Ape Drape Alert

Saturday, February 3, 2007

Yesterday, the man driving the van I rode to work was sporting a mullet.

A real business-in-front-and-party-at-the-back fucking mullet!

What's fucking worse is the fact that he was actually going around like he was a fucking redneck, being brash and loud and all. He needed only to chew tobacco; wear denim jumpers; and bleach his skin, and he would've given Charlton Heston a run for his money.

The WORST part came when he turned on the radio.

This was his playlist, in the exact order:

• It Might Be You (Stephen Bishop)

• Here I Am (Air Supply)

• Hello (Lionel Ritchie)

• Sailing (Christopher Cross)

• Said I Loved You… But I Lied (Michael Bolton)

• Power Of Love (Celine Dion)

While I do not have anything against the aforementioned songs and artists… Damn! He should have, at least, tried to go the whole hog with the fucking macho thing. I mean, Celine Dion, for Christ's sake!

I don't know what else he played because I fell asleep somewhere between the intro and the first verse. And I was in too much of a hurry to pay attention when I woke up.

Anyway, he made for a good laugh, considering that I was ten minutes late.

The Waiting

I just remembered; your clothes are still under my mattress.

 

It’s funny, how your clothes and I share the same predicament when it comes to you:

 

WE ARE FUCKING DISPOSABLE.

 

But if you think that this time, you can just waltz back in; haul another load of designer fucking clothes and Italian fucking shoes and French fucking perfumes; tear off my Tito, Vic, and Joey posters from the walls; hide my Charlie Parker records under the sink; flush my whiskey down the lavatory; and stop me from smoking, well:

 

YOU ARE FUCKING MISTAKEN.

 

I have had enough of your indecisions; your preaching of a romantic great leap forward sans the actual romance; your “I sympathize with the less fortunate” stance that warrants thorough research and progressive action; your repetitive whining about how you could have or should have treated your friends better; and your habit of leaving me wanting and waiting for even just traces of how you view what we are or have or could be or could have as anything at all.

 

And if you think that I am sitting here, on the floor; waiting for you:

 

YOU ARE FUCKING CORRECT.

 

YES, I AM WAITING FOR YOU.

 

AND ONCE I HEAR YOUR FOOTSTEPS FROM THE HALLWAY; ONCE YOU KNOCK ON MY DOOR AND CALL OUT MY NAME, I WILL OPEN THE DOOR AND I WILL FUCKING SHOOT YOU. RIGHT BETWEEN YOUR FUCKING BLANK EYES. AND I WILL FUCKING SPIT ON YOUR FUCKING CORPSE.

Tea With Bonnie

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Bonnie asked as she was handing me a cup of coffee and a marble ashtray. She sat in front of me and cradled her cup of tea.

I suppressed a grunt and tried to smile at her.

Bonnie sipped her tea, looked straight at me, and said, “Of all the nights and of all the places. Funny, ain’t it?” She was, obviously, trying to break the ice. A line from Casablanca came to my mind.

I looked to my left, over at Prudence: curled up on the couch and buried under a maroon comforter. She’s probably a million miles away from here right now. A million miles away from New York City; the nippy wind; the after-midnight racket; the couple of days leading to New Year’s Eve. She’s probably somewhere warm and sunny; where the ocean is stretched out before her, inviting her into its arms.

I took a puff on my cigarette. The smoke seemed to linger in front of my face.

“Weird is more like it. This is the first time I ever went down to the public library.”

She just shook her head in disbelief – or perhaps at my serious tone – and laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said, covering her lips with the collar of her sweater. “I’ve never seen anyone so deep in thought for an answer to a rhetorical question before. Anyway, I meant no offense.”

I smiled at her. “It’s alright. None taken.”

“So, where have you been staying?” she asked.

“Now that you’ve asked, I’ve been staying just across the street,” I sheepishly replied, and pointed at the only unlit room in the building outside her front window.

“What? And you never saw Prudence? She walks to and from the university everyday!” she gasped, almost laughing again.

“I write at night and I sleep during the day. Besides, it’s never been a habit of mine to look at people down on the street.” I faked a grin.

“You’re a writer?” she asked, smoke billowing from her nostrils.

“Yeah. That’s how I got here.” I stole a glance at Prudence. “Some publisher grabbed a copy of my poetry at an art exhibit in Manila. She then asked me if I’d like to work on a book here. It was a rather strange invitation, really. I mean, who’d be crazy enough to fly a guy eight thousand five hundred and fifty-two miles – all expenses paid – just to have him write a book? And she hadn’t even known me prior to that night.”

“Well, she must’ve read something good in your works,” Bonnie said, yawning. She lit up another cigarette and offered me one. I declined and motioned that I had my own.

“I think I’d better go now. You ought to hit the sack. That incident at the pub must’ve worn out your nerves.”

“Nah. Stay for a while. At least, until Prudence wakes up and walks to her room. Otherwise, I’d have to pour water on her.” She giggled.

“I’ll carry her then,” I suggested.

“Would you, please? Sometimes, she falls asleep right there and wakes up sniffling and sneezing the next day.”

“Alright,” I said, and proceeded to carry Prudence. She whimpered and I thought she’d wake up. Good thing she didn’t. I laid her down on the bed and tucked her in. I kissed her on her forehead. To my left, I could see Bonnie leaning on the door, her arms across her chest, smiling – as though the horse she bet on had just crossed the finish line first.

I thanked Bonnie and bid her goodbye as I walked out into the hall.

I felt something making its way across my face. I sleepily brushed it off and sat on the mattress. I looked around and tried to find it but, whatever it was, it was nowhere in sight. I got up and boiled water in a small saucepan. Shit, I’ve run out of sugar. I could run across the street to Bonnie’s but I wouldn’t want to encounter the sun yet. Ah, I’ve survived with less. At least, I’ve still got some coffee. I stood by the window and reached for my pack of Marlboro Lights. My white Zippo crackled, telling me it’s about time I refilled the fluid. With a cigarette in my mouth, I walked back to the stove and poured the boiling water into a mug that my father gave me last year. The last couple of teaspoons of instant Kenjara coffee went in with an eerie hiss.

Three in the afternoon… I sat on the floor, with my back against the window, and put my mug and an ashtray by my side. Lighting up another stick, I checked my mobile phone. No messages. No calls either. For all the people living here – walking the streets, taking the subway and the cabs and the buses, and the horrendous traffic jams – New York is a lonely place.

My thoughts flew to Laguna. What could the boys be up to? It’s almost four in the morning there. They’re probably wrapping up another drinking spree. I remember the discussions we had the night before my flight: the charter change, the price of beer, the murders of journalists and Leftists, the stupid warning signs on cigarette packs, the latest rubbish on pop radio. I’m going to get them something from here. As soon as my money comes in, that is.

I got up and went to my desk. Just a few pages more; and I’ll be done. I’ve got to call Sara and ask for some cash. These last two packs of Lights won’t get me through the night. I picked up the phone and dialed her number. Nobody answered. Shit. I tried again. Still, nobody answered. I waited for a couple of minutes and dialed again. This time, I got connected to an answering machine. The voice was a man’s – grave and direct:

“IF I WERE YOU, I’D GO BACK TO FROM WHERE YOU CAME.”

I thought: You’re a sick fuck, Sara. This isn’t anywhere near hilarious. The rest of the message cut off my thoughts and held my throat in its grip:

“GO NOW, CONRAD. GO HOME AND NEVER LOOK BACK.”

What the fuck? How on earth could that bloke have known who I was? It then occurred to me that Sara lived alone.

I hit the shower; dried myself; and put on a pair of jeans, a black shirt, and my old black Chucks. I put my gloves and a buck knife in my back pocket, just in case. I lit up a stick; took my army jacket; and walked out, thinking: What the fuck is going on here?

I stepped out, just in time to see Bonnie falling. Her eyes met mine. In them was despair; such as I have never before seen. Tears welled up in my eyes. Not for her demise but for what she tried to tell me during those last seconds before gravity and the pavement claimed her. A silent whisper made me look up at their living room window. Prudence was covering her face with her thin fingers. Her long curly hair was a tangle of leafless branches. She looked naked, from where I stood. Her elbows covered her little breasts. The small golden Marian medallion she always wore glistened on her chest. I looked down at Bonnie’s disfigured corpse and heard the siren of an ambulance. People were already gathering around her; some were looking out from their windows, gawking, as though a gypsy parade had marched into town; others, mostly children, were wailing. I looked up again at Prudence but she was gone.

I decided to check on Prudence before heading off to Sara’s. Hell, this is too much for one afternoon. I threw away an empty pack of Lights and opened up another one. I lit a stick as I was going up the stairs and almost tripped. The tenants were too busy gossiping that they didn’t notice me walk into the building.

I opened the apartment door and was greeted by an unwelcoming whiff of rotting flesh and drying blood. I looked around but saw that everything was in place.

“Prudence!” I called out. “Prudence, where are you?”

I walked towards her bedroom. The sickening smell grew stronger.

There was no one in the room. Prudence’s books were scattered in a corner. Her closet was open and her clothes were strewn all over the floor. Her bed was covered with blood and entrails. Thoughts raced through my mind. This could not be real.

I lit up another stick and put on my gloves. Jesus, what is it that I’m supposed to do here?

I was so preoccupied with rummaging through Prudence’s things that I never saw what was coming.

“Put your hands up in the air. Slowly.” I turned around to see a couple of policemen, their guns pointed at me. I held up my hands and tried to stay calm. This is going to be pinned on me, I bet. I was read my rights while I was being handcuffed.

“Jesus H. Christ! Are you crazy? What the hell is all this?” asked the colored officer as he was fishing my knife out of my pocket.

“Beats me, man. I was just looking for a friend of mine,” I replied.

“Looking for a friend of yours? In here? Jesus! Hey, Sanchez, call in forensics and have them sort through this shit. I’m taking this kid down to the station.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see Prudence walking amongst the other tenants while I was being led down the stairs. I turned to look at her and she smiled at me. The neighbors didn’t seem to mind that she was completely naked. And that her hands were the color of dried blood. They all just looked at me and mumbled. All I could hear was the buzzing of a thousand flies in my ears.

Inside the squad car, I had some time to think about what had just happened. Nothing came of it. No use asking the officers for a smoke, with my hands cuffed behind me. I must’ve fallen asleep because, when I woke up, I was in a warehouse. Or so I thought.

The air was filled with the smell of rust and grease. My head hurt like hell. I tried to get up but my body felt too heavy. A cold draft passed through my body. It was as though I was inexistent but capable of feeling and perceiving. I can’t find the exact words, really.

“I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE, BOY.”

It didn’t sound at all like the voice on Sara’s answering machine. This time, it was a woman’s voice. I tried to look around but all I saw were mountains of metal parts. I could tell there were lights but I couldn’t see where they were coming from. I got the feeling that wherever I was, it was a very large place.

“EVER HARD-HEADED, AREN’T YOU, BOY?”

I tried to answer but words failed to come out of my mouth. Who the hell are you anyway, telling me what to do? Who are you to say when I’m supposed to leave? Besides, none of what I do or not do is any of your fucking business!

“LOOK WHAT YOU’VE GOT YOURSELF INTO NOW.”

I struggled to get up when I saw that I was about to drown in a sea of metal whatnots, but it was pointless. My lungs tried to take in air but found none. Everything went blank.

Prudence was beside me when I woke up. I looked up at the ceiling and realized that I was back in my room. I recalled that this is exactly how we first met, years ago.

It was my first term in college and I got back to my apartment, drunk and wobbling. I fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed. I woke up to the warmth of someone breathing on my shoulder. I turned my head and found a curly-haired girl, deep in slumber, lying next to me. I immediately got up and felt the sting of a hangover.

Puzzled, I took a pack of cigarettes from my roommate’s desk. I stood in the middle of the room and waited for her to get up. After almost half an hour, she opened her eyes and smiled at me, as though she was exactly where she ought to be.

I didn’t have the chance to ask her or even tell her anything. I felt a buzz in my ears and, before I knew it, she had walked out the door.

With Prudence lying beside me, I was uncertain as to what had actually transpired a few nights ago, a few weeks ago… God knows how long ago it was. I looked at her closely and sought out the bloodstains I noticed from the time I saw her at her apartment. There was none. She was wearing a green tank top and a pair of worn jeans. Nothing about her was amiss but still, I could sense there was something wrong with her being here. I backed away from her and tried to shake myself conscious. I lit up a stick; puffed deeply; exhaled; and stared at the ceiling for a good few seconds. I walked over to the sink and drank from the tap. I tried to think but my head was full of nothing and everything. Quite hesitantly, I looked at her again and she was still there, as though she was exactly where she ought to be.

She opened her eyes; shook her head; looked straight at me; and said, “Bonnie had been very, very naughty.”

The Wisdom Of Paco de Lucia 01

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

"Feeding the stomach is easy.Feeding the soul is hard and always will be."

High School Memories

They called me all sorts of names, way back in high school. Freak. Bookworm. Know-it-all. Smart-ass. They scorned the fact that I preferred books over parties. That I played in a band, instead of on a goddamned basketball team that never got to win anything anyway. They whispered whenever I passed through the hallways. They snickered every time I got the answers right in History class. They rolled on the floor, laughing like the assholes that they were, whenever I had lunch with the rest of the Physics Quiz Bee Team. I was the butt of jokes. They tried their best to keep things out of my earshot. But I heard them. I heard them alright.

Everything changed when I bagged the prettiest and most elusive girl in school. It was not for admiration or love or whatever-Hallmark-crap-reason that I went after her. I did it out of scorn. Scorn for whatever it is that was in her that made all the idiots drool and pine. Scorn for what they held high in their empty heads. And everybody suddenly stood in awe of me. Who the fuck does this motherfucking nerd think he is anyway? But still, I was relegated to a whole new status. I was on top of the fucking social heap; walking amongst the best of the social climbers and the worst of the pseudo-elite. I was close to being invincible. That is, according to their motherfucking standards.

One day, I decided to shake things up once more. The girl they all pined for; the girl I was going out with; the untouchable fruit in the fucking garden: I fucked her. Fucked her like hell. I fucked her like an animal until she screamed for all the saints to come down and rescue her. I fucked her until she recited the rosary backwards and in ten different languages. I fucked her and made a slave out of her, toying with her mind until my fucking – as much as she did not like it – became a necessity to her. And they all found out. And they were disgusted. At the inhumanity. At the brutality. At the act that, somewhere in the back of their minds, they wished they had been able to accomplish.

Truly, people will never understand the monsters they create.

It did not end there. The taste of violence was too relieving. Like getting your hand caught between the plug and the outlet; and finding out that electricity does not really hurt. Too comforting. Like Vivaldi on a golden afternoon, alongside whiskey and a cigar. Too attractive. Like a Chagall or a Caravaggio, hanging on the wall at the foot of your bed.

TOO FUCKING DELICIOUS.

So I taught myself how to shoot. Everything from homemade .22s to 50-caliber M82A1s. I read books on licensed and improvised explosives and poisons; and calculated the reaction time of the local police force. I forged papers and documents and IDs and shopped in markets both legitimate and black.

Everyone was there at the morning assembly. The fucking rector-principal. High and fucking mighty in his seat. Staring indiscreetly at the fresh young bodies laid out before him. The head teacher was there. Silly as a fucking arse. Yelling commands here and there. The personification of rubbish. The students were like lambs, gathered in the field. Chattering and moving incessantly.

Right before the end of the morning prayer, I detonated the low-impact explosives I had concealed under the bleachers on the four corners of the gymnasium. Bodies went up in fire and smoke. Why low-impact? I wanted survivors. So I could shoot them. I saw them all scampering towards exits, towards rows of fallen chairs, towards each other. Towards everywhere and nowhere. The rector-principal was wailing like a pig about to be butchered. Through the scope, I saw that he had shit himself. Fucking pansy. He was not even hurt. Not yet. So I took a shot at his thigh. Blood and shit splattered. His leg was almost torn off but the shithead still tried to stand. I tagged him one more time. On his right shoulder. He spun like a top. Where is your god now, padre? Am I not god now, calling the shots and deciding who is worth what? Where are your fucking guardian angels now, padre? Where the fuck are they now? 

The head teacher, I shot at her throat. Try shouting now, bitch. What? You have got to talk louder and clearer than that if you want to be heard. Stop gurgling on your blood. I have had enough of your orders, you fucking whore! Try giving me demerits now.

I shot randomly. Flesh and bones covered the floor. Almost a thousand bodies – all sitting ducks. Well, some of them were either lying down and desperately clinging onto their miserable lives or writhing in agony and gagging on their own entrails. IT WAS A FUCKING CIRCUS! I did not give a flying fuck as to who would get hit. Everybody dies. Sooner or later. We are all in the same shit.

But, you see, I was the one holding the rifle.

All Things Must Pass

Saturday, January 27, 2007

Dear Anoushka, 

I died a couple of weeks ago.

The how is rather irrelevant, and I prefer not to dwell on it.

Now, I'm in what others might call the afterlife. I still haven't made up my mind about what to call this place. There are books everywhere; and so I'm quite compelled to call it heaven.

There are people here too. There's one who used to call himself Mozart. Funny fellow. Blabbermouth and all but he does make sense. I had a drink with him the other night and he spilled whiskey all over the place. On our way back to the quarters, he slipped down the Spanish Steps and broke an arm. He's still recovering right now but it's rather amazing how he can play the piano with six fingers.

There's another guy, Jimi. He's quite shy and likes to drag his guitar around. He rarely plays a tune on it but he lugs it around nonetheless. The others say he's been pensive ever since he got here, which is a far cry from how he was prior to this.

Another fellow they call Andy always makes the rounds, taking photographs of everyone. No one really knows what he does with the films because he paints cans and tin pans every weekend. He's the guy to go to when you're looking for a dose of reality.

There's a lady here with whom I hang around often. Her name's Ingrid and I remember her from a film I loved when I was still, well, somewhere else. Surprisingly, she's very lively and loves to laugh and giggle. We spend hours talking about why we're here anyway and why there are others who aren't.

So far, it's been good. I'll let you know, from time to time, what transpires here.

See you soon.

Vedanta

On History

Friday, January 26, 2007

Have you ever tried reading stories between everyday incidents?

Take the man in front of you; a few steps away from the boarding gate; and sweating like hell. This is his nth time riding a plane from JFK to LAX, being a businessman and all, and yet he is scared shitless. He murmurs a prayer; praising the heroes of Pan Am 103.

Then, there is that woman on the street. It is rather strange that, walking to her car, anyone with clear enough vision can detect that her hand is shaking. Her eyes dart from left to right. She almost drops her keys. Her children wave goodbye but she does not even bother to look at them. You watch her from your hotel window and turn your head towards the telly. There is a newsflash about the West Bank.

There is also that next-door neighbor who seems to sleep all day, and go out quietly during the nights. He rarely talks to anyone, when he is outside. And when he does have guests, he lets them in hurriedly; and turns up the radio so loud that you get the feeling that there is a pub right in the middle of your living room. While most of the men in your district have gone to the drink, there are a few like him who stay sober. Even on St. Patrick’s Day.

On the way to work, you see a woman and her daughter, crying rivers, and exchanging what seem to be words of reassurance and despair. An old man in the car near them is yelling for the young girl to come to him. Her mother prods her on but she offers a futile resistance. She steps into the car and the old man hands her mother an envelope full of money, and papers transferring the ownership of a parcel of land and a dozen cows.

How about the man drinking gin on the sidewalk across your doorstep? His face is ragged and yet there is a regal air to him. His clothes are torn and tattered but you can see traces of a former glory. Wash him up, dress him up, and he’d make for a mighty fine gentleman. If only he had that other leg. And your eyes slowly drift towards the captain’s stripes on his coat.

Interestingly, the pages that tell of history do not reveal the names and faces of the men, women, and children who truly wrote them.

I Knew It!

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Saint Exupery's 'The Little Prince' Quiz.

You are the snake.
Take this quiz!

Quizilla | Join | Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

The Wisdom Of Woody Allen 01

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

As the poet said, 'Only God can make a tree' — probably because it's so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.

 

Eighty percent of success is showing up.

 

Eternal nothingness is fine if you happen to be dressed for it.

 

His lack of education is more than compensated for by his keenly developed moral bankruptcy.

 

How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?

 

How is it possible to find meaning in a finite world, given my waist and shirt size?

 

I can't listen to that much Wagner. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland.

 

I don't want to achieve immortality through my work… I want to achieve it through not dying.

 

I tended to place my wife under a pedestal.

 

I took a speed reading course and read 'War and Peace' in twenty minutes. It involves Russia.

 

I was thrown out of college for cheating on the metaphysics exam; I looked into the soul of the boy sitting next to me.

 

I'm astounded by people who want to 'know' the universe when it's hard enough to find your way around Chinatown.

 

If it turns out that there is a God, I don't think that he's evil. But the worst that you can say about him is that basically he's an underachiever.

 

If only God would give me some clear sign! Like making a large deposit in my name in a Swiss bank.

 

Interestingly, according to modern astronomers, space is finite. This is a very comforting thought — particularly for people who can never remember where they have left things.

 

It is impossible to experience one's death objectively and still carry a tune.

 

It is impossible to travel faster than the speed of light, and certainly not desirable, as one's hat keeps blowing off.

 

It seemed the world was divided into good and bad people. The good ones slept better… while the bad ones seemed to enjoy the waking hours much more.

 

Life is divided into the horrible and the miserable.

 

Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering - and it's all over much too soon.

 

Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.

 

More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads. One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness. The other, to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.

 

Most of the time I don't have much fun. The rest of the time I don't have any fun at all.

 

My one regret in life is that I am not someone else.

 

Not only is there no God, but try getting a plumber on weekends.

 

On the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done just as easily lying down.

 

Organized crime in America takes in over forty billion dollars a year and spends very little on office supplies.

 

Students achieving Oneness will move on to Twoness.

 

The government is unresponsive to the needs of the little man. Under 5'7", it is impossible to get your congressman on the phone.

 

There are worse things in life than death. Have you ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman?

 

Thought: Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food: frequently there must be a beverage.

 

To you I'm an atheist; to God, I'm the Loyal Opposition.

 

What if everything is an illusion and nothing exists? In that case, I definitely overpaid for my carpet.

 

When I was kidnapped, my parents snapped into action. They rented out my room.

 

Why are our days numbered and not, say, lettered?

 

You can live to be a hundred if you give up all the things that make you want to live to be a hundred.

 

What if nothing exists and we're all in somebody's dream? Or what's worse, what if only that fat guy in the third row exists?

 

The lion and the calf shall lie down together but the calf won't get much sleep.

 

It's not that I'm afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens.

ODC

 

 

A few nights ago, I caught a Kevin Spacey movie on the telly. 'Twas about a bunch of Irish thieves. Nifty. Made me wish I'd taken up a career in theft. Hehehe. I'd have stolen a truckload of Chagalls and Picassos. And Rembrandts.