very pretty in a manly, menacing way. ‘Cept for Astinos, who looked like a 12-year-old on some serious steroids.

And I lurrrrve the fact that they all look like they can kick Brad Pitt’s Achilles without even breaking a sweat! You would’ve been road kill in no time, Hollywood boy! I wouldn’t be surprised if Leonidas barking out “Spartans!” would be enough to fell the Pitt. Harhar.

The movie inspired me to buy truffles from Leonidas. Yup, he lives on in the 21st century as dairy product. May I just say, that store charges an obscene amount for such small pieces of chocolate. 21 Malteser-sized balls = P1,800. That’s so not funny.

You can’t tell just by the picture, but this man:

Finally found a copy of Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses over the weekend. For years now, I've been casually searching for this book in (starved) local bookstores, mostly because I'm curious as to what exactly pissed off the Muslim community big time that they wanted Rushdie's head on a plate. By the by, a quick check of "fatwa" in Wikipedia gave me this description:

"...a legal pronouncement in Islam made by a mufti...at the request of an individual or a judge to settle a question where fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence) is unclear."

Is that really what it means or is somebody sugarcoating here? Because that doesn't sound threatening. Not too much.

Anyway, I'm 15 pages into the book and, as with The Ground Beneath Her Feet, I am having an embarrassingly difficult time following Sal.

This isn't like the difficulty I have reading Kundera, no. Milan is not easy reading, sure, but at least me and him, we've reached an unspoken agreement about how to deal with each other: He articulates one big truth after the other at a pace that could kill me, but he articulates them in a way that if I chew long and deliberately enough, I am able to swallow without choking.

With Sal, there is no concern. He doesn't care that I don't even know what I'm being asked to chew. Had Satanic Verses not come with a brief teaser on the back cover, I still wouldn't know what the hell is going on 15 pages into the damned thing.

But I guess I'll plod along, because my pedestrian sensibilities are in denial as to how pedestrian they actually are. Too bad Powerbooks isn't selling a companion Barron's booknotes for this one.

PeskyPet left for Korea and didn't even bring a giant wooden spoon&fork as a goodwill gift. [BOOOO...]. I predict the Koreans aren't going to like him much.

I want to be a seahorse in my next life. I've gotten the funny email messages about women wanting to be bears in their next life (because male bears NEED their female bears hairy, and because bears hibernate) or pigs (because they have orgasms that last for hours). Well, I want to be a freaking seahorse, despite it being one of the funniest looking sea creatures, because this is better than anything the bears and pigs have to offer. And may I just say, I don't think any other species' swimmers can hold a candle to the ones these seahorses produce. Talk about efficient.

I helped edit a book that won an Anvil Award!!! I've never won ANYTHING in my entire life. Never! I know, I know, I didn't write the book. And if anybody asks me now what it's all about, I wouldn't be able to give a clear, intelligent answer. But I helped edit it! I did, I did, I did!

A couple of weeks ago, my cousin and I attended a whole-day flower arrangement workshop. [You laugh, you die.] It started out entertainingly enough, because our teacher taught us how to "revive" flowers (because sometimes, they forget themselves) and how to treat them for "aftershock" (because it's a cruel world out there for them mums). Late in the afternoon, we had to make our own flower arrangement - low and round, I think it's called. Kind of like my granny. Heh. Here's what we were aiming for:

Little China Girl, stop reading my mind!

Because in my universe, my opinion is currency – along with chocolate, if you wish to bribe me, which is quite easy – I’ve decided to exercise my right to be judgmental regardless of my personal mediocrity. For the record, I never did subscribe to the “don’t judge a man till you’ve walked a mile in his shoes” sentiment, because if we all followed that, the only other guilty pleasure left in this world would be illegal substances, and Lord knows those can burn a serious hole in your pocket.

The legend:

We likey/We approve/This makes us feel happy enough to consider renewing our faith in the power of good over evil

We don’t likey/We disapprove/We think you suck for letting this happen and you should just chop your head off right now

We’re not sure where we stand with this one. If you must ask, I’ve always been a bit ambivalent about them bears. They’re cute and cuddly and all, but as a kid I was told they were the tools of the devil. And then they have those crazy cousins running willy-nilly, so I really don’t know about that.

And we’re off!

Ugly Betty’s and America Ferrera’s wins at the Golden Globes! YEY! So deserving, so deserving. Everybody on that show is pulling their weight – the actors, the writers, the production designers, the director, the best boy grip, the catering people. Everyone! How else could this rookie show have come together as a solid, engaging, hilarious package on its very first episode? It’s not just Salma, that’s for sure. Although muchas gracias, chica! for pumping that show with the moolah it needs to come out perfect every week.

Sacha Baron Cohen’s win at the Golden Globes! I was all ready to give the Hollywood Foreign Press props just for nominating the dude, something the Academy couldn’t even cough up enough guts to do. But then they went and decided being Borat is infinitely more challenging than playing an effeminate drunk pirate, and now I have nothing but love and admiration for them. You’ve done well, my children.

Writers who can’t write. I really think the designation should be reserved for people who can actually write. Much like the term “doctor” is reserved for people who can either heal you or write an academic paper that will stand the critique of a bunch of really smart people. I had to wade through the work of a “writer” who thinks “the vastness that is the English language,” “literary glory stays suspended,” and “a certain slant for English fluency” actually make sense. Obviously in his universe, malapropisms are running the government.

News that Renee Zelwegger is dating Luke Perry. Can you believe it? Beatrix Potter dating Dylan McKay? I’m still a little weirded out, but seeing as how I do not care for the Zelwegger and care even less for the sideburned one, I'm giving them the bear. And slightly veiled snark.

Neil Gaiman. I tried. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough, because I only really got as far as page 3, but I did give your Anansi Boys my full attention for as long as I could. It’s clunky writing, man. Like gum on the sole of your tennis shoe? That’s how you choose to go with “stuck”? Oy. That drove me all the way back into the arms of John Allen, Jr. and his unbiased study of Opus Dei. Imagine that.

When I went to evil patronizing doctor last year, he told me I have osteoporosis and that I would have to inject myself once a day everyday for a year. When I went back yesterday for a check-up, he told me he's considering taking me off the injections because he wants to put me back on the medicine that got me on the road to osteoporosis in the first place and another medication that could give me blind spots.

There must be a clause somewhere that says murder is ok in choice instances.

I got my Taylor Hicks CD! I got my Taylor Hicks CD!!!!! Yay, cargo shipping!!! =D

Of course I love it. Absolutely L.O.V.E. it. Because he sounds fantastic. Because the whole thing sounds happy, if a bit odd. And because there are cutey pictures in the album sleeves =D Although that picture at the back of the CD is a bit, er, off. Why does he look like he’s about to ballroom dance with the guitar?

My favorites so far:

The Runaround – Such a happyhappyjoyjoy song! You just have to bop your head along.
Heaven Knows - Call me sick but I like the idea of Taylor begging a girl to be nicer to him. Har!
Just to Feel That Way – I hear this could be his first single. Cool! And about damn time, people! Taylor’s record label is in a bit of a bind since they don’t know which (or if any) radio station will play his type of music. There’s something wrong with that country, for sure.
The Maze - Another song with a catchy tune! It starts off sounding like a Maroon 5 song, and then shifts into Hall & Oates vibe by the time it gets to the chorus. Genius. I’m already singing along to it.
The Right Place - This is the song Bryan Adams wrote for Ray Charles, but the latter never got to record it because, well, he croaked. Too bad. But I’m sure he’s happy to see Taylor has done it justice.
Soul Thing - I like the original recording better, but this will suffice. Man, his label really felt the need to “poppify” him.
The Deal - Again, I like the original recording better, but they didn’t touch this up as much as Soul Thing, so it’s still pretty recognizable.

These are warming up to me:

Gonna Move - Is this supposed to be autobiographical? It talks about this boy who ran the race the traditional way – followed his parents, went to college, etc. etc. – only to realize he was jogging around the wrong oval. HAHAHA! I kill myself with these metaphors =D (My point is: Taylor dropped out of college. It’s NOT advisable, kids. It’s just something that worked for him. And John Mayer. Don’t get any ideas.)
Dream Myself Awake - You’re not that great, Rob Thomas, so let’s not get all huffy over the fact that Aerosmith didn’t get to record your song as originally planned. In a few years, you’ll be begging Taylor to give you a passing glance.
Wherever I Lay My Hat In this one, Taylor pretends he’s a cad. Hee. Right, muffin top ;)
Places I’ve Been - Diane Warren should be given an award for consistency because that woman writes about the same damn thing with the same damn melody ALL. THE. TIME. But yay, Taylor!

Should be given the WTF?! ribbon of recognition:

Give Me Tonight - We had a dog once who was the color of rust. She got pregnant by a jet black dog. Her puppies were varying shades of brown and black. ‘Cept for one white one. This song would be that white puppy. (I can’t help the metaphors, I swear!) The backup singers sound like they came straight from a Paula Abdul recording. That is never good.

I can’t wait for my other album copy from Australia, the one with an original Taylor song (Hell of a Day!) as a bonus track. I hope this boy keeps recording/performing for a long, long time.