how to surivive a zombie apocalypse, at least.

I and a friend watched World War Z at a nearest cinema oblivious to what the movie was all about. We knew it was all about zombies. I was making a mental note that I was watching a zombie movie and a movie like this requires a zombie mind. Flaccid. Passive. All the facets of boredom.

All the facets of boredom sans Brad Pitt. Brad Pitt stars it, so, might as well gamble some of my time. It was a friend's birthday and she was planning to watch a movie all by herself. Mind you, watching alone is excruciatingly boring and lonely with the fact that you laugh all by yourself, be sad by yourself and worst, cry by yourself without any one to turn to for those gripping scenes. It is a total embodiment of boredom. You are boredom personified. So, I presented myself as an escort. 

After few minutes of trying to convince myself to doze off, the movie started to kick my interest. Like a meal skipping the appetizer and the main entree, I was served with the dessert immediately. Explosions. Commotion. A destroyed side mirror. A distressed (yet still cool) Brad Pitt. A worried mother. And the panic continued. It was like watching a movie mid-part. Suddenly the zombies presented themselves. The zombies here were like scavengers lustful for fresh flesh. Imagine a zombie bred with a ninja and that was how the movie was like. You never knew when the zombie jumped off to chomp a neck or an arm. The infection run like the Flash. And in a span of day, it was a pandemic. Humanity smelled near-extinction. The world gripped for life. The movie depicted a zombie outbreak with brilliance. It was not the usual zombie-eat-brain movie, rather it would let you think. "what if". It ate my brain with a question, "What if today is the Zombie Apocalypse? Will I survive?"

Watching the movie, I realized that if Zombie Apocalypse has to arrive, then you have to be ready at all cost. Physically, mentally and emotionally. Here's my survival tips (based on the movie):

1. Wear your most lightweight shoes. The zombies don't give a crap whatever the brand is, as long as you can sprint head to head with them, or shall we say, foot to foot. Train your lungs, also.

2. Stock, at least, a duct tape. They are indispensable instrument to create zombie-mutilating instruments. I was amazed how Brad Pitt used it to attach an arm-shield to his arm  using a  porn magazine and to make a bayonet. If the world were to end, duct tapes will be your messiah.

3. If zombies were to be maniacally sensitive to sound, then don't bring your phone with you. Or any sound-producing materials. Cue Celine Dion music. Aaaarrgghh.

4. Be mentally ready that you could be the next target of any zombie. Be mentally ready to accept that your loved one could be the next. Be mentally ready to fire that gun just in case he berserks in front of you. Be mentally ready to die, too, just in case you berserk first in front of them.

5. Stay in group. There's less probability that you could be the next host/meal/victim.

6. In an event that a zombie bit you or infected you, cut that body part immediately. Being handicapped is way better than being undead. What if the zombie bites you in the ear or head? Hmmm...God bless your soul. 

7. What if you accidentally meet a zombie? Summon a pea shooter? This is not a game. Run. Let your lungs summon all the air it could get. 

8. Bring supplies that could last until this mayhem ends. Water, food, and ammos. And courage.

Well, we had a blast watching the movie. It was a zombie movie after all, but with a dash of brilliance. No dull moments. TTFN!

PS. Happy Birthday Ms Juna...late post.

dad's day

I have never been so open in terms of showing affection to my Dad. Culture or the upbringing play great roles perhaps, but entirely I don't give a crap about this. In Philippine setting, boys showing affection to their dad seems somewhat a taboo. Just a thought though. I love my Papa, as I call him. He has been the pillar of my principles and everything that I learned about manliness or the like, I solely attribute it from him. My Dad is my hero. When all the boys in the world look at cartoon characters or superheroes as the epitome of strength and manly power, I look up at my Dad as my Superman.

I barely talk to my Dad about my life, my problems and my triumphs. I barely talk to him about school. I barely talk to him about girls. Pardon me, but I don't talk about girls to my Dad at all. My Dad scores high in this area and I, although I have a girlfriend right now, has not made much a scene in this area. However, my Dad has been a good role model to me. Our relationship is based on a mute trust, literally and figuratively. 

I remember when I was still a young kid, perhaps 8 years old, when I verbally abused my Papa. I don't know if it was due to stress (Kids do get stressed out sometimes) or the early kick of hormones or I was plainly stupid and rebellious. Like a modern day drama, I told my Dad, "you're a worthless piece of Dad...blah, blah, blah", along with a sickening, threatening eyes that could summon hell and heaven at the same time and a voice mustering all courage. But unlike fairy tales, I didn't have my happily ever after after  that, I was dumbfoundedly sick hearing myself utter those words. I was like slapped by an invisible hand and my conscience hurt. Right there and then, I apologized to my Papa with tear-drenched eyes. As fast as my short-lived courage welled-up from me was how fast my humility soared back to earth. From that time on, I never ever try to be stupidly brave again. 

Papa loves me and I can feel it even across seas and Philippine regions. And today, I honor him by being a grateful son. Love you, Pa. I know you won't be able to read my post, but who knows? 

eating italy.

my pesto

Everyone is destined to be someone and I am not to be a chef. But I love food. I love to eat. Food unites everyone, literally. There’s this time of the month, two to three days before the 15^th or 30^th, that I and my housemates usually gather to share what is left of our supplies. A period of scarcity bordering poverty. A time when your budget has reached its tolerable limit. A time for sharing. And we always laugh about it. Abundance is always preceded by scarcity. It’s inevitable. And we still laugh about it.

While supplies last, or shall we say while money lasts, I try to taste “good food”. Good food means it is prepared exhaustively and not commercially in some known or unknown restaurant. But when you’re tired and lazy, you can’t be choosy. I sometimes satiate my hunger with the instant satisfaction from the oily fries and a pretentious meal which nutritional value is mediocre when compared to your food supplement. I suggest you go home and swallow the pill of your choice. Your vitamins. Or your sleeping pills, it won’t matter though. My point is that fast food chains become our refuge when hunger and laziness collide. To cook requires a lot of patience, and good taste. Experimenting is good but taste buds can also experience trauma. We don’t want our friends to eat our food for friendship’s sake. That can be fatal. Kidding.

Today, I choose to eat good food. Of course, prepared by me. Cooking, for an amateur like me, is like experiencing writing for the first time. Your inexperience becomes a great factor. First time experience means “food in danger”. Everyone can be a cook, at least, after you pour that Dead Sea-like broth you made after a multitude of practice. Cooks are made. And I am making one out of me. Hahaha.

I choose to cook pasta. I love pasta. Every time I eat pasta, I feel like I’m a step away from Italy. Italy means gastronomical delights waiting to be relished. Though I have not been there, eating pasta always transports me to this lovely place. My Italy is food and imagination combined. I cook pesto with tuna. It was like six years ago when I first tasted pesto and I realized I love Italy. The feeling was like “unusually and exceedingly peculiar and altogether quite impossible to describe.” There’s a sense of wonder how the mixture of oil, leaves, nuts and pasta could make such a miracle. It makes me utter “bon appétit” a couple of times. And I am uttering one now. 

Ms. Ching, a colleague, shared her secret in cooking: to cook an exquisite meal, just mix everything. Well, after tossing everything in the bowl, I toss also all my hopes to be a good cook with it. The first batch is a little bit salty but somehow considerable for someone who's really hungry. The second one is an utter perfection, enough to let me say all the Italian words I know while eating. Hehehe...

Good food comes with a price. And I pay it all while I eat my pesto with gusto. 

subtle dementia.

picture from here

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to write. With the music drowning me from the noise around, I felt compelled to produce something since I am within the arena of my own world again. This is what is beautiful when my head is empty: there’s an ample space for the thoughts that I can think about. Though my mind can hold tanks of ideas but my memory seems to take ounces only. It is like a funnel. There’s the big mouth ready to absorb good and vile thoughts but only some of these can pass through the other end. Maybe I have a good kind of Alzheimer’s. Good, since most of the time, I think humanitarian. Occasionally, my mind brings out ignominious thoughts that I don’t even know they exist. I think in volumes but I produce ounces. They just slip away from my mind. What remains are egregious thoughts. What I deliver are domesticated ones.

I think caprice. I am volatile. I always submit to the subtle whims of my id. I am a brat of my inner urges. I always play with the inner me to see the consequences or the outcome. I like walking in tightropes with my inner self. I don’t know if there’s such that exists but I feel secure when I am attuned with myself than when I am with the outside world. I feign absence to feel my presence. I become one piece when I am scattered. There’s a part of me that wants to get hold of my lunacy. There’s a part of me that controls it. I am a coin. I am where the side is up but I am always both.

I am always intrigued by the lunatics or the “crazy” people. They own the pedestrians and the world is their playground. They are tax-free and no one seems to bother their misbehavior. It is always charged to their derangement. Are their worlds as colorful as we claim our surroundings to be? Or are their worlds as complicated as the labyrinth of our ignorance? We find them funny, repulsive and unacceptable. But when they talk to an unseen comrade, I am always at awe. Have they had destroyed the portion of their brain for sanity or have they finally tapped on their inner psyches? I want to reach that inner psyche. I want to converse with my inner self. Without appearing crazy, at least.

I haven’t had a close encounter yet with someone crazy of the literal sense. However, I have met several people suffering from metaphorical insanity. They deny the fact that they live in two faces. But their actions are reeking with the smell of their sanity in trouble. Man is an ugly creature if one wills him to be so. He can also be ruthlessly beautiful. Man is always a two-way conduit. And I admire it. I don’t admire though, the thought that most people adhere to the idea of simplicity or singularity, albeit the idea that living in complication is their twin.

I am a complication masked by my being a simpleton. My ignorance is my scapegoat. I am still unable to tap on my deepest psyche. I want to touch that realm. I know everyone has his own insanity, though properly in placed. I have a safe for my own dementia.

How does it feel to be crazy? How will you know if you’re already one? How is the world in a crazy man’s mind? Are you already one?