Friday, July 11, 2003

SGF4 (Samahang Galit sa F4) Members Wanted!

Nananawagan po kami sa mga gustong sumapi sa aming samahan! Kailangan namin ng mga lalaki o babae na mahahaba ang buhok. Siyempre dapat sinusuka nila ang Meteor Garden. May free cake po para sa dadalo sa grand launching natin.

Prodigal Me

Hoo-ha's and congratulations to the guys at Culture Crash! I have seen issue 11 and it's good. It's looking more and more like a lean 'zine, what with the sudden increase in relevant non graphic-content. The art's improved as well. O happy day, it actually came out on time (gasp!) thanks to the hard work put in by newbies Jon Zamar and Mark Navarro! (Some newbies: it takes 'em just one issue to get their mugs in the permanent staff box; It took me five before they bothered to give me this lousy Dr. Wily lookalike avatar, and then I had to go.)

Keep it up, guys! Mr. Obsolete Comicbook Has-Been is always rooting for you!

Prodigal Paycheck

The money from my initial foray into working freelance for the Junior Inquirer has finally come through. Proof positive that my photographic pretensions have graced the broadsheet suplement will be winging its way to the bank by the end of tomorrow. I can finally put that on my resume.

Don't be fooled; I'm only being paid P450 (comparable to my old Culture Crash pay for an article) for a couple of photos that slipped by the editor's gimlet gaze. It'll be a long while before I can tell my critics to dry up and go hang, but I'll be happy with the little sunshine that comes my way. Am I inspired to do something bigger? You betcha. I see an opening, and like Dougy McArthur said, "I shall exploit [it]!"

All this time I thought that the check was a dead thing. When I swung by the Cashier's Office at the Philippine Daily Inquirer oh so long ago (a full month after the pictures came out!) the bright boys and girls in attendance professed a most baffling ignorance of my money's existence. I was told the money would take a while to process but this was cruel and unusual. Royally ticked off, I kept a stiff upper lip, walked away and swore to have no further dealings with these ...people. But then the very angelic editor lady (one Christine Paita) took the time to contact me via my cel about the money just last night.

O joyful day!


I could spin off into a new topic here, like how "the country will continue on its path to the kennel" while people are getting shafted or while their rightful payments are conveniently being delayed by procedure. But then I'd look like something was up my ass. In this world of appearances, it can't hurt to display some magnanimity (the velvet glove) in the right hand and some moral ascendancy (the iron fist) on the left.


1. It's 3:00 a.m. I'm exhausted. I'm still surfing and looking at dirty pictures. Not so soon after my "Let's Talk About God" blog.

2. My hard-earned Inquirer money did not make it to the bank. At the prompting of the girlfriend, I had myself subjected to urinalysis, blood test and a chest x-ray. Now, I'm between jobs and I'm broke. I'm just waiting for my aquarian/tiger's luck to kick in and bring me something to tide me over until I get the next job.

One of my readers writes...

Dear Dex El,

I have been following your writing for some time now, for no reason I can understand. You see, I hate your writing. You come across as someone who loves to talk for the sake of hearing your own voice. Your writing is self-referential, self-mocking and it drips with your patently false and masturbatory intellectualism. You whine about your health, your dog, your job, and that's all you seem to be good at. I have not seen one shred of originality in your blog, except in the thinking behind it, which is original only because you are paranoid, delusional, maybe suffering from a handful of neuroses and character defects.
Why, your very handle is pretentious. Dex El. Who do you want us to think you are? Superman's illegitimate younger brother?
"Internationally Recognized Poet?" I have neither seen nor heard of your work. That's assuming you've had them published in the first place. Your friends' writings were published in Youngblood because they were writing from experience and not from your need to impress the world with your ability to make sounds while converting oxygen into carbon dioxide.
Mr Lira, let me recommend a surefire way to improve your writing. It will only take three words.
Get a life.


Ah, he or she doth know me so well.

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