Day 33: rhyme, reason and resonance part three

Thursday night

Islamic New Year/ Liquor Ban Night

13 degrees Centigrade, Drizzling


Dubai was nippy.  My restless self could not figure out what to do.  My supposed date of the night canceled at the last minute when I was already dressed up

<———————————————- like this.  I just felt so abandoned.

Alright, I am being a drama queen but I can’t hide the fact that it took me a good 30 minutes in the bath, washing and scrubbing away every single grime, including my entire epidermis, to look as sheeny as I did.  Shampooing and conditioning my hair until the tub clogged from all that fallen hair.  The blow-dry process that took another 15 minutes to match well with the hair serum that constructed the perfect slope drop that made my hair, Hair Of The Year.  Nobody knows how burdensome it is to make your hair divinely chaotic.  It takes scalp infection that will eventually lead to a malignant dandruff attack the next day to be able to wear my kind of hair.  In short, it is laborious and stressful to prepare for a date.  Specially if you are going out with someone you really really like.

Big deal.  I swore I will not let myself down for one canceled date!  Prick!  Well, the truth is, he is not a prick and his excuse was legitimate.  But still !!!

I looked at my bruised loofaed arm and chose to be BITTER.

I left the house anyway.  I found my torpedoed self on the metro, choosing a station to get my ass out of.  I decided to get off at Deira City Centre.  There I decided to have dinner.  Alone.  Noodle House was on my mind.  Or Japenggo. Anywhere where they serve poisonous Vietnamese food or a very oily Nasi Goreng.  Surprise!  Both restaurants which was located on the same floor was temporarily closed for renovation.  I breathed in my Fuckfuckfuckfucks and cycloned out of Deira City Centre, into a cab and told the driver to crash his car to the nearest tree with me in it.  Of course I did not say that.  Why would I?  There are no trees in Dubai.

Suddenly, I was at Century Village, in a dainty courtyard Japanese restaurant called Sushi Sushi.  Very nauseating for a raw food crusade.  Critically speaking, Sushi Sushi reminds me of a dingy girlie bar in Bangkok.  Thank heavens there was no toastmistress.  Had she been there, I would have cooked up her job description to be a lap dancer when the clock strikes twelve.  Sushi Sushi.  Pookie Pookie.

Seconds after I placed my order of artichoke salad and sushi platter, my friend Chiz SMS’d me.  I immediately rang him and  C.F.’ed (control freaked) him to come and join me for dinner.  He concurred instantly but asked me if it was alright to come in gym clothes as he just came out of Fitness First.  I said, “No worries, everyone here looks like dump.”  looking around at the besequined, scarfed women and the becoated, perfumy men.  They were all so foxy it was painful to look at them.  But being a big fan of me, I looked down a bit to audit my ensemble, smiled my bogus smile and sniffed myself . . . RAVISHING!

Chiz arrived and immediately stabbed me to death for lying to him that everyone looked like shit.  What can I say?  I make things happen.

The artichoke was deific.  The cut was marvelous and it was glistening fresh I almost souped through its balsamic vinegar!  Being Filipino, I naturally have a penchant for cardiac delights in the likes of the following life-shortening entrees:  adobo (sauteed pork or chicken in soy sauce, vinegar floating in killer shortening), dinuguan (gingered pork blood over pork stupor) and crispy pata (deep fried pig’s thigh with an approximate calorie content of about a million dabbed to perfection in onioned soy sauce).  Artichoke was such a disclosure for me and since then, it became one of my favorites.  It was a refreshing surrogate to the three diabolical dishes mentioned above.

Chiz, who I went out with on two entrancing dates last month, seemed gaunt.  I asked him if he considered putting up a tent at Fitness First because apparently his addiction to exercise was beginning to take its toll on his claimed feel-good hobby.  He said he goes to the gym to get rid of boredom.  Smart boy.  How futile of me to hang around in every imaginable waterhole to drown myself in Stellas everytime I am bored!

So, we talked about narcissism.  I was retelling the amount of self-worship that constitutes the vainglory of the head once it starts loving the self.  Chiz disagreed telling me that it is all about feeling good.  Fine.  Have it your way, dear friend.  I still think that THIN IS IN ravaged your sense of compos mentis, thus, it sucked to the implausible metaphor that being thin, is indeed, being in.  Not that Chiz looked freakish with his newly-chiseled body.  As a matter of fact, he looked even more fantastic from the last time I saw him.  It’s just unbecoming that beauty, in all its three-dimensional composition, is beginning to be singled out to the distorted featherweights – the rawboned undernourished stick people – and to put it melodically, to the wafer, twiggy paradigm of misinformation.  I mean, if you ARE what you eat and you are eating nothing, then you must be PAPER.

I, on other hand, is paunchy.  Fat, if you may.  Perhaps I am insecure with my current weight of 82 kilos because I am attacking the thin people.  Perhaps I am beginning to be bulimic.  Or just paranoid with the fact that I can’t look at my naked body in the mirror these days with its virtual puppies and overabundant by-products in and around my belly.  My friends tell me, “OA (0ver acting) ka Jon, you are not fat.  You are 6 feet tall, your weight is ideal.”

I would frown and tell them, “I want to be 50 kilos!”  and then tell myself, “You are a centerfold model in any size . . . in any size . . . in any size . . .  CENTERFOLD!”

I may have been on crack.

After dinner, we decided to leave Pookie Pookie, I mean, Sushi Sushi, for tea.

We went to the very quiet Coral Deira Hotel downtown.  There, over green tea and (theoretical) innuendos, we talked about my previous entries in MY LIFE IN 5o DAYS, particularly Rhyme, Reason and Resonance parts one and two, both of which had Chiz as its central premise.  I joked about writing a part three and asked him, as protocol, if I can write about tonight.  He said, “Sure, just don’t tell the whole world that in the course of all this, we are actually flirting with each other.  I will kill you if you did.”

Well, I just did.

Since Coral Deira is a non-smoking hotel,  I went to smoke outside in the cold while Chiz trifled with the pictures in my mobile phone inside the cafe.  Arctically mesmerized by the ambrosial night and even more intuned with my friend’s luscious nonchalance of how palatable he is, I thought about my nights with Chiz last month and linked this particular night altogether.

I remembered my words in the previous chapters.  I said that rhyme is easy between two people.  It all starts with similarity of views, conscience and spirituality.  It gives us a reason to talk about the panoramic photographs of life and it blends nicely to the music that two people create.  Reason, on the other hand, invites two friends to explore the optic linings of the vernacular and find essence in building comfort zones.  This is when two people are already preordaining beliefs and where symbolic representations are ultimately theorized.  The birth of resonance is a marriage of reason and rhyme.  Like an infant between two individuals, it is the beginning of the power of two and the celebration of an explicit union.  Harmony begins and smiles become collective.

Tonight, I was supposed to go out with Mr Prick who canceled at the last minute.  Then I went out anyway to have a date with myself.  Out of nowhere, Chiz was in the area and we had Japanese, engrossing talks and ardently played with nostalgic overtones.  Rhyme and reason.  But resonance?  I guess I have yet to find out.

Chiz and I parted ways and I remembered the three blocks that both of us had to walk on so sloooowly together.  It was chivalrous.  It was almost resonance.  We exchanged SMS messages when we reached home and I sensed a thrill that was almost real and resonant.  But there is something missing.  Something I cannot fathom much to my inquiring soul.  There was a compass in this particular night but to which direction it was heading, I guess I have yet to find out.

At 5 in the morning, something rumbled inside my stomach.  I did not mind it until I began perspiring acid and began feeling my belly expanding to the size of Dubai.  All I could think of was the artichoke.  I may have eaten a lot that it made my insides scream with the uneasy faculty of its rhyme and reason.  I scampered to the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat to calm its anger.

It was a sweet relief.




In case you missed Rhyme, Reason and Resonance Parts One and Two:



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