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Meme Muna Ako Bago Mag-Memeh

Gacked off of jetcrashcity and modified.

For the first, third and seventh person who replies to this post, and who re-post this challenge, you win:

♥ for your prize, I will send you a gift.

♥it might be something I've made, or something cool from my hidden stash of magical awesomeness. It might be a mix CD, it might be a book of dirty limericks, or an unwanted baby you might want to take care of. A love letter, a useful object, or something else fantastical or something just taking up space in my room..

♥whatever it is, I promise I will get it to you in 365 days of yourposted comment or less, and I will need your snail mail (or to see youin person.)

♥ the only thing you need to do to receive your gift is PARTICIPATE.

♥be one of the first three journalers to reply to this, and post thisvery same thing in your journal, and YOU are the lucky giftee.

(Comments screened.)

Oh, You Petty Things!

When I read in the Manila Times yesterday that an image of Cory Aquino was defaced defamed with the word slut on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, I thought it was brilliant.

In fact, the first thing I thought --- admittedly before seeing the spot in question --- was, "I want a t-shirt of that picture with the caption underneath saying, "I taught my daughter everything I know."

Of course, no one n the United Islands of Philippinoe wants to actually admit they laughed, so we get gems like this from Former First Anak Kris Aquino:

What if we took someone like, say, former President Jimmy Carter who builds homes for the poor all over theworld, and said he was a former 'call boy' (male prostitute)?"

But Kris, that IS a brilliant idea! In her taken-offendedness, she has merely expressed the fact that she GETS IT.

Seriously, Corazon Aquino is so far from having anything to do with sluttery, sluttiness and slutdom that it just makes the image even more hilarious. Her appearance is rendered in such an infantile fashion that no one with an IQ below 80 can take it seriously. It's like showing a photograph of Gandhi calling him a vanity-driven anorexic:



As for the Desperate Housewives controversy: Since when was the character of a white suburban housewife expected to be aware of the developmental level of Third World nations in Southeast Asia?

Look, we all understand that racisim is bad --- and I mean bad like in that chink way --- but this is not racism, duh, it's called character writing, stupid.

Anyway, we here at Experimentego@Livejournal sent our own correspondent to see what it's like out there in front of the ABC offices, where the Fil-Am community staged a protest over the slur. We have a photograph of him here:

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Unfortunately, we have not heard from our correspondent after receiving this image.

June 30, 2007: Paris

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Paris greets me not with open arms, but with a closed fist, trembling in barely restrained outrage at my inability to parlez any Francais.

I try to be polite and excusez moi my way up to the Parisians in an attempt to find my way around but find myself greeted with disdainful nons. My sister, a hardcore Francophile, told me I shouldn't worry --- the French are only cruel to the Americans, she says. Of course, years of American pop culture have reduced my voice into a low 'regionless' American like drawl and I suspect that this has placed me into their realm of contempt. Some weeks later, someone in Munich will ask me if I am from Oregon, because I supposedly have an Oregonian accent. Whatever that is.

It is a better man than I who takes the trouble to perfect his Francais --- and yes, many have taken the trouble to be better than I. As I arrive a few days before peak season and the hostel is crowded with people heartily prepared for their Paris experience. I on the hand, am resigned to enunciating the wrong consonants. As I become largely ghetto-ized into the company of those who speak no Francais, what comes over me is guilt and malaise. Don't get me wrong: I complain not and I fault no one. After all, who goes to Paris to practice their Anglais?

One evening I spent in the company of a charming young man who can barely stumble through his English --- he's Japanese --- but is blessed with the kind of excessive gregariousness that belongs to people who start drinking at three in the afternoon. As he and I try to intersect some kind of comprehension between his Englese and my Japanish, a strange get-along-ability comes to being. This doesn't surprise me. After all, one can hardly come to blows when a conversation is mostly spent losing yourself in the act of translating.

The boy's name is Daiki, and he asks me if I want a sip of his wine which I politely refuse. I ask him, "Isn't 3 p.m. too early in the day to start drinking?"

He replies with broad smile, "Not 3 p.m. in Japan."

Overture

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"A 747 had disgorged its 323 passengers into the middle of a vacant, snow-brushed tarmac expanse, left them to trudge across it through the cold and the floodlit glare to a terminus whose neon name was only illuminated in patches and anyway was in a language most of them could not read; had abandoned them, in short, in the Middle of Nowhere, in a place that was Free of Duty but also, much more importantly, devoid of any obvious egress, like a back corridor between two worlds, two somewheres, where people only alighted when something was seriously kaput with the normal eschatological machinery."

--- "Arrivals" from Tokyo Cancelled, by Rana Dasgupta

Gone in a Flash

"Catch a brand new season of Matthew Arcilla's Livejournal this August."

Aimlessly wandering the United Provinces of La Schengen until August 8, 2007.

Oct. 28th, 2006

So... Halloween plans anybody? Tell me all your dark and deepest dress-up socializing secrets.

Word Count Zero

You know how sometimes you get a word on the tip of your tongue but just can’t find it to spit it out? It’s like that with writing sometimes.

[...] It’s driving me mental.

It’s the blank page thing. Aaron Sorkin talked about it a bit, at the top of one of the West Wing scriptbooks. The blank page is the only critic that can hit you where you live. In one of the episodes, in fact, a journalist asks Sam why writing a major speech is hard, and Sam says, because it’s a blank piece of paper. It knows all your secrets. In Sorkin’s words, it sits there and hisses, “I know how you’ve been scamming all those people all these years, GIFTLESS, you wanna dance with me?”

And we really don’t. We stare into space for hours, running themes and structures and settings through our heads. And in my case the blank page sits there and says, you’ve done that. That’s old. You’ve said that before. And it drives you mental.

--- from "Swinging the Big Hook", by Warren Ellis

The Taint of Laser

A couple weeks ago, historicaltheft had a listening party at her house. To be specific, it was a cassette party, which means that The Taint of Laser was to be passed over in favor of the True Magnetic Joy. The usual Dumplings were in attendance, as well as some new Hu-Mans I have never met known as Edward, Carmel and Maggie.

In any case, I did the godlessly heathenous thing: I produced a CD, not a mixtape. this was because a great chunk of my music library consists of material pulled off of Audiogalaxy and the websites of various musical acts who won't be appearing on local shelves anytime soon, rather than from any actual physical medium.

Of course, I could've burned a playlist to CD then copied that CD onto a cassette tape, but that's a little much, don't you think? Don't get me wrong: I love the mixtape, but I stopped making use of cassette tapes as a mix medium when my last mixtape was greeted with slack-jawed disbelief: "I can't play this in my car! I don't have a tape deck!"

It was as if I had just given him a spoon and told him to dig to the center of the Earth. "Well, you could listen to it at home. Soak it up in the intimate privacy of your room, like people used to do with vinyl. You could even masturbate to it, if you like." "But that's what my car is for," he whined. "For masturbating? I shudder to think of the state of your car's upholstery, then."

Here's a thought: When we think of Luddism, or neo-Luddites we think of a fear & distrust of any technology that renders The Old Ways obsolete. It is popularly regarded as a future-based fear. But why is there no special category for antoher kind of Luddism --- a fear & distrust of antiquated technology? By 'antiquated', I mean 'old-fashioned' which isn't the same thing as 'crude' or 'inferior'.

Pathologically speaking, the original textile mill-smashing Luddites were afraid that industrialization at the turn of the 19th century would make the laborer obsolete --- a fear that has more to do with the skills of the phobic individual as it does the technology itself. And its a fear that extends into the technology of old as much as it does the technology of tomorrow and today.

The point of this entire spiel is that the cassette tape is often greeted by The Now as an artifact to be met with disdain, because its inherent recording & playback limitations are regarded as equally inconvenient as manual typewriters, when in fact those limitiations can be its strengths. This is the logic that makes me regard the cassette tape as the most superior medium for mix-making.

First of all, the double-sided nature of a cassette tape allows you to play with dualities. You flip the tape over from the A-side to the B-side and suddenly you have access to an alternate dimension. From A to B, twin parallel universes of sound. This is something you can't really replicate with a CD.

Splitting up the track-listing doesn't do the same thing, since you can't for example play track 6 on a CD and then flip it over to get a track 10 on its B-side. It's a trait that can only exist within the physical quirks of analog media, something a CD is not. Which leads me to my other point: A mixtape is a thing of authorial control.

Lacking the seek and skip functions of a CD, a cassette tape gives the mix creator the playlist prerogative. Whoever receives the mix can't just flip from one track to another, the tracks must be received in the order intended by its creator. Its individual tracks must be received as a 'narrative' totality. True, fast forward and rewind still exists but it's a scan method that lacks elegance.

Anyway, this is just me thinking out loud. Ignore my moment of pretentious blather.

First In Line

Cesar Montano, who is set to produce and star in a Ninoy Aquino film, comments on Carlo J. Caparas' Ninoy Aquino film: "As a fellow filmmaker, I personally wouldn’t have done that, knowing that a similar project was underway.”

Producer Donna Villa counters with statement that she and Caparas thought of it first, way back in 2005: "I was ahead of Cesar. Maybe he shouldn’t be doing his movie.”

Oh grow the fuck up.
Michael: Yo, don't watch Miami Vice. It sucks ballz. I fell asleep through it three times. The only cool parts were at the end, with all the firefights and blood spraying and shit and some hispanic drug number-two man getting a fucking rpg at point-blank range to his gut.

Me: My response: I think the problem is there is no Edward James Olmos. Edward James Olmos is the bomb. Imagine Santana. Imagine if you could actually make him cooler by taking away his guitar. THAT is Edward James Olmos. Because to me they look alike, but it's so obvious who 0wnz.