The creepshow must go on

One day, I sat in front of the com-puter and typed out something, anything.

Life is not a reality show, but it is not any less absurd.

Donald Trump has a hairstyle that is a cross between a cotton candy apocalypse and a white rat ran over by a tricycle. All the money in the world cannot undo this hairstyle horror. My brother Dennis once sat on a Philippine Rabbit bus with a guy who fell asleep with the window open. He woke up with a hairdo that my bro could only describe as "baligtad na buhok." The poor guy probably blamed it all on the bus traveling at the speed of light, pomade, and God. He must have wished he had a cloak of invisibility.

When I was writing for a school publication, we had our own version of eternal newlyweds Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey. (There was a time I was writing poems for a school publication, but that was before I realized I had as much talent in poetry as Mahal’s ex-boyfriend in singing). Only in our case, the guy had gums and teeth that would make Seabiscuit look like a toothpaste commercial model. The girl looked like his jockey. They believed in the exhibitionistic display of affection. Watching them (against our will, mind you) trading saliva, locking lips, fondling each other at The Flame office was like watching the scene that made Lot turn into salt. "I told you not to look," a co-writer told me, while laughing biblically.

Dog the Bounty Hunter (Duane Chapman) is the guy who looks like Metallica’s James Hetfield who runs after men in wanted lists. When my cousin ran away from home, a family acquaintance volunteered to track her down. We called him "Bobby Takong" because of his elevator shoes, which make a diabolically loud racket whenever he walks. Tok tok tok… He never found my cousin (after several years, she eventually went home). And Bobby Takong’s career as a private eye never took off. How could he track down his prey when his shoes proclaim his arrival like public address announcers?

Ah, Ozzy Osbourne: Black Sabbath legend who turned into the strangest chap on reality television. My Ozzy-like uncle, his wife, and their friends went to Baguio. It usually takes an infinite bus ride to get to the Pine City. My uncle ate whatever was sold in that bus – from peanuts to hopia to macapuno candies to mango and ube preserves to whatnot. Non-stop. It was like a buffet-on-wheels. The food he consumed was probably enough to feed Attila the Hun’s entourage. Suddenly, there was a snag on Kennon Road, a minor accident I think. My uncle just shrugged it all off and swallowed a couple of salted eggs, drinking them down with buko juice.

And then it hit him.

There was a strange rumbling noise, but it was not coming from the motor of the bus. It emanated from the pit of his stomach. It was as if his intestines were doing the Royal Rumble or slam-dancing to Slayer’s South of Heaven. He got up from his seat without saying a word and ran the lengths of Kennon Road. A caricature: My uncle, who ate like a Roman emperor, running and searching for a porcelain throne. My kingdom for a poop. I didn’t have the nerve to ask my aunt if he found one. I believe he is still running to this very day.

In Baguio, my uncle and his faithful alalay went horseback riding. Both are tall gentlemen. Both got horses as towering as Mini-Me. Inspired by too many Clint Eastwood movies, my uncle let his horse trot fast and hard, while Sancho Panza and his pony lagged behind. My uncle and his steed managed to navigate a tree-lined path. A horse then pulled up beside them; its rider nowhere to be seen. My uncle found Sancho stuck to a tree, with legs dangling like a bumbling sidekick in a Chiquito movie. Even the horses laughed.

There was an episode of A Simple Life where Paris and Nicole went to a nude colony. Of course, it was filled with geriatrics and people with three butts. The same thing happened to me on a trip to Australia several years ago. We heard about this secluded beach where girls reportedly sunbathed in the buff, so we had to go. On the car ride to the beach, my mind was reeling with images of angels peeling off their microscopic bikinis to reveal their birthday suit (yuletide suit is more like it) while a lewd David Lee Roth song plays in the background. This must be just like living in paradise. When we got there, it was like a rated-R episode of The Golden Girls, and not Girls Gone Wild. The trip was, pardon the pun, a bust.

Ah, reality and real. The difference between a reality show and real life is that the cosmic director is not concerned with ratings. And except for brief cameos from absurd characters, our life mostly revolves around spirit-sapping work, heartaches, bills, traffic, disappointments, ghastly dialogues, and occasional trips to the doctor to ensure we show up for more episodes. Until we get cancelled.

Now that’s reality.

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Sandman author Neil Gaiman will be in Manila from July 9 to 11.

There will be a book signing at the Rockwell Tent at the Power Plant mall on July 9, at 3 p.m. The book signing at the Fully Booked promenade, Greenhills Shopping Center is on July 10, at 2 p.m. On July 11, 1:30 p.m. is the press conference and writer’s forum at the Music Museum (organized by The British Council Manila), and at 4 p.m. is the book signing at Fully Booked at the Gateway mall. For more information, call the Neil Gaiman hotline at 898-0283 or visit http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gaiman_fullybooked/ and sign up to receive the latest updates.

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For comments, suggestions, curses and invocations, e-mail iganja_ys@yahoo.com.