After Party

Last night was another party I went to, and I’m beginning to think that with all the celebrations I’ve been writing about these past few months I’m coming across as this party-person shit ready and willing to submit to the draw of alcohol, music and small talk. Mind you, that is not me at all. First, I can’t sustain small talks. Second, I don’t really like drinking. Third, the music I listen to is not appropriate for parties, unless of course it’s a cult kind of party, in which case I’d be the master of ceremonies.

Long over-drag aside, the night ended with me and a few of my friends sitting on the sidewalk, smoking, enjoying wastedness and embracing the cool morning air. It’s these moments I enjoy the most because for some reason, I get to grasp the full essence of urban youth-hood. Just me and my friends out to squeeze the very last drop of “fun” there is to fleeting companionship and familiarity. Laughing, making references to epic personal disasters and talking about the future that will never be, just makes me feel culturally relevant and updated, like I’m not missing out on my twenties.

Think about it, its these dying moments in a story that really feels climactic. For dinner, there is that few minutes where you all look at each other and say, “hey, this was nice.” Or for every climb, there is that brief moment when everyone’s waiting for the bus ride home and a certain sense of collective meaning hovers over everyone. With parties, its this time you spend winding down, thinking about going to Burger Machine or a Tapsihan, smoking a last cigarette, and arm-twisting everyone for a ride home.

I don’t know, these times feel pure to me. No expectations, no hang-ups. Just a latent realization that you and the people you’re with just went through a good time together.

It’s the stuff nostalgia is made of, really.

Hating on the Liberal Settlement

I’m here in a coffee shop, pretending to look busy, because at my age, I should be working, or doing some art, or studying, or staging a plot to take over a family business. That’s what kids do these days. Grow up. I hate the liberal settlement for this.

I’m listening to my iPod to this band called Melochrome, because in my demographic, I should have the most obscure playlist. This bestows some form of authenticity to my character. That’s what kids do these days. Become unique. I hate the liberal settlement for this.

I’m writing this entry for my blog, something I need to keep doing. It’s quite tiring, to be honest. But for people who have the means and the minimum ability, they should write and post. That’s what kids do these days. Perpetuate identity. And I hate the liberal settlement for this.

I’m drinking a hideously pricey cup of coffee, trying to look as if I’m enjoying it even though I really can’t tell the difference between brewed and express. Y’know, people these days should be cosmopolitan enough to know nuanced differences. That’s what kids do these days: Consume culture. I really hate the liberal settlement for this.

I’m waiting for a friend to come for some genuine conversation, just because I can’t deal with Facebook and Twitter as my source of person-to-person interaction. It’s when everything turns distanced that I fear living the most. But that’s what kids do these days: digitize relationships. And yes, I do hate the liberal settlement for this.

I’m feeling a bit depressed, seeing as it is that I have to create my own freedoms and spaces. In my generation, people obsess about forgetting basics, like life and tradition. We are all delusional in our thirst for complexity. But that’s what kids do these days. Thrive in malaise. I can’t hate the liberal settlement more for this.

On the Eve of my Day, I Did Something Uncanny

On the eve of my birthday, I went to Ascend Superclub. Okay, it was very uncharacteristic of me, with all my issues about yuppiehood and all that has to do with “entrance fees.” But, as a redeeming note, it was free, courtesy of my very good friend Petrah. It was her magazine’s first year anniversary and I was invited, along with other common mountaineering friends, to partake in the celebrations a.k.a. free drinks as far as I’m concerned.

The start didn’t go quite well, with us missing the free drinks part. I made the epic effort to dress up decently, going even as far as buying new dress socks. All because I felt that free cocktails are like relationships: very hard to come by and quite demanding. By missing the free drinks hour, I was figuratively dumped.

But, fortunately for us, we were able to sneak in the VIP section through a few calls and a few swift, evading maneuvers past the unreasonably bulky bouncers. The only thing on my mind during that criminal time was how I’d hate myself for being tossed out in the streets in my dress socks. I mean, fuck you, I can’t be humiliated, and be in dress socks at the same time. It’s like double whammy big time.

Motherfuckin’ dress socks.

Anyway, a generous guy gave us some Bacardi to enjoy the night, and we got drunk just as fast as we realized we’d never do this again. So we danced a bit, awkwardly I must say, for none of us really went to these kinds of places regularly to know how to, y’know, gyrate properly. The only moves we were prolific at were those that jived to reggae and folk. So, it was very, very interesting.

It all ended well, with me piggybacking Petrah from the club to the parking lot. She was drunk as hell, and we fell a couple of times. I guess she wasn’t used to wearing high-heeled shoes, and Bacardi may have been too much for me. But as I placed her in the car’s backseat, she uttered this with half a tongue:

“Uy tsong, tsong, wait lang. Saan na tayo sa Netherlands?”

Haha. She was just as confused as I was at the whole thing.

Some Obscure Author

George Steiner once said in an interview that coffee houses are anchor points in urban culture. I cannot agree more. So in the future, when I have all the moneys in the world to afford me some reckless entrepreneurship, I’d put up a coffee shop myself. I’d name it after some obscure author, and place it somewhere inconspicuous, like a back alley or in a wharf. It’d add some cultish feel to it.

It’d be a café and a bookstore all in one, with a collection primarily comprised of Continental thought. And everything in my coffee house will be politically correct. I’d forbid the use of gendered language, and be neutral on issues like pre-marital sex and gun control. If coffee houses were countries, I’d be Antigua: irrelevant but very interesting. Oh wait, that’s not a country.

Hopefully, I’d attract the attention of hippies, homeless professors, unemployed PhD holders, hardcore bums, and philanthropic heirs-to-billions. That’d sure create an environment conducive to conversation, debate, and an occasional brawl. But not to worry, I won’t install CCTV cameras, so that no one would ever go to the police due to “irreconcilable intellectual differences”.

It’d be a smart place, with artwork by local and transient artists on display all year round. It will have an organic ambience, not the manufactured and pre-fab look like most I’ve been to. It’ll feel as if I’d inherited it from a great grand-relative or something. So, okay, a bit contrived, but contrived not to look contrived. It’s less evil that way, yeah?

Perhaps, if I’m not taking care of my babies and my probable alcohol issues, I’d man it myself. Greet people. Make them feel at ease, or just serve them stuff they want. Then over time, I’d be a staple in social mingling and semi-intellectual small talks:

“I went to Cagayan de Oro last week.”
“Wow, did you go to (Coffee house named after some obscure author)? Its quite an experience.”
“Yeah, this guy (my name) recommended some great books to read, and we talked for hours about how the idea of individualism has been replaced over the years by the concept of singularity.”
“ Oh, (my name). He’s so cool, we should like invite him for a conference or something.”


Okay. Fantasy overload.

Age

I’ve been surrounding myself with old people recently. Despite the fact that I possess some form of inherent aversion to the aged, I have taken some initiatives to temper this imagined layer of discomfort. I’m beginning to believe that the ability to have smooth interactions with the elderly is an important skill needed for success. And at the risk of sounding like a new-age-self-help-business-management-book, the way I engage those beyond my immediate social demographic subliminally works to reveal how I view myself.

Yeah, its birthday season, so I myself am feeling a bit old. Subliminal my ass.

Like at work, for example, where my co-workers are on average 20 years my senior. And if don’t attempt to, you know, talk about appliances, anti-oxidants and insurance policies, I just might miss out on the earthen wisdom of the more experienced. Really, what’s wrong with talking about the last amazing thing your niece did?

But I may be swallowing these words soon. I have to keep in mind that when Michael Jackson died, my age was clearly put in place. While the “youth” was eagerly waiting for the next Marvel character to make it to a Wii adaptation, I was busy revisiting my prowess at moonwalking. Okay, maybe not. But the point is, Michael Jackson was not a pedophile.

In my heart, I am young. In the deepest of me, I know that all I really want in life is a regular supply of old-style cinnamon rolls. After all, I haven’t lost my fascination with model cars. I mean those things are still in fashion right? Hotwheels? Matchbox?

Getting old. It does things.

Coz Friends Don't Waste Wine When There are Words to Sell

I noticed that the things I write are not exactly chronological. Sometimes, it takes me forever to post things I have written in a coffee shop, or during a short cigarette break, or a midnight binge. I don’t know why for sure, I don’t have some form of narrative in mind to follow, no plot to complete, and definitely no characters to develop. It’s all completely random.

So maybe if I want to sound more coherent I better stop posting like Carlos Fuentes on crack. After all, one reason why I started blogging, besides wanting to make myself appear more interesting, is that I believe in the internet’s capacity to store information more safely and long-lastingly than my hard drive and mental memory combined. And hence, years from now, I can always have an instant access to my otherwise obscure past – something that I would like to sound and look clear. That’s why I try to hinge my time-space by dropping references to the immediate present. Like how yesterday’s SONA, Gloria’s ninth, is perhaps the lowest point Philippine politics has gotten overall.

But that’s just my trying to put order into my increasingly chaotic life, something I have found ironic and hilarious since I am a point shy of being a bum. Its like saying exotic-sounding real estate developments (Anvaya Cove, Viaje del Sol, Punta Fuego, Pico de Loro etc.) are becoming more mainstream. Oh wait.

You Know its Bad When You Think Research is a Real Job

I could go on complaining about not having anything to do, ad infinitum. There’s no single thing I hate more, besides Photoshopped profile pictures, than just sitting at home, staring at nothing other than the TV and its hideous lineup of useless programs for the day. It doesn’t give me options, and being the hedonist that I am, them options mean a lot. Besides, what’s a restless and willing person like me to do? Surrender choice?

Wait, maybe I hate the yuppy konyo culture more. Or then again, maybe not.

But lately, things have been going a bit less lethargic for me. For one, I have booked a stint as a field researcher for the Institute of Philippine Culture, where I get to do documentation-related stuff of century-old structures in Manila, and finally living my dreams as a fake architect. But its an interesting job, despite the fact that Manila is a story of heartaches: demolished art deco buildings to be replaced by multi-level parking lots, torn-down bahay na bato to give way to a Jollibee or good god, a hardware store, those ridiculously colored apartment rows, and just the overall visual chaos that defines Philippine streetscape. I get to look at photo archives of old Manila too, and damn, they weren’t kidding when they said that Manila was once the pearl of the orient. It looked like a place straight out of present-day Segovia.

Just last week, I toured Monica around Binondo, with its Hongkongesque hustle and bustle, to see the old buildings and to finally grab some authentic hopia. There, the best-looking buildings fronted the Pasig river, but there were only a few left, and most were abandoned and left to rot and crumble into negligent death. See, far away in this city called Chicago, the most expensive and prestigious properties are those along the banks of Hudson river. And New York too. Here, we’ve replaced our Bund street with rows and rows of oil depots and informal settlers.

Probably the best example of how the Pasig once was, is the fact that the Malacanang Palace sits along its banks. But maybe that’s not a very good way to drive a point.

And so it is that I now nurse shallow desire for gentrification: change the face of Manila, especially that part along the river, into a glorious, beautiful, commercially zestful district. But that’s just me being paternalistic and out of touch. Who’d listen to the aesthetics of a fraud architect? I wouldn’t even trust my own judgment, if I were me.

My Recent Reads A.K.A. Appearing Smart

Hegemony and the Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics by Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe

This book, although admittedly difficult, would put any Marxist-on-hiatus in the current shape of radical thought. It begins with a depiction of the crisis of Marxist orthodoxy and the variety of responses to the inadequacy of essentialist thinking to account for contingencies as the were taking place in advanced capitalism – from Rosa Luxembourg, to Kautsky, to Bernstein and to Sorel, and then to some more, like Stalin and Trotsky. Then, it develops Gramsci’s hegemony, ultimately tying to the more current postmodern conceptions of subjectivity and meaning to argue for a radical democratic politics.

If you ask me, its too much theory in one book, but patience will eventually pay off. The book opens a new realm for Marxism, and this is precisely why this book has become seminal and highly influential. For those who are hostile to Marxism, read only up to the Third Chapter and then you’ll be armed with enough arsenal to survive any communist-capitalist debate.



Democracy and Difference: Contesting the Powerhouse of the Political, Edited by Seyla Benhabib

For the first time in a long while, this “theoretical” collection has a literal sense to its title, because, wow, this really is one powerhouse of a book if only because of its contributors. Who, you may ask, are the contributors to this typical collection? Well, just some theorists in the likes of Jurgen Habermas, Iris Young, Seyla Benhabib, Richard Rorty, Nancy Fraser and Chantal Mouffe. Just ‘em normal, average ones.



No Logo by Naomi Klein

In a work that has been hailed as the Das Kapital of globalization, No Logo by Naomi Klein is particularly shallow. Deeply inspired by Frankfurt School’s fetishism and culture industry, the underpinnings of this generation-X work seems to lie solely on the field of a corporatist-emancipatory agenda.

But, this book is also important in conceptualizing culture in terms of imagery and iconography. For those who squirm at the idea of shelling out 200 grand for a bag, this may be the book to get those emotions theoretically substantiated. And to the adherents of Baudrillard, of which I am one, this book greatly deploys the concept of “Disneyzation” to a whole new globalized level.