Monday, July 23, 2007

I Don't Know Jack about Cars

This is just one of my failings as a man. I know jack-shite about cars, except that they move fast, look cool, and are comfortable, unless you're driving one of those really ancient model T's without enough cash to re-upholster.

Truth of the matter is, I've long been in love with Honda car models. My brother's first car was a Honda Civic (it was an early nineties model, I forget which), and it was a very, very good car.

Later on, my folks got sick of Mitsubishi and went and got themselves their own Honda, a red Honda City (this was a couple of years ago, and to this day, that car remains to be one of my favorites. It was something of an improvement on the Civic in terms of design and comfort, although word out is that the Civic had a better engine.

One of the things I'd always told myself is that someday, I'll go and buy myself my own automobile. I'd consult sites like these for good deals. I'll soup it up. And call it Fred.

Someday. Even if I didn't have the ability to actually drive the damn thing.

Friday, July 20, 2007

A Quick Brown Fox Again *UPDATED*

Just a quick post while I'm at work.

  • I am currently sans Internet at home. Either the cable or the radio antenna of my connection gave out, or the ethernet card of my laptop did. Either way, I blame the Union.
  • I have also perfected making risotto. It is good. And creamy, for a rice dish.
  • My friend Jon Abaca is crazy, but we all knew that a long time ago. It's refreshing to know that some things don't change.
  • My friend John Pimentel is also crazy. And apparently, gay. And I am saying this for kicks.
  • Life in Utero is slowly being plotted. I have to plan twenty one deaths. Zowie.
  • I still have no finished product for Mervin's southeast Asian fiction anthology. It's either three chapters of Rakenrowl, or The Joust. All else fails, I send in Black Hole and keep myself from crying.
  • *UPDATE* This just made my day. If only for the title. That link has a link leading to this page, which, when condensed, simply says that "British forces were said to have released man eating badgers in the vicinity of Basra, Iraq following the 2003 coalition invasion. This allegation has been denied by the British, and local scientists agree that the animals, Honey Badgers, are native to the area."
  • *MORE UPDATES* On a related note (see Badgers), a friend with too much time on his hands found this. I died laughing.
Toodles, folks.

Friday, July 06, 2007

This Was Supposed to be Short

How does Neil do it?

I half expect some idiot from the front row to stand up and yell that Neil's a professional writer, or for some kid from the back row to timidly ask her mommy what in blazes I was talking about. Of course, you'll have to first imagine that I was a stand-up comic doing a routine in front of a school auditorium, wherein the entire fragment of reality may very well fall apart, frothing and foaming at the seams.

The question, ostensibly - or is it? - refers to how Neil Gaiman manages to blog so regularly without sounding silly or conceited, which is how most writers tend to sound (or is this just a common stereotype of the "intellectual man?"). The reason I ask this is because for the past few days, I've been logging into my blog account with the intention of coming up with a filler to bridge the gap between my last (filler) post and my next (hopefully blockbuster) post, only to sign out again because, well, I really can't get myself up to writing something.

Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that the past week's been a horrible mess, what with my body clock reverting to it's old, primordial-soup state and taking a life of it's own, using my own social life as its sacrificial lamb. To date, I haven't been out of the house, I've been doing all my work at home (my boss is on tenterhooks; I believe that when I do show up at the office, despite the fact that I've been working as hard as I can, when I can, she will brandish a kali blade with the intent of gutting me from head to toe for the fun of it), and I've reduced myself to one to two meals a day to make up for the lack of activity. I can feel my stomach being revitalized into a sea of chi.

It could be burnout. A frightening prospect, but frightening because it's a reality. Frightening because I can't imagine myself stopping from writing, from imagining, at any point in my life. I kick so much ass with my imagination, I sometimes think that my entire life is a figment of fantasy, that one of these days I'll wake up to discover that I was, in fact, a hardcore CEO of one of the biggest cereal-and-grain manufacturers in the Philippines, and that whatever creativity I had was the result of a peyote-induced coma when my pet monkey accidentally grabbed a syringe full of the cactus juice from a passing laundry truck and injected the bloody thing into my bloodstream during a jiu jitsu workout.

See what I mean? This is the way I want to write. I want to astound, I know I can astound, and I know I want to keep astounding. I will rock the world. Someday.

But the sorry fact of the matter is that I can't rock the world until I can master the art of turning the bullshit-slash-imagination on at will. And it isn't just for writing my stories, either. There's the job. There's the letters. There's the bloody blog, and the plans I have for conquering the art world by penning comics that will rock Asgard into the depths of Hel and bring cherubim with punk hairdos and electric guitars together with peace-loving minions of the underworld together. Yin and yang. Tiu and la. Swimming together, in a circle, under one moon. Like Life itself didn't matter. So many things to achieve, that sometimes twenty-four hours a day isn't enough.

Again, how in the name of all the bloody moons of Jupiter does Neil do it??