BeerCast: Ang Show na Walang Katulad

What happens when you put 5 cases of San Miguel Beer, a group of alcoholic bloggers and a microphone together?

Well:

Seriously though, I had a blast recording this podcast and I hope we can do more of this in the future. Special thanks to San Miguel Beer for sponsoring the event; Jayvee Fernandez for making all of this possible, Lauren and Noemi Dado for letting us destroy their house, eat all their food and steal one of their figurines (Okay I did it. I’ll return it, I swear. Jeez.); and to everyone else who were part of the podcast, the show wouldn’t be half as fun without you guys.

 
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Quitting beer, top 5 lies, drunk

I’ve done something incredibly horrible over the past few weeks. I tried to stop drinking. Worse, I kept it a secret from you guys. I am not going to regale you with a dramatic story of triumph because the way I used italics several sentences back, It’s obvious that I’ve achieved nothing but utter failure in that endeavor.

Let me say one thing though: Trying to quit drinking somewhat feels like going to a maximum security prison. The weeks I spent trying to abstain from drinking felt like years, so in a way, I kinda felt like I was “away” for several years. Kind of like that time when I was “away” for two years when I “borrowed” money from someone’s wallet over at the church at Novaliches Bayan; and that someone just happened to be an off-duty police officer.

I didn’t try to quit drinking for anyone else but myself. I just felt like I just needed to get my shit together and quitting something that permeates my thoughts an average of 18 hours a day seemed like the first logical step. Anyway, during that period, I still saw my friends but for the most part, the contact we had with each other was minimal as I’ve been hanging out with my girlfriend 80% of the time.

Last Saturday, my girlfriend and I decided to spend some intimate time over at Tagaytay and man, like a convict whose parole just got approved by the parole board, I was fucking out and I was loving it.

Drinking in Tagaytay is a territory which I rarely, and if ever, very cautiously venture into. What the girlfriend and I usually do is just pig out on diner food, chew the fat for a few minutes and head over to where ever it is we’re staying for some awesometastic downtime.

Saturday was different in a sense that we both wanted to drink. I cannot stress enough how rarely this happens and I was like all screw abstinence, I’m drinking.

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The Suckiest Blog Post In The World

Because I’m lazy and today, easily, is the busiest work day I’ve had the whole year (Read: Offline NBA Fantasy Draft! Huzzah!); I have nothing to offer you guys but a portmanteau post made up of one part depression and one part lust.

Depression

Most of the time, I’m really not sure of anything. I am sure of one thing though: I will have a fucking emotional breakdown in about two days’ time. This is inevitable and I’m pretty much resigned to my fate. I don’t know if I told you guys already, but my psychiatrist decided to cut my anti-depressant and Xanax scripts by half.

Now, I find myself struggling with intense bouts of depression and horribly vivid dreams–dreams which are either extremely terrifying or extremely erotic (these I don’t mind at all). All of these might be just a case of Seasonal Affective Disorder something which isn’t new to me, but I decided to call my shrink anyway just to be sure(and maybe coerce her into writing me new Xanax scripts or something).

But because, like God, my shrink hates me, instead of prescribing more pills, she just went ahead and told me to “Go talk to somebody about it” since she says it just might be work-related stress.

Are you fucking kidding me? What’s so stressful about my work? The two hours I spend on managing my fantasy NBA team? The three hours I spend making personal phone calls to my friends? Or maybe it’s the four hours I spend listening to music everyday? God, give anyone a diploma and a lab coat and they act like they know everything.

I still think it’s Seasonal Affective Disorder. I mean, after all, every Christmas eve, I usually sob uncontrollably, pass out, wake up and realize that I wet my pants, then my slutbag cousin Ella would say something like “That was funny last year, now it’s just disgusting.” and I tell her “Well at least I don’t suck Bisaya cocks for weed money” and then she snaps back with something like “Yeah because you’re a fag, and you do it for free! (Because apparently, in my family, the fact that you never brought home a girl for dinner and the fact that you can speak straight English makes you gay)” Then my mom walks in on us having a fistfight and she cries because we ruined Christmas for her and the kitchen smells like urine.

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Taste Asia 2: Twice the inebriation, Twice the lust

The fact that “Mike Villar”, “Buffet” and “Free Beer” do not sit well has been well documented in the annals of this blog. I’m serious. So serious in fact, It’s not even funny. I mean it’s the same every time– I attend one of these events and I can’t believe that the food and alcohol is free, so I end up consuming the aforementioned items in an exorbitant fashion.

I could go ahead and say that being in an event with a buffet and free beer is like me being a kid in a candy shop but even that is an inaccurate metaphor being that a kid, no matter how much he’s into candy, does not need it to make him feel happy and generally sexually aggressive. I think “Like a pothead in a marijuana field” works better, except that I already signed an addendum to my contract prohibiting me from writing about marijuana, cocaine, midget prostitutes or any of my other vices for that matter. So no, let’s not go there.

So you could only imagine my inhibition when Riz told me that there’s going to be a second blogger meet up at Taste Asia. But since, I have no real friends and hence nothing better to do on a Thursday night, I decided to go ahead with the TMB crew and just see what happens.

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My blogging routine. Also, beers.

Something you should know about me: I really cannot write shit in the morning or the afternoon. I write mostly at night and in fact, I as I write this, it’s 7:08pm on a Sunday. I find it nearly impossible if not totally impossible to get any sort of work involving my brain done during work days, what with all the Flash games I play and personal phone calls I make using the phone in the HR department at work. Besides, I usually process all the masturbatory fodder I absorb from prime time TV during the day so I pretty much just feverishly masturbate from the time I wake up until the time I have to drive to work and at work (10 minute “quickies” every other hour at the office john) up until I get off. And when I do get home and finish making love to myself a few more times, I try to work on my blogging projects.

This would’ve all been fine if only my small alcohol problem doesn’t rear its ugly head every fucking time. I mean although it has always been my contention that a writer cannot be called a real writer unless he has some sort of fucked up dependency(Shakespeare was rumored to have done Opium while working on his chef-d’oeuvres and Oscar Wilde was paederastic and was into age-structured homosexuality); I’ve never quite hit the delicate balance between “being drunk enough to write in an inspired manner” and “Too hammered to even hit the right keys and JESUS CHRIST, I JUST SPILLED RHUM COLA ON MY FUCKING MACBOOK!” spot on. I know that it’s all just a matter of moderation (yes, I’m a genius) as the right amount of alcohol could practically make you better at everything–writing, talking, bowling, sex (?) but if you end up with too much in your system, you’ll end up throwing a bowling ball down some other group’s lane, you’ll end up trying to stick your bird up your girlfriend’s other hole and writing shit that more or less reads like:

I really had an awsozme day! I sasw this guy who plays Lupin and he laooked totally fcukcing gay! What a gay that richarad cguttierez guy! I mean wThat the fuck!aa!

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