not boyfriend material

Just in case I wasn’t clear enough the first time: vampires eat people.

They do.

They get you into some sort of trance, tilt your head back and suck the life out of your pathetic body.  End of story.

I find it incredibly weird that a novel about a pretty boy vampire and his love/prey has garnered so much attention from around the world.  Why, world, why?  Why would anyone want to read a hackneyed love story about some fanged dude who — for some “romantic” reason — has the will power not to eat his mortal girlfriend?

I underestimated the power of shrieking teenage girls, of course.

In any case, do remember that high-pitched high school girls are not always the best literary critics around, so be kind.

The first time I got wind of Twilight I was browsing MSN at work.  Some poor MSN writer had the gall to diss the novel and its characters, resulting in a massive avalanche of nasty comments from rabid high school girls and their equally unhinged mothers.

Twilight, according to its most devoted followers, is a beautiful love story, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a sad, pathetic loser (or ripped to shreds, depending on their hormonal mood swings).

Frankly, I did take the time to read through the novel, only I couldn’t get past a chapter without blood dripping out of my nose.  Cloying would be insufficient an adjective to describe the ghastly sweetness of this juvenile crap.  I must thank the Lord that all I had was the e-book, otherwise my entire desk would’ve been flooded with sticky, sugary adolescent drivel.

I don’t think there’s enough space on the interweb to detail every single thing I found ridiculous in this novel, so I’ll just go with two points.

First of all, the story is pretty much a rehash of old romance novels.  The heroine is a pretty, unassuming girl — perfect, except she’s incapable of walking two steps without falling down a flight of stairs.  She’s always diligent and kind, cleaning around the house and cooking meals for everyone.  Think Martha Stewart, but minus the jail time and wrinkles.  And bitchiness. 

So the heroine is perfect and intelligent and independent and strong, but she does require constant rescuing from a variety of admirers.  It’s the same goddamn song-and-dance every single time.  Strong, “independent” girl still needs a man to keep her alive.  Yay feminism!

More importantly, and I’m returning to my opening argument, how can vampires not eat people?  Now I’m not an expert on vampires, but I as far as I’m concerned, vampires don’t really have a lot of food options.  They’ve got a single food group to choose from.

Celery sticks?  I don’t think so.

Twilight presents what I like to think of as the sissy vampire, prone to cheesy moping and pointless brooding.  Rather than eat you up, the sissy vampire spends his time looking mysterious and reading emo poems.  He’ll never suck your blood; he’ll just bore you to death with all the “I’m an immortal and I have to eat people, boohoo” crap.

And if you really think about it, Edward’s being a real pedophile, hooking up with a teenage girl when he’s actually older than Hugh Hefner.  Creepy now, don’t you think?

There’s only one acceptable vampire relationship in my book, and it’s a bromance between two extremely beautiful vampires who share an apartment and adopt a tiny, vampire child-bitch.

Now that’s love.

I was thinking of buying a decent brand of loose face powder after work today, in an effort to cover up somehow the havoc that sleep deprivation has wrought on my poor face. I got sidetracked, though, thanks to the gloomy Helen-induced weather.

It’s been pretty cold and overcast outside these past few days — sort of like pre-Christmas, only a lot gloomier. There’s something about the current weather that reminds me of the characters in Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart, their loneliness and isolation apparent even in the midst of the maddening crowd.

Like empty shells hurtling through space, the only thing that matters is the brief connection between satellites; the moment when individuals collide. Brief and fleeting, we find ourselves floating away again. Nothing is permanent. At the end of the day, we all go home and find solace in our cold, hard selves.

So I sat there, thinking of Sumire, Miu and “K”.

I forgot all about the face powder and started salivating over books.

I’d read Sputnik Sweetheart once, lent by my cousin who still has my Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. I didn’t have my own copy, though, and it sort of saddened me. I resolved, therefore, to go straight to a bookstore after work so I can buy my own.

I checked out Glorietta’s Fully Booked and immediately found Sputnik Sweetheart.

Right beside it, unfortunately, were a host of other books by Murakami, not to mention tons of other interesting tomes.

There’s something about bookstores that never fails to turn me on.

I swear, you can me leave in a book store for an entire day and I won’t complain. I’ll probably come out grinning and unbelievably happy. Broke, yes, but happy.

In nearly every city I’ve visited, I never fail to find a bookstore I can visit. Bookstores in Beijing, in particular, made me want to kiss the ground and weep. Imagine the biggest bookstore in the Philippines possible, then multiply it by three. It’s that big.

So there I was, standing like an idiot in that aisle. I couldn’t let go of Sputnik Sweetheart, but I yearned for other books, too, like The Elephant Vanishes and After Dark. I also saw a copy of Norwegian Wood, which I’ve read but currently don’t own. You know the drill.

There were tons of other books that caught my eye, too. I saw a rather interesting title: History for the Pessimist. Sounds like me. I also saw 1434, the sequel to Gavin Menzies’ controversial 1421: this one spoke of China’s influence in the European Renaissance. A set of books on my beloved moptops sent me to near tears, though. More than 2000 bucks for a set of four books, but that’s totally worth it right? After all, you get four books that focus solely on The Beatles. It’s like my One Ring, darling.

I did see a number of “best-sellers”, too — Fully Booked’s recommendations for the uninitiated. Among the so-called “choice picks” were the Shoppaholic books, Dan Brown and *gasp* Jostein Gaardner’s Sophie’s World. Seriously now, people are still reading that piece of pretentious crap?

There are two kinds of people who bother to tote that book around: hard core philosophy geeks who have nothing better to do (and need light reading after dealing with tons of Nietzsche and Derrida); and people who want to appear intelligent. It’s not an interesting read. Masquerading as some sort of fantasy/child’s tale-ish tome, Sophie’s World is an unimaginative run-through of every philosophical school known to man.

To be blunt about it, it’s boring.

Back in college, I had this less-than-sterling classmate who lugged her copy of this book around but barely read it. One of my friends (who majored in Philosophy) cattily remarked, “naiintindihan naman kaya nya yan?” Erm, honestly, I doubt it.

Enough with pretentious twits and their cheap gimmicks then.

So I stood their like some sort of transfixed moron for a good ten minutes, agonizing over my purchase. It would’ve been easier if I could buy what I really wanted, which was pretty much everything. Unfortunately, I’m no freaking billionaire and books are starting to cost a fortune. I had to make a choice.

Grudgingly (and with a consoling promise to purchase my next book after I finish this one), I decided to buy just one book for now: Murakami’s The Elephant Vanishes.

I already have a long list of books to read at home. I have The Golden Compass (which bores me), and my friend Joel lent me the beautiful Unbearable Lightness of Being, which I really should have read years ago except I spent all my time reading Mario Puzo novels. I’ve got wuxia novels to deal with, too.

But I will be back, and those books will be mine. I’ll get horrible eyesight, end up with even less sleep and drive myself broke, but its fine.

I love this book-induced high.

Oasis has been playing constantly on my iPod these past few days, along with the Arctic Monkeys and OK Go. I wasn’t exactly an Oasis fan back then, though I did find them okay (a travesty, I know), which is weird given how much I love Brit pop and, well, you really can’t get any more Brit pop than Oasis.

Anyway, there’s something about gloomy weather and Brit pop that I can’t quite explain. I have to admit it was fun crossing muddy streets, jacket hood pulled up and Oasis blaring in my ears. I’ve always prefered such dreary weather over sunshine, pretty much like some sort of fungus, I guess.

I’ve been thinking of moving to (see “work as blue collar worker in”) the United Kingdom, mainly because of the horribly gloomy weather. At least I’d have an excuse for traipsing around in leather boots and humongous jackets. Plus I’d get to stalk Mr. Bean, Simon Pegg and Hugh Laurie, whenever he’s not shooting House, that is.

I did get to do some productive things, like work and study (to a certain extent) and play the guitar. Most of the time, though, I leaned towards a vegetative state, which isn’t really very useful. Despite this laziness, I realized God still loved me because of two things that left me speechless: Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami and the 1969 Apple Rooftop Concert of the Beatles.

To forcibly put the sensation into words would be futile. I’d still try, though, and I’ll do my best to be a bit coherent. Anything else would be an affront to Murakami and the Beatles.

Sputnik Sweetheart is classic Murakami. It’s heartbreaking, a bit like Norwegian Wood, in fact, in portraying the inability of people to really touch anyone else. To put it simply, we’re all just metal cylinders, floating around — alone. I don’t think anyone can portray loneliness better than Murakami can, his words evoking a sense of loss that is both painful and beautiful at the same time.

It’s a real wonder that Murakami writes in so straightforward a manner, yet still manages to create an ambiguous, nearly ethereal portrait of man. It’s like you understand his words, but can’t quite make sense of any of it. In the end you’re left scratching your head, like there’s this beautiful puzzle hanging before your eyes and you can’t tear yourself away from it, even if you can’t quite figure it out.

The Beatles concert — the final concert where all four were present, I think — is beautiful in a different way. In fact, it evokes a sense of loss in a different manner. It’s a bit bittersweet to see snatches of John smiling at Paul in between songs, the way Paul danced weirdly while singing “Get Back”. Seeing John alive and playing his heart out, for one, is reason enough to tinge the beautiful performance with a sense of loss.

It’s enough to make you wonder how things would have been had John survived the attack. Would we see these men at 64, still playing like there’s no one else but them in the world? Fleeting smiles, friendly banter: the world would never see John and Paul play together ever again. Whatever their issues were, it’s undeniable that everthing else is forgotten when they’re together, playing their hearts out.

And so it’s quite a potent combination, really. Heartbreak, loss, music and rainy days.

Or at least I think I do. Anyway, my right wrist has been hurting for almost a week straight. It was so bad last weekend that I had to keep it wrapped in a, umm, clothy thing after slathering on a ginormous slop of pink cream. The cream burned like hell, and my wrist still hurts.

The fact that I am paranoid and some sort of hypochondriac makes me the number one candidate for NOT watching House. I avoid medical dramas at all cost, not just because I dislike drama, but because I have the tendency to over-imagine things. I am weird, as you may have noticed, and I tend to torture myself with a massive and steady stream of irrational thoughts.

I am perfectly capable of scaring myself to death. I suppose I’m self-sufficient that way.

But after a dozen and one exhortations from friends and friends alike, I have come to the conclusion that I must watch House. After all, a friend had promised that, “maldito yun si House.” And Kris, you pretty much had me at vicodin. I suppose a doctor prescribing tictacs and quoting Mick Jagger simply cannot be ignored.

As of right now, I’ve only seen five episodes of Season 1, so a marathon is pretty much in order. The weekend seems like a nice opportunity. I guess I like House for the same reason I like Jack Sparrow — he’s not entirely good and not entirely evil, but he’s immensely brilliant and spouts the show’s best lines, too. What’s not to like?

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I have no idea why, but Jessica Zafra just popped into my head this morning. I was approximately 11 when I first read her column in Today and I was, I think, one of her biggest fans. I still have her autograph and some of her books at home. It was through reading her column that I learned about angst, irony, Kurt Cobain and just how much Depeche Mode sucked. Her love for Sting didn’t rub off, though.

I haven’t read any of her books lately, we don’t subscribe to Today anymore and I suppose I might have finally outgrown her. Nevertheless, I am most inclined to believe that the dripping sarcasm coating my writing style pretty much came from reading her all the time. Which is great, considering my greatest idol before her was Enid Blyton. Can you say pathetic?

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Women, unless you are FDA/BFAD/Baywatch-approved like Pamela Anderson, you have no right — I repeat — no right to force innocent people to look at your dislocated cleavage. Last I checked, boobs are supposed to be above the abdomen, not obstructing it.

I’m not really the kind of person to make resolutions for the New Year, because they get broken by January 2. I think the Fates love to tempt me. The moment I vow never to do this particular thing again, the opportunity comes up and I’d be too weak to say no.

Which says much about my character, but what the hell. That’s not even the point of this post.

Yesterday, my professor ranted angrily at the terrible state of literacy in the country. By “literate” I do not mean the mediocre “can read and write his/her name” standard that we often evoke. People who’ve graduated from college can barely be called literate, considering the way people disregard books and prefer the chewed-up version directors and their film crew spew out each day.

I’ve always loved books since I was kid, starting with the “I Can See” series. I was never the rowdy type, and I’d be contented sitting in one corner with some books the entire day. My mom says I could read even before I could talk or walk straight, though how they know that I have no idea. By grade school I was asking people to give me books instead of toys for my birthday.

But books are quite a luxury. Not even children’s books come cheap. It’s a little frustrating when you see bratty, illiterate classmates with beautiful, interesting AND expensive books for their book reports. It was then that I sought different avenues to fulfill my “literary” needs.

I became a regular at the school’s pathetic, one-room library.

The state of the library in my high school is certainly an indicator of how the world in general views reading. The books were in terrible shape, barely filling six four-level shelves. When it rains the library gets flooded and nobody even cares that the books get wet. In real life, people look at readers and see geeks.

Well then, I look at people who hate books and see idiots.

My professor was practically gagging at the fact that we hadn’t read any of the Chinese classics (the class is on the Society and Culture of China). And so, being a little miffed at the realization that I had not read ENOUGH books in my life, I decided to come up with a list of “must-reads” before the year ends.

- Romance of the Three Kingdoms
- Water Margin
- Dream of the Red Mansions
- Journey to the West
- The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (read in part) ~Haruki Murakami
- The Elephant Vanishes ~Haruki Murakami
- Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman ~Haruki Murakami
- Dance Dance Dance ~Haruki Murakami
- After the Quake ~Haruki Murakami
- Kafka on the Shore ~Haruki Murakami
- After Dark ~Haruki Murakami
- The Nanking Massacre: Fact vs. Fiction: A Historian’s Quest for The Truth ~Higashinakano Shudo

I can’t think of anything else right now, and I haven’t even included anything local. Suggestions are entirely welcome.

Overheard while waiting aboard a Buendia jeepney this morning:

Woman: Mama, dadaan ba tong ano…
Jeepney Driver: saan?
Woman: Sa ano… (long, incoherent Visayan mumbling)
Jeepney Driver: ano?
Woman: Sa embahada ba?! (slightly vexed)
Jeepney Driver: embahada ng?
Woman: NG PILIPINAS!!!

I swear I did not make this up.

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Proud to declare that my Ping Medina obsession is officially over.

Unfortunately, I’m currently obsessed with Conrado de Quiros, after seeing him on television.

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Just found an absolutely heavenly shop (kiosk, actually) called “Branded”. Got myself a TVJ shirt. Ha Ha Ha. Oh glee! Would have gotten the “Sgt. Pepe” design but it was in faded lemony yellow, which is technically also my natural skin tone.

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Just finished Ha Jin’s “War Trash”. Initially, I thought it was rather biased against China. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The novel was very well-written, extremely intelligent, rather gritty, at times dragging but always honest.
Craving Asian authors as of the moment.
That sounded carnivorous.

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Still don’t know if I passed AS299 aka Research Methods under the dragon lady herself, MADAM JUNG (aliases are necessary for my survival). Will probably know before the world ends.