Raco's Meteoropolis

Two years ago today, I wrote this post in my previous gig. The ensuing night, this happened.

(Note that this is an objective summary of the events. The names have been changed so as to protect the identity of those involved and those who do not know they were actually involved. Also, before clicking the hyperlinks, place the mouse cursor over the links to read a brief summary of the contents. I be posting the contents of the latter link here—unedited!!—anyway, so it’s somehow optional for you to click the link above.)

Begin.

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It began as an attempt of waiting for someone whom I had a very intimate discussion with a couple of weeks ago to log on. There was this something that I felt within her, something that I felt about her, and something that I felt for her. I think I was falling for her, though the main reason would be my longing for helping a poor soul like her. For a second there I tried to dismiss it as something somewhat triggered by a manifestation of the Messianic complex in me, though yet unseen in full blast. One thing I liked about her was her cute profile pic of an illustration of a Japanese animated character. Another thing was her condition and her outlook in life, and her seemingly distant approach to love, which, in my interpretation, seemed to have failed her a couple of times in her life.

All efforts were futile, as there was no actual trace of her being on line at the moment. However, two personalities lifted my spirits up just by passing through me. Ron and Michael came by and took a rest on the couches for a while.

As they left, I decided to come along with them, logging out of the web. On the way out, we met someone who, in a way or another, peeved me. I just hated the way Rog (rodj; uh, I guess, for Roger) came in and proclaimed to the world that he can at last ride a bicycle. I admit, it peeved me, and I got pissed. I chose not to say a word and talk to him, as I was very ticked off. What’s more, Janine, Rog’s “velvet partner in crime”, as I would like to put it, came by, wearing make-up and a gown. It turned out she just came from a private party meant only for her and her schoolmates. I got more ticked by the minute, though she seemed to be more receptive. I dunno, it just kinda ticked me off, is all.

I invited them to dinner, and after a couple of shit scenes, they finally decided to eat. My pissed-off-ness hasn’t waned out yet, so I was still feeling this dysphoria in me. I chose to walk far behind them, smoking to my heart’s delight, and my brain’s demise. I caught up with them, as they stopped for a while, trying to confirm where to eat. We decided on eating at this “24-hour” restaurant near a local mall.

Dysphoria was kind of waning as I’ve seen some receptivity from Rog. Janine, meanwhile, tinkered on her phone, while we were talking about different things ranging from Family Guy to the Simpsons to my graduation and my daily life. We ate the beef, and an acquaintance beeped Ron. We waited for Paul in the restaurant just so he could finish the food, as we were full.

Something came up, and we were given a situation and several options. We were split between drinking booze and crashing a party. Sure, we could choose between both, but no one said we could only choose one. Besides, we were done with the school shit.

So, either we crash the party, or drink our hearts out, or crash and drink, or drink and crash. I kinda thought the fourth option somewhat made much more sense and progress, though we would unleash hell thrice the number of the beast, because we were intoxicated.

We decided on a crash-now-drink-later, with no looking back.

We arrived at the scene, though it was a bit creepy. There were a considerable number of people who could make us wet our pants at first sight. We decided on a game plan, as we fell back on the staircase. They tried to take a few people who they planned would be accomplices to the crime, though it took a lot of patience and guts to get them on our side. I, meanwhile, started to talk like a pussy, and at some points in time, intentionally fell down the stairs. Frankly, I like the feel of falling down the stairs. However, in the process, I lost a pack of cigarettes lodged in my hoodie pocket.

They tried to patch up a plan, and stood steady to wait for a right time when…

“Kayleigh’s singing!”
“What?”
“Kayleigh’s singing!”

As if I had hit a bong before everything else that happened that very night, I rushed to look at who was singing. There she was, sitting on a chair, everyone intent on watching her perform. I never expected it from someone whom I never thought was actually a multitalented artist, but it seemed like hearing the angels whisper sweet nothings on my ear. Another thing that was amazing was that she hit the notes right. The other woman on the guitars didn’t quite hit the chord, yeah, she did, but she didn’t actually pace it on the ticking of the metronome, and the song was somewhat derailed for a second. But I want to focus on the singer who, aside from possessing a voice not even Randy Jackson (the balding black American Idol judge, not the cool long-haired prog-rock singer for New York rock act Zebra) can mistake for William Hung’s because of the considerable difference only measurable by the league (one league equals about 7 miles or something), also possesses this aura that made me feel stunned and enamored at both the physical and artistic beauty she displays before everyone else, including me.

Time continued to tick away as I watched her belt out a tune that seemed very pleasing to the ear. I never minded time, as I was pouring all my concentration to this girl who possesses the beauty of a goddess, the voice of a seraph, and the name of a TV personality. (You know Layla Kayleigh, a host for G4TV? Well, that’s not her name. I’m going to be honest, since you know I change the names of these people, she’s named after one of Bloomberg’s news anchors, and/or the producer of an episode of Nickelodeon’s “The Fairly Oddparents”. Make a guess.)

I unconsciously found myself clapping along with the audience as she wrapped her song up. For that moment the missing cigarette pack disappeared from my mind.

The plan came to fruition as a slow song was played. They were to get partners to dance to that slow song. Paul agreed to dance with Janine, and the latter took two of her classmates to dance with Rog and Ronnie. I, meanwhile, stayed on my foot, as I was still stunned by how things went. I hope they understand, seeing as they knew my personality as a shy boy, but I want to bet they were saying things like “Fuck him, since when did he even help us?!? He’s but a pussy.”

The plan was working. Everyone was surprised, and I do not mean surprised whoa. Everyone was taking out their cameras and snapping pics. It seemed like a very receptive audience. At first no one tried to stop them from taking the stage. Just then there was this old lady who looked something like Susan Boyle, Yo-landi Vi$$er’s granny (minus the wrinkles), Manuel Uribe (just the fatness, though), and King Kong. She approached me, as if in a fit of fury, and drove me away from the party. I, being the pussy I am, surprisingly apologized, and ran toward the floor below the function hall of the said hotel. Hazy from the shocking event and feeling like I was stomped on by a huge elephant, I went back up and heard that degrading verse constantly ringing in my head: “Outsiders”.

We had no other choice but to leave.

We were about to go to some bar and drink the night out when it struck us, through a text message, that the people whom Rog and Ron danced with were being blamed for the “disaster”. In a fit of redemption, they decided to return to the place and try to ask for an apology in behalf of the group. That time I know I wasn’t a part of the group because I never actually did my part as a group member. I mean, I just sat at the staircase waiting for the wind. All I did was just give them pussy-sounding inspirational messages and sell them out at the last minute. That’s what I thought I did.

Anyways, apologies given, and lamentations aside, we took a cab to this bar. Perhaps still bearing the weight of shame on our backs, we decided to drink the hell out of the night we had. In the moment I had my first drink, I felt something come upon me. Next thing I know, I was drinking each and every glass of cocktail being passed onto me. I never realized I have been talking about life, and love, and when that flap of skin on the dick gets in the way of your pissing, and your pants become wet with pee. I was even freestyle rapping smoothly, no flaws whatsoever.

In every shot glass we toasted our shits, achievements, and whatnot, and laughing about it and feeling good. I and Janine we’re graduating, Rog learned how to ride a bike, Ronnie was done with the school shit, and Paul..?.. I can’t remember. However, midst the weight the night brought to us, and the way we tried to redeem ourselves (“we” is read as “they”, “ourselves” “themselves”), we (this time read as “I”) had the most fun intoxicating night of our lives (read “my life”).

Rog ended up extremely drunk, as he has been drinking shot for shot of that cocktail we took, whose name I don’t know. In the process he started “apologizing” for every “shit” that he “did”. He apologized to Paul for being such an ass on guitar, to everyone else for his behavior, and to me for… uh, I dunno, he just said, “to you too, man, sorry.” Janine defended his statement saying “and it’s true”.

“Along with the people inside, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy…”

Turbulence, with loud voices, confessions (Jim, for example, didn’t actually want to be in a relationship), and intimate scenes between Rog and Janine, ensued. It kicked in.

Perhaps that saying was indeed true. “In Vino Veritas.” I once used the saying to extract from subjects 02 and 03 (see squib 4) the things I needed to know about them making out. I never realized it would hit me hard as well. I ended up telling Paul and Ron that I liked Kayleigh, and I was impressed at the things she could actually do. Again, upon marveling at the talents she has, I began to underestimate myself the way I underestimated myself when we tried to play Iron Maiden songs and Rog’s house. Ron reminded me I also played guitar and drums, however I still am stunned and very degraded at how she manages to grip my feelings like a hand grenade (see Green Day’s American Idiot album cover, you’ll see what I mean.) and at the many ways she can express herself freely. She has this photograph she took, at an exhibit in a local mall, and admiration drove me to write bullshit in the comments book under a name I gave myself in September, following the three-month hiatus of the drummerless band we had.

We ordered a couple more pitchers we thought we could finish, but we ended up very stoned (well, excluding the only girl because 1] I guess she knows her limits and 2] I guess she knows she’s the one who is supposed to take Rog home) and drunk. We laid down at a patch of ground in a park near a local campus of the state university, and we actually felt good.

“Anlakas na ng tama, parang ang sarap humiga…”

Turbulence was still in our (read we men) veins. Ronnie suddenly became a master at knife playing.

Probably because of extreme intoxication and that feeling of having your parents worry about you because you never beeped them, we decided to part ways. Rog and Janine took a cab to the former’s house, and I & Paul took Ron to hail a cab at a place near where he usually rides a jeepney. (To foreigners, a jeepney is a public utility vehicle commonly found in the Philippines. It was patterned after the World War II GP’s taken in by American soldiers.)

I took Paul to home and we talked about how Dream Theater began. Their ups and downs, and where they are now. I kind of tried to make a reference on what they did and how they fucked the shit out of the obstacles awaiting them. I suggested we make DT as examples, along with other bands, of how to survive the Music Scene.

I left Paul just as he was nearing his home. I then decided to take a hike towards where cabs usually wait for passengers. I came home at 3 in the morning, after a five-kilometer ride.

The hangover phase was kinda shitty. I don’t want to talk about it. Sorry.

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Two Years Ago Today: Dysphoria Indiscipline Turbulence is an objective summary of the events that happened two years ago involving a few people I was close to when I was not yet legal. This began a series of other posts that consecutively followed this post, but that’s none of your concern. The thing with this, though, is that two years ago today, I learned how love can maliciously grip the heart of a blind naïve human with a soul and make it do its bidding in order to shackle and rend the adventurous innocent soul into forever being chained with its choice partner. That being said, a notable segment of the local fictional epic poem Florante at Laura comes into my mind.

Love is such a fucking asshole.

I remember a few details of some of the rooms in the schools I’ve been in. The social hall in my elementary school is notable for having a biblical quote painted on one of its walls. As I was pointing this to my father when we were in some trip with my mother, he replied;

“When I was high school, the thing written on our wall was, ‘Measure twice, cut once’.”

It applied to construction and engineering and freaky math shit involving power tools. Both of my parents finished civil engineering in the same school, but only mother had the license. Father still does the plans, however; mother’s only reason for taking up the course was because all her four other options did not work out. Mother is thereby relegated to signing the plan sheets. And helping out in her own civil engineer way by computing the cost of the construction of some building, while father draws the lines through some house plan software. (He recently used Microsoft Visio.)

The phrase printed on a wall in my father’s room back in high school (which was actually vocational school as far as formal education is concerned) seemed to have struck something in me.

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A prevalence of Asian pop is evident in local radios, with most of the stations in my hometown playing what makes the Korean immigrants and “flip flirt fanhos” happy and elated. What’s more, pop form Europe seemed to have taken a fall into a ditch since the rise (and fall) of the fourth wave of Pinoy rock. I don’t see pop from Europe competing with Wondergirls. If there were pop, it would come from the most peculiar of all places; say, Canada? (Fuck you in your ass, Shawty Mane!)

But way back when I was a kid, Eurodance was as prevalent as cigarette vendors lining the streets.

I grew up when Europop and Eurodance were receiving high airplay in the radio, “Barbie Girl” and “Quit Playing Games With My Heart” were on the “high rotation” whiteboards in FM booths across the nation. The only other “international” genre, if I may, competing with Europop would be pop from America, with pioneers like Britney Spears and Mariah Carey. If there were rock acts, Metallica and Linkin Park would lead the pack, but even then rock in the radio was limited, except of course if you were a rock station.

I once heard a quirky song with uncanny chord changes and bubbly lyrics denoting a reference to the Edgar Rice Burroughs classic Tarzan of the Apes, or at least the Disney animated feature film version of the said novel. Everything I heard on the radio when I was a kid came back to me, everything that had the same structure and were on the same genre as this pop song.

I deduced the band might have been those who sang the bubblegum dance hit “Barbie Girl” as well, so I looked up the song in Aqua’s discography, through my good friend Wicky. I didn’t see anything that said “Tarzan” there, but I saw some of the hits that played on the radio when I was a kid.

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A few years ago, I walked into this computer shop in this building which, in cases of strong rains and 2-hour thunderstorms, would have the electricity cut down for some reason. Hoping that I would be able to play the whole afternoon, I braced myself for a session and had the nice lady punch me in for an open-time rental. I took my time retracing my steps in the first few missions of The Godfather II, which I finished years back, and all seemed well as I beat the shit out of  the rival families guarding the businesses I wanted for my crime family. All was going well.

Then, blackout.

The other people, mostly grade-schoolers and high-schoolers playing either a first-person shooter game patterned after CounterStrike or an online (internet) session of Defense of the Ancients (DotA) on Warcraft III thru Garena, tried to wait for the current to return, hoping that it would be a short while. That, to no avail. After fifteen minutes, they bailed out one by one, trying to pay their dues almost simultaneously. This overwhelmed that young girl who was hired by the owner, a Pakistani, to look after the shop and its profits on a daily basis, being given the weekends for rest days.

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In my three weeks of stay here I tried to reconnect with people who were at one point in time close to me. That, of course, save my family, who is my only fallback in times of crap. I visited the school I used to be in, and it seems they had changed the names of the sections in every year level, to avoid mocking the “flowers”, “trees”, “elements”, and “gemstones” and intentionally saying the section names wrong. Until now it baffles me. I also visited the university I was forcibly enrolled in just to see the changes the naked fuck in a pedestal has witnessed.

And then I visited the computer rental shops I used to hang out in. To my surprise, the dentist next door had moved out, and that dude allegedly from Pakistan rented the unit and expanded his spot in that building that used to be struck by blackouts. I did not see “the girl who taught me to smile”, though.

My first steps inside another computer shop brought intense memories, however, what with the old acquaintances greeting me in first gaze. There were even some who stood from their seats and gave me a “manly” hug (that’s what they called it), and then sat down and resumed their games while they interviewed me.

I was to say I’ve been to Meteoropolis, but I instead quipped that I’ve been to jail due to the imposed smoking ban across the city, and perhaps across the nation. Which brings to mind my apparent “outlaw” status, as the whole nation is slowly outlawing smoking day after day, ticket after ticket, visits after visits to the City Treasurer’s Office to pay dues.

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Fuck. I come home. And then the storm comes by. Nice timing, storm named after that name that made me throw tantrums when I was a kid.

It was a few weeks since that fateful day, and along with some realizations (on how the government is technically outlawing the fags, thereby making me an outlaw) and some gigs I attended to alone (most notably the Excursion Tour at a local bar here renowned as “the best band bar in this city”; you should have been there, legends took to the stage!), I witnessed the first storm to ever hit my home since I arrived.

And god-the fuck-dammit, they named the stupid typhoon after that same name my older cousins (mom’s sister’s sons) would call me “whenever I’d do something bad”.

One of the most interesting things here was; I was recuperating from a severe case of tonsillitis (which brought upon my god-the-fuck-dammit-ly swollen tonsils numerous pus discharges and a wound which drew blood in every mucus-laden spit I had, thereby deluding me into thinking that I had throat cancer) when the storm struck and hit land. It was not as watery (if I may) as Ketsana (Ondoy in Philippine weather nomenclature or something), nor was it as destructive as Parma (Pepeng, who ravaged the whole island thrice); hell, it did not even manage to cut off our power lines entirely, though the net failed. But hear this; perhaps Nesat (Pedring) might be the worst typhoon to hit my window. I had to change the rugs thrice to keep the windowsill dry, I had to tape a piece of plastic over the sockets so as to avoid ground and shit, and I had people in the house help me with placing strips of plastic on the window itself so as to avoid my head getting wet that evening. The winds were considerably strong, perhaps stronger than Parma itself, as it seemed to have blown a huge part of our roof off. I know it blew the foam they blocked the ceiling openings with; it was cold the whole night.

If my house isn’t enough, you might be interested on the damage it caused the city. Landslides dotted the entire 120 plus-barangay city (there might even be trashslides in the local dumpsite); flash floods surprised the lagoon, leaving families living in the said village to evacuate to higher ground while the unforgiving “mama nature” ravaged their property with brown water; and electric outages mar the city. My cousins (dad’s sister’s offspring) even came by our house partially because there was no electricity in the room they rented somewhere in the other side of town. Mostly they came here to eat because it was my brother’s birthday. Happy birthday, bro. It’s your fucking life, you do whatever you want. (Philistine.)

It’s the highlands, though. Floods and submerged houses dot the island, most notably the Metropolis where a love of my life finishes… non-biodegradable trash line the sewage system, thereby giving inadequate space for water to manoeuvre out of the sewers and into the water treatment facilities. Ketsana was a devastating blow to those people in the Metropolis and its surrounding regions (most notably the Southern part of Region 3 and a huge part of Region 4… A). Their precautionary measures may have lightened the load, but I fear it may be not enough, since a lot of the areas near rivers bound to overflow whenever storms rush in would have a high chance of remaining submerged one or two days after the storm has left land. Or something. But still the no-plastic policy in one of the cities seems to work.

Everything seems fine now. Nesat has left the building and, although getting stronger, has not a chance of going back to land. Unlike that bastard Parma. Power outage plus soaking wet window plus no transistor radio equaled a fucking bad time.

The only thing I hated about Nesat would be the rate of him soaking my window wet (which was faster than Parma); his arrival at a very unexpected time of my stay here; and his striking down of the telephone posts, which equaled to no net. And an abrupt break in visiting this universe here, in Meteoropolis.

I once saw a piece made by award-winning nineteenth-century Filipino painter Juan Luna in a museum somewhere back in my home country. He aptly entitled it “Interior d’un Cafi”, but nowadays it is more often referred to in its English title, “The Parisian Life.” The painting consists of a girl in a corset (probably a whore) about to stand up from the sofa, in an area at the cafe, with some unfinished drinks on the table before her. Beside and before her are some articles of male clothing left behind by some John Doe, who apparently fled the scene, or was in the bathroom, or something. At the background are three men, who seem to be looking at and talking about the girl trying to stand up a few tables away from them. If memory serves, I saw the piece as part of a tour in a museum, a tour that was itself part of a field trip to the Capital Region to explore the various facets of the Spanish colonial rule, and then some before and after the Spaniard rule itself.

As we were led to a room containing only the painting as its highlight, with no other accompanying piece of art from Luna’s repertory, the tour guide (who also happens to be a history fellow at a recognized university back in my home country) talked about this artwork’s history, most notably how it disappeared from a house built in the style of eighteenth-century Hispanic architecture owned by a family connected to an Ilustrado in terms of blood, and how a goverment official managed to retrieve it from a Hong Kong auction house in a rather controversial way. Not to mention a protester trying to damage the painting by stabbing it with an umbrella s/he brought inside, to protest the rather “unjust” purchase of the said painting in the Hong Kong auction house. The room was lined with pictures of people involved, directly or indirectly, with the painting, and there were pedestals with details regarding the painting standing on opposite sides of the room. To my surprise the Ilustrados, whom I thought were tall and fine and high and mighty people, stood at an average height of five feet one inch or so, with the world-renowned Filipino polymath Dr. Jose P. Rizal standing at a startling five feet three inches, a height seemingly inconsistent with the various film representations of the Philippines’ “National Hero”.

 After he provided a brief overview of the painting’s travels (and how the “Spoliarium,’ another Luna masterpiece, albeit of more epic proportions as compared to the relatively small “Parisian Life”, was cut into three parts upon hauling and shipping back to the painter’s home country), he provided three explanations and/or interpretations of the painting, as done by Filipino art analysts who connected the scene inside the cafe with the struggle he and his co-Ilustrados have been fighting for. There were various notable details scattered around the painting, and they managed to connect it to some part of the reform they were fighting for. A notable one was how the girl’s neck was considerably darkened, and how the painter placed the cafe window’s frame right through the head of the girl, seemingly impaling the head. With the discomfort she experiences evidenced by the look on her face, it may be deduced that the image she is projected would be that of one being strangled and choked as if she was being hanged by the neck. Add a few detailed analyses, such as the girl being a mirror image of the map of the Philippines, with the island of Palawan raised to connect to the girl’s torso (halfway through the Ilocos Region) so as to serve as an arm, and it would show an interpretation of how Luna’s country was suffering from the burdens the religious fascism of the friars has brought the “Indio” populace.

This repressed memory, if I may, of mine, which resurfaced after a couple of years of actually seeing the painting, made me think. Suppose it was that year, and, seeing as Luna painted The Parisian Life in France, it was exhibited somewhere. How would a foreigner, who has virtually not heard of the Philippines except of it bein a colony of Spain, interpret the painting? How would somebody who would encounter the artwork in present time, Filipino or Ugandan, interpret the painting provided some historian had not elaborated, much less given a hint of, the various interpretations art analysts and historians have of the impressionist piece? How would the various aspects of the painting be dissected without the tinge of Philippine history in it? How basically can it be interpreted, with no socio-political (or other metaphysical, for that matter) notion attached to it?

I’m an artist, but I’m not that much into the visual side. Sure, I have an eye for photography, as was told of me by a few notable people (my father included), and I can draw some good stuff, most notably shit floating in a toilet bowl on the iPad app Drawing Pad, but when in comes to the deep side of painting, I’m really not much of a fan. Pardon my words here; this might have offended you in some way. It’s just how I felt today, epiphanizing about how people could dissect the Parisian Life without mention of the Reform movement and anything or anyone connected to it.

Which reminds me. I may have forgotten about some musical piece I needed to analyze. A 42-minute suite is hard enough of a job to me to dissect, what with the lyrics and the odd meters and the switching tempos and endless mood shifts and shit. Meet me when I’m done with “Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence”, right here, in Meteoropolis.

I’ll be honest with you, for one time. One of those few things I despise about the world is the presence of pompous proud people in it. Those kinds of people who would not shut up until they have asserted their knowledge or skill in something right in your face, smudging it over your soul like a piece of dung. And then have no evidence or proof of their mastery of such a skill or possession of such an item whatsoever. It makes me want to flip the bird right in front of their face, then kick their balls until they become sterile, thereby ending the cocky lineage.

I mean, who wouldn’t want to hit them in the nads with a sledgehammer? Those cocky gestures that make you think they’ve been in the warzone and have enough experience to actually act it out right in your face, The provocative delivery of every word they say pertaining to the alleged experiences they had in the warzone itself, add to that the taunting sneers they randomly blast onto the faces of the people they meet. “Do you have what it takes? No! I’ve got enough experience, and I could beat you silly and run over you twice if we had a fucking race.” Believe me, I almost went to the point of no return and kicked his nads, if only it weren’t for some guy who actually had what it takes, challenging him in a one-on-one. Then he started to back out and say, “I don’t think I’m in shape today, I haven’t warmed up. Y’know, they say when I don’t warm up I’m a shit ton of a lot better in it, and I don’t want to embarass you. I could beat you fair and square if I warmed up.”

But then the cocky bastard bit the bullet, figuratively. (He didn’t actually die, though, he just crossed the Rubicon.)

Just a background, this actually happened while I was in a queue, waiting to buy a ticket to a racing event in the local track. Cars, not horses. Not a demolition derby, though. This guy rolled up to us, saying he could race better than most of the racers pitted to run the course that evening, taunting everyone who he thought knew how to go the full five gears on a car, let alone drive. When an actual street racer, with the nickname of “Scully”, moved up to him and challenged him, he said all of those things above. In the quotation marks.

Little did he know that I actually have seen Scully drive across the street at night, Eldon, a pal here, would take me to nightly circuit illegal races, and in most of the races Scully joined in, he almost always came up first. That is, until some buff guy named Dom came along and beat him in a sprint race, with him coming in milliseconds close. The margin was literally centimeters off that we had to consult the speed cameras they had installed at the finish line to find out who had won the bets. I lost two quid that time. Dom left shortly after, though. By the look on his face when he left he was eager for a return match against Scully.

So, going back, Scully challenged this pompous brat to a match around town. The pompous brat bit the bullet with his infamous “backing out” speech. With that the challenge was accepted, unbeknownst to the pompous fool. It seemed that the brat blew Scully’s head off with the taunt.

The race started a few hours after it turned dim, that me and Amos had to cancel the night’s demolition derby to see the brat lose. To our surprise, he could not even make the car move, and if he did, he could not keep it in a straight line. Scully had 5 laps excess of the planned 3 laps around the course, and the pompous fool was barely halfway through his first lap, with a car he borrowed from another racer. I think it was when the bastard had the engine blown because he did not know how to drive stick that Scully was declared winner by default.

The racer whose car the pompous brat borrowed assaulted the brat and fucked his shit up with blows to the stomach, until Scully offered to pay for the engine overhauling. Then Scully interrogated the brat.

“Look here, motherfucking asshole, If I ever see your face or hear your voice again, I will personally arrange niner bullets in your head to rout your neurons and silence that mouth of yours. Here’s three quid. Get yourself cleaned up, get the fuck back to where your sorry ass came from, and don’t show your face here again.”

A gun barrel threat and a kick to the head was all the brat needed to be silenced.

But even this sensational story from the nocturnal urban scenery in Meteoropolis would not shut all the other pompous fools up. There were, are, and will be proud pompous motherfuckers around the world.

Well, unless these “proud pompous motherfuckers” know how to walk the walk the way they talk the talk, in which case you can tolerate their pomposity and pride, or even perhaps reconsider your definition of them as “proud pompous motherfuckers”.

My driving instructor back in my hometown is a good example. And then some. He could walk the walk, the very same precise and graceful way he attributes to driving while he talks the talk, while literally talking the talk. The way he brandished his skills through his literal account was perhaps way too much for someone with fragile glass for a heart to take, but I knew he knows how to actually do what he says very precisely and gracefully. I just had to take the high pitched “critical-damage criticism” if I wanted to improve my manipulation of the wheel for the betterment of any prospective passengers. And it worked. Aside from graduating with flying colors in the course, I managed to finish the entire 12-hour “curriculum”, if I may, in only 11 hours; really fast compared to the average “118 hours” driving students in the United Kingdom of Great Britain (ooh, UKGB…) tend to finish the course, according to him.

With the end of the course I found it best to dismiss my notions of him being a tad proud to flaunt his driving knowledge. Rather I should instead focus on the fact that his strict passion-driven teaching, and (I think I have to say it even though it goes against my thoughts) his flaunting of what he knows, is what brought me to a wider scope of knowledge about driving stick. Besides, people whose mental maturity is of a relatively high grade would not “talk the talk” if they didn’t know how to “walk the walk”, would they?

The bottomline? You know you can tolerate, or dismiss the personal notion of, someone’s excessive pride if he knows how to walk the talk with precise grace. If he’s all cocky pomp, you should not tolerate him, and people like him. He wouldn’t probably stand a chance against someone who can walk the talk. However, if he blows your head off, don’t bite the bait. Wait for him to bite the bullet and fall from pride, if grace were not available at the moment.

Oh, hey, something’s just come up. Amos tips me of another demolition derby a few days from now. Gotta go get bucks for pre-order front seats tickets. I’ll be seeing you again, if there be no more demolition derbies sooner or later, right here, in Meteoropolis.