Menthol-Guy

Neglect

My life seems to conspire against my blog–they (referring to the aspects of my life: friends, acads, orgs) loathed it, that they use every stratagem and subterfuge known to man just to go against my blogging, just to stop me from doing a three-year habit (should I still consider it as such when it had been washed away from my system ever since I entered college?)–but I’m still doing it.

I wonder why.

This semester looks pretty tight with a theater and a critical writing class, though I can’t help but feel proud that I could still afford to drink (a bit), in the midst of reading short stories and the academic mishmash. I quit jogging two weeks ago, no wonder my stomach bulged (as if I had abs to begin with) once again. I have been neglecting my facial hair for three weeks and running, have been neglecting the luxury of reading books (my recent purchase would be One Hundred Years of Solitude for 150 pesos from Booksale!), have been neglecting my camera and the guitar as well (as if–though the phrase might sound overused–that I have guitar skills to begin with).

Ultimately, I have been neglecting writing (creative-wise) for so long. It pains me to know that even if I considered it as something precious, I neglected it from the juggles and shuffles–whatever that means.

Noche Buena

December is nearing, and though the trend of installing Christmas lights and decors has immensely decreased through the years (I couldn’t blame practicality), I’m still hoping to have a nice Christmas with Dad and… the maid. Of course. I’m thinking of grilled T-bone steak marinated with nothing but salt and pepper, buttered corn and carrots, some simmered asparagus, and tossed Caesar salad. How American, I know. It reminds me of that traditional Thanksgiving dinner (it happened May of 2008, when I last visited my Mom and my sisters and my niece in New York; my sister told me it’s a Thanksgiving dinner since we’re still… together).

Spaghetti is too heavy for the appetite (steak’s just fine for me; even better since it’s not easily spoiled, and can be fried again with garlic as salpicado, oh my), and we usually eat the traditional hamon in New Year’s Eve. I’m not fond of pancit (except pancit bihon guisado), not fond of speared hotdogs and marshmallows, too.

Wait, that doesn’t even count as something you’d prepare for a Noche Buena.

Damn it, I’d rather eat sardines and fried rice for Noche Buena (fine, pass me that platter of sausages) if Mom and my sisters were there, eating with us in the small round dining table we have. It would be very fine if my brother–if ever his third detox in the rehab worked and those ten years of drug addiction behind him–would be eating with us, too, for Noche Buena. Then our maid, Jenny, would be preparing a bonfire to burn our one-foot Christmas tree she bought in the marketplace for forty pesos in replacement of a towering one, adorned with the balls and thingamajigs dressed in this red-and-green Christmas attire, and that gold sash you usually see in beauty pageants. At its feet I’ll find a simple, heartfelt gift: a pack of Royce chocolate-coated potato chips. Fuck yeah.

What I’m saying here is that I don’t really care about the steak or that plateful of corn and carrots. Heck, it even reminds me of my family in New York! What I would really like to happen is this scene you see on local TV channels (thank goodness I don’t watch TV anymore–it might depress the hell out of me), those station IDs with such a delusional Filipino family eating Noche Buena. Together.

But if it ever that scene comes true, with the sardines and Mom and my sane brother and all, I would prefer Spanish sardines better than the canned stuff. Pass me that mashed onion-and-tomato combo soaked in patis and suka, please.

While my roommates study the anatomy of a chicken (its comb, to be specific), I study four different texts of hardcore nature with terms such as “hermeneutic praxeology” and from time to time cites Roland Barthes, Julia Kristeva, and Jacques Lacan like they were still fucking alive–four different texts with verbose and seemingly intangible (not only the form but also the meaning) concepts for an eighteen year-old. I only read novels with plots, the climax most of the time makes my day. This doesn’t have any fucking climax or any twist at all.

I am taking Critical Writing (ENG 103) this semester, and the bulk of it presses the students to read thick handouts of post-structuralists, among other criticisms. (Yeah, fuck it.) But the thing I felt a while ago, after leaving the class, was the same thing I felt whenever I leave my coma-inducing Philosophy class a semester ago. I call it “intellectual masturbation“, for the lack of a better term (though I have heard of the term but am unsure of the meaning), since it leaves you dumbfounded, removed from reality, the same pupil-dilating feeling you get during climax. I easily forget group meetings, my LSS, my schedules. I am so absorbed by the concept that it leaves me suspended from reality, as if I were in the limbo between reality and the inner workings of my mind, never withholding the interest for such highfalutin concepts, but never wanting to seem insanely withdrawn from reality.

I suddenly couldn’t concentrate with something, like this blog post, because my head aches. My head fucking aches from over-thinking, over-analyzing, and that the only solution (eventually, I knew about it) is to close my eyes for a couple of hours.

But I couldn’t just let go of the concepts; I want this. I somehow like this feeling of thinking something that isn’t mundane, of a problem I could just drop if I want to–since most people don’t give a damn about it anyway. (In short, it’s making a problem out of something, intellectually speaking.) Last semester I wanted to extend my Philosophy class for a good three hours–who cares if my nose bled–just for me to have enough time to relish this state of intellectual masturbation which tickles my mind, and which I rarely feel with other subjects.

Now I’m having trouble whether I should still think about it or not.

It’s one of those nights where it’s too late for yesterday and too early for tomorrow.

Well, I was lying in my bed in this Norman Mailer way–I mean, the way Norman Mailer’s character in The American Dream might have done it, smoking a cigarette stick and just blowing it away to the ceiling. It’s a classic way of smoking, methinks, with Cherry or Donna sleeping besides you, the way they must have looked like in the 60s or 70s, or the way those hipster polaroids depict it. I have just finished watching Insomnia from the laptop, directed by Christopher Nolan (I’m finding my way around directors lately; I think that I should know the directors too, out of respect), and by the time I was smoking my last cigarette through the Norman Mailer way (I should reread again that book if I would ever grow up, since I couldn’t exactly grasp the entire plot, sorry) my iTunes started playing blink-182.

When I was in my High School (here we go again) I used to listen to them. Not really non-stop and all that exaggerated fanboy lines, no. This Dell of a laptop first broke down in its first year, in 2007, and all my music files were wiped out from the system–my blogging archives and my music, including my entire blink-182 discography. I soon got tired of redeeming my entire library back (which is full of Saosin and Senses Fail, heh) so I didn’t give a shit about my library until recently, when I tried logging in to my Last.fm account.

I downloaded some of their albums I liked last Friday and it hit me.

One of my personally memorable posts in Utakgago.com is entitled “Songs as Memory Cards”, and though it did fail (unanimously!) in its attempt to narrate or pose this capability of songs to save memories, well, I still liked the thought. I don’t even think the readers understood what I’ve said in that post; they thought it’s esoteric, or that it is just some fucked up delusion I made

What hit me is that whenever I listen to blink-182 songs, I don’t remember High School. At all. BUT it gives me shivers, for in the summer of 2007 at Fort Lee, New Jersey, when I was at the backseat of the Subaru my sister used to own, I was listening to blink-182’s Down. (I do have an unquestionably sharp memory.)

At my sixth puff I was listening to Stay Together For The Kids, and it was eerie to listen to, in a night like that. November. The biting cold.

As I type this I’m listening to All The Small Things and all I remember was their awesome video–they were nude, all right, and they looked like Backstreet Boys and shit and it was beyond hilarious.

I know some of you guys don’t like blink-182 since they’re punk, or that you hate tattoos who happened to look like men (or rockstars, or Pharrell). But to put it generally, there are certain kinds of songs where we develop this special, personal (even biased) intimacy. Our spines shiver, our faces smile, our eyes well with tears out of the nostalgia we stoically deny. May it be blink-182 or that braided Britney Spears singing in the late 90s–or even Sammy Davis Jr. for all I care–the point of those special songs we have on our playlists, on our iPods or what-have-yous, is to refresh memories in our minds. It could torture us to the point that we would want to delete the song or crack the CD (don’t do it; I’m also on the verge of deleting my blink-182 songs because of the same reason) but that’s life: it’s a royal pain in the ass no matter where you go. At least you’re listening to a song. I’d be damned if it’s blink-182, too.

That way, they’re memory cards. I don’t really care if you guys understand it, but this is better than the former write-up (which is so last 2007; bordering on palm-in-the-face sentences and awkwardly written emotions).

I’ve posted a Formspring link in the sidebar for those of you who’ve been wanting to ask questions (or not really a question). I’ll answer them under the category Formspring answers. It would be nice to have this forum-like thing going on in my blog, so we guys can be friends! Heh.

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Question from ***: Kevin! How are you? It’s been agesssssss. [We found each other! thanks for following me. :P Please keep this a secret.] I still lurk around menthol-guy.com. Magaling ka pa din magsulat. Mas gumaling ka pa nga. Congratulations sa nomination sa PBA, I hope you’ll win.

WELL. Hey, I didn’t post your name here anyway so your identity’s still a secret. Anyway, thanks for the boost! And yeah, it was an honor to be nominated even if I didn’t win (slimmest chance in the world, really). Thanks for STILL reading!

Question from Alohapenny: LOL so everyone has formspring, apparently. What have people asked you so far? (There now we have last.fm, blogs and formspring to communicate) mihihi Sigur Ros! Oh oh oh! Have you tried listening to 65daysofstatic? You should! =)

I’ve listened to their album Escape To New York or something and they’re good. They’re the first post-rock band I’ve listened (are they post-rock?). Thanks for the suggestion! :D

Question from Oli: Have you got a girlfriend?

Yes.

Question from Ica: Hoy, Kevin Bautista! Follow me! sundaysideup :)

Followed!

Question from fromtheguywhotoldyoutoloveyourownlanguagemorebackthen: I’ve stumbled upon you for the 3rd time now. (First was your utakgago days, second was nincompoop… you’re so much better now. I wish we get to meet someday. :) (I love the ctrl+alt+delete entry; I’ve gone through the same thing) MY QUESTION: Favorite book? Only one. [Not sure how ill be able to get the answer though.]

WOW I couldn’t remember you anymore but please, tell me who you are. Anyway, it’s Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. Hands down. I’m emo that way. I’m a Salinger fan, too! And you still remember my nincompoop blog? Wow. That was four years ago, man. Thanks for reading! We really should meet someday, whoever you are.

Question from Skron: What is Formspring?

Formspring is a website for creating forms such as question forms, surveys, among others. Check it out here! :)

More questions? I hope I could post something decent tomorrow. :D Cheers!