Biography

"Although his exact age is unknown there have been various listings that have confirmed Laurence's birth date as February 11th 1984, but it has also been listed as July 3rd 1979 as well as July 16th 1982.

Laurence was born in a small town in La Union as Joseph Garcia. Both his parents (Mildred and Sigfried Garcia) were drunk farmers that met on a charity bingo for drunk singles sometime in the 1970's. It was said that upon talking to each other for the first time, the worst genocide in Philippine history occurred in Southern Mindanao, the bottom-most part of the Philippines.

In 1987, Laurence's parents broke-up; however, 2 weeks after the split, Sigfried was living in Saudi Arabia and was killed while trying to deliver a baby in the back of a bus whose driver had suffered a heart attack. The newborn baby was the only living survivor of the accident, and Laurence's mother adopted the baby boy soon after, having the baby shipped overnight via FedEX. This baby would die 6 days upon arrival in the Philippines; it was used to drinking a special kind of crude oil-milk concoction available only in Riyadh.

In the mid 90's when he was in 6th grade, Laurence spent 3 years in prison (for adults) for stabbing his Theology teacher - with a pencil....in the groin. This led him to discover the compulsory English & Writing, Physics and Math lessons in the institution, taught by the strict and virgin nuns of The Latter Day Gay Nuns of St. Maria Goretti. Needless to say, the poor lad suffered a great deal mentally and emotionally in Math and Physics but he had, for some strange reason, managed to pass (barely) in his English and Writing class.

Upon returning home in 1999, Laurence started writing non-fiction and fiction essays, a skill and passion that were inspired while his stay in prison. He then started making his own "magazines" (called fanzines), albeit photo-copied, they were crudely filled with a gloomy disposition lacking in most mainstream reading materials, both fiction or non-fiction. Laurence's fanzines still managed to develop a small underground following.

In 2001, Laurence's imaginary younger brother (Roberto) committed suicide. The loss devastated Laurence. Laurence went on a destructive alcohol binge for the next 2 years.

In May 2003 after waking up on the steps of a local Manila church covered in his own blood, vomit and urine, Laurence decided Jesus would not take him alive and continued with the activities of writing pieces that would grace his fanzines. Laurence went on mental trips to Tibet and Scotland to further cleanse his holy (sic) mind.

Though some rumors speculate that Laurence committed suicide on July 27th 2007 in Ermita, Manila, due to the painful and heartbreaking break-up with his IT Professional girlfriend of 4 years, there are still no confirmations to this fact but apparently, *someone* still makes the fanzines started by Laurence with what many say is actually a Laurence impersonator and this said impersonator supposedly updates Laurence's myspace and friendster accounts from time to time."

- taken from a reliable internet information database that's not Wikipedia.org

Wounds

compared to scars,

I'd rather have the wounds, anytime.

scars get on my nerves.

they make me see red.

having a scar
is
just
imagining
the
ride.

having a wound
is
the
experience

itself.

so I keep my wounds scar-free.

I put salt on my wounds and I feel overwhelmingly alive.
the euphoria is unexplainable

pain intolerable
tolerance unbearable.

it's a personal litmus test.

but that's how I learn,

on

what

kind

of

shit

I am truly made out of.

so I keep any wound I have fresh and free from healing.

because....

when a wound heals...

it's

just

a

lousy

euphemism

for

being

lifeless.
lame.
dead.

wounds are testaments
that
life,

as fucked up
as it is,

is still
a
ride
worth
riding.

This Shit Rips Like A Mad Motherfucker

I have been listening to this album for 3 straight weeks now - alternately with my Insect Warfare and Black Flag records - and it still gives me the same high I've had when I first listened to it. I am tempted to "review" this thoroughly by giving it a song-by-song preview but it wouldn't do justice to its brilliance. Fuck what other people say but The Beastie Boys have got the chops. And this is an instrumental album. Go figure. Word.

A Bitter Albeit Liberating Eulogy

August is the most turbulent, fucked-up, depressing, and CONFUSING month of 2007 for me. The reasons, as cold and indifferent as they can be, are pretty much intense but they still managed to coalesce into something I've come to appreciate, even if they proved way too much for me to handle properly. Easier said than done, I know.

I have long surrendered to the fact that I am a retarded jackass. I don't struggle to shrug off the fact but I neither embrace it. I let it be. I let it go on its own course. I let it go like a rabid motherfucker. I feed off its adrenaline and it feeds off me. Then I find myself fucked up, fucked over, and just not giving two hot fucks about what's going to happen next.

I automatically run on auto-pilot then the impending violent crash takes a detour. Then a delay.

Reality gets back on its track and bitch-slaps me rudely to the 4th plane. I shake the Last of The Migraines. Then I take a look at the eyes of The Whatcouldvebeen and I am baffled and excited and stirred and anxious and impatient. I become slovenly perplexed. An intense inner tremor of some kind. Like a nasty habit you can't stop doing. It feels helpless. It's numbing. It induces grief in high fucking dosages. I become stupor in human form.

The Whatcouldvebeen. Ah, yes. I will be completely honest and say it....it is absofuckinglutely ethereal. It's nothing I have ever seen before. Or imagined. The timing in which I have fully grasped and understood its nature crushed me but it somehow became my glue, the thing that kept my shit together, the thing that made me go, "Shit, this is NICE." The funny thing is, I have no idea if the storm is over or if I'm staring at its eye.

Then its 31 chances are over. A new cycle begins. A new deck has been dealt. I find myself scarred intensely, head split open by lame-ass assumptions, sweet talk rebutted with stone-cold disbelief, whispers crushed by screams loud enough to scare large wild animals, and most importantly, my heart has been ripped out several times by tumultuous surprises. How it fucking found its way back to my chest is still a mystery to me.

I have seen the nice and delightfully colored dining hall but I found myself in the boiler room. Things happen for a reason? Bullshit. Your feet brought you to where you're at.

For some reason that's completely beyond me, I am still here and August is not. August had finally met its Maker. Funeral for a foe. Disappointment takes a bullet in the head (finally).

Good riddance, motherfucker...I just might piss on your grave one of these days.

Quote

“…all progress depends on the unreasonable man.”
-George Bernard Shaw

Taxes

(this essay was written at around November-December 2006 and was originally published in the 6th issue (released February 2007) of my hardcore-punk/personal fanzine, Incidental Afterthought. This version is "slightly" different to what I had put in IA#6..Anyway....Why put this shit here? I just felt tremendously compelled to do so...and oh, this piece is dedicated to Filipino politicians.)

Taxes are a fucking pain in the ass. Getting my salary - after taxes - during payday is one of my most frustrating days in a month. And what do I, or should I say we, the taxpayers, get out of this fucking burden? None. Shit, not even a small fucking credit. Case in point: a renovation in a public place, say, a park. There are many places here in Manila that are renovated like shit but once it's finished, what will one see? A fucking tarpaulin with a note saying, "this is where your taxes go." FUCK the motherfucker who ordered to put it there, fuck them sons of bitches. Why can't they just give direct credit to taxpayers? Worst, why say it in a sarcastic tone? Fuck them all.

It would have been better if the note read, "this project/renovation was done entirely with tax-payers money." Instead, one will see the aforementioned "this is where your taxes go" note and a huge dumb-ass fucking photo of the politician who "orchestrated" the renovation of the place and more often than not, a note below the stupid photo will read, "this project was done with the efforts of Mayor Shitface Asswipe or Councilor Cretin." Fuck that shit, man. Done with the efforts of a rich shithead? Come on, whose money was used to finance the project? My money. Our money. The taxpayers' money. Our efforts.

Who orchestrated who, motherfuckers?

I remember reading an essay of Conrado De Quiros, perhaps the greatest newspaper writer in the Philippines in the 2000's; the essay said (though I don't quote him verbatim) that the best non-violent protest a working member (i.e. me, you, most of us…) of society can make against a corrupt president/government is by not paying taxes. That would be so fucking effective and beneficial to the average working taxpayer. Why? Then the money used by Bullshit Politicians (thank you, Propagandhi) for their extravagant personal expenses will run out and their uselessness will be exposed.

So the next time you see a tarpaulin with a fucking bloated Adobe-blasted photo of a filthy politician in a renovated public place with the note "this is where your taxes go" bullshit on it, it's alright to feel betrayed and fucked-over, but be proud (if you're a taxpayer) because your money was used for a beneficial public project, even if a rich useless piece of shit gets the credit…

Fervently Stolid

"Everyone makes one mistake / One more time for old time's sake / One more time before the feeling fades / One that's born of memories / One more bruise you gave to me / One more test just how much can I take? / You're not the one, but you're the only one / Who can make me feel like this"
- The One, Foo Fighters

The migraines are all I have got. Fucking mental goads. They slowly mindfuck me and the effects are well written all over my face. All the time. But as I've said, them migraines are all I've got. They don't give me inspiring or positive or encouraging bullshit. They give me the ugly truth. They are the living reminders that I am fucked up but by being fucked up, I am still....well, fucked up, big time.

Then again, it's a moot point, an argument not worth supporting. For someone who has an IQ of 67, I did something extraordinary today. I've decided that the two sides of my brain need to have a meeting, an important huddle to straighten shit out. They need to brainstorm. They need to agree that what I want isn't what I need but somehow I badly fucking want to believe that I need the one I can't have, even if I am aware what I'm feeling is really misleading, imbecilic, and utterly brainless.

An astral projection gone the way of an aneurysm.

When a tree falls in the forest then levitates but there's no one to see it, does it really matter? When words form in your head and blurt out from your mouth and land on uninterested ears, does it matter? Was the ending more important than the show itself? That's a trick question, actually. It's like the chicken-egg question; your answer only leads to more questions. And arguments.

So does a great start compensate for a lousy and abrupt ending?

Maybe.

Could be.

Clonk. Clonk. THUMP. That was my left brain clobbering my right brain.

Quote

"Tequila is the Brown Man's conspiracy to bring the White Man down." - Andy O'Brien, during a semi-chaotic binge on the wee hours of June 15, 2007...some hours before my final interview for my current job/company.

Lust For Coffee

It's been pretty fucking weird lately. Scorching hot temperature at daytime only to fucking rain heavily at night. Absurd. It's like an inside joke by an imaginary God, one that only He can understand.

The Dunkin Donuts on Taft Avenue in Manila, the one across the Philippine General Hospital, is the best place to get brewed coffee (tolerable) and coupla donuts at a ridiculously cheap price (35.00 pesos) any fucking time; however, most importantly, it's about 3,500 footsteps away from my apartment, pretty near by my walking standards.

Midnight, May 26. It's raining, hard. I haven't eaten anything since, like, fucking forever. Of course, I am pissed. I have been unemployed for 2 months and when you're broke, money seems to multiply its value by the hundreds. Good thing I am used to long-distance walking; commuting seems like a fairy tale privilege when you're fucking broke. Tonight, I find myself in Caloocan City, about an hour's jeepney commute-ride away from Manila. I flag a jeepney and wallowed in its temporary respite from the cold and wetness of the heavy downpour.

30 minutes or so later, I finally arrive at the Dunkin Donuts across the PGH. I have a hundred pesos, which was actually coupla hundred a day ago. My friend Albert Repeater paid half of his debt to me recently and now, I am at the mercy of my last dough. I ordered a cup of coffee, regular size, and two chocolate donuts. I tried - again - to become a vegetarian the week before but it seems that I still won't be able to swore off dairy shit. My financial situation painfully made it crystal clear.

I work my way on the first donut. It tasted like a buffet serving in a diplomat's house party. The coffee served like a mental tranquilizer. It was perfect. Given the pouring condition outside, the coffee tasted something impossible to describe, something beyond words could fathom. I finish the donut and start on the second one. My cup was 1/4 less coffee now, but thankfully, it's still hot. I finish the second donut. It felt unbelievably good.

Then reality stung again. I was broke but somehow, I had to go on.

To pound on shit.

HARD.

I slowly drank the coffee and savored it lustfully. I finished it in about 8 minutes.

It's now half past midnight. My favorite time of the day. The city outside is still being ravaged by the furious and merciless rain. Somehow, my anger dissipated. To this day, it never ceases to amaze me on what a hot cup of coffee can do to one's erratic fucking mood.

Spider Man 3 a.k.a. crap (except for the Venom parts)

When Hollywood feeds the CGI-bloated "movie-goers" all over the world, more often than not, the end result, no matter how stupidly and intelectually offensive it is (i.e. "Hulk," the one with Eric Banana), is being regarded as, gawd, good.

2007 saw another good example of this. Spider Man 3. I knew I was going to expect a CGI-fuckfest with this one when I went to see it. So why did I went? One word: Venom.

I didn't like the fucking thing, not one bit except when Venom's parts were shown. I like Venom. And I hate this fucking movie. The plot sucks, the CGI is eye-sore inducing and the fucking actors sucked, big time.

I wonder what makes people (producers) create expensive pieces of shit like this. What if the money spent making this film was used instead in helping dirt poor countries (like Africa, Afghanistan, etc.), then...you get my drift.

I hate(d) this fucking piece of shit. You wanna see a good film? Go see "Notes On A Scandal," starring Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett and you'll see that a good film DOES NOT FUCKING NEED computer shite enhancements to be GOOD, it needs GOOD actors.

Miami Heat

The 2007 NBA Playoffs saw the reigning champs get swept by the Chicago Bulls. WTF happend?

Your guess is as good as mine.