Haunted by Patrick

Getting involved with Bret Easton Ellis’ Lunar Park requires major suspension of disbelief. He warns his reader that whatever is in the book really, as in truly, he is not joking, happened to him. And since American Psycho was amazing, I was all set to believe everything that I was about to read, bullshit or no bullshit. But it was clear from the beginning that Lunar Park, the author’s 5^th novel is going to be an entertainingly made up, but no less fascinating semi-autobiographical take on his rise to literary superstardom and the eventual, if not predictable superfucked-updom.

Patrick Bateman, the character that started it all happens to have a huge fan. It’s a fandom so huge it’s scary. Generally abhorred and excoriated by critics, publishers, women and gay groups, American Psycho (a book I truly like) has become the finest example of how not to develop attachment with a Bret Easton Ellis character. As a group, his characters are bad, soulless people and Patrick Bateman is their poster boy. What’s mildly surprising is how bent Ellis seems on making us believe that Bateman is the work of something else, and in his attempt to prove this he aspired to become a boring, suburban house dad, with minor dalliances with college hotties and coke-sniffing on the side. He was maybe hoping that he, unlike his character has too much of a soul and humanity in him that creating the monster that is Bateman was not entirely his idea. He should not have bothered because as murderous as he is, Patrick Bateman, as are most Patricks, is a wonderful character.

Most of the fun derived from reading the book comes from Ellis’ attempt to relay a series of purportedly true-to-life events with a fictionalized drawing of people he had actually dealt with. He recounts his brief but very scary encounter with the ghosts of his past and with the almost concrete and literal ghosts of the present: the ugly relationship with the dad with whom he mostly based his most famous creation, Patrick Bateman, the bomb of a marriage with actress Jayne Dennis, and the struggle with the embittered son Robby. It’s always amusing to wonder what these people that he ruthlessly used as characters in his fiction, might think of the whole charade. What’s disconcerting about it is that in spite of his unlimited well of storytelling talent, he decides to take on a fantastical arc in exchange for an otherwise plausible and more coherent story. Ellis seems to have a natural knack for telling a scary tale, narrating the ghost episode in the voice of a shaken, although hopelessly high man that if read in the right atmosphere will scare the living shit out of any gullible reader.

As is the case with most established authors, Ellis’ most recent work is sure to attract certain ghosts of its own, one of which would certainly be its incapacity to equal its predecessor’s greatness most of which will be taken up by that great American novel American Psycho. But Ellis, like most of his fiction, has a way of hinting that he’s not all about that shit. Just when you thought it was about something, it turns out that it isn’t (i.e. Psycho wasn’t just about a psycho, Glamorama wasn’t about fashion, etc).

Towards the end of the book, there is a passage, a page and a half-long sentence describing in the manner of a high-strung middle-aged druggie, the process of scattering the ashes of the man he made out to be his father. The story is almost finished and one thinks, ‘Oh, it was just about the way he dealt with his father’s passing and he’s sorry about the unflattering patterning of a maniac character to him. He was maybe atoning for that. Fun book.’ But it’s probably not about that. In attempting to make believe this is a non-fiction, Bret majorly bullshits. That he is a fantastic novel writer, that’s something no one should have trouble believing.

Wag po, kuya

My Kuya’s Wedding is one of the ugliest movies I ever saw on DVD. I don’t recall having walked out of any movie before, ever and I almost did with this and at P25, the rental seemed stiff for such kind of grand gesture of disgust. It should at least be entertaining or cute or something, instead, it was disturbingly sweet and wrong that not finishing it would seem an injustice to that poor 25 bucks.

It’s not very, very ugly, just awkward and very corny. It would have been OK if the Kuya Ryan Agoncillo was trying to portray was fat, uncharming and 50% gay. But welcome to Allan Tijamo and Topel Lee’s fantasy world of Filipino family life where the Kuya clutches at his younger sister like he would his girlfriend and where the little sister is perilously close to grabbing his older brother by the crotch. Maja Salvador and Agoncillo have chemistry alright. Their scenes bring to mind taboo x-rated films of the late 70s or early 80s, starting off innocently like 2 siblings so very much into each other they seem very much in the verge of humping each other’s brains out. Maja and Ryan are all over each other, you wonder if the movie’s going to take on a more interesting and sexier, better direction.

‘Kumain tayo ng halo-halo kuya.’

‘Sige.’

This is one of the most memorable scenes in the movie, as the 2 possibly sexually repressed siblings have intense craving for halo-halo. But it would have been memorable if the scene had been like this,

‘Tanggalin mo na yang shorts at brief mo Kuya.’

‘Sige.’

This movie is such a tease it makes you want to cry.

Ugly may not perfectly describe this monstrosity. That may be too harsh, I admit but everyone’s just terrible here. All in all, involving one’s self with the watching, starring, or renting of My Kuya’s Wedding entails wastage of things. They include: Ethel Booba, 25 pesos, a potential taboo screenplay remake. I obviously have high hopes for the Filipino film industry. But I have higher hopes for the revisiting of old porn flicks. This movie unwittingly sparks certain hopes, in its own corny, pa-cute way.

Meander

It’s upsetting to save a newly bought shirt for a Friday night in anticipation of a date that is really just an excuse for a one-night you-know-what, and be cancelled on because of a very good and honest reason (I’m sure). If I was less hygienic, I’d probably get in the habit of wearing the same new shirt the following day because you’ll never know when you’re going to get lucky. And what is the deal with new shirts anyway. I don’t know what but I know that it’s important to be at least OK-looking, especially if you have some serious zit issues. At the very least, you could wear something new and try not to look terrible.

I love my bed but I don’t feel like sleeping on it on some Saturdays and I know I’m such a bore about what a huge deal Saturdays are, no need to point that out. I would say that it’s a promiscuous gay guy-thing, the not wanting to sleep on one’s own bed on Saturdays, but I’m sure that is more of a promiscuous person-thing. But if you can imagine the difficulty of finding a non-slut, honest and discreet (this is a quality that may anger some of Us but let’s face it, discreet is one of almost everyone’s top qualifications) partner, then you can probably Find It In Your Heart to understand why most homos are such bores about being loveless, depressed, suicidal, etfuckingcetera.

About the only time I ever got close to having a decent (and by decent, I mean not much whoring issues involved) relationship was when I found it in my heart to log in to some site that mainly exists as congress for single boys, which is really a sad site. But you know who’s sadder. And the aversion to sleep in your own bed leaves you no choice but to go to that other bed, the one where there’s strobe lights and disrobing on ledges.

So what I’m probably trying to say is that I wouldn’t want my wearing of a new shirt to go to waste, and that somebody other than me ought to appreciate that I took the effort to wear something new, which is arguably pointless. Or it could simply be that I’m attempting to make an introductory statement that is meant to lead to the idea that looking for a relationship in the wrong places is just as wasteful as wearing a new shirt for a date in order to look nice. All of these sound pretty stupid to me. So allow me to try another approach. This was supposed to be about having, finding or being in gay relationships and I’ve obviously failed to drive at any point. So I probably should have just very plainly stated, ‘It’s very hard for gay guys to look for a decent relationship’. This post, like the thing it very vaguely meant to take on, is a futile effort.

Big deals, yeah rights

I smoked my first yosi for the year. I wasn’t going to but what the hell else am I supposed to answer to ‘Do you want to smoke?’ in a very unbusy working day but ‘Yes.’ Work is really undemanding lately that some girl noticed how I’d always be the first to brew the morning’s coffee, which I took as a sign of romantic interest, in my impossibly delusional state, but which I later realized could be her way of ridiculing me, the 15^th floor coffee fiend. Either way, I’m very sure there was No romance involved.

I accomplished my first possible offense for the year. I have been a very punctual trabahador in the last couple of days but I was mainly motivated to finish printing the unpublished JD Salinger stories which took about 500 pages to complete. This being a rich corporation, I didn’t care if the printer ran out of ink or toner or paper. I’m sure nobody minds the pilfering but it takes skill to pretend to be busy. My job is truly, truly nice.

I remember having a Love Interest around the same time last year. We both knew that we weren’t going to get anywhere because we’re different. He’s a professor and I work wearing shorts, but we both believed that it is crucial to have a Love Interest at the turn of a new year so we had to endure the painful exchange of pa-sweety messages and conversations. I believe I already had a Love Interest then but things were found out. Or I was found out. Ang labo. It’s become a tradition to do that which is why I snagged myself a number. It’s become a need, so please don’t judge.

I cannot get over the first book I re-read for this year. The Virgin Suicides (Jeffrey Eugenides) has all the elements of a good book. I’m not really sure what elements are needed to qualify any book as good. This is just like any other slobbering worship to some book (or anything) that its adorer is too lazy to give a fleshier praise to, except to say that It’s Really Good Stuff. I’ll try. Lux Lisbon and Trip Fontaine are probably two of the most fascinating literary character names in the last decade. Either that or I haven’t been reading much. If I would ever have kids, I’d name them Lux and/or Trip. I like it that much. 

I am getting to know an interesting boy (fag) who’s invited me several times to play basketball in their village. I’m not sold on the idea but it would be nice to try and catch up with regular, average boys, spot some Chicks in the neighborhood, and then maybe drink beer after some rounds, all of which almost sound reasonable, in spite of us. Certain fantasies are just so hard to fulfill and friends are unbelievably useful.

Thanks, Jessica fan

Jessica Zafra, that sweet woman, is the person responsible for my JD Salinger fascination and I’m kind of grateful. She’s kept mentioning and quoting from The Catcher in the Rye from her old but still amusingly snarky Twisted series, enough to make me wonder just what the hell the big deal about this book is. In a relatively recent post, she greets the very dead JD a happy birthday. And some avid Twisted reader of hers provided a link to what I consider to be an invaluable mine of Salinger’s under published and presumably nowhere-to-be-found works, which I will print from the office printer page by page ‘til I’m caught.

If there’s ever any advantage from being such a hotshot blogger, it’s that average blogger fans feel that they’re somehow duty-bound to provide links to unpublished JD Salinger material. Jessica really does rule the universe.