Much as I would like to post entries in this here blog every single day, the fact is my job isn’t really conducive for much blogging these days. Gone are the days when I showed up at work about twice a week and spent the rest of my time at home surfing porn, making retarded internet articles, and vandalizing Wikipedia before I got around to actually checking and correcting TV scripts submitted to me. I’m sure that arrangement will come by eventually-- meaning, when these TV shows we’re developing start airing-- but at the moment I’m required to show my face in ABS-CBN every single day. As I don’t really have a work station there (I invade other shows if I need to type anything), blogging is out of the question.
I wouldn’t mind this deal as much if I actually live in Quezon City. I don’t. I live in Los Baños, Laguna. With the daily traffic situation and road quality, that’s about three hours away from Quezon City during daytime and two at night. My meetings last well into the wee hours of the morning and lock-in brainstorming sessions eat up even my weekends. Going home everyday is a physical impossibility. This wouldn’t be a big deal if I wasn’t married. But I’ve worked in the television industry long enough for my wife to have gotten used to not seeing me around most of the week. It puts a strain on the marriage but we’re coping.
This lifestyle is alien to most people who haven’t worked in TV. Even call center people have fixed shifts. This is the reason why most of the people who work in TV aren’t married, or are separated from their spouses. You want the nastiest, most stressful job evah? You looking for a way to get rid of your nagging girlfriend? You itching to ditch those grubby college friends of yours? You want your weird-ass family to stop giving a shit about you? Try TV, man. It will ruin every single aspect of your life in one fell swoop. You’ll never make it to dates. You’ll never have time for nights out with your buds. You’ll never have the luxury of family time.
So why do I persist? It ain’t the money. The money’s good if you know where to look for it but I could earn as much as a call center trainer in the snazzier companies. It ain’t art. Baby Jesus’ head on a platter, art saw this place and had a fucking stroke and died and was buried in a pauper’s grave and was pissed on by mangy dogs.
It’s the attention, man.
It’s the rush of knowing that what you put on paper-- indeed, what you pick up inside your own brain-- is taken seriously. Seriously enough that people would spend big money on equipment and talents and stars and locations just to make sure what you typed when you were half-drunk was executed and taped and edited and aired for the viewing pleasure of millions of Filipinos hungry for an escape from their crappy lives. Entertainment, motherfucker.
And so I plod on. Even if I have very little time for the pleasure of blogging. Look, I know this isn’t really like my usual posts. This is just a damn brainfart to look like I’m actually updating this blog every two weeks or so. And to further draw your attention away from the rarity of my updates, I’ll link you to some writing-related articles in my now-zombified Friendster blog, The Salamander.
The Riting is Easie Series:
The Second Coming of Christ
Learn the Rules Before You Break Them
The Writing For a Living Sucks Series:
Okay, move on.