< x-list >

   "Annoyance" is relative.  But if we trap ourselves in a room and listen to these songs over and over again, I think we would arrive at a universal annoyance.  We would wish we died of herpes.  We would all come together to solve the Unified Field Theory, find a cure for cancer, and make something better than sliced bread if we ever emerged from that acoustic torture chamber.  Here's an X-List of what I deem to be the most annoying songs ever (sans the annoyance we get from OPM novelty).  No explanations needed, but anything in boldface is highly recommended for purposes of annoyance.

*      *      *

Akon, "Don't Matter"
Urzsula Dudziak, "Papaya"
Michael Bolton, "Said I Loved You But I Lied"
All 4 One, "I Swear"
Lou Bega, "Mambo No. 5"
Fergie, "Fergalicious"
Los del Rio, "Macarena"
Meatloaf, "I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)"
Hanson, "MmmBop"
The Moffats, "I'll Be There For You"
R. Kelly, "I Believe I Can Fly"
Ricky Martin, "The Cup of Life"
WHAM!, "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go"
Billy Ray Cyrus, "Achy Breaky Heart"
Starship, "We Built This City"
Rihanna, "Umbrella"
Robin Gibb, "Boys Do Fall In Love"
Britney Spears, "Hit Me Baby One More Time"
Earth Wind and Fire, "Changing Times"
4 P.M., "Sukiyaki"
Black Eyed Peas, "My Humps"
New Radicals, "You Got The Music In You"
Bryan Adams, "Please Forgive Me"
Backstreet Boys, "I Want You Back"
Elton John, "Can You Feel The Love Tonight"
Prince, "The Most Beautiful Girl In The World"
Michael Jackson, "Heal The World"
George Michael, "Faith"
Eminem, "I Am Whatever You Say I Am"
Aqua, "Dr. Jones"
Phil Collins, "Against All Odds"
Spice Girls, "Mama"
Whitney Houston, "Heartbreak Hotel"
Timmy Thomas, "Dying Inside"
Barry Manilow, "Copacabana"
Jennifer Love Hewitt, "Cool With You"
Jennifer Lopez, "Let's Get Loud"
Destiny's Child, "Brown Eyes"
The Chikas, "Chicken Dance"
High School Musical, "We're All In This Together"
Barney, "The Barney Song"
Justin Timberlake, "Sexy Back"
Geri Halliwell, "It's Raining Men"
Celine Dion, "My Heart Will Go On"
Las Ketchup, "Asereje"
Westlife, "Bop Bop Baby"
Code Red, "This Is Our Song"
The Cheeky Girls, "The Cheeky Song"
Shakira, "Underneath Your Clothes"
Damage, "Forever"
Peter André, "Mysterious Girl"

*      *      *

   I'm sure you can think of some more.

< hmmm... >

   In my entry "Death Row," I had this rather sick idea of a new reality show that involves 12 death row convicts.  Now, though, I have another sick idea for a wrestling match.

   Like many professional wrestling fans, I like hardcore wrestling.  While technical wrestling matches and high-flying aerial cliniques appeal to me just fine, there's nothing I like better than to watch very steady streams of blood and hemoglobin-stained canvasses.  But my thirst for blood is no longer satisfied by the kind of hardcore wrestling matches I see on TV.  All I get for the promise of "no disqualification" or "extreme rules" is a broken table, a dented steel chair, and outside interference.  I kind of miss the old ECW: the last time I saw a cheese grater raked over the face of a competitor was in the first "One Night Stand" pay-per-view.

   My brother's idea is a tag-team Inferno Match or an Inferno Battle Royal.  For those uninitiated in wrestling... I mean, sports entertainment, Inferno Matches involve a wrestling ring surrounded by fire.  In tag-team competition, only two men are in the ring at one time.  In a Battle Royal, thirty men are in the ring, and the objective is to throw your opponents over the top rope.  With the Inferno clause, you can visualize how this works.

   But that's just a matter of burning a man or singing his ring attire.  I want blood.

   There are many ways to draw blood from your opponent, but if you watched that "Exposed" episode on pro wrestling, you would know that wrestlers purposefully cut themselves above the eyebrow to let blood out (among other staged maneuvers).  I want more than that.  I want honest-to-goodness gore, the kind that teaches kids lessons not to try that at home.

   Here's my idea: a Last Man Standing match.  But not just any Last Man Standing match: this match takes place in a specially-constructed ring.  You take the 15-foot-high steel cage (to avoid outside interference) and surround the top of the cage with cyclone wire.  The ring ropes are replaced with thick wires or chains with very thick and sharp barbs, and the protective padding on the turnbuckles are removed to expose the chain.  To add to that, the canvas is covered with thumbtacks and broken glass.  Hanging around the cage are weapons like ladders, steel chairs, baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire, tables, boards covered in barbed wire, cheese graters, chains, garbage cans, kitchen sinks, the works.  The only way to win is if your opponent cannot respond to the ten-count.

   Now that's sick.  That's hardcore.  As Joey Styles would exclaim, "OH MY GOD!!!"

< entertainment >

   "The Internet is not something that you just dump something on.  It's not a big truck.  It's a series of tubes.  And if you don't understand, those tubes can be filled and if they are filled, when you put your message in, it gets in line and it's going to be delayed by anyone that puts into that tube enormous amounts of material, enormous amounts of material..."

- US Senator Ted Stevens (Alaska) on the Internet
June 28, 2006

   If I can share a piece of advice to Joey de Leon, it's advice I got from my Social Research Methods class: never use the Internet as a primary source.  It's just like quoting Wikipedia, not that I have anything against it.  If Joey wants to launch a "Hello Papi" probe, as he said awhile ago on "Eat Bulaga," he better find the "mother of all tapes."  Since Joey's probably reading this right now (considering that he sourced his arguments from YouTube), I'd rather give him unsolicited advice.

   Following Joey's logic, if you see something on YouTube, it must be true: this is a logical extension of "seeing is believing."  This logic is best represented by a syllogism: I believe everything I see, I see a cat playing piano on YouTube, so I believe that all cats play piano.  But syllogisms sometimes become logical fallacies, like this one: I believe everything I see, I can't see air, so I believe that air does not exist.  See what I mean?

   Like I said before (on the matter of a personal opinion), Joey de Leon is a sanctimonious stoop-sitting holier-than-thou has-been.  The "institution" that is Joey doesn't exempt him from public reproach: after all, he committed some pretty reproachable actions in low blows and blind items under the guise of "jokes."  Joey impresses me as a figurative ass: you either kiss ass or kick ass.

   For all that Joey is worth, he could have taken the high road and would have emerged the better man.  The better man would have called the lesser man on the phone, talked things over, and if that didn't work out, arranged a fistfight.  But no, we had to see Joey on TV in the role of a hectoring populist demagogue doing his "explanations" like, well, a sanctimonious stoop-sitting holier-than-thou has-been.

< i'm in a spoofing mood >

   I don't mind listening to the ocassional Tom Jones song, as long as Tom Jones is singing it.  But if I hear another drunk guy singing "Delilah" in a karaoke bar, I swear upon heaven... music please, Maestro:

*      *      *

I saw the light on the night that I passed by that window
I saw the flickering shadow of men and their wine
He was that singer
As he was singing I listened and went out of my mind

My, my, my, "Delilah"
Why, why, why, "Delilah"
I could hear, that song while I drink my beer
It's one of those songs that I don't really want to hear

At break of day when that man drove away I was waiting
I crossed the street to the bar and I opened the door
He stood there singing
I took the knife from the table and he sang no more

My, my, my, "Delilah"
Why, why, why, "Delilah"
So before I come to break down the door
Your singing "Delilah" is one I can't take anymore
Your singing "Delilah" is one I can't take anymore!

< i'm complaining >

   I called UP Diliman today over the issue of a request of grades, and because the phone line at home has been disabled for outgoing long-distance calls, I went on over to the RCPI at Session Road to make a call.  The whole thing cost me P67.00.

   The rational recourse would have been to make my call via my cellphone and saved myself fifty bucks or so, but I'm a cheapskate when it comes to cellphone load.  Since I don't do a lot of texting, I get load only on those periodic ocassions that I have P30 that I don't want to spend on a can of Coke and ten pesos worth of Marlboro Lights.  My godmother's birthday gifts of a couple of hundred pesos' worth of load credits goes to the alerts and services I activate in order for me to consume all my load while having enough for extremely important text messages.  Yup, I'm kuripot.

   But for all the P67.00 I spent on two calls, I kind of feel gypped.  Who pays that amount of money for two calls, each under a minute long?  For that amount of money, I should have had positive results, but their fax machine was broken, so I would get my ROG by Friday, or until such time that they get the machine fixed.  For all the tuition fee increase is worth, they should consider buying another one.

   My dad, who is a self-styled expert on office equipment, says that fax machines are jurassic.  It's not that I believe everything my dad says, but this is coming from a guy who has actually seen and operated teleprinters and once had a Telex number in his calling card.  In my home computer, I've given up on the Post-It's I stick on the case of my monitor and I'm now using the "Notes" function in Windows Vista's Sidebar applet.  Say what you will about Vista, but I'm not about to buy myself a box of Post-It Notes to remind myself how fucked up my life is.

< from the entertainment world >

   This afternoon, Willie Revillame spent the first 15 minutes or so of his noontime game show "Wowowee" proclaiming his innocence, preempting the usual "Iyugyog Mo" song-and-dance routine/game segment.  I can't blame the guy: the difference between guilt and innocence is to have people listen to your side of the story for at least 15 minutes.  After all, Willie has again become the target of the immature pilyong pasaring of a sanctimonious stoop-sitting holier-than-thou has-been in Joey de Leon (it's a matter of personal opinion).  As far as Joey is concerned, I'll wait until "Startalk."  But the question remains: did Willie cheat?

   If we are talking about the "Wilyonaryo" fiasco, then we might as well talk about all game shows.  If by "cheating" we mean that the format and machinations of the game show are structured so that the house would get a better odds of winning, then all game shows cheat.  Singling out Willie for such a concept of "cheating" (or in any other similar concept) is not only wrong, it is also the height of hypocrisy.

   But if by "cheating" we mean that we deny people a chance at dignified and honest labor, and have them depend on the goodwill of dollar-waving overseas subscribers and skip work just to humiliate themselves on live television for a quick peso, then there was cheating going on.  "Fun" has nothing to do with cheating people out of the promise of hard work in society, and there's nothing "funny" about indolence, either.  How many times have we heard that story of the jobless "Wowowee" viewer who makes a career out of the queues in the ABS-CBN audience entrance trying to make it into their contests?

   I won't lie about it: I watch "Wowowee."  I do not question the sincerity of Willie Revillame in helping the poor and the downtrodden: I question how that sincerity is practiced.  There's really something questionable with a "Du Du Du Da Da Da" segment.

< a something-something >

   It's been a while since my last visit to the psychiatrist, and I really think I should consider going back there for treatment.  Like I said in Project Hallucinosis, I'm hanging on by a thread.  Right now, I can feel the proverbial rug being pulled from right under my feet.

   I made a very stupid decision in deluding myself that I am already on the straight-and-narrow, that I don't need my medications anymore.  The least I want is to contribute to the financial burden of my family by having to be on therapy.  The other thing is that I don't like to deal with the side-effects of medication: I can't afford the drowsiness and the lethargy that comes with antipsychotics.  But if anything, I don't like what I'm becoming either: I don't like the kind of self-abuse I'm putting myself through just to distract myself from my paranoia.

   My parents are particularly worried, since I've been working myself off for the past few days, staying up until 3 AM working on my thesis.  I don't operate on the eight hours of sleep necessary for overall good health.  It's not conscientious industry or a compulsive drivenness that drives me to whip myself with the proverbial cat-o'-nine-tails: I need to distract myself.  I won't lie about it anymore than the last two months I skipped the trip to the psychiatrist: I need help.

   I thought I could distract myself in work, but I'm distracted by work.  I'm starting to count down things in terms of the number of days left until I'm supposed to be done with my thesis (around a month), the number of days I have left to toast my first year of my career as a mental patient (14 days), you get the idea.

   If anything, the least I can afford right now is a catastrophic failure or an insurmountable obstacle.  I know I've climbed a lot of mountains in my life before, but I don't know if I have enough left in me.  Of course I have, but every mountain you climb takes a mountain out of you.

< continuing the anthology >

   I was working on my thesis a few hours ago when an epiphany hit me: I'm working too hard.

   I'm spending hours in the faculty room consulting faculty members who are friendly and amicable enough to help me understand what I'm doing (seriously, I don't have the faintest idea of what I'm doing anymore).  I'm spending too much time in the Library building (all sections, including the newly-opened Special Collections section), impoverishing myself of the sanity and money needed to withstand the long lines at the photocopying machines.  I've been working in front of my computer for so long that I start dreaming about being in front of a computer.  Yup, I'm a poster boy for alienation.

   All this comes from my adviser telling me not to break my tables.  I was fine, until I had to make my summary results for color themes used in Friendster.  I ended up with this extremely long table that cut across two pages.  In my frustration, I saved the document (I'm not that stupid) and tried to figure out a way to make an unbroken table.  I'm still at it (the thinking process), but I'm down to two options: I can "Frankenstein" a very complex one-page table with the paper on landscape, or I can "Frankenstein" the table I already made by joining the broken printouts with Scotch tape, glue, paste, cooked rice, or if I'm really pissed off, semen.  (I'm planning to give new meaning to the term "intellectual masturbation," but that's just me).

< my take on rotc >

   Because I do all my activism right now from the proverbial dumpster, I think that a dissenting opinion is at hand: I think we should reconsider the Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC).

   I don't necessarily buy into the reasons behind reviving ROTC: I don't think that serving on the Reserve Command boosts your patriotism.  Patriotism doesn't come out of the barrel of a gun, even if said gun doesn't even have a barrel and is just a rifle-shaped plank of wood.  I don't think that marching on the parade grounds of some decrepit grandstand in the noon sun is healthy for you, much less teaches you discipline.  I don't see the sense in having to commit one's self to "military traditions" like boodle fights, rifle drills, or saluting an intellectual peon with a shiny sword.

   But we should definitely reconsider ROTC: the way I see it, while everyone else is saying that there's no good reason to bring back ROTC, there's really no good reason why it shouldn't be around.  The National Service Training Program (NSTP) is so limited in scope: the promise of "nationalism" is fulfilled through giving the adopted barangay a painted can of Exora Cooking Oil to serve as a trash can.  Besides, Senator Miguel Zubiri authored the NSTP law because, and I quote: "For two years, Thea, I'm marching under the sun.  Lumabas na lang 'yung freckles ko. Hindi ako nangingitim eh.  Namumula ako.  Tapos lumalabas 'yung freckles ko.  So ang nangyari d'yan was a lot of sunburn and a lot of wasted Saturday mornings."  I sourced that from the Inquirer's Podcast transcript of Sen. Zubiri's interview, but even the simplest of exegesis would point out a fear of freckles was a reason for the NSTP law.

   Often, the only valid reason in abolishing ROTC is because students don't like to do things they don't want to do.  The best recourse to doing something you don't want to do in college is to fill out a dropping form and pay the fee.  But if there's anything I learned in over five years of being in college, it's that you have to do things whether you like them or not.  Nobody died and made you king or queen: you don't call the shots.

   ROTC doesn't "militarize" anything: what's so "military" about a piece of wood?  "Militarization" is an extreme case of a process, where our institutions (like educational institutions) are under the direct and total control of armed military forces.  ROTC doesn't represent or actualize this extreme: in fact, we would lose a war in having to send ROTC cadets into the battlefield.

   The way I see it, there is merit in reconsidering ROTC.  The point is to "consider," and not to implement it at once.  It's not to go to the streets and rally against "militarization" either.  You don't call the shots by jumping the gun.

< a reply to shari cruz >

   Why do we overanalyze things, you ask?  Here's a question: what do you call the stray particles of feces found in many an anus of a street dog?

   I admit to overanalyzing things to the point of annoyance: if I push myself really hard, I can make a paper on the sociology of light bulbs.  Sometimes I think that I've taken too much of a liking to C. Wright Mills' concept of the "sociological imagination" to its logical extreme, but that's just me.  While there's nothing wrong with a simple explanation, the social anthropologist in me demands these overwrought, overintellectualized, verbose explanations to anything and everything under the sun, why they're under the sun, and I'll go so far to even question the sun itself.

   Now pushing the proverbial envelope of explanation can only get you so far: if anything, this is the curse of Thomas Kuhn's "route to (normal) science."  Science is a party-pooper and an intellectual killjoy: not only does it leave no stone unturned, it also has an explanation to why stones turn (laws of inertia).  Arriving at truths is not as simple as it sounds: subjectivity is precluded by a subjective understanding of the context of objective realities.

   I'm not one to say that everything is discourse (read your Derrida) or that we are doomed to not knowing any probable cause for why we exist and why things happen to us (read your Kafka)... but at this point, I am overanalyzing.