Musings, ravings, rants of a 20-something web designer/artist/musician/photographer about anything he can throw a tomato at.
As promised a few months back (READ: eight months), here’s a photo from the resort we went to. “Gaycom” said the front gate, though I didn’t see the word “com” on the sides of this seemingly queer tank. I didn’t bother to ask the caretakers, they looked like people who’ll jump anyone they catch looking at this thing too long.
Consider this a supporting idea to my previous post about that guy who put his name on a hotdog. Haha.
No PP work done here, save for the watermark and resize.
Okay. I may be a few weeks too late to rant/muse about this, but what the heck… we’re living in a country where clocks are set two hours in advance to be “on time”. Even doing so hasn’t changed the habit of Filipinos setting call times on invitations, gig skeds, and the like an hour or so earlier than the schedule time.
Speaking of the Filipino time and its socio-political and psychological what-nots, let me get on with what I’ve been itching to blog about ever since I read about it a few minutes ago:
I had to show you what it was before I went on.
Apparently, RFM (the people who came up with this VERY novel idea) decided to further their market with the people who consume hotdogs like kids. Yes, gay men… according to one research.
Now I haven’t been watching TV (not that there’s actually something to watch) or going too often during the past few weeks to claim that I’ve actually seen this demented idea of selling processed cultured worms stuffed dyed in red. I probably won’t let myself near it even if half the country says it actually tastes good. I can’t start to imagine how Sam Milby’s feeling now.
This is me echoing the rest of the blogging community: “What the hell was he thinking?”
Read about the rest of the uneasy and tense afternoon in a boardroom that spurred this idea here. From what I read, it’s fictional (the meeting, not Sam holding his hotdog with the cheap-looking headphones that he probably intended for strangling himself to death).
I awoke to the barrage of knocks at my door earlier tonight. In my Knock Meter, that kind of knocking would only mean two things: either the whole street’s set ablaze again, or there’s someone outside with a serious death wish. I sometimes wish the latter would happen more often. I’ve began to hate carrying stuff (READ: personal trash) out of the house just because some idiot decided he should sleep with the candle awfully near a curtain. That’s what they usually say, anyway.
Half-awake and bleary-eyed, I opened to my housemate asking if I was ready to switch rooms. I subconsciously said yes and then realized that I wasn’t. So much for being an optimist.
I turned the lights on and surveyed my landfill: unpacked clean clothes which I carried using that black trash bag all the way from UST at high noon after visiting Dengue-ridden Kitch at the hospital; assorted personal effects scattered on the dresser; empty plastic bottles, just enough for the collector to take five days off; a few half-clean (yes, not half-dirty) pants and jackets pegged on occasional makeshift hooks; and to my surprise, loose hair. Don’t ask me, I “half-live” on that room as an excuse for staying somewhere near the place where I grew up.
So I wasn’t ready, and it was already 7PM.
Fighting the loss of what could be 10 minutes more of sleep, I hurriedly stuffed everything into the trash bag and dumped it into the new room. I’ll skip the “reminiscing wonderful memories” part to save on mouse scroll and keypress. Out came my bed and the bag of hair that could make a baby wig, if there was such a thing.
The room had windows on two of its walls, which I thought would be nice since I won’t be enduring the Wowowee theme song playing over and over from the next room sweating profusely from the blistering heat that my former room graciously offered.
After a quick bath, I dressed up and left a year’s worldly clutter all over the place. I can deal with those later, when I feel the need.
Thoughts