Two-time comedian of the year, I was back in high school. My blog miserably failed to measure up to expectations.
My Caucasian friends are too nice to confess that they don’t find me funny. It’s rocket science to pull off a punch line in your fourth tongue (Ilocano being my first; Tagalog, third).
But hell yeah, I am so sure I have humor.
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It’s right to weep over the pages of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s or over a Darfur or East Timor documentary. Tact even to spare pairs of sobs and tears with Julianne Moore on “The Hours”. But where should I place my crying over “Maalaala Mo Kaya?” (“Will you fuckin’ remember?”).
Maybe I was crying for no reason. That’s not impossible. The sad plight of a loving brother who whored-up his twink-y fairy self and joined a squad of gay prostitutes to support his brother in rehab is a plot apt enough to cry along to. But I cried long after the show. I was crying still while watching the re-run of “The Glass House”, which an obvious irony as it is, I was chuckling about few days back.
I write about this thing hoping answers take shape as I draw thoughts of sense or (as always) otherwise in this entry. True enough, as you read along and I write about, this babble jabber points the answer somewhere on the other side of the universe.
I’m writing on this no further. I’m not crying (anymore) either.
15 July 2006
