Parental Guidance Is Advised

Quotes, links, & a gripe

A friend is currently in Hong Kong for a solitary adventure that, I'm sure, will eventually appear on his travel blog. Another one, a classmate in high school, will be "communing with nature" in Bakun, Benguet, this weekend. In her latest blog, erstwhile officemate Nikka Corsino talked about her "three-day solo sojourns" to a Malaysian beach to watch the "melancholic, but no less majestic" rising of the sun.

And here I am at home on a Friday night, listening to Twisted Sister at low volume, slightly hungover, pissed at the humidity, thinking, Does it get any better than this?

Sure, I've a loving family, a nice home, a steady job. A lot of people would gladly exchange places with me for those. And for that I can't say much about how thankful I am for being blessed like that. But still, I'll be the world's biggest liar if I say I'm cruising along a life of comfort and security. That I got pretty much everything made up. No. Fact is, despite everything, I'm still gnawed up with insecurities and worries. My head feels heavy, cluttered. I feel, dare I say, burnt out. And that, I think, is why the urge to go out there and explore the world is becoming more and more powerful with each passing day. So powerful it is maddening. Especially since I can't seem to figure out what's stopping me from throwing all my things in a backpack and doing a Kerouac.

Ala Paredes, in her latest blog, mentioned people who seem to have a "complete lack of wanderlust." She said these people "stay stationary their entire lives, living within the vicinity of the place they were born, and don't even own a passport." She said these people "just don't see the value in travel." I don't consider myself as among those people, but here I am, chained to my daily routine, complaining almost everyday and yet doing nothing about it. What happened?

I no longer believe it's a money and schedule issue. Though I'm not a big earner and toil nine hours a day five days a week (no holidays), an out of town hiatus could be as easy as saving up for a month or two, and then filing a leave of absence for, say, five days. Both doable. So why am I stuck with the same old, same old? Beats me. I've an idea, but it's too depressing and complicated to write down here, and I don't think I've the energy for it now, and this blog has gone on long enough for it to be of anything more than the mad ramblings of a bored blogger on a Friday night.

But I still miss the ocean. The mighty roar of the waves as they crash on the shores. The sunsets and the sunrises. The bonfire and the decadence dance as I suck the very nectar of life to the last drop...

-------------------------------------------

Image by Nikka Corsino

What I missed & what's to come

A high school friend tagged me in this photo on Facebook. It didn't contain any message, but I assume it was his way of showing me the fun I missed when I spent Saturday night watching season four episodes of Californication instead of attending our batch's first reunion in 15 years.

I would've come, if only the last two weeks weren't so mentally and emotionally exhausting for me. So exhausting that on Saturday I found myself in a semi-vegetative state and in no mood to leave the house, much more meet people, even old crushes. Man, those days really drained the hell out of me. At one point I seriously considered quitting work, jumping on the first provincial bus I see on EDSA, and starting a new life somewhere. One that is devoted to writing, reading and nature-tripping.

Obviously, I held back. I decided to stick to what I have right now, which isn't exactly bad, and hoped that this wretched shitstorm inside me will soon pass. Pulp Summer Slam is less than a month away, and I was fortunate enough to be invited to the presscon on the 29th, which means an opportunity to see members of Anthrax, Death Angel and Hellyeah up close, and yeah, thank god for silver linings.

Right. Back to work now.

All because of Alice in Chains

It all started with Alice in Chains.

It was December 2000. I was at the now defunct Music One in Megamall with my college buddies, who were then also my co-workers, figuring out how to squander our first 13th month cash. Gawking at the record shelves, my eyes glanced upon a particular release that made my heart skip a beat.

A live Alice in Chains album.

Although there had been no announcement yet of a formal breakup, the band was then on a prolonged period of inactivity due to vocalist Layne Staley's poor health condition resulting from his drug addiction (which killed him two years later). And although I yearned for them to get their acts together and come up with a brilliant album similar to 1992's Dirt, deep inside I knew that it was already the end of the line for them, and that 1996's MTV Unplugged was to be their swan song.

The release of a live album, in short, was something I was not expecting, but there it was. I simply had to tell someone the good news.

The geeks who were with me that time were out of the question. They only had a fleeting appreciation of the whole Seattle scene and could only name two or three AinC songs. My excitement would be wasted on them.

So I texted this girl at the office who, at that time, was the only big AinC fan I knew. We were not really close (she worked in a different department), but I thought, hey, what the hell.

Thankfully, she replied. She said it was good news indeed.

I married that girl six years later.

Alice in Chains are still kicking ass, with a new vocalist.

---------------------------------

Written on the 10th anniversary of our relationship.

Of cystic structures & MP3s

No movies this particular weekend. I simply didn't have enough time for it. (Charmaine has been egging me to watch August Rush and I Love You Phillip Morris. I would've love seeing those, but both films are in her iPod Touch, and I've yet to develop fondness for movies seen on tiny screens.)

Instead I spent most of my free time tweaking some MP3s and making backup files of them. It's a fairly easy task, except when it involves literally hundreds of albums like what I have, then suddenly it becomes monstrous and time consuming. But at least I can sleep at night knowing that in case my computer crashes tomorrow, all my babies will be safe.

You have to be a music fan to be able to spot sense in this.

On Saturday morning Charmaine and I trooped to Makati Medical Center for her checkup. There's been a slight pain somewhere in her lower abdomen and she wanted her gynecologist to look into it. Although she underwent laparoscopy last year to extract a cyst in one of her ovaries, there's no guarantee that all is safe and well in her reproductive system. Monitoring is the key, we were told. Minor aches in that area should not be taken for granted.

So off we went to the hospital.

As it turned out, there was indeed a "benign cystic structure" (measuring 3.3 cm) in her left ovary. The doctor who did the ultrasound — a male gynecologist! some dude! — said it could be related to her period. Hopefully it is, for Charmaine does not intend to spend some days in the hospital again being poked with strange instruments. Also, we agreed at the beginning of 2011 that neither of us should suffer a major health issue this year, and she doesn't want to be the one to break that pact.

Everything will be clear on Monday, when she sees her doctor again.

What I'll do with P400 million

Got bitten by the lottery bug. Jackpot prize in the 6/55 Grand Lotto is already over P400 million and still counting. Everybody's licking their lips. It's the talk of the town. News teams are dispatched to cover long queues of dreamy eyed bettors in front of Lotto outlets and interview them. "What will you do with the money in case you win?" The retorts are pretty much standard: Set up a business, send the kids to good schools, donate to charities. No mention of quitting jobs, flying to the Bahamas, and rolling naked on the sand with starlets.

I myself can't begin to imagine how to handle that amount of money. Following my instincts, I'll probably go on a shopping spree. Buy an entire library of CDs and books, score the latest trendy gadgets even though I don't know what some of them are for, and treat my family and friends to nice expensive dinners in five-star hotels where we can listen to live bossa nova and pretend to like it.

Only then will I start planning for that trip to the Bahamas with my favorite starlet.

------------------------------------------

Photo courtesy of pinoy-ako.info

Getting sick is not metal

Saw my pulmonologist the other day. She said my right lung is recovering pretty well based on the x-ray result. I was hoping she would give me the clearance to go back to work, but she didn't. Instead she advised me to take another month off. I e-mailed my bosses about it, and they said OK, fine, don't worry about it. Wow. If only I could grab a drink to celebrate. Seems like I'll be back in the office just in time to attend the Christmas party.

Wake me up when October ends

Saw my pulmonologist yesterday to ask for a clearance so that I could go back to work. She didn't give it to me; instead she extended my recovery period for three more weeks. Which means I've to spend the whole October at home, trying my best to recuperate by getting more and more bored by the day, and sorely missing the grind.

I'm not enjoying this. This is not what I have in mind when I think of hiatus.

Meanwhile, to wile away the time, I read, sleep, and eat. I listen to a lot of music, new and old. I do late-night walks (although not much because, in my condition, that will be counterproductive). I help in some household chores. I watch TV and try my best to catch up on my movie backlog. One of these days I intend to sit down and write some fiction. I hope I can get over this nagging feeling of unproductivity when I finish one.

So there...

Patient No. 237

Marty Balin's "Hearts" playing on the radio, and by my bedside a tumbler of cold calamansi juice and Philip Roth's Portnoy's Complaint. This is my first Sunday in a long time when I don't have to worry about work later in the day. As soon as I finish reading my mail and writing this blog I'm off to those things and will just let the day drift by with all its promises of calm.

Not to say that I'm totally enjoying my isolation, though. There were nights last week when I was so bored lying in bed that I found myself spending hours online and extending assistance to the people in the office. (My bosses tried to put me off, but I was insistent. It's not that I love work that much. It's just that the feeling of uselessness is something I can't come to grips with no matter what state I am in. Indeed, this will be a big problem when I grow old and become bed-ridden. I might as well just ask someone to shoot me, if not do it myself a.l.a. Hunter S. Thompson.)

Tuberculosis is a bitch. My pulmonologist told me I need to overhaul my lifestyle. Which means no more of the vile, evil stuff. Perfect time to quit smoking, I guess, and mellow down on the drinks.

Talk about shit hitting the fan

More than 15 years of smoking and late-night boozing have finally taken its toll on me. Later today I'll be confined at St. Luke's -- my first hospital confinement since I was 2 -- for a procedure aimed at draining the liquid/pus found in my right lung. This has been causing me severe pain lately, and on Sunday night it made sleeping agonizingly difficult. So the next day I sought an expert in the person of Dr. Adelaida Yanga-Gaddi, and she told me, after checking my x-ray result, what my affliction was and what must be done a.s.a.p. to remedy it. She also said a change in lifestyle is a must. She said it like a warning, which is perhaps what it really was.

Reporting for duty (A post-flu blog)

Bed-ridden for three days because of the flu. Three days of ennui, late-night sweats, and that floaty feeling as if my head was pumped with helium. All I did was sleep, eat, and consume a lot of liquids. Books kept me company: Finished reading Dennis Lehane's Gone Baby Gone and about five stories from Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things. Radio was a friend also. On my second night I woke up to a playlist of Nineties songs and couldn't help but feel nostalgic. That night I also saw a firefly from my room's open window. I looked at it for several seconds until it got eaten by the darkness. For some reason I felt sad and alone and terrified at the vast world outside.

Was absent for work for two days. I guess it can't be helped. I punched in today, Sunday, but five hours into my shift I was convinced I made a big-ass mistake. Aside from the fact that I overestimated my health, I also forgot about the full blasting air-conditioning system in this damn room. 

This sucks! I'll see if I can get up tomorrow morning. My chest is also killing me.