Communication breakdown

Stop Making Sense. A reality show.

The guy who drives for my family always puts a question mark to end his text messages. Always. When I tell him, “Punta tayo sa Megamall.” He responds, “Okay?” Uh, well, no problem there. But when I ask, “Saan ka na?” He answers, “Andito na ko?” Either he regards the question mark as something decorative, a sign of being respectful (the theory of my friend, “C”), an unintentional smiley, a doodled heart. Or the man is questioning the sheer metaphysics of it all. He’s going full Kantian. Are we really here? Is presence only a mindset or just purely physical? I think therefore I am? Am I real (214)? Mind-blowing, really. It bugs me up that he knows something I don’t. Like Rene Descartes toying with a platypus. With amnesia.

I play bass for a band. Our drummer, “J,” sessions for another band, “The E’s.” Their singer, “G,” is quite the charmer. I asked “J” to tell “G” if I could ask for her cell phone number. Her response: “What for?” Uh, did she mean, “For what?” I wanted to lecture “J” about the ocean of syntactical difference between the two. Either she texts like Yoda or she’s just being a dick. “What for?” “For what?” The effect is the same, though: I am not getting her number. I could imagine our philosopher-driver quipping, “Di bale? Daming girls diyan?” — just before handing me a cup of hemlock. 

Agree with me, the council does.

“J,” and our singer “J2’s” boyfriend, “L,” are both drummers. When they talk to each other, it is through a series of rolls, paradiddles, flams, 16th beats, Pearts and Portnoys. That’s their drumspeak. Quite guttural. Makes you want to get up and dance. Or speak in staccato. It’s as cute as German disco or a telegraphic dispatch. They’re on their own planet — Planet YYZ. Somewhere only they know. The same with my photo-bug friends waxing esoteric against the Manila sunset.

When you ask a girl what restaurant she wants to go to… “Up to you,” is her usual chirp. But when I pick the place — a coffee shop here or a bar there…  “Ay,” the joy vanishing like a ninja from her face, “Wala bang iba?” A 9Gag Office Space meme perfectly describes those moments. Pure genius. If she could just tell me exactly where she wants to eat… THAT WOULD BE GREAT! Or the level of miscommunication between human beings nowadays… IS TOO DAMN HIGH!

My relationship with women are like cinematic nuggets. Similar to the Jurassic Park sequel — “Oh yeah ‘Ooh, aah,’ that’s how it always starts. But then there’s running and screaming.” Parallel monologues ensconced in between. Everything leads to this: When you are with your girlfriend who is unnervingly quite, but when you ask her what’s wrong, she just shrugs, “Nothing...”— while looking away and staggering toward the escape hatch. Running and screaming.

Some things really don’t make sense.

Like why the hell does Carlo J. Caparas even feel offended?