Saturday, September 17, 2005

Random thoughts that are 2 weekends overdue

Last weekend I spent at least two hours with four youthful British guys. They are Paul, John, George, and Ringgo. Paul is the pretty boy. He can be naughty sometimes but he manages to execute his mischievousness with the grace of a future “Sir.” John is a bit elusive but he has a subtle sense of humor which is kind of cute. Although he is British, he looks a bit Chinito; it is impossible for him not to look great with an oriental girl. I didn’t see much of George because had sore throat that day, and so he was left inside his hotel room most of the time. However he, too, never failed to make me laugh maybe because he was also funny--and it helps that he looks like Vic Sotto. Ringgo is probably the goofiest among the four. He’d put in all his energy just to elicit laughs. I worry about him though. He seems to have a severe fixation with the oral stage of the psycho-sexual cycle. He couldn’t last a minute without a cigar in his mouth.

What these guys have in common aside from their sense of humor, funny haircut, and British accent is probably their love for music. They even have a band. Collectively they call themselves the “Beatles.” I don’t know if it is a good idea naming yourself after a class of six-legged creatures but I know that they make good music—the band, that is. With the music they’ve created, I’d say their songs will last long, maybe even more than five decades. And they too may outlive their names. They’d probably even set a record as the longest living insect on earth.

* * *

Still last weekend, I braved Katipunan Avenue. (Is it an Avenue?) I never felt welcome in that place. All I see are roads, luxurious cars, and establishments that inarguably make big money. Nothing there makes me feel like I belong—not even Jollibee or National Bookstore. And for some reason, it always rains whenever I’m there! Some force probably thinks I don’t feel the place is hostile enough for me; it exhausts all possible means to drive me away, to make me not like the place. In the stormy, almost flooding sidewalks of Katipunan, I saw something I can relate to: cooked Japanese corn. I smiled and bought five. After two jeepney rides (both rides required minimum fare) and while inside a dry shelter I anticipated consuming my hot cob of yellow corn (of course, I gave away the other four). To my dismay, the hot corn I had at hand was nowhere near yellow. I don’t even think it’s Japanese. The last ticket that would have made me like Katipunan was, for lack of a better term, fraudulent. I’m starting to feel I am not designed to become a Katipunero, at least not any time soon.

* * *

While in the company of girls younger than I am, a critical question which required thorough pondering came up, “how did your first kiss feel like?” Now, that’s a loaded question! It assumes that the one being interrogated had already been kissed. I could have objected to that question and the judge would have sustained my plea. The question circled around the group until it reached me. What is a Josie Gellar to say? “Hindi nag-aaply sa akin ang tanong na ‘yan.” I wasn’t being sarcastic with my answer; I was plainly being honest. And for some reason, I felt like a 25-year-old old maid. Not that I agree that old maids are supposed to be treated like lower life forms (check out my stand in The One That Did Not Make It) but I suddenly felt the stigma brought about by such title closing in on me. I quickly reviewed why, again, despite my silver jubilee on earth, I do not have a REAL guy of my own—thus preventing me from receiving a thimble. Here are my excuses. One, I’ve been a child, oh I don’t know, maybe for 25 years! Like what I’ve said before, not all Peter Pans are boys and not all girls are Wendys. I happened to be one of the special ones who managed to cross the no-growing up-boundaries. Two, I haven’t found I guy I can stand who at the same time can stand me. Three, I don’t believe in courtship—supposedly the first step in building a relationship. I don’t see the point in impressing the wooed party when in the end you’ll show an alternate you, one exactly opposite the entity the wooed party thought you were. Four, I am not well-gifted when it comes to handling sexual tension. (“Sexual tension” is a term used in literature to describe the awkward air between two people coming from two different sexes. It has nothing to do with the sexual act. This is for all the non-literary, green-minded people out there.) Sure I can be friends with guys and carry normal conversations with those Martians, but once “malisya” is introduced you’d see me running away. Maybe it’s not because I am afraid. It’s more of my way of doing the good thing. I swear, I could be the most wicked love team critic and I am especially harsh when it comes to my very own potential love team. God knows I don’t need another set of sins to add to my list. Five, and maybe the last, although I may sound like a bitter, cold, and frigid person by now, I’d still claim I’m a romantic. Ironically, I think that romance is petty and temporary, so I choose to channel my passion to writing and to living. (Yoda's note: No fun, are you?) I’d rather make my life productive. If I get involved with a single person, my passion will be shared by one. If I stay as I am, my passion will be enjoyed by the great majority. I’m going for the nobler option.

I’ll stop now before I say too much.


shitless, bullshit-less attack on the crappiness of courtship. brilliant.
am actually trying to figure it out myself here in non-courtshiplandia. it's either you date me, or you get away from me. right?
hurrah for sexual tension--in the comm arts context, of course
Posted by: Nikka | September 21, 2005 05:19 AM

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