Hello, Lovine.com

i'm in an old section of town, in a small room where the lights are dim and the air is thick with wisps of cigarette smoke. that doesn't really seem to faze me as the experience starts to blur the line between my surroundings and my own manifest. it seems as though i'm a prop, an accessory to complete the scene. yet the only reason why i complete the scenario, is because i'm there to experience it. inside that room, i listen to amazing music bourne out of those who dedicated their lives to the art. perhaps, one of the things i really live for. i need to get out.

i'm getting a pimple. hasslehof.

i'm totally stoked! mikko's coming over in january! yea-uh!

this amounts to gross disrespect on my body. its inching towards 7am and i'm still awake. my knee and elbow are both busted amidst TTh workouts, and i've been sleeping with a down comforter for the past couple of weeks (i'm allergic). if all goes well i'll tear an ACL, develop a psychological disorder and eventually succumb to a random allergic reaction while i sleep. oh, woe. this is what happens when your waking moments are prisoner of languid thoughts - you sensationalize the most trivial and random cards in a bid to bluff your ante to a bigger, more exciting pot.

first things first, though. rest in peace, mr. dimebag darrell. :c

this is unsettling. i have a general idea what i want this space to mold into, but i can't seem to draft it on paper. all the small details have started to consume me. nitpicking code for standards compliance leads to a desire for a more functional layout and i'm back on square one. and other technologies such as PHP and mySQL that are slightly above my reach come into equation and everything goes down the toilet, reducing me into a hunk of tired flesh rotting in front of a glowing tube. my only consolation is knowing that everyone else works hard before coming up with something they can be proud of. sometimes i wish i had special underwear that would turn me into a superhero. boy, i'm tired.

the mystery of moving furniture

stolen from c.

it's like when you find that perfect couch for your apartment but it won't fit through your door (or your window, for that matter). you really, really want this couch, but can't do anything about the impossibility of fitting it into your space. and instead of getting a smaller couch to suit your needs, you leave a big empty space in the middle of your flat for where it should be.

and then you wait, and keep waiting, until more pieces of the puzzle fall from the sky and all scientific laws are defied and it finally, finally, finally fits into the space where you know it belongs.

invisible light.

banzai on comedy central is cracking me up like a madman. posed as a japanese gameshow, you place bets on the outcomes of really bizarre situations. the scenarios?

a goal kick, pitting a one legged kicker versus a one armed goalie. who will win? two midget mountaineers, who will be first to scale a normal sized man and place a flag on the green flower block on his head? a woman jumps off a boat in the middle of a lake. is the water deep or shallow? two grannies on motorized wheelchairs, in a head-on collision course. who will chicken out? place your bets, it's now time to play banzai!

other random features include the 'one question girl' who does interviews as long as she can by asking one question and staring the rest of the time. her male counterpart was 'mr. handshakes man', who tried to see how long he can keep on shaking the hands of the victim throughout the interview. it sounds lame when i write it, but it's just so random that it makes you want to be japanese so you could do that too. victims were bill murray, antonio banderas, adam sandler. this is the perfect late night party show! they should have a banzai and takeshi's castle marathon!

one of the reasons i quit livejournal is because i'm the king of drunk posting. it's almost like DD (aka drunk dialing) when you call people you're not supposed to and say things you're not supposed to. but you know what you're doing and you do it anyway. just because you want to. anyway, i just went to a gig at compton and camped out to see this band called lokomotiv. lineup is basti artadi, wolf gemora, david aguirre. and if you have the slightest idea of what that means, then you know what's up. these guys didn't just make a dent on the rock scene in manila, they mother lovin' defined it. i mean, so did the eraserheads, but these guys are a class of their own. i've listened to these guys ever since i turned on my radio in 1994 listening to the sunday countdown at LA 105.9. i mean, i'm such a sap dude. nostalgia gets me. i remember last halloween when i met "the doctor" at BC's halloween gig and i was tripping out cos i would listen to this guy almost every day during my defining moments.

anyway, yeah. rock and roll man. :)

go ahead and stick your fingers closer to the fire! feel its warmth, inviting you for a little dance with flickering yellow tails amidst its stationary blue center. what a pretty little sight! experience has taught you that it will burn when you get closer, but you like that danger. you like the excitement. you adore knowing that within your reach is a powerful element, having somewhat a little control over it. control in the form of avoidance, protection, the ability to conquer it with a single wisp of breath, and control to make it bigger, destructive, and painful. you yearn for that magical split-second, just to get your feet back on the ground and make you realize that hey guess what, you're alive and kicking, the wirings of your body are intact and you can feel pain. ow. why the hell did you do that for?

was it coldplay or radiohead that proclaimed 'just because you feel it, doesn't mean it's there'? well, feel the ground you walk on. twiddle your toes. taste your saliva, bat your eyelashes and scratch your ear. how far are you willing to numb yourself of life by avoiding pain? pinch yourself and try to wakeup. aren't you glad you're not in a dream?

darn, it's cold. and it doesn't help being up at such an ungodly hour. the only company is the counting crows on an old MD compilation, a slightly burnt cheese sandwich, and a glass of cold milk. i really don't understand why i hate getting into bed, and equally hate getting out of it. i adore napping though. i can live by catnap. mrowr.

fantastic weekend with the cousins. we all need to hang out more often.. it sucked growing up without an extended family, and now its time to catch up. ye-uh!

after polishing off a pint of häagen-dazs strawberry ice cream, scientists might take into consideration that genetic predisposition to heart-disease must transcend the physical aspects of fat clogged arteries, but also apply to a hidden genetic switch that makes us want to stuff our faces with grease and velvety smooth lard to coat our innards and fatten our blubber for the winter season. thank god for my metabolism, i'm still a scrawny little dude.

now i'm getting flashbacks of my brother buying a bag of chicharon bulaklak, which is a local delicacy made of deep fried pork innards. you know it's a bonding moment once the both of you start seeing white spots in a dizzy haze and oil starts to seep from your sweat glands. mmmmm.

man, that was good. now i feel really ill. i always enjoying eating things that might possibly kill me. eat now, life fast, die faster.

when you come across the details of your life, is there some sort of general pattern where you can harvest a theme and direction you are bound to take? having put together pieces of the missing puzzle gives you the ability to somewhat make an intelligent guess as to what your next course of action would be, in the same way that you can infer which part of the picture is still missing based on what you already have.

the problem is, that the picture is not always really clear. for all you know, you were handed an abstract salvador dali-esque puzzle to complete. for all you know, it could only be solved in the third dimension when you've only been looking at two. for all you know, there might not even be an answer... only what you choose to make out of those missing pieces.

i wonder if people ever think of the everlasting consequences of seemingly fleeting actions. simple strokes of the pen, a click of the shutter, a simple hug, a kiss, or even a small wave goodbye (paul). what exists mere moments in a physical plane of linear progression, can also live infinitely outside that physical constraint. once it lays a golden touch to your memory, or (pardon the cheese) your heart, then there's no turning back.

we dance around naked underneath our clothes, rivers of saline flow from our pains, the years tick away, and tomorrow we pass on. we touch other people's lives, while others do the same to us. we are unconsciously painting our pictures, singing our songs, writing the poems of our lives. does the songwriter ever know how many will listen to the song quietly, in a lonely stupor? did jeff buckley know? did ebe dancel? ... did you? the small details are the fabric of our lives. always seen and felt but often overlooked. yet underneath it all lies a pure, true, naked you.

is it true that you cannot appreciate pleasure, without first appreciating pain? as mikkel would advise, "get your heart broken!". as lovine would advise, "jump with me into a freezing pool at 3 in the morning! you cannot feel pleasure without feeling pain!". as buddha would advise, "get rid of all wants and all needs! reach for zen!". well, all's well that end's well. well well well.