I Rule My World!

I have never really described myself as a neat freak. In fact, I always seem to build this "artistic clutter" anywhere I go. Not that I am such a mess… I mean l love cleanliness but then the avant-garde in me also says there’s a distinct beauty in mess and chaos.
My mom would always tell me to never leave my room in its’ disordered state. She would always have to remind me of the things on my bed, the stuff scattered on the floor, the unnecessary things piled on the desk, and the overstuffed bookshelves (stuffed with books and who knows what else?). Oh, and I won’t forget to mention the closet I’m almost afraid to open because I don’t know what might come out and eat me alive–ok, so that was pulling a Ben Stiller there. Point is, my closet is not a very pleasant sight to look into, either.
So when I clean my room, aaaah, it usually takes me the whole week to sort everything out, return things to its proper place, and chase all the the living micro organisms of each nook and corner. And when I say clean–it’s a new curtain, a new bedsheet, alphabetized music sheets, books in a handsome row all dusted clean with a new rag (a.k.a. an old panty), bric-a-bracs stored properly in cute girly boxes, shoes shined and neatly lined on the shoe rack, dvd and cd cases with all its rightful property inside, carefully folded shirts and jeans, neatly hung clothes, and all girlish creams and perfumes all standing like soldiers in a perfect row. Yup, my dangerously clean room can make any obsessive-compulsive person smile with glee and jump up and down with dervish delight. Regretfully, that occurence happens twice a year with a week long duration for each happenstance. These annual miracles would usually happen for two reasons–either my mom has gone ballistic over the state of my room, or i have this zen state of being clean at the moment. However, the former reason happens most of the time and the latter every time the moon is pink.
Uhm, yeah, I love to clean…er.. I know it when something isn’t really squeakin’, freakin’ clean. The problem is I find cleanliness and orderliness very hard to maintain. Isn’t there sheer joy in just throwing things around without having to worry whether you have to return it to its rightful place? Most of the time, I feel so good about myself I should get a halo every time I put a book back in its shelf or if I folded my clothes after I’ve decided I’m not going to wear it for that particular moment.
Anyhow, so here I am, sitting in the middle of my own version of a pig sty and seriously in deep thought whether I want that halo right now or next week…hmm…

Do watch Bandila (ABS-CBN Channel 2) on Thursday, March 1,  at 11 pm or at least after Princess Hours. The AUP Ambassadors will be featured in one of their segments! "nuff said.

I just got back from a 5-day vacation of doing nothing but singing, eating, sleeping, and endless swapping of "war" stories with the other Amba members. Come to think of it, i gave up a lot of things just to have this vacation, and it paid off very well.

Mountain View College had always peaked my interest, especially those spirit stories passed on by any regular Adventist. So, going there and seeing the place for myself was a different story. Although I had been expecting to experience something quite similar to those stories, each day had been as regular as the rising of the sun.

Once more, the Ambassadors travel, but with much apprehension this time. The group has always been a target for rumors and petty gossips, and this time involving a lot more people of influence. I won’t dare mention any details as this is a public site, but for whoever is responsible for spreading the stupid stories will surely regret disseminating those pieces of information. What goes around comes around. And the MVC tour has proved that.

The concerts had been nothing but spectacular (and I’m trying to say this with all the humbleness I can muster), given the fact that we had no rehearsals whatsoever. The gala concert could attest to the fact that the Amba members have a different kind of fiber in their being, as any true artist are. Bloopers aside, (with me making most of them), that gala night had been one of our best performances.

Kudos to the Sons and Daughters (an Amba et al). The moral, financial, emotional and spiritual support they have provided has indeed been a source of strength for the group.

Not only am I enriched by another special event in my life, but I have yet a few extra pounds to burn again. Tsk!

The craziest things are the most interesting things to read, thus my intention when I wrote in a previous blog my stand on farting. Farters are simply blessed. Crazy but true. So while a greater part of the humanity find it repulsive, let me share an article that might help you consider a career change…

Joseph Pujol, a man of singular talent, was born in Marseilles, France in 1857. In his early youth it became clear that he was a natural entertainer, singing, dancing, and performing for his parents’ house guests. He had a love for music, and over the years he became handy with a trombone, but it was a different wind instrument that led to his eventual fame and fortune.

Young Joseph became alarmed one day when he was swimming in the sea, and took a deep breath before submerging. As he inhaled, he felt icy cold water entering through his rear end. He immediately returned to shore, and was astonished to see a great deal of seawater pouring from his backside. A doctor assured him that this was nothing to be concerned about, and it seems that Joseph took this advice to heart, exploring his strange new ability with a healthy curiosity.

He soon found that with a little abdominal control, he could deliberately suck water in through his anus, and project it back out with impressive force, creating a spout of several meters. Further experimentation led him to discover that he could also suck in large amounts of air if he contorted himself properly, which he could let out at will. He was also able to use varying pressures to produce distinct notes, allowing him to reproduce simple tunes. Needless to say, he became very popular at school as a result. But little did he know that this unique talent would one day make him the most well-known and most highly paid entertainer in all of France.

While Joseph was in the army he amused his fellow soldiers with his lowbrow tricks, and they gave him the nickname "Le Pétomane," which translates roughly to "fartiste." When he left the service he opened a bakery in Marseilles which was reputed to bake some of the finest bran muffins in the south of France, but he started a foray into show business when he began to feel restless. At first he resisted using his unique physiology in his stage comedy act, instead trying the "yokel with the trombone" routine, but the fartiste within him could not be contained.

In 1887 at age 30, "Le Pétomane" first took the stage in Marseilles. The initial attempt was met with some skepticism, since "petomanie" (or "fartistry") was something of a novelty for the French. But he quickly won the audience over, and was a big success. He developed his act locally for about five years, then went on to Paris to try for the infamous Moulin Rouge. He succeeded.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to present a session of Petomanie." Such was his introduction at the famous vanity theater on his first night. He was very finely dressed in a red coat and black satin breeches, with a pair of white gloves held in his hands. He looked quite sophisticated as he explained to the audience that the emissions he was about to produce were completely odorless, since he irrigated his colon daily. The audience was completely unprepared for what lay ahead. And so he began.

He started off with a series of fart impressions… a new bride’s timid toot; her noisy, flapping emissions a week later; the solid, booming fart of a miller; and a majestic ten-second-long helping of flatulence to wrap up his introduction. He did impressions of famous people, he played songs, and he blew out candles. He did imitations of cannon fire, and reenacted a thunderstorm. And that was just the first portion of the show.

At first, the audience was astonished at the bizarre spectacle. But when the first uncontrollable laughter erupted from the crowd, it quickly spread throughout the theater. Soon the men and women were completely paralyzed with laughter, with tears streaming down their cheeks. A number of women passed out, unable to breathe in their tightly bound corsets, and had to be escorted from the theater by nurses.

For the second part of his act, he stepped offstage and inserted a rubber tube into his orifice, which dangled out of a hole in the back of his trousers. His used the tube to smoke two cigarettes at once, one from each end; to blow out the flames of stage lights; and as a grand finale, he attached an ocarina to the end of the hose, and played popular tunes while inviting the audience to sing along.

Overnight, Le Pétomane was a huge success. He used his unique physiology to entertain in this way for years, eventually becoming the highest paid entertainer in all of France, and perhaps the world. He parted ways with the Moulin Rouge in 1895 when the owner of the theater sued him for breach of contract after he fart-serenaded a few people in public, but he was quickly replaced by a female, bellows-powered fraud… La Femme-Pétomane.

Joseph opened a theater of his own and enjoyed many more years of success, until two of his sons were disabled in World War 1 in 1914. At that point he gave up the stage and went back to baking, and let his rectum content itself with more conventional pursuits. He died, aged 88 years, in 1945. When a medical school in Paris requested the privilege of examining the late Le Pétomane’s famous anus, the family declined, stating, "there are some things in this life which simply must be treated with reverence."

Though Le Pétomane was perhaps the most famous fartiste, he was not the first to ply the farting trade… professional flatulism has a long and rich history throughout the world. In the De Civitate Dei, written about halfway through the first century A.D., Saint Augustine mentions some performers who possessed "such command of their bowels, that they can break wind continuously at will, so as to produce the effect of singing." As other examples, medieval Ireland had professional farters called "braigetori," and the Japanese Kamakura period (1185–1333) had professional performers of fart dances called Oribe.

A contemporary flatulist, perhaps the only representative of his trade today, is Mr. Methane. He clearly lacks Le Pétomane’s class, but he can certainly break a wind. Dressing in a cape and mask, he has the appearance of a superhero (or supervillain), though whether the force of his farts is sufficient to allow him flight is doubtful. But be warned, if you spend much time reading his website, your world will turn pink.

Further reading:
Wikipedia article on Le Pétomane
The Mr. Methane home page
Interview with Mr. Methane (thanks Dave)
Flatulence on demand (requires flash)

(The word "fart" occurs 13 times in this article).

Related Articles:
Hadji Ali and the Regurgitators

Been exposing yourself outside lately, enjoying the new year festivities (Korean New Year, at least. This is what I pay for having Korean neighbors) amidst the the noisy fire crackers, smoking barbeque, and crazing moving lights on the streets? Later, as you recline on your sofa bed listening to Michael Buble or Norah Jones, or watch reruns of Gilmore Girls, you absentmindedly pick on your nose and find a vast amount of fat boogers resembling that of Quaker’s oats! At this point, you either flick it off to let it land on the cushiony carpet, or you wipe your finger on the wall or under the sofa especially if it’s too sticky to flick off.

Would you take my advice if I tell you that to EAT it would not only save unnecessary particles on the carpet or on the wall but most importantly, is beneficial for your health? Yup. You read that right. Eating boogers is a healthy practice! To prove my statement is an article written by Dr. Friedrich Bischinger, an Innsbruck, Austria based lung specialist. I quote him, " With the finger, you can get to places you can’t just reach with a handerkerchief, keeping your nose far cleaner and eating the dry remains of what you pull out is a great way of strengthening the body’s immune system. Medically, it makes great sense and is perfectly natural thing to do. In terms of the immune system, the nose is a filter in which a great deal of bacteria are collected, and when this mixture arrives in the intestines it works just like medicine. Modern medicine is constantly trying to do the same thing through far more complicated methods. People who pick their nose and eat it get a natural boost to their immune system for free."

A lot of kids would be very willing to do this, but the society has discouraged them to do so. Too bad, our generation could’ve raised healthy kids. Hmm, I wonder what my boogers would taste like? Ahh, if only Dr. Bischinger could convince Oprah then I could just imagine new products such as Potato Chips, Extra Spicy Booger Flavor hitting the grocery stores. Or probably a garlic mozarella pizza with extra toppings of onions and guess what–boogers! Oh, the possibilities are just endless! What an inexpensive way to get healthy. I totally support the movement. Yum-yum!

I purposely reserve Valentine’s day as my official day to rant and rave about the ugliness of the world and the people around me. I had imagined it would go the same every year, thus to make the long story short, Valentine’s Day suck and will never cease to suck. Normally, I find myself armed and ready to take on that cynic mode come February 14. However, my radar does not seem to be working. There are so many things to complain about, why then did I suddenly run out of reasons to? Come to think of it, I even postponed writing this in hopes of finding something to complain about! Hmmm.. thus, I am ranting about the fact that I can’t  rant anymore. Boo-hoo!

You may have probably heard this story from someone but if we haven’t gotten in touch lately then you probably don’t know I got pregnant…
I was riding the LRT a couple months back and getting used to my habit of riding just behind the driver’s seat in the MRT, I headed to the front part of the train. Of course, I did not notice that this section was usually reserved for the handicapped and pregnant, nor did I realize why a big, fat rope was strung across the aisle to segregate the passengers. Now, finding empty seats in the LRT on a Friday rush hour is like looking for a needle in a stack of hay. However, cliches aside, so there I was basking on the long row of empty seats and wondering why the people standing were looking at me funny. One woman tried to get under the rope and into the "empty seats" area and the guard barked at her to go away and sit somewhere else. So I was faced with a dilemma, either I stand up, admit my stupidity and go stand with the rest of the healthy people, or keep my seat and disguise into a handicapped person. At this point in time, a few old ladies and pregnant women have sat beside me. Why didn’t the guard bark at me in the first place?
The standing healthy passengers kept looking at me. If looks could kill then I would’ve died at that moment. The empty seats are full now and a few 60-year old ladies stand in front of me. I couldn’t meet their gaze. It’s too late to stand up now,so I might as well take my pick and be handicapped or pregnant at that minute. I chose the latter and tried to match up the size of the woman’s stomach sitting beside me. It worked alright for a while but when I realized I was going down at the next station, I knew I would have to blow my cover. Or, I maybe I could fake a limp and be a handicapped pregnant woman instead. Now they’d know I really deserved the coveted seat.
At the next stop, I break away full-speed, forgetting all traces of pregnancy and handicapped’ness’. Their looks are throwing daggers at my back. Maybe the LRT staff should reserve seats for insane bluffers also.