tintin

Dexter's thesis:

Without you there is no meaning, except that which I have to build for myself, one faulty messy crumbly stupid brick at a time.

But there's nothing new to say

Another night where I get to exhibit my not-so-new superpower: the ability to stave off any real sleep when I need it most. Reasons have been recurring, rehashed to death. Anyone with a pair of good eyes and half a brain will pretty much know why.

Brain's on fire with ideas I'll be hard-pressed to implement, because I'm essentially living out of a suitcase. Still, one can try.

Like another friend, I am finding scant purpose in writing here. But I can't really stop. If I don't write, I'll pop a blood vessel. And then who will annoy the living snot out you with unwanted declarations of affection, tedious essays or useless poetry?

I kid.

I'm really trying to negate the notion that I don't finish what I start. And so here I am, trying to

1. write two stories
2. write a letter
3. fix a couple of videos and video concepts
   
4. edit yet another Korean-made essay
5. plan my day so i get the most stuff really done
   

It's a weekend. It's a Sunday. I really should be asleep in the normal hours.

Swallowed Up By the Office

Got the chance to finally appreciate weekends.

When the high point of your month is spending a night in a clean room (where you don't have to deal with other people's needs), then actually going out with the work mates becomes something special.

I guess I have been really, finally swallowed up by my office.

No, there was no eye candy at the comedy bar-- unless you count the gay guy with the uncanny resemblance to someone I courted when I was working for a bank. But there was open mike videoke. And a Visayan girl with a powerful voice, named Rose.

Casper, the Friendly Host

I kid you not, that's his stage name. He was plump, flaming gay and a laugh a minute. His partner (who looked like my bank-ex) wasn't a regular performer there, but he was good too. They poked fun at the audience-- yes, my hair and my clothes too-- but they weren't so shy about poking fun at themselves while they were at it. They had a good time too, even in spite of (a few) moments when drunk male audience members singing and gyrating onstage got a bit grabby. (They were pretty much lost in the duo's illusion of womanity. I guess booze really does work a powerful glamor on those who partake of it.)

As we were the newbies at the comedy bar, they got us to tell them our names and what we do. And, yes, they got us to sing.

And this is what I came away with:

Teacha Angel and Teacha Andie are the office's fun-and-adventure front-liners. They're always the first to reach for the mike and sing the fun songs. [Gloria Gaynor. Avril Lavigne.] They make a good duo because they're a study in surface contrasts. Angel is dark and thin; Andie is a full-figured mestiza. But they're both crazy.

Teacha Dex is the prissy dandy sleeper. He'll be seated, arms resting on his cane, head nodding gravely and slowly to someone else's singing. He's got a stiff back and an attitude that says "Don't touch me; I am not fun." Then he'll drink a light beer. Then he'll sing some ode to an ex and, certes, people will have goosebumps. After that, he lets down his hair and has fun like other normal people.

Teacha Carol is the office innocent because she is the youngest among us, and she is carefully watched over by 'neesan Teacha April-Rolette. But she's got guile. She'll sing only when everyone's onstage dancing to an OPM disco song, and even then she'll be lip-synching.

Teacha April-Rolette is the den mom, so she gets away with sitting out the performances and recording us embarrassing ourselves with her phone-cam!

Salt in the Office Bathroom

Two bottles of shampoo and three sachets of hair conditioner. And counting. Try as I might I still cannot wash you out of my hair.