Thursday, June 24, 2010


Toy Story 3, I am relieved and surprised to say, is an excellent film. It is one of the many movies I’ve seen this week, mostly in CENICUlungan, thanks to copied downloads from Smoketh and BOTD, which are mostly romantic comedies: The Lake House, Love Happens, Just Like Heaven, and The Proposal—four movies I’ve seen in quick succession to remove the morbid aftertaste of my own downloaded film, The Road, the movie version of a Cormac McCarthy book, featuring Aragorn and his son in a post-apocalyptic world, whose goal is to get something to eat and escape from people trying to eat them. The entire movie is so depressing that the only ray of light is when Aragorn finds a can of Coke and gives it to his son, which brought me to tears. There was an even brighter ray of light—when Aragorn finds… cigarettes, imagine being stuck in a post-apocalyptic world without them, but cigarettes, which have been illegal in our hospital since forever, are now just explicitly stated to be illegal in this hospital with the punishment ranging from a year in prison and 100K fine, so watch out smokers. Also seen: Kimmy Dora which is a fun movie in its own right, and my favorite, Superbad, featuring the Frodo and Samwise of the suburbs on their quest for sex. Seth going down the elevator with his girl and stealing a glance at his best friend Evan with P.S. I Love you being sang by Curtis Mayfield in the background brings me to tears. Yes, things like these bring me to tears. As for the four bland romantic movies—The Lake House, Love Happens, Just Like Heaven, and The Proposal—the situations around which love has been found are not totally impossible, except when the involved people are ugly.

Toy Story 3, I would have to say, is the one movie that speaks to me personally, as it reminds me of my own beloved action figures. I don’t like calling my action figures as a “collection”—why, do you call your friends collections? Do you refer to your parents, your brothers and sisters, your fuck buddies, as collections?! My action figs are sitting—or standing, hee he, comfortably in my glass eskaparate, which begs the questions: Do they want to be in the eskaparate? Do they feel proud being posed in a giant, colorful splash page, or would they rather get played with in an elaborate, graphic-novel worthy storyline? What about my other old toys, the ones in boxes that I do not consider worthy of being in the eskaparate? Are they all secretly… trying to escape?!?!

Friday, June 18, 2010

All Dried Up

Finally got around to watching a movie after a long time. A movie. In a theater. I find it difficult to watch movies at home or at work, with my attention drifting to something else entirely, like blogging about, say, Turkish pottery. Desire for cartoons also dwindled,as I have come to the realization recently that I don't like The Incredibles as much as I thought when I saw it years ago, thinking it overrated in the greater scheme of things, and I revile Shrek, the snoozefest Madagascar, and most of its contemporaries, although I still delight at A Bug's Tale and the first two Toy Story and all the 2D musical toons from the Beauty and the Beast to Tarzan era and of course, the grand daddy of hilarity in all cartoon-hood, The Simpsons Movie.

And so we went to watch Toy Story 3, with very little expectation other than that I would sleep intermittently being post juts and all. It is with much delight and relief that I report that Toy Story 3 is an excellent, genuinely funny, supremely wonderful movie, and that I never checked my phone even once during the entire movie.

"You should watch Toy Story 3," I later told the very exhausted Smirketh, who has degenerated even further from being a dry prune to the local, lowly chesa-- tired, bland, dry, and soul-less. "But you should watch it alone or with friends and not on a date with DDDD, that way you could concentrate on the movie, genuinely laugh, not politely suppress a chuckle when you think he doesn't get the joke, and most of all, not get distracted by attempts to hold hands or feel each other up in the dark."

"The fuck," Smirketh managed to utter as she smokethed five cigarettes at the same time. I sometimes wonder why my friends tolerate me and let me say these things to them.

Not all the time, though, as Tessiloopagooparoopiepoop once threw me out of the callroom in a fit of major annoyance at my attempts of being in a Judd Apatow movie.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010


Kinda looks fancy but I don't know what those globs of red stuff in the background are either. Could be... prions.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Things You Can't Unhear

I've just realized: where are my manners, I haven't even asked if Smirketh got some in her date last night. But she did reveal, however, that they now have a TOE. I'm sure you're thinking: toe, sexual activity, toe fetish, but that is not it at all. Synchronicitically, I've just been listening to the song Terms of Endearments by Sarah McLachlan from the fun album Mirrorball a few seconds ago, because that is exactly what TOE means--Terms of Endearment. I snorted Voltage with bits of espresso from my nose which hit Smirketh's eyeglasses upon learning what TOE means, which, of course, was followed by:

Me: What's your TOE? What's your TOE? What's your TOE damn it!

Smirketh just hemmed and hawed and flicked her eyelashes and threw back her hair and I had to remind her I am not Delectable Dude with Delicious Derriere, now stop acting like this is a residual of your date and tell me what the fuck your TOE is!
And then, as the bits of Voltage shot up my brain, I just said quietly:

Me: You know what, don't tell me. Don't tell me what your TOE is. Even if I beg for it and twist some of your organs and threaten to give you enema with five liters of soap suds, DO NOT tell me what your TOE is. Don't. DON'T!!!

Because kids, there are some things you can't unhear.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Witch Hunt

While writing in CENICU I accosted Roman and accused him, “You’re Diet Diva aren’t you, AREN’T YOU?!?!” Diet Diva, of course, being one of the frontrunners in the ongoing 2nd Season of IM’s Biggest Loser which is now participated in by all sorts of residents and interns in PGH. “Muka ba akong Diet Diva?” he asked. I told him he seems to have lost so much weight—he gushed and thanked me for the kind words but still denied that he is the enigmatic Diet Diva.

While at the ER census I asked Jeff, “Are you Diet Diva?” to which he just smiled enigmatically. Okay he flat out said “no”. For all I know Diet Diva could be Smoketh, because she is Dieting, and she is a Diva—a Diva of Diets—or more appropriately, a Diva of Dates, as she is having one Delicious Date after another with Dastardly Dashing Dude with Delectable Derriere—she is having one right now in fact, somewhere in… yeah she no longer tells me the details. Diva of Dates and Dastardly Dashing Dude with Delectable Derriere seem to be really hitting it off, so much so that… they are… kissing… right… now! They are kissing right now! I think. Or maybe just holding hands or rubbing each other’s nape hair-lets or something somewhere in Trinoma. Truly the money is but a surrogate outcome in Smoketh’s journey to waif-hood, and what a waif she is now, and if you say waif quickly ten times and if you have an inherent German-Hungarian-English hybrid accent waif would start sounding like wife. Yes, all this weight loss is not for waif-hood, but for wife-hood, except—if you say waif quickly twenty times and you have a cleft somewhere waif would start sounding like wraith, as in a ghost because yes, with all this dieting you could turn into a wraith, and if you happen to have GIBFT the word wraith could sound like ten other things, the most prominent of which would be groin and loin, ie, this IMBL competition thingie could just be a vehicle for you to get some. GIBFT of course stands for gap in between front teeth, and I remember that one of our teachers used to have GIBFT. “Kahith ako’y may kapanthanan di ako dapat pagthawanan,” our meanie classmates would parody-ize. Yes, kids—kids, not adults with respectable professions—could be mean like that, calling people mean names such as GIBFT. Madonna has GIBFT, but she has produced so many hits she has transcended her GIBFT state. Maybe GIBFT-ed people should just be called Madonna.

Tough Love

In pure boredom I noted that I’ve been channel surfing for hours and hours on end, until I came across a new VH1 reality show called Tough Love wherein stereotyped women who have difficulty dating for one reason or another are trapped in a house and forced to work in different dating situations. They are labeled based on the possible reasons why they suck at relationships, hence we have The Partygoer, The Golddigger, The Picky Girl, etc. Steve is their tough talking, supposedly hard-ass bootcamp master, and he is convincing enough if not for his Bella Flores eyebrows. In this episode the girls are thrown into a party with lots of new guys of course, and The Partygoer immediately connects with this muscled tattooed guy and immediately they jump into the bathtub and they kiss and fondle and do all sorts of things and then they go to bed and Partygoer goes “Finish what you staaaaaarted.” Guy looks horny and all but tells her, “I… can’t.” Stymied Partygoer gives a nervous laughter and says she’s kidding, but of course she’s thinking, how dare you try to be all virginal when my boobs are this huge and hanging right in front of you—and yes, she is of the D-cup variety. This of course incurs the wrath of Steve who berates her that “you’re using your sexuality again!!!” which is a perplexing comment since she was trying to get him to fuck, I mean fornicate with, her anyway. Meanwhile Golddigger who was seemingly connecting with this black dude as he fit all her criteria is distracted by a very old dude who supposedly owns the mansion so she leaves black dude and flirts with the geriatric guy and tells him she’d love to go to Vegas with him on the next flight as long as he’s paying and then Steve goes “He’s not really the owner of this mansion, he’s just an actor,” to which Golddigger screams out loud. Later Steve tells Picky Girl in his very macho voice: “There is someone I want to set up with you, and he is really HOT!!!”

Will any of them find true love? Will the girls finally get their act together, start a tribal council, and vote out the horribly judgmental Steve? Is this, after all, just some weird season of The Bachelor and Steve would reveal that he is the prize, and if that’s the case, would any of the girls take him given his bushy but well-manicured eyebrows? What happened to the Bachelor? Or for that matter, The Bachelorette? The first season of The Bachelorette holds a special place in my heart, because back in 2003 while I was watching it on a Sunday night in my mini-TV in my dorm in Nakpil and I’ve just had my chicken adobo dinner I suddenly felt, for the first time, this severe abdominal pain which would later turn out to be encrusted, disgusting GB stones and would later lead to surgery in 2010. Yes, everything must histrionically be connected to that non-event.

High Estrogenic Content

I’ve been attempting to attend the morning endorsements the past few weeks, as the ward seniors this month are of the high estrogen variety and things could be very interesting. I was able to attend last month’s endorsements with an all-male ward senior cast, and it was kind of drab, and I could only sustain attention for 3 minutes. So an all-female cast this month would probably be a welcome change, with all the estrogens suffocating everyone in Guazon, although probably not as estrogenic as the OB morning Summary Rounds, which is not really estrogen-infused, more like menstrual fluid and lochia-flooded. The High-Estrogen Cast is composed of: Vampirella, who could tear out your carotids with her fangs, Djana, who could also tear out your carotids with her fangs, Popopopoker Face Popopoker Face who could… okay all of them can tear out your carotids with their fangs, along with Tessieloopagooparoop, Renrererenrenren, and Fulet Esplana. I did hear that last week Popopopoker Face Popopoker Face went “Hooooow daaaaare yaaaaaah!” when everyone lied to him that the one who should endorse was just monitoring when he really was absent ninja training instead in the Balkans or something. This should be good, I should come in early so I could catch all the high-pitchiness and the hair-tossing and eyelash flickering.

The Silver Age... of Wrestling! For More.

Around twenty years ago—TWENTY!!!—my brother lifted off our giant kulambo and climbed over our giant bed and woke me up to inform me that Bret The Hitman Hart is now the World Wrestling Federation champion. He has, apparently, seen this in the latest Superstars episode in Channel 13 which, for all we know, could already be months or even years delayed. This has elated me to no end, as finally, the rule of Ric Flair has finally ended. Bret Hart was the good guy sort, because that was the time when the wrestling characters were either good or bad and we were rooting for the good characters—they weren’t really real people, they were characters, which made all the buying for WWF action figures so much fun. To this day my favorite WWF action figures would still be my two-pack tag-team action figure set of Hawk and Animal, The Legion of Doom, which my mom got me in Harrison’s Plaza. Bret Hart’s reign sort of became WWF’s Silver Age for us.

The turning point to this good guy-bad guy dichotomy was when Shawn Michaels gave his Rockers partner Marty Jennety the kick and revealed to everyone that he is, indeed, evil. This was a big deal, okay, as The Rockers was the young, hip, high-flying tag team everyone wished would someday win the tag team title. They never did, and Shawn Michaels even turned evil. From then on wrestlers were turning over to the dark side left and right—Crush, Tatanka, Earthquake, Owen Hart, Bob Something (the one with the Chicken-something final maneuver), Men on a Mission’s Mabel, and even Hulk Hogan. Conversely, some converted to the good side—Doink the Clown, Bambam Bigelow, The Headshrinkers, The Narcissist Lex Luger, The Undertaker, etc. I can’t recall how good and evil were delineated back then, except when they do something obviously nefariously nasty such as Shawn Michaels betraying Marty Jennety, or Mabel putting on lots of eyeliner and a pair of fangs so he looked like a black vampire with metabolic syndrome.

The fight that still rules them all would be the casket match between The Undertaker and Yokozuna in the 1993 Royal Rumble wherein The Undertaker almost won the title until ten other guys (including The Million Dollar Man and Adam Bomb) helped Yokozuna place The Undertaker in the casket. Warburger bought the latest WWE magazine a few months after the incident which featured sightings of The Undertaker in the Taj Mahal, in a group pictorial, in The Great Wall of China, and such. I swallowed every bit of it. “My parents told me WWF is scripted and fake,” Bart (his real name) told me as we were typing in our computer class. “It could be fake,” I replied. “I know, but I refuse to believe it’s fake,” Bart insisted.

Eventually in 1997 ripped new wrestlers such as Steve Austin exploded into the scene (I think he used to be some body guard of The Million Dollar Man Ted Dibiase), and other wrestlers who weren’t quite popular were re-packaged such as the supposed blue-blood European royalty Hunter Hearst Helmsley now stripped down to warrior type Triple H, and the vampire Edge now becoming just a plain long-haired wrestler—really, I don’t know what it is with wrestling and vampires. They were no longer good or evil or crap, and they were cheered or booed depending on the audience’s mood. I’ve stopped watching, I just outgrew watching wrestling altogether in 1998 and instead focused my attention on the more important things—feeding street children, writing subversive political commentaries, organizing community leaders to come up with empowerment programs—or not, but wrestling just became boring.

Recently seen an episode wherein Bret Hart went back to the squared circle and confronted Vince McMahon on his decades long grudge (about that Shawn Michaels-Bret Hart 1-hour Most Pinfalls match the outcome of which was apparently not scripted). He is now old and wrinkly, and if this were an entry in an essay competition I would say that he is… a shadow of his former self. Well at least this is some sort of a resolution. I am still waiting for Marty Jannety to re-appear and kick the crap out of HBK.

Invisible Jetplane!

While in the elevator which has the strange ability to carry a stretcher with an intubated patient, a huge oxygen tank, six other people, and a heavy trolley I noticed that the trolley was full of bibles, and what should I see when I entered the CENICUlungan callroom but a copy of that free Bible. It was being distributed all over the hospital apparently, and it landed in the callroom just as I was getting into duty, which turned out to be quite sedentary so there was much time to... read it. I realized I haven't read the Bible for quite some time, so I opened it and decided to read whatever page I would chance upon, and of course, of course, it had to be... Sodom and Gomorrha. Now that I think about it, I've been obsessing with this pillar of salt thing, having rammed it down everyone's throats during our PA night competition that Gracieloopipoop should be turned into a pillar of salt so we could win over FamMed, having admonished Tits that Lot's wife's punishment was a little bit exaj, when in fact... I haven't really read it. That my basis all this time was... Flying House. So I licked my chops and prepared myself for pages and pages of sexual misadventures and misogyny and pure sin that would incur pages and pages of detailed account of its destruction... until I read on and there was just... one short paragraph about the general sinfulness, wherein the male populace both adults and kids demanded that Lot let out the male angels because they want to have sex with them and Lot declined and gracefully offered his daughters instead, which is a confusing anecdote in itself. And there wasn't much detail either on the salt-turning bit. Matter-of-factly and without so much as a foreshadow it was just stated: At ang asawa nya'y lumingon kaya't sya'y naging haligi ng asin. Just like that. But what sort of haligi ng asin? One that has facial and body features, or just some sort of tall lump, or is the haligi actually a wall, like a room wall? Is this some sort of abridged version?

Either way Genesis turned out to be an engrossing read, as always. I've always feared living in the Genesis era, with the confusing laws on morality and such, and with all sorts of punishment, like being turned into the aforementioned pillar of salt, or getting leprosy all of a sudden, or getting stranded in some mountain never to see the Promised Land, or getting marooned in the desert with no water. But I guess we have the modern equivalents of those punishments anyway. Like two weeks ago, when I turned into a total jerk and hated everything and snubbed everyone and murdered everyone in my head--just one day before the IDS conference my computer announced that my Windows Vista is fake and has therefore stopped working altogether, forcing me to get a genuine... er... yes, a genuine copy of Windows 7, which is quite cool. It has that ability to turn the open windows invisible and stuff. I know what you're thinking, you wish that the windows are shaped like jetplanes, so you could turn them into... invisible jetplanes! Wonder Woman, right? Right?!?

Saturday, June 12, 2010


The thing about the rain now going down sporadically is that we can no longer complain as much and we can no longer attribute so many pointless things to the fucking heat. A few months back everyone was whining, whimpering, moaning, and groaning in the callroom because of course, the aircon should break down at just the right moment. Or maybe the groan was from Pyro sleeping while drooling on that blue shiny pillow and dreaming of some stuff we shouldn’t know about, but everyone else was whining, whimpering, and moaning. During one of our genmed rounds I asked Army Navy what would indicate that the patient has Stage 1 Hepatic Encephalopathy. “Reverse Sleep-Wake cycle!” Army Navy exclaimed with much excitement. “Good…” I said, a swirling haze of colors in front of me, encephalopathic myself from the terrible heat. “Good... but in this heat… none of the criteria would be reliable. I sometimes wake-up gasping and sweaty in the middle of the night, crying ‘ang ineeeet!!!’ and then…” and I went on to narrate verbatim one of my old blog entries where I narrated the story about waking up in the middle of the night. Once again—my poor genmed service. 30% teaching, 70% me doing an audio-version of my blog.

BL and Vampirella finally got around to facilitating buying a huge new aircondition unit. Facilitate—what an annoying word, one that has elicited nightmares and would forever damage us psychologically in the future after having heard that word too many times in residency. Facilitate 2d-echo scheduling, facilitate administration of antibiotics, facilitate wheeling of the patient to CT Scan, facilitate facilitate facilitate!!!! I remember that two years ago I was awoken by a call at 7am by then-Japod Raininer telling me we need Midazolam for the patient’s TEE right now, and without so much as brushing my teeth or combing my hair I ran… ran!!!!.. to the operating room to look for any anesthesiologist friend and were it not for Netty Jao I would have received the twentieth degree from Ma’am Lu.
But buying the aircon has been facilitated, and it was awesome. As soon as the new aircon was dragged to the callroom Roothie ripped off his shirt, lifted the aircon half-naked, and slammed it into the wall all by himself or something, and we all whimpered in comfort as the cold air blasted its way into the room. I don’t think I’ve featured batchmate Roothie as much as the others in this blog, which is probably an injustice as he has recently made it to the hottest residents’ list. “You won by gay votes,” we bitterly accused him. I recently informed BOTD that I am just assuming that I got the 6th place in the hottest residents. “It’s not you,” she says flatly.

Do You Like Me? A Quiz

Er, I mean, “Are You Like Me? A Quiz”, as I have no underlying desire to be liked, I am not clamoring to be liked, I’m not, I’m not hungry for approval, not everything I do is a subconscious wish to be loved just because no one loves me, it is not a Freudian slip, it is not! I am not asking if you like me, damn you, I am not!!!!

The quiz, therefore, is called “Are You Like Me?” because truly, you should strive not to be like me, as I am a mass of anger, hate, ennui, discomfort, and all sorts of psychosis rolled into one disgusting, obese goo. I look at the mirror, clutch my fat trochared belly, and cry “I’m fat!” and later on gorge myself with that wonderfully fake bacon-flavored trash, Baconette. “Strive not to be like me,” of course, being once again a self-important, self-aggrandizing concept that rams into your throat the importance of not being like me, and in the process actually telling you that it’s worth thinking about. Well you shouldn’t. Or it shouldn’t, the long run-on sentence making it difficult to point out the subject. So just shouldn’t. Shouldn’t not strive not to be like me. Too many negatives. I’m confused.
1. Do you wake up every morning with the thought, “Damn it, I’m still alive,” or its equivalent, “Shet, buhay pa ko,” with the whole process of taking a bath, brushing your teeth, putting on fresh clothes all a bleeping effort? And then you walk in the hospital with much dragging of the feet and in a scoliotic pose at that, the scoliosis no doubt brought about by that disgusting bag you carry around all the time on your shoulder?

2. Do you have a bag you’ve been keeping for three years which you only wash around once a year? A bag that is a nidus of infection, and which has probably caused nosocomial infection that jump from patient to patient? Is the bag a culture medium of pseudomonas, stenotrophomonas, achromobacter, yersinia pestis, the hanta virus, and dare I say it… prions? Would the bag explain the sudden encephalopathy and sudden spongiform features in the cranial CT scan of a patient who was only admitted for blood transfusion?

3. And would your bag which carries months-old census, week-old bread, and a blow torch (which you carry just in case) happen to have a secret compartment that carries… illegal drugs?

4. Do you eavesdrop on your frequent seatmates in Gloria Jeans? Like the Japanese dudes who are watching porn on their laptop? The police chief who wants to “churva” (fuck)? The much jeweled women who are filling up registration forms so they could put up a gay bar? The obese, neurotic looking doctor screaming on her cellphone that she is not a worthless person, that she deserves love, and damn you mother I can pay for the rent of my clinic myself?!?

5. Do you receive at least five texts a day with the cryptic message: Lur lur lur!?

6. Do you find yourself thrown into roles you never expect to play such as: a) The punchliner b)The PUG (Post-date Understanding Girlfriend) c) the person who doesn’t ask questions during the morning endorsements?

7. When you close your eyes at night as you attempt to go to sleep, are the things that you imagine: your ideal line-up of the Justice League of America, your ideal storyline for the next X-Files movie, a big girl fight between Supergirl and Vixen that lasts for hours, what your next pictorial of your action figures should look like, and who you think among your batchmates will vote you out in the next tribal council?

8. Do you have pedestrian stock greetings to your batchmates when you have nothing to say. Such as: to Mrs. Therese: Hey Missus! Or to Graciepoopieloop: Hey gracie wanna buy food? No? I’m sure if I were… you would go out of your way to buy with me, buy with me damn it! Or to Pyro: It’s like this Pyro, I know if we’re on the final four with you, me, Tits, and HIV it might be obvious you would vote me out, but think of it this way… or to Djana: Lurlurlur! Or to Lovelle: Hey mom. Or to Tessieloopagoop: Hey Tessie, wanna fuck? (The last one depends on her state of mind, if she looks toxic it’s just wanna snuggle?)

If you answer no in all of the questions, then you are well-adjusted in life and exhibits excellent mental health. If you answer yes in any of the questions, then you are doomed, I tells ya, doomed!!!

The Front Row, The Front Row, with Popcorn

In the summer of 1996 I bought my first ever record, Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill, which has been in circulation in 1995. I got it from Odyssey in Park Square Makati back when it still had Bun-on-the-Run, which was selling the hugely successful and magnificent Chori Burger. I have no idea whatever happened to the food joint and to Chori Burger, but I did receive news of some sightings of new branches in obscure areas. Bun-on-the-Run also sold those extremely thin and soft pizzas which were really good, but probably not as good as the Chori Burger, which has been introduced to me through the show Five and Up. There were very few TV shows to watch during the weekends back then, Five and Up was one of the more entertaining ones. Battle of the Brains was on during Saturdays, and it was in that show that, being secluded in the province and all, I became aware of the existence of Philippine Science, Manila Science, Chiang Kai Shiek, Sakya, Uno, and all those other schools that ruled the quiz show. Philippine Science would always have some thin dark-skinned guy representative who can answer everything. Chiang Kai Shiek or Uno would always have some very white, chubby, bespectacled Chinese girl. As soon as I stepped into Diliman for college I met a lot of kids from these schools. In my first year in Diliman while walking away from the barracks where you need to sign every week for ROTC (ROTC! Bleeeech!) I happened to recognize one of the girls who I think was able to reach the quarterly finals. The question which made her team lose was: David Celdran: What is the literal meaning of the term “coup d’ etat”? Girl: (grasping at straws) er… kup di etat? she said, doing instead a literal pronunciation. On December 2009 after having eaten in Conti’s in Greenbelt my good friend Namtab Pots and I were trying to catch a bus in Ayala Avenue and I saw this girl again and I told the entire non-story to Namtab Pots. I don’t know why I remember these things.

Jagged Little Pill features tracks about relationships and such sung in the background of some fantastic melody, which made it such a huge success back then. And then Alanis disappeared from the scene, went to India for some spiritual journey or such after getting too exhausted from the JLP era, and then came back in 1998 with Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie. I bought it in November 1999 in Odyssey in Alabang Town Center with Namtab Pots, Ailz, and Jerus. It was long, wordy, monotonous, introspective, repetitive, and really wordy, at one point there was so much lyrics that two different choruses were being sung at the same time. Everybody hated it, but I was fascinated at its droning, zombie-like, machinery quality and it kept me entertained for many years. It estranged many fans, which was okay, sort of like when Radiohead released OK Computer which estranged everyone who would play “Creep” whenever they get their hands on a guitar. Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie was followed up by Under Rug Swept, So-Called Chaos, and Flavors of Entanglement, none of which were every popular but were quite fun and a good listen.

This is probably the lesson of the Jagged Little Pill-Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie transition and the three years that gulfed the two: after having subjected oneself to some form of respite and spiritual journey and such you start spewing stuff that have built up over the three years and say things no one really cares about, at one point I wish I could say things at the same time with totally asynchronous melodies, as in the song The Front Row. Only I did not go to India, I never produced any hits, and none of this is very spiritual. But it sure is fucking wordy.